I pick them up. Read the label. Put them back.
Pick them up again.
Oh, for the love of... Fine. Fine, I’m buying them. Bunny will absolutely love them and I have precisely zero defence against that particular brand of enthusiasm. It’s a gift. A stupid, impulsive, very cheap gift that costs less than two pounds and means absolutely nothing. It definitely doesn’t mean I’m a nice person.
I drop them in my basket before I can change my mind, and move quickly away from the Easter display before I do something even more embarrassing.
The walk home takes me down a residential street I don’t usually cut through, mostly because it adds an extra five minutes and I’m not generally in the mood for scenic routes. But today I’m in no hurry to get back to my flat and whatever awaits me there, so I drift down the unfamiliar street with my bags and my complicated feelings and my bunny ears.
That’s when I see the futon.
Someone has put it out on the pavement. It’s leaning against a garden wall with a handwritten sign that says FREE, in large, friendly letters. It’s not in bad condition, actually. A bit worn, but structurally sound. The kind of futon that’s had a decent life and still has plenty of use left in it.
I stand on the pavement and stare at it for a long moment.
I am absolutely not thinking about how Dis has been sitting on bare floorboards for days now. How he’s been trapped in that circle with nothing to sit on, nothing to lean against, nothing except cold wood and chalk runes.
That has nothing to do with why I’m looking at this futon.
I’m practical. Resourceful. I see a free futon, I think about whether I have a use for it. That’s just sensible. That’s just good decision making.
The fact that I have a shadow king in my living room who currently has nowhere to sit is entirely coincidental.
He doesn’t need to sit. Or lie down. Or sleep. I don’t think. I mean, Hex does those things, but he’s probably pretending.
I check the time on my phone, and then shove it back into my pocket. The coffee shop is a five-minute walk. Bunny is presumably down there right now, healthy and cheerful, and while not built like someone who could carry a futon up a narrow staircase without much difficulty, I’m pretty sure his enthusiasm can make up for it. Hells, he could probably charm the futon into carrying itself.
I pull out my phone. Then put it back. Then pull it out again.
I am not doing this because I feel guilty. I am not doing this because last night made things complicated in ways I haven’t processed yet. I am not doing this because some soft, stupid part of me looked at Dis sitting on the floor and felt bad about it.
I’m doing it because it’s free.
But I’m not going to call Bunny and ask for help. I’m going to see if the coffee shop is busy.
The coffee shop is quiet when I get there. I could hear it was quiet from the street, which tracks. Mid-morning on a weekday isn’t exactly a rush period.
Bunny has a law textbook open on the counter, a pen chewed to within an inch of its life clamped between his teeth. He looks up when I shoulder the door open, and his face does that thing where it goes from focused to delighted in about half a second.
“Felix!” He abandons the textbook immediately. “How are you? You look tired. Have you been sleeping? You should really be sleeping.”
“I’m fine. I have something for you.” I pull the bunny ears from the bag and hold them out.
Bunny’s entire face transforms. He looks like I’ve just handed him something precious, which is insane because they’re novelty Easter costume ears from Tesco that cost less than a pint of milk. He snatches them from my hand and puts them on with zero hesitation, adjusting them in the window’s reflection with the seriousness of someone positioning a crown.
“How do I look?” he asks.
“Ridiculous,” I say. “Perfect. Now, I need your help with something.”
Bunny beams at me so brightly that I have to look away before I do something embarrassing, like smile back. I explain about the futon, and he’s already pulling on his jacket and whipping out the ‘Be back in 5 minutes’ sign, before I’ve finished the sentence, boundless and enthusiastic, like I’ve just invited him on a great adventure rather than to go and carry secondhand furniture down a residential street.
We collect it together. Bunny takes the dustier end without being asked, chatting cheerfully the whole way back about his constitutional law module and a case study he finds particularly compelling, his bunny ears bouncing with every step. Within twenty minutes we’ve navigated the futon through the narrow door, up the even narrower stairs, and into my flat without breaking anything important.
Dis is inches from the television screen, so close his nose is practically touching it, watching what appears to be a particularly dramatic episode of Loose Women with the focused intensity of a general planning a siege.
He pulls back, composing himself with regal dignity, but I’ve absolutely clocked it. We are going to need to have a conversation about his obsessive TV watching. Soon.
“Where do you want it?” Bunny asks, only slightly out of breath.
