#weggbor

“Warm.” Mister Neighbor breaks into a smile. “Right.”

Someone hands them both a beer, chilled and dripping melted ice. Wegg shrugs, cracks the can, and shotguns it. Mister Neighbor opens his can of beer and sips it slowly. Wegg never took him for a lightweight, but that probably comes with the territory.

A healthy fear of fire and no real stomach or liver to soak up the booze.

“You should play something,” Mister Neighbor says. “You have a good voice.”

“And my whistle’s wet,” Wegg agrees, shrugging the case off his back. “I suppose I could play something.”

People gather as Wegg strums. But when Wegg plays, there’s only one person he looks for. One person standing outside the circle of chairs, only half-illuminated by the bonfire. Mister Neighbor.

Wegg turns over and reaches out, grabbing Neighbor’s wrist. “C’mere.”

“I’m damp. Had to clean myself up.”

“Don’t care.” Wegg scoots closer, pressing himself against Neighbor’s fleece body. “Missed you.”

“I was only gone for--” Neighbor glances at the alarm clock. “—an hour.”

“An hour you weren’t here.” And Wegg’s already wrapping himself around Neighbor, not minding the damp spots of fleece and burlap. “You smell good.”

Mister Neighbor laughs softly. “Glad you think so.”

He rests a hand on Wegg’s back. In mere seconds, Wegg’s already asleep, snoring against Mister Neighbor’s chest.

Staring at the ceiling, Mister Neighbor knows he could do this forever. For the rest of his life. He scoots a little closer, careful not to jostle Wegg as Mister Neighbor lays next to him.

Forever. Maybe a little longer.