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The stay at the hotel had been meant to be relaxing. A brief pause in the constant motion, a chance to finally unclench shoulders that had been tight for days, maybe even sleep without one eye half-open. Just a quiet night, a locked door, and the comforting illusion of safety.
Of course, that plan fell apart almost immediately.
On the short walk to the hotel, they’d passed a bar—warm light spilling out onto the street, laughter echoing through the open doorway, music thudding in a way that promised distraction and poor decisions. And somehow, despite Boris and Mugman making it very clear they wanted nothing more than to collapse into bed and stay there, they’d been dragged along anyway.
Now they were stuck playing chaperone.
Instead of relaxing, Boris and Mugman hovered at the edges of the chaos, nursing cups of water and counting drinks that weren’t theirs. Their attention stayed locked on the table across the room where their brothers—and Shelly, who at least had the sense to stay relatively harmless—were already getting loud. Too loud. Gestures wide, laughter unrestrained, words tumbling over one another in that sloppy, familiar way that came with being a few drinks in.
Boris shifted on his stool, tail flicking once behind him before settling again. This wasn’t fun. It didn’t even pretend to be. It felt more like babysitting than anything else—watching for signs of agitation, making sure no one took a joke the wrong way, stepping in before anything escalated into something worse. Mugman had already intercepted two strangers who’d wandered a little too close, politely but firmly redirecting them elsewhere.
They sat shoulder to shoulder at the bar, close enough to be a united front without needing to speak. The bartender slid another glass of water toward Mugman without being asked. He took it with a tight nod, eyes never leaving the table.
“This might actually be hell,” Mugman muttered under his breath, lifting the glass and taking a slow sip. His gaze flicked briefly to a passerby who brushed too close, his glare sharp enough to discourage further contact.
Boris gave a quiet, absent nod in agreement. His ears were pinned low against his head now, a clear sign of his discomfort. The bar was overwhelming—too loud, too bright, too much. The air was thick with clashing scents: heavy perfume, sharp cologne, stale alcohol, smoke clinging to clothes and skin alike. Every laugh felt like it echoed directly inside his skull, the music pounding in time with his growing headache.
Mugman noticed, of course. He always did. His eyes lingered on Boris just long enough to register the flattened ears, the tension in his shoulders. But he didn’t say anything. They both knew Boris could leave if he truly wanted to. They also both knew he wouldn’t.
Boris wasn’t here for the drinks or the noise or the company. He was here because Bendy was, and that was reason enough.
Mugman exhaled slowly through his nose, fingers tightening around the glass. He didn’t care. That’s what he told himself, anyway. Didn’t care about the noise, the headache, the growing irritation curling in his chest. Didn’t care about how long this night was already starting to feel.
At least, that’s what he kept repeating—quietly, stubbornly—until it almost sounded like the truth.
A sudden jolt knocked Boris off balance.
Someone clipped his shoulder hard enough that his glass slipped from his grip, hitting the floor with a sharp crack before shattering into a scatter of glittering shards. The sound cut through the noise of the bar like a knife. Instinct flared before thought could catch up, and a low, sharp growl tore from Boris’ chest.
It was enough.
Mugman’s head snapped around immediately, eyes locking onto the scene just in time to see the man straighten and sneer up at the wolf.
“Oi, watch where you’re goin’, mutt,” the man snapped, voice thick with alcohol and arrogance.
That was all it took.
Mugman stepped forward without hesitation, placing himself squarely in front of Boris, one arm lifting instinctively to block him from view. His posture was rigid, protective in a way that left no room for misinterpretation.
“You literally bumped into him first,” Mugman said evenly. His voice was calm—too calm. “You should be the one watching your lane.”
The man scoffed, clearly unimpressed, and took a step closer. He smelled strongly of cheap liquor and smoke, breath hot as he leaned in.
“You got a problem?”
Mugman’s eyes narrowed, the friendly mask he sometimes wore nowhere to be found now.
“We’re going to,” he replied quietly, “if you don’t back off.”
His hand rose toward his straw on instinct, fingers curling just slightly as that sharp, familiar edge of protectiveness surged through him. The noise of the bar faded to a dull hum behind his ears.
Before he could go any further, Boris’ hand snapped around his wrist.
The grip was firm—not panicked, but urgent. Grounding.
Mugman froze, glancing back just long enough to see the look on Boris’ face. A silent don’t. Not here.
The man clicked his tongue in annoyance, muttering something under his breath before turning away. He disappeared back into the crowd without another glance, already dismissing the encounter as nothing more than a momentary inconvenience.
Mugman watched him go, jaw tight, until he was certain the man wasn’t circling back. Only then did he exhale, the tension in his shoulders refusing to fully ease. He looked down at the shattered glass near Boris’ feet, then up at the wolf himself.
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.
“Come on,” Mugman muttered, irritation bleeding into his voice. “We’re stepping outside.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. His grip shifted from Boris’ wrist to his arm, firm but careful, and he tugged him toward the door, weaving them through the crowd with little regard for glares or protests.
The moment they stepped outside, the noise dulled behind them, replaced by the hush of the night. Cool air washed over them, biting but clean, and Boris breathed it in deeply. The overwhelming mix of scents vanished, replaced by cold stone, distant rain, and faint traces of smoke drifting harmlessly away.
It was sharp. It was grounding.
And it was exactly what Boris needed.
Boris leaned back against the cold brick wall, letting the rough texture press into his spine as he took the chance to steady himself. His ears were still pinned flat against his head, tail hanging low and unmoving behind him, every part of his posture betraying how on edge he still felt. He focused on his breathing—slow, deliberate inhales through his nose, longer exhales—trying to shake the lingering noise from his bones.
Mugman leaned beside him a moment later, shoulder brushing the wall, gaze lifting toward the dark stretch of sky overhead. The sounds of the bar were muffled out here, reduced to a distant thrum that was far easier to ignore. He didn’t say anything right away. Sometimes silence was easier than pretending this night hadn’t already gone sideways.
After a moment, he spoke.
“You alright?” Mugman asked, keeping his tone casual, almost indifferent. He didn’t look over, like that might make the question mean less.
Boris didn’t answer immediately. His jaw tightened, then relaxed as he let out a slow breath through his nose.
“Been better,” he finally replied.
Yeah. Mugman could relate to that.
Neither of them had wanted to be here. They’d both known how this night would end the second they’d stepped inside that bar. Loud, messy, and far more stressful than it had any right to be. And yet, here they were anyway—standing guard, playing peacekeeper, making sure their idiot brothers didn’t get themselves into trouble they couldn’t walk away from.
That, and Shelly had been very insistent about everyone spending time together. As if togetherness could be forced into something pleasant.
Mugman shifted his weight, fingers hooking into his coat pocket as he exhaled.
“We could just go back,” he said. The words came out light, but there was a quiet hope tucked into them. Less of an offer, more of a plea.
Boris heard it. Of course he did.
There was another stretch of silence, thicker this time. The distant music pulsed through the walls behind them. Then—
“That sounds good.”
Mugman didn’t hide the relief this time. He pushed off the wall and nodded once.
“Alright. I’ll tell Shelly.”
He slipped back inside, returning a few minutes later with a resigned expression and a faint huff of disbelief. Shelly had waved him off, promising—swearing, even—that she’d keep an eye on Cuphead and Bendy. Apparently she found the whole situation far more amusing than either of them did.
With that settled, Mugman stepped back outside, and together he and Boris started down the street toward the hotel. The night air stayed cool as they walked, quiet stretching comfortably between them. No words needed.
Just two tired sentinels finally clocking out for the night.
The hotel room was quiet when they stepped inside.
Too quiet, almost, after the bar. The door clicked shut behind them, cutting off the outside world completely, and the sudden stillness made everything feel sharper. The dim lamp by the bed cast a soft glow across the room, warm against the otherwise cold night that still clung to their clothes.
Boris lingered near the door, shoulders tight, ears still low. He hadn’t really relaxed yet—not fully. The walk back had helped, but the edge was still there, humming beneath his skin like a held breath.
Mugman noticed.
He set his coat aside and hesitated, then moved closer, careful not to crowd him.
“You don’t have to stay wound up,” he said quietly. “You’re safe here.”
Boris let out a small, humorless huff.
“Easy for you to say.”
Mugman didn’t argue. Instead, he reached out slowly, giving Boris plenty of time to pull away if he wanted to. When he didn’t, Mugman let his fingers brush into the thick fur at Boris’ arm, then higher—gentle, deliberate strokes meant to soothe rather than demand anything.
Boris stiffened at first.
Then, almost imperceptibly, he leaned into it.
A low breath slipped from his chest, ears twitching as Mugman’s hand moved through his fur, slow and grounding. The tension didn’t vanish all at once, but it softened, easing its grip bit by bit. Mugman kept his touch steady, thumb brushing small circles without thinking too hard about it.
“You don’t always have to be on guard,” Mugman murmured, voice low. “I’ve got you. At least tonight.”
That did it.
Boris turned slightly, just enough that Mugman’s hand slid from his arm to his shoulder, then his back. Their proximity shifted—no longer just standing beside each other, but close enough to feel warmth, to feel the rise and fall of breath.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
The air between them felt charged, thick with things neither of them were saying. Mugman was suddenly very aware of where his hand rested, of the way Boris’ breathing had slowed, of how close his face was now.
Boris glanced at him, eyes searching, unreadable.
“…You don’t have to,” he said quietly.
Mugman swallowed.
“I know.”
But he didn’t pull away.
Instead, his hand slid more securely into Boris’ fur, fingers curling just slightly as if to anchor them both. Boris stepped closer—just a fraction—but it was enough. The space between them disappeared, replaced with shared warmth and a fragile, unspoken understanding.
This wasn’t reckless. It wasn’t rushed.
It was two exhausted people finding comfort in the same quiet place, unsure where the line was—but standing right at its edge, together.
The quiet pressed in on them.
Mugman didn’t realize how tightly wound he still was until Boris shifted closer and his breath hit Mugman’s collarbone, warm and steady. It grounded him in a way he hadn’t expected. The room felt small now—not cramped, but enclosed, like the walls were holding their breath alongside them.
Boris’s ears twitched, lifting just slightly as Mugman’s hand continued its slow, careful path through his fur. The touch was tentative at first, as though Mugman was still testing the boundaries of what was allowed, what was wanted. But Boris didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned into it more openly now, weight shifting until his shoulder brushed Mugman’s chest.
Mugman’s fingers sank a little deeper, combing through soft fur with a steadiness that surprised even him. He’d done this before—comfort, grounding, reassurance—but it had never felt like this. Never with this tight coil in his chest, never with this awareness humming under his skin.
“You’re shaking,” Mugman murmured, almost without thinking.
Boris let out a breath that might have been a laugh, might have been something else entirely.
“Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “Guess it’s catching up to me.”
Mugman hesitated, then slid his other hand to Boris’s arm, anchoring him there.
“Sit down,” he said gently. Not an order—an invitation.
Boris glanced toward the bed. The lamp’s soft glow made it look impossibly inviting. After a moment, he nodded.
They moved together, unspoken agreement guiding them. Boris sat first, perched on the edge of the mattress, shoulders still tense but no longer locked tight. Mugman followed, sitting beside him close enough that their thighs brushed. The contact sent a sharp awareness through him that he tried—and failed—to ignore.
For a few seconds, nothing happened.
Then Boris slumped forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, head dropping. Mugman reacted instinctively, hand moving to Boris’s back, fingers spreading against the warmth there. He rubbed slow circles, feeling tension ease beneath his touch.
“Hey,” Mugman murmured. “You’re alright. You made it back. We’re done for the night.”
Boris’s breath hitched—not enough to be obvious, but enough for Mugman to feel it.
“…I know,” he said. “Just—hard to shut it off sometimes.”
“I know,” Mugman echoed, softer.
Without fully meaning to, Mugman shifted closer, his hand sliding up from Boris’s back to the base of his neck. His thumb brushed just behind Boris’s ear, where the fur was softest. Boris stiffened for a split second—
Then melted.
A low sound slipped from his throat, barely more than a hum, but it sent something sharp and electric straight through Mugman’s chest. He froze, heart pounding, unsure if he’d crossed a line.
Boris turned his head slightly, eyes half-lidded.
“…Don’t stop.”
Mugman swallowed.
He didn’t stop.
Instead, he adjusted, guiding Boris gently backward until he was sitting fully on the bed, Mugman’s hand still cradling the back of his neck. Boris followed the movement without resistance, letting Mugman ease him down until he was leaning against the pillows, posture less guarded now.
Mugman hovered for a moment, uncertain.
Then Boris reached out.
His hand closed around Mugman’s sleeve—not pulling, not forcing, just asking. The look he gave Mugman was quiet, vulnerable in a way Mugman wasn’t used to seeing.
That settled it.
Mugman moved onto the bed properly, sitting beside Boris, then shifting so he was close enough that Boris could lean into him fully. When Boris did, resting his head against Mugman’s shoulder, Mugman felt something inside his chest give way.
He wrapped an arm around Boris without thinking, pulling him in. His fingers resumed their slow path through fur, steady and deliberate, as though memorizing the feel of it. Boris’s breathing evened out gradually, the sharp edge dulling with each passing second.
“This okay?” Mugman asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.
Boris nodded against him.
“More than.”
They stayed like that for a while, time stretching thin and indistinct. Mugman became acutely aware of every small thing—the rise and fall of Boris’s chest, the warmth pressed against his side, the way Boris’s tail had curled loosely around his leg at some point without either of them acknowledging it.
Eventually, Boris shifted, turning just enough to face him.
They were close now. Close enough that Mugman could count the freckles on Boris’s nose, could feel the warmth of his breath. The tension between them wasn’t frantic or rushed—it was heavy, deliberate, charged with everything they hadn’t said.
“…You’re good at this,” Boris said quietly.
Mugman blinked. “At… petting you?”
A faint smile tugged at Boris’s mouth.
“At making things quieter.”
That hit harder than Mugman expected.
His hand paused mid-stroke, then resumed, slower now.
“I don’t do it for everyone,” he admitted.
Boris’s gaze flicked to his hand, then back to his face.
“I know.”
The silence returned, but it felt different now. Intimate. Expectant.
Mugman’s thumb brushed Boris’s cheek, almost accidentally. Boris leaned into the touch without hesitation, eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. When they opened again, there was something unspoken there—permission, maybe. Or trust.
Mugman leaned in before he could overthink it, resting his forehead gently against Boris’s.
They stayed there, breathing each other in, the moment stretched taut as a wire. Mugman’s heart hammered in his chest, but he didn’t pull away.
Neither did Boris.
If this line was going to be crossed, it wouldn’t be in a rush. It would be like this—slow, careful, and chosen.
And neither of them seemed ready to step back just yet.