Frith's Fitting (A River Hill story) (Patreon)

El-Ahraihrah plodded home beneath the setting sun. His dark braids bounced with each step in the scraggly grass beneath his feet; he walked along the side of a road which hadn’t been maintained in many years, the asphalt having frayed to gravel at the edges, loosening the footing and making the trek all the more tiring. Fences rose high over his head, lining the road. To him, they were stifling—more than a denial of the freedom to travel where he pleased, they forced him to take the long way around, and they’d be an inconvenience even for someone as light on his feet as he was.

As he continued, a shadow passed over him, despite the crystal-clear evening. He glanced upward, and was greeted not by a bird or by an errant cloud, but instead by the figure of a man, balanced motionlessly on one of the electrical lines that followed the street. So perfectly poised was he that the cable didn’t even sway beneath his feet; while this would’ve ordinarily offered El-Ahrairah a better look at the figure, he was planted squarely in front of the slowly-sinking sun, its rays framing him in a glaring halo that El-Ahrairah couldn’t stand to look at for more than a moment.

When his eyes adjusted, he saw that the man was swaddled in a thick coat, embroidered with the same vermillion, tangerine, and goldenrod hues that rose up from the horizon as if to herald his appearance. From within the fur lining emerged a mask, a mosaic of concentric circles depicting, like his coat, the sun. His hood was taut in two places atop his head, though El-Ahrairah couldn’t see what stuck up underneath it.

“You there,” he called down. “Have you seen El-Ahrairah?” The mask suddenly felt more like an eyeball; he felt the itch to scurry out from under its gaze, but more than that, he didn’t like the implication that it had been bearing down on him for some time.

“And who are you?” The young man dodged.

“Frith,” the masked figure replied. “Lord Frith, once, but no longer. This land is not mine anymore. In another life,” he continued, “one of my children said that humans would never rest until they had spoiled the earth. Feh,” he spat. The mask contorted as he spoke; El-Ahrairah tried to dismiss it—it was just his mouth moving underneath—but it seemed almost as if the brow of the great eye was furrowed in consternation. “He was right again and again, you know. I’m sure you can feel it, too.”

He gestured at the houses on the other side of the fences to which the cables carried power—carried comfort. Though El-Ahrairah was the one who was kept out, though he didn’t have a large home for himself, he had always felt that those homes were just as restrictive to their owners as the fences were to him. They were all too happy to remain nestled in their great big boxes, all regimented, all neat and at right angles, and they expected everyone to be comfortable in those same boxes. Still, the feeling of being watched sat unsettlingly on his shoulders; he crossed his arms, tense, and lifted his voice again.

“Sure. This neighborhood is tacky. I wish there was a garden to enjoy, or a park to run through, or at least a path you could properly stretch your legs on,” he griped, “but I don’t see what that has to do with El-Ahrairah, and I don’t see him around, either.”

“Well,” he went on, apparently unsurprised, “I suppose I shall bestow my gift upon you, instead.” El-Ahrairah blinked, and by the time his eyes opened, Frith was holding something in his gloved hand. It was a headband, with… bunny ears? They transfixed El-Ahrairah’s eyes. They were almost cartoonish, but the way they bounced in the wind—especially contrasted against Frith’s uncanny stillness—was… well, it was quite cute.

“Thanks, but if you wanna bless me, you’ll have to pack it up to-go. I’m very busy,” El-Ahrairah lied, turning to continue down the street, attempting to excuse himself before the situation could get any stranger.

“Very well,” Frith obliged. El-Ahrairah turned once again, looking over their shoulder, and saw that a snug, neatly-wrapped package had taken the place of the headband. Through the clear plastic, he could see that the band was still there, the ears all squashed up and packed down; behind them was something glossy and opaque, the same pristine white as the headband. He tossed it down and, despite himself, El-Ahrairah reached with both hands to catch it.

“What do you want me to do with this?” He finally asked, after a long, bewildered pause.

“What you do with it is your own choice,” Frith said plainly. He pulled down his hood, revealing the shapes that had poked through his hood: a set of bunny ears protruded from the upper rim of his mask, stylized with the same circular shapes as the eye in the center. “But you are one of my children as well, little restless one.”

“One of your… children?” El-Ahrairah felt talked-down-to, but just enough dots connected in his mind to keep him curious. He didn’t know whether he was pressing his luck or seizing on something once-in-a-lifetime, but it wasn’t like him to hesitate to mull over the difference.

“This is a freedom that I insist you treat with its due gravity,” Frith warned; El-Ahrairah’s eyes were already glued to the package, its contents calling to him. “When you don these blessings, there will be no going back. All the world will be your enemy, and hiding from others will be as hiding from yourself.”

“I’m full of tricks,” cracked the younger man. “I’m sure I’ll manage.” Frith guffawed beneath his mask, the most he had moved since he had stepped out of thin air onto the power line. The sun dipped lower in the sky, changing from deep crimson to rich purple, broken by scattered rays of gold.

“Well, I am certain, at least, that someone of such self-assuredness will come to the right choice. I’ll leave you to it—my work for the day draws to a close.”

“Wait—” El-Ahrairah blurted out. “—Who are you, really? Do you—do you give people gifts like this often?” Frith chuckled again.

“Oh, not for a great many years,” he mused. “But my children had to get their cunning from somewhere, didn’t they?”

With that, he turned and stepped off the wire, dropping like a stone into the private property below. El-Ahrairah heard no noise to tell when he touched the ground, which struck him as odd. Then again, everything about this exchange had struck him as odd, and he had a bundle of burning intrigue in his hands to which he needed to attend. He looked around to find the street still completely empty but, heeding Frith’s warning, tucked the package under his arm so it was harder to see. As fast as his feet could carry him, he ran home—skipping fences and tearing across lawns all the way.

The young man burst through the doors to the lobby of his apartment building and made for the stairs. Down he went, past the utilities, past the communal laundry, to his door, buried beneath layer upon layer of concrete and earth. The cramped apartment made him feel as boxed-in as the wooden slats above, carving the world into parcels and closing people away from one another. He complained that there were no good stretches for running, but down here there was scarcely room enough around his bed to walk; still, it was that very sense of claustrophobia, the solidity of the walls, that made his private space feel truly free of prying eyes.

El-Ahrairah was no stranger to stares: he was a proud young man, and one who preferred to do things the hard way, as long as that was his way. This stubbornness, this willingness, tendency, even, to go against the grain, had earned him a thousand enemies. Though he always found some way around them—he had made as many eat their own words as he had made eat his dust—it did him good to have somewhere where there was nothing to prove, and no need to run. Resting, letting his guard down, felt like an admission of defeat, and it only added to the conflicting feelings he had for his room, but right now he had never been more relieved to have the privacy.

He surveyed the contents (now laid across his bed) of Frith’s gift (now shredded like Christmas wrapping paper). He already knew about the bunny ears, which he could now see ended in points where the diagonal strips of fabric met at the corners. There were a stretchy, breathable pair of stockings; cuffs, disconnected from the rest of the outfit and adorned with black, square buttons; a collar, likewise standing on its own so that it was more like a choker, topped off with a little black bowtie; a set of closed-toe stilettos, a good few inches high (he certainly wouldn’t be running in those); and and finally, the main event, a shiny, snow-colored corset teddy with a pleated ribbon brooch affixed above the hip.

The ensemble was… well, like anything else El-Ahrairah found himself mixed up in, it was eye-catching. It wasn’t quite right to say that he struggled to imagine himself in it—in fact, he was doing so quite emphatically. Where some might feel unprotected in clothing that borders this closely on “revealing”, he felt a twinge of the same thrill as all the times he had put his pride (and safety) on the line and come out on top. Despite the height of the heels, he could only imagine feeling a greater spring in his step while wearing them. Most of all, there was something about the way the ears bounced gently as he turned the headband over in his hands. They were at once coy and playful, and like a coiled spring, twitching in the air as though they were the genuine article on alert for the slightest sound. He imagined the tug on his head as their weight bobbed and shifted, and the same deep, animal satisfaction one experienced when nesting under blankets or gnawing through something tough welled up in his chest.

They were just so impractical. How could he get anything done in a getup like this? Where could he present himself? His thoughts turned to the people living in that orderly little suburb, and how they would turn up their noses at something so far afield from what they considered acceptable—he scoffed, almost reveling in the idea that they would be so off-put. If this turned out to be his style, he’d wear it all the more proudly in his spite for them, for what could they do about it? In the same breath, though, he knew that there were people who did hold power over him: his employer and the rules of his work, for one, and anybody so incensed by what he did with his body that they would pursue him for it. Was that what Frith had meant? He didn’t understand what he had meant by “no going back” either, but…

Well, he would just find a way around it, wouldn’t he?

He rolled the stockings up along his legs; they didn’t catch or snag a single time, and they were comfortably snug. He fastened the cuffs around his wrists, thankful that the buttons were large enough that he didn’t fumble one-handedly with either of them, and began lacing up the corset. With the cinches closed comfortably around each thigh, he marveled that the fabric didn’t tent or pinch anywhere, even as he stretched to admire himself; the soft satin sat flush against his skin, hugging his waist and chest as though it was tailored specifically to his proportions. He slipped on the high heels and was surprised to find that balancing on his toes came quite naturally to him. While he still didn’t feel like he’d be running in them anytime soon, he could at least cross his room with confidence, and quite enjoyed the clack-clack-clack-clack of his own footsteps.

The only thing left was to slip the headband through his hair and behind his ears. He clicked around his bed once more to stand before the mirror that leaned against his wall, and stopped when he caught sight of himself. Even in the dim light of his room, the silky fabric seemed to shine as though under the full light of day. He looked—he felt—even better than he had imagined. The shapes of his legs were subtly different, thanks to the posture the heels forced him to adopt; he pivoted on a toe and kicked one of his feet up as he twisted to look at himself from behind. The pom-pom perched above his butt wobbled back and forth as his weight shifted, and he giggled watching it jump around as he wiggled his butt.

There was a floaty feeling in his chest at the sight of himself like this. Most of his clothes were function-over-form: range of motion was important, because he was a runner at heart, and for all his bravado, it was still sometimes better to remain unassuming. He was unused to something that showed, emphasized, his body to such an extent, and the way it flattered his admittedly thin frame was… thrilling. He tore his eyes away from the mirror, picked up the headband, and took a breath before putting them on. The weight of the ears hung satisfyingly on his head, and he bobbed them around like someone appraising a new haircut.

When he turned back to the mirror, he found himself stunned yet again—the ears completed the look of the bunnysuit, yes, but they also seemed almost a natural part of his head. They were just as important to framing his face as his own ears, or the braids that fell past his cheekbones. They were like a missing piece that he had finally clicked into place, and he was as enraptured by them as they moved like a part of his own body as he had been when he first saw Frith produce them on the wire. He was only broken from his reverie when his own breath fogged up the surface of the mirror, startling him—he hadn’t realized that he had leaned in so close. His eyes flicked between the condensation and the ears still peeking out above it and, his hand reaching out as though directly from inside his chest, he drew a set of whiskers over his nose to match them. Something about that felt natural. Something about that felt right.

The mirror made him jump a second time: his hair flashed like a star, and when the light was gone, it was as pearly-bright as the suit and the ears. He supposed something like that was about right for Frith, but he wasn’t opposed to the change, either. It did match nicely, at least with this outfit. Still, as much as he’d like to bask in the feeling of trying it on, he’d far exceeded his tolerance for the otherworldly for the day, and was curious, besides, about whether his hair would return to its normal color if the outfit was taken off.

He began to untie the laces at his waist, expecting the ensemble to come off as easily as it had been put on, but found that the strings wouldn’t budge from the bow he had tied them into. He supposed, in his excitement, that he’d fastened them too tightly, and started working from the other end, trying to shimmy the corset from his chest downward; once again, to no avail. He grew more frantic, pulling harder and harder at the fabric, which didn’t even creak or stretch under the strain. It was holding fast, and it didn’t seem like he could tear out of it—something Frith had done had stuck it to him!

He curled his fingers around the neckline of the corset and began to pull with all his might, hoping to pry it at least a hair looser, that he might be able to wriggle out of it. He expected his skin to sting, like slowly peeling off a bandage in the absence of the strength to rip it off all at once. The sensation was, altogether, much worse: nothing glued the satin to his skin, but as he tugged and tugged, it felt as though he was wrenching at his own bones, like the garment had been fixed with pins to something in his very core. Worse still, the sliver of skin that he had been able to expose throbbed with a dull, empty ache. To strip off the suit, it seemed, was to remove something that, just like the ears, felt like a natural part of him.

He hastily pulled it back into place, where it fit him just as neatly as it did before, unaffected by his abuses. He was beginning to understand Frith’s second warning: while something about the suit deeply resonated with him, he hadn’t expected to miss it so dearly at the merest gesture toward taking it off. Even if he could remove it from himself, would he want to? Would he feel satisfied living his life without something that came to him so naturally? He wouldn’t, he thought, but It was fine. He was full of tricks. If he couldn’t remove it, he could simply disguise it when the need arose. He tiptoed to his closet and dug out some of his baggiest, most loose-hanging articles: a hoodie, two sizes too big (swiped from Rabscuttle), a pair of sweatpants, and a beanie.

He was already patting himself on the back for his cleverness, rehearsing the lie that “being able to run in heels would make him faster than any creature in the world when he changed into his sneakers”. As soon as he had himself covered, however, he began to chafe under the clothes. They were smothering him, too confining. Just a simple sweater was like wearing a bag over his head, for how suffocating it felt, for how much of himself he was hiding; trying to fold his ears under his beanie was like trying to bind his nose flat against his face.

He threw off his old clothes and plopped down on his bed, at a loss for what to do next. He wasn’t sure that he could manage that, either. To stifle himself all day long, his scant free hours the only opportunity he had to let the facade down? To live how he pleased, without bending over backwards to avoid judgment? The only thought he could summon up was that Frith had been right. He couldn’t go back. Even if he could undo whatever had affixed the suit to his body, he knew he wouldn’t want to if he could help it. It would constantly be in the back of his mind, now that he knew it of himself—how much more confident could he feel if he was wearing it? How much more comfortable? How much more like himself?

He knew he shouldn’t have to limit himself to appease the withering gazes of people who were happy never to question their own tastes, their own habits, but the truth, bitter on his tongue, was that he lacked the strength to do anything about it. He couldn’t speak to the whole world to change their minds, and he couldn’t force them to leave him be. The only thing he had ever been good at was running, and while he could stay out of their reach just fine, the idea of a life spent keeping a mere step ahead terrified him. He couldn’t run forever. He didn’t know if he wanted to try. He sat for a long moment, blank-faced, considering the roads that lay ahead of him.

He’d have to pick one of them and start walking, eventually. That could wait until the morning, though. He didn’t know how long he could bear to hide himself, but he supposed that until he could come up with a better plan, he’d make do. His little space, the hole in the world that he had carved out for himself, would have to be enough for now, and he knew that there was always at least one person he didn’t have to hide from. He picked up his phone, dialed, and waited.

“Rabscuttle,” he managed, “hey. Can you come over? I think I need to tell you about a few things.”

Hey, happy Halloween, everyone!! It's been a while since I've had anything to contribute to the Patreon artistically, but it was a blast working on this with Plastic. I hope you enjoyed it, and thank you so much for the warm reception to the last piece of writing I uploaded. Consider this a sneak peek at what's to come for the next month—we've got more bun fun planned for y'all! From me and Plastic (and El-Ahrairah and Rabscuttle):