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“This one kinda looks like you.”
Shez’s words are immediately followed by a loud “ow” as the little wheat-colored mouse stabs his index finger from in-between the cage bars with a long sewing needle, growling all the while. Immediately after, the tiny beast rams his tiny body into the cage, shaking the enclosure and pushing it just a bit closer to the edge of the kitchen counter, as his two odd-colored companions look on, both tense and agitated.
Dimitri hadn’t even known that mice could growl or that they could come in shades of bright purple or mint green.
“He does not look like me.” Really, Dimitri isn’t sure if he should be offended or concerned. While his haircut is a bit…shaggy—“rat king behavior” as Claude would tease—he doesn’t think it actually looks like a mouse’s fur.
Another loud bang comes on the cage as the small rodent slams himself against the enclosure, both an attempt to get out and an attempt to get at the occupants of the other cage, a slender white mouse with a strange horned headdress—is that real gold?—and a brown green-eyed mouse with darker markings on his face, all reminiscent of a beard. While the two clearly do not care for another, they could at least be kept in the same space.
A mousy truce if he were to be particularly fanciful.
“Come on.” Shez, in true idiot fashion, sticks his finger back into the cage on their kitchen counter, digit hastily withdrawn as the rodent makes another swipe with his makeshift needle lance. “He does. Look at the hair! He’s even missing an eye too.” Shez coos softly, agitating the blond rat bastard further. “And the teeny eyepatch…look at him! It’s just like yours!”
“Well yes bu—“
“Don’t you agree, Byleth?”
Much like Shez, Byleth is currently messing with the mice. Though unlike with the blond one, the two in the other cage on the kitchen table seem more curious (if wary) rather than outwardly hostile. They’re even sniffing at his fingers.
“Mm-hmm.” Byleth ignores Dimitri’s wounded look—what betrayal!—before he returns his gaze to the two mice. “They’re cute, aren’t they? They look a bit like Edelgard and Claude too.”
Do they? Dimitri doesn’t see any resemblance to his stepsister and or to their friend. He doesn’t remember Edelgard wearing anything resembling that headdress nor does she normally carry around the equivalent to its little metal bludgeon—a straight razor broken off from its handle. That’s what Dimitri summarizes anyhow. He doesn’t know where the thing has been.
All he knows for sure is that the weapon looks a bit heavy for a mouse and with that bladed edge too? It reminds him of a war axe. And her enclosure partner is equally—oddly—equipped with a similar makeshift weapon, a mini toy bow sized for a doll and what seems to be a quiver full of sharpened toothpicks. Arrows? There’s even fletching on them.
And the purple and mint ones…they’re also carrying weapons. Two skeleton keys, shafts modified into sharpened metal, strapped to the purple mouse’s back and one bent half of a keyring, loop permanently opened, point sharpened, and with the chain intact; for the minty green one.
They’re almost like swords if Dimitri stretches his imagination.
Pointing to the white mouse’s eyes, Byleth continues, “It’s in the face structure and eye color. Not to mention that shade of white.”
Edelgard would not enjoy her former crush’s comparison of her to a rat—her hatred of mice remains strong even years later—but Dimitri assumes that Byleth means well. He has always liked mice after all. Hell, both of his partners do. That’s why they even have cages for these little hellions after all.
Both of them have owned rats, both oddly very long-lived and both having escaped somewhere years earlier to their owners' respective heartbreaks. While Dimitri hadn’t cared for Arval—human Arval had been delighted at his rat counterpart’s escape and presumed demise—Jeralt would be missed.
Little fellow was a beloved and friendly mouse with a big heart that far surpassed his miniature body. That’s what Byleth’s eulogy had stated anyhow before they buried the empty solid mahogany box in the backyard. There had even been an audience of all of their closest friends.
While naming a pet mouse after your still living father had been an odd choice for Byleth, Dimitri assumes that it’s another of his quirks. Just as with his bluntness, it’s merely another one of the things that makes Byleth well, Byleth.
Whatever his reasoning or the case, it doesn’t particularly matter right now.
Not with the rats here. They had been hell to catch.
“Never mind.” Dimitri shakes his head. “We need to figure out what to do with them.”
And the rest of the rats for that matter.
That hadn’t been a pleasant thing to wake up to, but who would actually enjoy this morning’s surprise?
While he isn’t normally a late riser, last night had been rather rough; a mix of both work obligations—paperwork, scheduling conflicts, and more emails to answer—and his partners’ friskiness. Much like a cat with a life-threatening need to knead its owner’s boobs or a puppy with severe separation anxiety, both Shez and Byleth had pestered him continually, all eventually cumulating in a sloppy, frenzied fucking on their bed.
If morning fatigue and a faint ache in his ass were his only issues, Dimitri wouldn’t have been as nearly frustrated as he is now.
No one, after all, wants to open their patio door, warm cup of coffee in hand and body clothed only in a pair of shorts, to see hundreds, if not thousands, of technicolor mice locked in a brutal battle to the death, garden shed set ablaze in the background and ground littered with colorful rat corpses.
The tiny fuckers had even seemed to have split into factions, each led by one of the currently entrapped mice. Namely, his, Edelgard’s, and Claude’s mousy lookalikes. While Byleth and Shez also have their counterparts—they’re currently huddled next to a very enraged yellow rat—those two were at least somewhat more docile.
At worst, they had only scurried quickly after their little blond friend once Dimitri had grabbed the thing by the tail and stuffed him into a cage. He couldn’t catch all of them, but the leaders—he assumes that they’re the leaders—are enough for now.
Really, he wishes that the neighbors had been barbecuing. Arvis and his twink nephew Seliph having another cookout would be preferable. He, Shez, and Byleth are always invited over for freshly cooked meat, kebabs, and whatever else the other neighbors bring. Thankfully (or unthankfully depending on one’s opinion), Arvis never quite seemed to object to Shez’s accusations that he and Seliph were incestual. They’re still invited for delicious meats, roasted veggies, and gossip.
It’s the weekend after all—thank the goddess, Dimitri doesn't have work today—and he had assumed that the burnt smell had been because of the tinder and coal, not the fucking garden shed.
By her proximity to it, he assumes that Edelmouse—he can’t just keep calling her Edelgard’s lookalike—had caused it. Her and her faction.
“We keep them.” Byleth’s reply is immediate, eyes wide and hopeful.
“No!”
“Why not?” Shez pokes a finger through the metal bars and receives another near-miss for his stubbornness.
“He’s trying to stab you!”
“And he missed!” As if on cue, Dimiratri bangs his needle lance on the bars angrily, movements only ceasing when the mint green mouse pats him on the back with his tiny (admittedly cute) pink paw, squeaking comfortingly. Following him is the purple one, voice also squeaking in a similar manner, and he presses what seems to be a ratty kiss against the blond one’s snout. “Look how cute they are! It’s almost like Arval’s back. Remember how he used to try and bite me all the time when I did something stupid? I miss carting him around in my hoodie.”
That rat truly accounted for half of Shez’s intelligence and self-control. The other half of Shez’s intelligence and self-restraint belongs to human Arval. Truly a man with an empty head, all points placed into social charisma and social intelligence and zero in common sense and logic—the opposite of Byleth.
Not that Arval had ever appreciated having a pet mouse named after him. Unlike Jeralt the human father, Arval—no matter how much the rodent shared his features, red facial markings and color scheme and all—had hated his ratty counterpart and competing with him.
Who competes with a rat anyhow?
Though, Dimitri squints as he takes a good look at the mint and purple mice, why do these two also look like Byleth and Shez? Miceleth is even wearing a robe made out of fabric; cream, white, and purple hues a stunningly accurate (for a rat anyhow) replica of Byleth’s beloved jacket. On top of his small head is a cowlick, strand of hair stubborn and pointing in the same direction as Byleth’s.
And on Chez? Dimitri’s frown deepens as he looks at the purple rodent and his cozy little orange scarf.
Goddess, how did this rodent’s fur grow like that? The bangs are a perfect copy of Shez’s signature hairstyle. Moreover, why he and Miceleth are those stunning shades of purple and green respectively remains to be seen.
Preferably by a vet.
“Come on,” Shez continues, wincing as Dimiratri’s lance pokes his fingertip. Thankfully, Shez has had all of his tetanus and rabies shots before this. Byleth as well. “Owning rats is fun. They’re good pets! And it’s not like we have a dog or cat here to worry about. We can even turn one of the spare rooms into a mouse play room!”
Dimitri sputters at that. “No!”
While he has nothing against (most) rodents or his lovers’ interests, an entire room dedicated to mice seems excessive. Furthermore, knowing them, it would most likely increase to two or even to three rooms. The house that they live in is large, but Dimitri doesn’t want it to become known as the rat king’s abode.
Claude would never let him hear the end of it. With the current mice infestation in their backyard—most had already scattered upon seeing him this morning, but Dimitri is certain that they would return soon—Claude is already gonna give him shit for it.
And the mice themselves…he doubts that Edelmouse and Dimiratri would get along. They’re still glaring at each other from their respective enclosures. Even another mousy kiss from Chez and a gentle hug from Miceleth wouldn’t stop Dimiratri from fuming, his one remaining blue eye narrowed in a harsh glare.
“Please?” Even without glancing over, he knows the look currently on Byleth’s face. It’s the same one that a cat gets whenever someone steps on its paw, expression entirely too hurt and pitiful. “It is just five. We can take care of them. You don’t have to do anything.”
Five! That’s too many mice!
While they have the spare funds for larger cages—by the power of rat owner osmosis, Dimitri has a vague idea on what size enclosures would be appropriate for five mice—and for other necessities, it is a bit much.
Especially when one of them has set their garden shed on fire! Do they not remembering hosing down the charred remains? Or the smell of burning rat corpses? Edelmouse had done a number on the place before Byleth had caught her.
Dimitri is only glad that the neighbors haven’t knocked on their door to ask about the scent yet. Granted, they do live in a neighborhood of freaks and weirdos, human Arval’s designations as it were. It’s most likely just another normal day in their opinions.
While human Arval is right objectively, it’s not something that one says in public. Though to be fair, human Arval has never been known to keep quiet about others’ faults. A bit like that asshole Soren from down the street really.
Alongside their possibly incestual uncle-nephew pair, there are people ranging from the flamboyant Marth and his good friend Kris (who everyone, including Marth’s possible beard wife Caeda, assumes Marth is fucking), the neurotic Robin with his equally unhinged (and possibly incestual) twin Grima, among a number of others.
Really, the only person in their neighborhood who could be vaguely considered normal is Libra and that is a question in and of itself considering the fact that he lives with Robin and Grima.
Why so much incest in this area anyway? Is it something in the water? Fumes from the near-weekly barbecues?
Before Dimitri can respond, however, the lights begin to flicker, bulbs flashing before shutting off completely. While it is still daylight out, it’s not the most reassuring of events all things considering.
“Eh?” Blinking in confusion, Shez stops messing with Dimiratri. A rather wise choice considering that Dimiratri had immediately returned to bashing his body against the cage bars the moment that the lights had turned off. Very unreassuring and only compounded by the odd sense of dread that begins to form in the pit of Dimitri’s stomach. “I paid the electric bill yesterday. Not even the due date yet. My turn this month, you know?”
“Perhaps it is th—“
Byleth’s response is interrupted by a loud crack—the sound of glass shattering—and the thrum of thousands of scurrying feet, ground shaking just the slightest bit.
“Holy shi—“ A loud squeak, a war cry, sounds, drowning out the rest of Shez’s curse as a large mouse—he looks remarkably like Dedue with his tiny gray ponytail and brown fur, hair speckled with white—runs in, leading the charge.
“Is that a catapult?” Now having climbed onto the kitchen table to escape the furry horde, Byleth stares at the new hole in their patio door, entirely too impressed considering the situation. No matter how intricate the catapult is, he should not be amazed as he is!
Not when the mice are loading up another sizable rock on the thing! There’s even more rocks being pushed in on a mini toy wheelbarrow!
And is that the smell of kerosene? He could see a curly-haired rat, a Hubert lookalike, with miniature fabric pouches—they look like they belong more in a Dungeons & Dragons campaign than in a mouse’s paws—in the background.
It truly looks like a war party, factions having been temporarily united in their desire to rescue their fuzzy leaders.
Seiros. Dimitri already feels a migraine coming on. This would be hell to sort out with the insurance company. Do they even include rat-based war crimes in the policies? And the mice…who the hell would fix this?
It’s not like he could just hire an exterminator. Byleth and Shez would never forgive him for harming the furry bastards, and he prefers not to be sent to the couch for a year or so. Maybe two or three years even.
“Stop cheering!” Dimitri snarls at the caged mice, cute squeaks clearly ecstatic. Much like Byleth and Shez, he has been forced to high ground—the kitchen counter.
“Don’t shout at them!” Shez has the nerve to look offended on the behalf of their furred intruders. “They’re doing their best!”
“Shez!” Dimitri wishes that human Arval were here. Unfortunately, human Arval is on vacation, taking with him Shez’s remaining common sense and intelligence.
“Don’t shout, Dima.” Byleth is frowning. “Shez is right. The mice are doing their best.”
To do what! Murder them?
Though Dimitri can voice his complaints, another noisy thump occurs, sound immediately followed by the metallic crash of a destroyed cage.
Dimiratri’s fault. The motherfucker had finally succeeded in reaching the edge, enclosure tumbling onto the floor.
And for the cage on the table? He could see a pink rat with an equally pink bow around her neck, working on the lock, aided by what seems to be a rat version of Ashe. It even has little speckles on his snout! Freckles!
A heavy sigh leaves Dimitri. While they wouldn’t be killed by rats—what sort of idiotic death is that?—this would be a pain to sort out later.
Fucking mice.
Knowing Byleth and Shez, they would probably still insist on keeping them even after all of this. Stubborn fools but his stubborn fools.
He only hopes that this would end soon.
Before the neighbors call him about a disturbance.
He would like them to continue to be invited to Arvis's barbecues and the other neighbors' various shindigs after all.
As bizarre as the neighbors are, their company is still good.
Better than the rats' anyhow.