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"You should've seen his face when the anvil dropped," Bugs wheezed, slapping his knee as the other rabbit snorted into his soda can. Their laughter echoed through the warren's dimly lit living room, empty takeout boxes scattered across the coffee table.
Daffy paused halfway down the stairs, feathered fingers gripping the banister too tight. He'd been about to ask if Bugs wanted to go to the movies with him, but the sight of Bugs draped over some no-name bunny's shoulder killed the words in his throat.
The unfamiliar rabbit leaned in, whispering something that made Bugs throw his head back with another bark of laughter. Daffy's feathers puffed up involuntarily. He knew that laugh—the real one, not the performative chuckle Bugs used on camera.
"WELL, if it isn't the LIFE OF THE PARTY," Daffy announced, descending the last few stairs with exaggerated stomps. He flung his arms wide, knocking over a lamp that Bugs barely caught mid-air. "Don't mind me, just the INVISIBLE DUCK passing through—"
Bugs wiped soda off his whiskers, shooting Daffy the same exasperated look he'd given him since 1938. "What's eatin' ya, doc?" The other rabbit's ears twitched awkwardly as Daffy dramatically clutched his chest.
"ME? Oh, NOTHING. Just off to catch the newest romcom ALONE," Daffy sniffed, already strutting toward the door. Bugs' paw shot out to block him. "Ya can't drive, yer '32 car's still in bits at the shop after ya—" "PARADE FLOAT," Daffy screeched, spinning so fast his tailfeathers smacked the wall. "And I'll find my owwwnnnnn way there, thank you very much."
The silence stretched like over-chewed bubblegum. Bugs' paw slid down to grip Daffy's wrist—too tight, like when they filmed that avalanche scene in '53 and Daffy almost got crushed. "What'd I do?" Bugs whispered ears flattening. Daffy could smell the spearmint gum on his breath, the cologne Bugs only wore when he went out on dates.
Daffy's free hand gestured wildly at the couch where the younger rabbit sat picking at his soda label. "Doesn't matter," he choked out. "NOTHING'S wrong—now if you'll EXCUSE ME—"
The screen door slammed so hard it ricocheted open again. Through the warped glass, Bugs watched Daffy's silhouette wobble down the dirt road, shoulders hunched like an umbrella in wind. The new rabbit cleared his throat. "Does he always..." Bugs sighed, letting his forehead thunk against the doorframe. "Yeah." Behind them, the TV fizzed with the laugh track of some old rerun neither of them was watching.
Porky's porch light flickered when Daffy collapsed against the doorbell, the chime playing the first three notes of "Shave and a Haircut" before cutting off. The door swung open to reveal Porky in rumpled pajamas, a half-eaten sandwich in one hand. His ears drooped at the sight of Daffy's tear-streaked beak. "D-D-Daffy?" Without waiting for an answer, he stepped aside. The duck stumbled past, tracking mud clumps across the Persian rug.
The couch groaned as Daffy flopped onto it, webbed feet smearing dirt across the butter-soft leather. Porky's eye twitched—he'd just paid off that sectional last month—but he quietly set his sandwich on the coffee table instead. "W-what's wrong?" Daffy stared at the ceiling fan like it owed him money. His voice came out strangled: "Nothing's wrong, Porky. Everything's peachy keen." The fan wobbled on its axis, casting spiderweb shadows across his face.
Porky sat carefully on the armrest, watching Daffy pick at a loose thread on the cushion. The silence stretched until Daffy suddenly lurched upright. "Remember when we used to hit the malt shop after recording? Just you and me?" he questioned, hopefully through his obvious sorrow. "Remember when it was just you and me against the world, trying to carve our place among the mice and...other ducks of Hollywood?"
"Of-of-of, oh sure." Porky stuttered as usual. Daffy smiled, not one to give away emotion willingly, Porky could see the obvious pain in his eyes, and wanted to help in any way he could.
"Can we...go out...to the bar?" Daffy asked hesitantly. Porky knew this was serious now, as Daffy was historically afraid of getting drunk, often pretending to drink while spilling the booze in the sink when he thought no one was watching.
"D-Daffy..." Porky started. Daffy cut him off.
"The gay bar, Porkster. The one by the old studio lot." He was staring at his feet now, his voice dropping to something uncharacteristically quiet. "Unless you're *too busy* with your little sandwich there—"
Porky's ears flushed pink beneath his pajama hat. He'd come out publicly in '76 during that disastrous Tonight Show appearance where his stutter got mistaken for nervousness—everyone knew. But Daffy? Daffy who'd dodged every Pride parade invitation with increasingly elaborate excuses involving fictional dental appointments? Porky's sandwich hit the plate with a wet plop. "Is this..." He swallowed hard. "About B-B-Bugs?"
"NO." Daffy's neck feathers bristled instantly, his voice cracking like a broken kazoo. "This is about *me* wanting a damn martini in peace!" He was up now, pacing tracks into Porky's rug, wings flapping with each turn. "I don't know why everyone keeps—just because he's got those stupid long ears and that—that *smug carrot*—"
Porky's eyebrows shot up so fast his nightcap slipped sideways. Daffy froze mid-rant, realizing too late what he'd said. The ceiling fan's squeak filled the silence like an accusation.
"Oh, don't look at me like that!" Daffy snapped, but his beak trembled. He turned sharply toward the door, knocking over Porky's untouched sandwich. The mayo squelched under his foot as he marched out—an accident that felt like karma.
Porky sighed, picking up the ruined sandwich with trembling hands. He'd seen Daffy's face when Bugs won that first Oscar, back in '58—how the duck's smile had strained at the edges like cheap fabric. He grabbed his car keys from the hook by the door, the metal cold against his palm.
"If-if-if going out will help you, I'll-I'll go with you." Porky promised.
Porky's words were soft but firm as he stood in the doorway, his car keys jingling in his paw. Daffy whirled around, his bill twisted into a sneer. "Oh, spare me the concern, Porky! Since when did you become the patron saint of *heartbroken waterfowl*?"
The pig's ears drooped, but he didn't back down. "B-b-better I drive than...than let you do something you'll r-regret." His voice cracked on the last word, and Daffy's scoff stuck in his throat.
The duck's wings twitched at his sides. "The only thing I regret," he spat, wrenching open the car door with a screech of metal, "is ever thinking that rabbit gave a damn about me." Porky flinched like he'd been slapped. The slam of the car door echoed louder than Daffy intended.
The engine coughed to life, Porky's knuckles white on the steering wheel. Through the windshield, the streetlights blurred into streaks of gold as Daffy slumped against the passenger window, his breath fogging up the glass. Neither of them spoke. The radio stayed off. The only sound was the occasional hitch in Daffy's breathing—small, wet noises he'd deny making if asked.
Porky pulled into the potholed parking lot of The Velvet Acme, its neon sign flickering ominously. When Daffy wiped his bill with the back of his wing, Porky pretended not to notice. The duck hesitated before stepping out, adjusting his bowtie like it was body armor. His usual strut was gone. Instead, he walked stiffly, shoulders hunched, scanning the crowd as if expecting cameras. Inside, the bass thumped against Daffy's ribcage, the air thick with sweat and cheap cologne. He flinched when a drag queen in sequined hot pants winked at him, ignoring how much he wanted those pants for himself.
At the bar, Daffy perched on the stool like it might bite him. "Martini," he barked at the bartender—a burly bulldog with hoop earrings—then immediately added, "Uh. Shaken. Not stirred?" His voice cracked on the last word. The bulldog raised an eyebrow but said nothing as he slid the glass across the sticky counter. Daffy grabbed it like a lifeline, knocking back half in one gulp. His face twisted instantly, feathers puffing up as he coughed violently into his wing.
Porky reached out instinctively, but Daffy batted his hoof away. "I'm FINE," he hissed, despite the tears welling up again—whether from the burn of gin or humiliation, even he didn't know. The bulldog snorted, shaking his head before turning to another customer. Daffy glared at his reflection in the smudged mirror behind the liquor bottles, watching his blush deepen under the pink disco lights. Behind him, Porky murmured something about pacing himself—right as Daffy tossed back the rest of the drink with a shudder.
Across the bar, a portly boar in a leather harness caught Porky’s eye with a shy wave. Porky hesitated, glancing at Daffy before nodding politely. The boar sidled over, his hooves clicking on the sticky floor. "You're Porky Pig, right?" he asked, voice warm with recognition. Porky's ears twitched—half-flattered, half-distracted—as Daffy slammed down his empty glass with unnecessary force. "Th-that's me," Porky admitted, shooting another anxious look at Daffy, who was now flagging down the bartender for his third martini in fifteen minutes.
The boar—Richie, as he introduced himself—started gushing about Porky's old days, and Porky's shoulders relaxed despite himself. The gin was working its magic on Daffy too; his posture loosened, his laugh grew louder, his wings gesturing wildly as he argued with some bemused tabby cat about jazz standards. Every so often, Porky would crane his neck to check on him, but Richie kept pulling him back into conversation—asking about his favorite roles, leaning in a little too close when the music swelled.
Daffy watched them from the corner of his eye, his chest tight. He didn't know what burned hotter—the alcohol or the bitter twist in his gut when Porky laughed at something Richie whispered. The tabby had long since excused herself, leaving Daffy alone with his fourth drink and the gnawing realization that he was exactly where he'd always feared: stranded at the edge of the party, screaming into the void while everyone else paired off. He swirled the olive in his glass, watching it sink like his dignity.
The stool beside him creaked under sudden weight. "Damn, somebody's drinking like they got a Warner Brothers contract to void," drawled a voice too smooth for its own good. Daffy stiffened—that cadence, that lazy confidence—before forcing himself to turn. The rabbit leaning against the bar wasn't Bugs. His fur was duller, his grin sharper, his ears slightly asymmetrical where some childhood scar had left one notched. But the resemblance was enough to make Daffy's breath hitch.
The stranger smirked at Daffy's silence, twirling his own glass between long fingers. "What's a pretty duck like you doing all alone?" He leaned in, close enough for Daffy to smell the bourbon on his breath. "Looks like you could use a bunny to hop you home tonight." The line was cheap, the delivery cheesier than Porky's abandoned sandwich—but the gin had sanded down Daffy's better judgment. He found himself leaning in too, wings fluttering as he drawled, "Oh, is that what they're calling it these days? 'Hoppin' me home'?" His voice dripped with false bravado, but his feathers trembled.
Across the room, Porky hiccuped mid-sentence as Richie's hoof found his knee. The bar's neon lights caught the rabbit's smirk at just the right angle, and for one dangerous heartbeat, Daffy let himself pretend. His wing trailed up the rabbit's arm, tracing the slope of muscle beneath fur. "You know," Daffy purred, too drunk to care how desperate he sounded, "I've always had a thing for long ears." The rabbit's laugh was wrong—too sharp, not enough warmth—but when his paw settled on Daffy's thigh, the duck didn't pull away.
They stumbled into the parking lot half-wrapped around each other, Daffy's head spinning from the martinis and the thrill of being wanted. The rabbit's car smelled like stale fries and pine air freshener, the passenger seat springs digging into Daffy's tail feathers. He fumbled with the seatbelt, staring blearily at the fuzzy dice dangling from the rearview mirror—tacky, nothing like Bugs' vintage Cadillac. The engine roared to life, and Daffy's stomach lurched as the car peeled out onto the street.
The rabbit's apartment was small, the wallpaper peeling at the seams, the kitchenette counter crowded with unwashed cereal bowls. Daffy wobbled in the doorway, gripping the frame as the rabbit pawed at his bowtie. When Bugs had helped him tie this same bowtie last month after Daffy had fumbled with it before an awards show, his paws had been steady—always steady. The memory flickered and died as the rabbit nipped at his neck, tugging him toward a sagging couch that squeaked under their weight.
Daffy's wings splayed across cheap polyester upholstery, his head swimming with gin and regret. The rabbit's paws were rough, his kisses sloppy—nothing like the slow, deliberate way Bugs would've—no. Daffy squeezed his eyes shut, nails digging into couch cushions that smelled like mildew and someone else's cologne. Somewhere beyond the rabbit's eager grunts, he imagined Porky's car idling outside, the headlights cutting through the dark like a lifeline he was too proud to reach for.
"Bugs," Daffy slurred, the name slipping out like a prayer—or a plea. The rabbit froze, his ears snapping upright. "The hell did you just call me?" His grip tightened painfully on Daffy's shoulders before shoving him onto the floor. Daffy's beak clicked against linoleum, the impact jarring his teeth. Above him, the rabbit's muzzle twisted in disgust. "Freakin' pathetic," he spat, kicking Daffy's crumpled fedora across the room. "You're just some washed-up has-been chasing after a star who'd never look twice at you."
The door slammed hard enough to rattle the framed motivational posters—"Hare Today, Gone Tomorrow!"—as Daffy stumbled down the stairwell, his reflection warping in the pitted metal railings. The night air hit like a slap, sobering enough for shame to curdle in his gut. He walked—no direction, no destination—past neon-lit pawn shops and flickering streetlights, each step heavier than the last. Somewhere behind him, Porky was probably still laughing with Richie, blissfully unaware. Ahead, the horizon blurred into indistinct shapes, but Daffy kept moving, one webbed foot in front of the other, because stopping meant admitting he was lost.
Memories flickered like faulty film reels: Bugs teaching him how to parallel park the Studebaker in ‘47, both of them doubled over laughing when Daffy clipped a fire hydrant ("Nice parkin’, doc—if ya were aimin’ for the municipal water supply!"). The scent of buttered popcorn at the drive-in where Bugs would sneak his arm around Daffy’s shoulders during scary movies, pretending it was just to mock his jumps. Worst of all—that stupid, infuriatingly gentle way Bugs would say "Daff" when he thought no one else was listening, like it was something precious instead of a name half of Hollywood associated with failure.
The sky was bleeding dawn by the time his feet found the familiar cracked sidewalk leading home—to their bungalow with its perpetually jammed screen door and the rosemary bush Bugs insisted on nurturing despite Daffy’s dramatic allergy attacks. He hovered on the porch, staring at the chipped green paint where he’d once thrown a mallet in frustration. His fingers twitched toward the knob, then retreated. What if Bugs wasn’t alone? What if—
The door creaked open untouched—left ajar, he realized with a pang. Bugs never forgot to lock up. Inside, the air smelled of stale spearmint and burnt coffee. He crept past the overturned soda cans, wincing when his wingtip grazed a framed photo from their first team-up. The glass had a hairline fracture he didn’t remember being there before.
The couch springs groaned as Daffy collapsed onto them, burying his face in the throw pillow that still carried the faint musk of Bugs’ cologne. Then—click. The lamp flickered to life, illuminating Bugs perched stiffly on the armchair like he’d been molded there for hours. His paws were clasped tight, carrot stubs chewed down to nubs littering the coffee table. "Figured you’d end up at Porky’s," he said, voice scraped raw. His ears were flattened in a way Daffy hadn’t seen since ’44, when a stagehand got crushed under faulty scaffolding. "Then I called. He said you..." Bugs’ jaw worked silently, and Daffy realized with horror that his bowtie was dangling undone, his left wing missing feathers where that rabbit had yanked too hard.
Silence pooled between them, thick as spilled ink. Bugs’ nose twitched—catching the bourbon, the stranger’s musky aftershave—and something in his expression shattered. He reached out slowly, giving Daffy every chance to flinch away, and gently straightened the crooked bowtie with trembling fingers. "You coulda just told me, doc," he whispered, and the unspoken "I would’ve listened" hung between them like the punchline to a joke that wasn’t funny.
Daffy’s shoulders hitched. He snatched Bugs’ wrist, claws pressing crescents into fur, then just as abruptly let go. "Who *says* I’m—" His voice cracked like a dropped plate. Bugs sighed, grabbing the navy blanket draped over the armchair—the one with the embroidered constellations Daffy always stole during movie nights—and wrapped it around him like bandaging a wound.
Bugs’ ears flicked at Daffy’s muffled sniffle. "C’mon, ya think I didn’t notice how ya mooned over Cary Grant in ‘Notorious’?" He tugged the blanket tighter, thumbs brushing Daffy’s cheekbones. "Or how you ‘accidentally’ spilled coffee on every dame who flirted with me?"
Daffy’s beak clicked shut. The blanket smelled like lemongrass soap and gunpowder—Bugs’ scent, layered under decades of shared chaos. Somewhere outside, a mockingbird sang the first notes of dawn. "I hate you," Daffy mumbled into the fabric, fingers twisting the constellation seams. Bugs just smiled, pressing his forehead to Daffy’s temple like he used to when they were young and stupid and thought immortality meant never having to say things aloud.
The kiss happened the way Daffy’s best gags did—badly timed, messy, inevitable. One moment Bugs was wiping gin off his bill with that infuriatingly gentle thumb, the next Daffy was surging forward, wings scrabbling against Bugs’ suspenders as their mouths crashed together. Decades of stolen glances, half-finished arguments, and silent car rides crystallized into the taste of spearmint and salt—Daffy hadn’t realized he was crying until Bugs pulled back, whiskers twitching against his damp cheeks. "What’s eatin’ ya now, doc?" Bugs murmured, but his paws were already cradling Daffy’s face like something fragile.
"Don’t," Daffy choked, feathers puffing defensively even as he leaned into the touch. "Don’t pretend you don’t know." His voice cracked like an old record. "I’m *mean*, Bugs. I’m selfish and loud and—and I *stole* your Oscar in ‘72—" Bugs burst out laughing, the sound warm against Daffy’s neck. "That’s why I love ya, you dramatic lil’ gremlin," he snorted, nuzzling the space behind Daffy’s ear where he knew it made him shiver. "You’ve never once tried to be anythin’ but *you*, even when it drives me up a wall."
Daffy blinked—once, twice—before his trademark smirk crept back, crooked and sure. "I’m a *lot* to keep up with," he declared, chest puffing out even as his wings clung to Bugs’ waist. The rabbit just grinned, tilting Daffy’s chin up with one finger. "I’m countin’ on it," he breathed against his bill before kissing him again, slow and deep, like they had all the time in the world. Outside, the mockingbird kept singing, but neither of them heard it.