CAUTION TO THE WIND → supplies

[Grimm]

[align=center][div style="font-family: arial; font-size: 12px; width: 310px; text-align: justify; line-height:120%"]Within hindsight his unrequested assistance — numerous the more unsavoury titles that may be rightfully attributed, each ignored for the most part — was rather presumptuous. A stranger lacking a name, poor the first impression, of worsening quality the sought second. His movements stilled, the sounds of the tavern grown dull, a murmur of droning noise than the raucous conversation of many. Easy the storage, time enough later to extend a hand in what he hoped may be viewed as help, intimate his own dealings with loss. The want was not there, however, burned into his mind the scene, how each desperate plea had gone unanswered.

He was not alone, not as Harland had been, evident such by those that reached out in the days that followed. Unnecessary his presence, more hindrance than anything. Something refuted the notion, pushed it back until he may entertain only his end goal, grief best handled when around others. The choice always there, allowed the dealer to push back, rejection to be met with only acceptance.

Heavy sigh bypassed his lips as basket was finished, harsh the manner he pushed edges down to secure all within place. Option simply to leave it on his doorstep proved most favourable as taken the package, anonymous still though delivery would be completed. Few his observers, their own little worlds created and maintained, the break lasting moments before prior pursuit drew them back, his nerves briefly suppressed when none seemed adamant on questioning his intentions. Continued this with his exit, away worn his newness, but another face among the crowd now, issue grown apparent only now that he stood beyond the tavern's threshold.

He was unsure about the exact whereabouts of the home he sought, or if his intended recipient would be present.

The notion of requesting directions arose, discarded in almost the same moment, Harland cared little to think on the reception his query may receive. Lacking that avenue to streamline the process it grew into a rather prolonged guessing game, numerous the doors he knocked upon, disgruntled many and empty a few of the abodes passed. Late grew the hour, pleasant the orange and peach hues that painted the horizon where it met the still ocean, frazzled the bombay, however, nerves only built upon with each wrong house checked in on. Last that he ended up before, assured now that he had no way of being wrong. Falsehood such, known this, and his mind was more than pleased to conjure any number of sceneries that may occur should it be another dead end.

Annoyance settled into golden depths, hard the set of pursed lips, at the least, they were pursed as much as he was able to about the handle he carried. Wrong or not the futile pursuit had grown vexing, what energy he still had sorely desired for other tasks before restless slumber may take him, whomever resided here allowed the package. Closer Harland stepped, unceremonious the placement before the door, paw arising. Before contact may be made he paused, grown unsure on the exact approach. No other hut was left to check, thus the final destination was decided without his input, his wish to depart with the mere informing of the occupant with a knock it was present fighting against his wish to be sure the correct person received it. Simply lingering at a distance seemed distasteful, with no note attached the wrong idea may be taken from it.

Down his gaze wandered, paw mirroring the movement. Maybe it was best he seek outside information rather than relying so heavily on the little he knew, all that was wasted a bit of time. Slow his forward lean, forehead connecting with the door with a soft thud. This was all an idiotic idea, brushing it under the rug seemed the best course of action.

[michael t.]

YOU NEVER GAVE UP ON ME; WHY DON'T YOU?
I'LL NEVER KNOW WHAT YOU SEE; WHY WON'T YOU?

Needless to say, the days following Trevor's death had been... rough, on Michael. The dealer rarely emerged from his home in the aftermath, curled up on his bed and staring at the wall as his mind tried to process all that had happened. Occasionally his stomach would give a mournful growl, reminding him that it had been some time since he had eaten. Still, he just ignored it, just as he ignored most outside things as he desperately attempted to cope with the loss of his husband. The only thing that didn't go ignored was the company of others – namely, his family. His children were his first priority at the moment, and he made sure to let his pups curl up with him whenever they wanted, encouraging them to go out and eat and do things as needed. He knew it was hypocritical, telling them to go out and live properly while he was clearly spiraling, but he wasn't about to just lock them up inside with him. They were kids, for God's sake. They deserved to go out and live good lives, and be able to make themselves happy even through the loss of their father.

In addition to the company of his children, he also got common visits from the usual suspects. Goldie, Roxanne, Diya, Roan... all of them came to check up on him, trying to make him feel better or convince him to eat something. In some cases they succeeded a bit, such as when Roxie or Goldie managed to get a laugh from him, or when Diya had forcibly brought food right into his room. Ultimately, the bobcat knew that he would recover, whether he liked it or not, because he had people who cared about him. Not only the family members that had already come to visit him, but also the entire group of The Typhoon, many of whom had already expressed their concern for Michael's wellbeing. It warmed his heart in a way, knowing that he had come so far from the days when he hadn't cared for anyone except himself, and Trevor.

He also knew that, in the end, Trevor wouldn't want him to be wallowing like this. Although they had both loved each other very much, the coyote had always made it clear that he didn't want Michael to fall apart following his death. He wanted the dealer to keep living and experiencing things that made him happy. That was what Trev had always tried to do in his life, and that was honestly what had finally driven the thief out of bed. He couldn't afford to just fall apart, and although he knew he wouldn't be completely fine anytime soon – if ever – he also knew that he would be wasting his life if he just laid in bed and allowed himself to starve. So, despite the way that the world seemed faintly muffled and muted around him, Michael stepped out of his room and headed into his kitchen, looking around for something small to eat. He was sure he'd need to take a bath as well, considering his fur was wild and unkempt from days without moving unless it was for something vital.

The male had been up on his hind legs, searching for some kind of nutrition within his mostly empty cabinets, when he suddenly heard a soft thud come from the front door of his hut. Glancing over, Michael tilted his head to one side, confused by what the noise could've been. Was it Diya, coming around with another large piece of prey to try and get him to eat? He wouldn't have minded that at this point, considering the way his stomach gnawed and roared at him. After just a moment of hesitation, the dealer made his way around the counter and over to the front door, opening it slowly, only to pause when he saw what was on the other side. There was another darkly colored feline in front of him, covered in sparse patches of white, hunched over as if his head had been resting against the door. And considering the thud that had attracted Michael over to the door in the first place, he was inclined to believe that was exactly what the other had been doing. Not only that, but what looked to be some kind of... gift basket lingered nearby in plain view, a fact which made the thief's stomach give another unruly growl.

Feeling embarrassed by the sudden noise from his stomach, Michael was quick to clear his throat, a crooked little smile on his muzzle as he spoke, "Uh... hey there?" He wasn't quite sure what to say, given the circumstances. He vaguely recognized the other as... Harland, if he was remembering correctly. The other had been around when Trevor had passed, and the dealer hadn't exactly had a chance to properly introduce himself. However, he had to admit that he was confused, trying to figure out what Har was doing here. Had Diya decided to send her brother to try and get him to eat, thinking that he'd somehow get better results? Head still tilted to one side, Michael then continued, his voice hoarse from lack of use over the last few days, "You're Harland, right? Are you okay? Cause you look kinda... tired." That was fairly rich coming from him at the moment, considering his entire being seemed to just radiate exhausted. However, he couldn't help being a little awkward. What was one supposed to say when a stranger came to your doorstep with a gift basket, especially only a few days after your husband had died?

— Reggan