Fall 2013
New York City. A shining beacon of the American spirit—at least, that’s what the postcards say.
You may still think so, standing amongst the endless hustle and bustle of hundreds upon hundreds of people crowding the cracked sidewalks. Car horns and clouds of exhaust filling the cool, autumn air. Piles of trash and rat droppings stuffed into every available corner.
The city truly never slept. 
        Or bathed.
 All these people, and not a single one paid attention to one old electronic shop tucked away on Canal Street. Paint peeling, large windows smeared with the ghostly remains of a thousand rainstorms and oily sludge from the pothole the city always seemed to forget to repair.
Inside things hardly fared much better. Dusty shelves stuffed with old VCRs and tube TVs, and the occasional DVD player. No one ever came in to buy any electronics, never to find homes now that Blu-rays have taken over the home media scene.
And yet the store remained open. An old wooden sign on the front doors inside glass proudly stated so in Americanized Chinese font. Though if you ever dared to heed the sign, which no one ever does, you’d never find anything worth buying.
        Far in the back and out of view from the front shop, a Shar-Pei sat astride a tall wooden stool, grinding dried salamanders in a chipped granite mortar. His grey fur was draped over deep, rolling folds, more than you’d expect from his breed, and a generous gut stretched those wrinkles as tight as an old T‑shirt. Yet despite his ancient appearance, he carried a surprisingly youthful charm.
Every wall around him was lined with sagging bookshelves. Some were packed with mason jars full of strange ingredients: eyebright petals, powdered root, mummified frog hearts. Others held battered tomes, their spines flaking with age. A few shelves were reserved for fish tanks, murky and humming, home to creatures whose parts were best used fresh. 
At least the ones not filled with broken electronics were. Those shelves were long overfilled and now spilled out onto the floor along with more than a few tall, haphazard stacks of VHS tapes and DVDs. One particular stack was composed of only Disney tapes with a sticky note saying “DO NOT SELL. OR TOUCH.” slapped on top, a remnant of a rumor the old clamshells were worth far more than the calories spent to chuck them in a dumpster. Facebook has been banned under the roof ever since.
The dog stretched, his back popping loudly. “Ooof, my back’s sounding like a fortune cookie. I’m really missing my memory foam chair. Why did Jake have to roast it?”
The canine wiped his brow, silently cursing the endless work lately. He’d already spent hours on this potion and his ass was sore from constant sitting. His grey fur was even darker now from sweat, the heat from multiple magic candles serving as makeshift butane torches now boiling potions, raising the temperature of the back room to a nearly unbearable level.
While nothing in the front ever sold, the potions from the back flew off the shelves. Trolls needing eye drops, mermaids needing scale rot ointment, or Brownies needing something extra for their brownies, all were made on the scuffed desk in the back of a decrepit electronics shop.
”FU DOG! YOU DONE WITH THAT ORDER YET?” A shout came from behind the worn curtain that blocked the entryway, and any natural light, from the front of the store. Fu jumped in his seat, the disturbance shattering the quiet, and the glass vial Fu’s elbow bumped off the counter. The vial shattered against the wood floor with a crisp crack, the scent of tropical fruit and ozone filling the air.
Fu let out a sigh that turned into a groan, dragging his paw down his face before muttering, “Well, there goes thirty bucks and a Tuesday I’ll never get back. Only got one essence of Macaw left now.” He slipped off the stool with a stiff wince, shaking his legs out as he ambled over to grab a rag and a dustpan and started sweeping up the mess.
From beyond the curtain, footsteps creaked against the warped wooden floorboards. A second later, the curtain was yanked aside and Leong Lao Shi, Fu’s old friend, mentor, and full time professional curmudgeon, stepped into the cluttered back room. Dressed in his usual threadbare blue robes and slippers that had lost the will to live somewhere around the Reagan administration, you would hardly be blamed for assuming the old man was just an average neighborhood grandpa, and not a fire breathing dragon. Let alone once holding the title of the Chinese Dragon, the protector of all the magical creatures in China. He was short, perhaps a few inches taller than Fu’s generous 2 feet. His skin wrinkled in both forms, and sprouting a white Fu Manchu mustache. His entire image screamed Chinese Yoda ripoff, which Fu had once insisted he do one Halloween, leading to a “cease and desist” order from George Lucas himself. 
The old man nudged a shard of glass and gave Fu a look that was equal parts disapproval and amusement.
“You’re a mess.”
Fu snorted as he dabbed at the Macaw fluids, each press increasing the scent of mangos and. . .bongos? “Aw, c’mon, Gramps,” brushing the last shards into the dustpan with a paw. “You know I work better when I’m a mess. Organized chaos, baby. It’s my process.”
Lao Shi arched a brow. “Your process just cost us rare bird extract.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Rare and overpriced,” Fu muttered, dropping the broken glass into a bin. “It’s daylight robbery what the market charges now. If I didn’t know better, I’d say there’s a parrot mafia running the Magus Bazaar.”
Lao Shi walked over to examine the dozen or so potions, most of what was in the order sat in a cardboard “Shaniqua Chulavista” collectible bobblehead box. “I thought you had all these finished yesterday.”
“Yeah, and I shoulda won that poker hand against Stan three nights ago, but we don’t all get what we want, do we?” Fu gave a lopsided smirk, tail flicking once behind him. “Some of us get stuck babysitting potions while everyone else goes off on grand adventures.”
Lao Shi leaned on his cane, peering at him more thoughtfully now. “You’ve been in a mood lately.”
“I’m always in a mood,” Fu deflected. “That’s part of my charm.”
“Hmm.” Lao Shi stepped past him and inspected the still-bubbling beaker. “And missing Jake.”
“Missing constantly having to apply burn cream to my tail from his explosive farts? No. Fu, now having retrieved their last Essence of Macaw vial, climbed back on the stool to add what would hopefully be the final ingredient to this “3 days of hell” order. "But yeah, it’s been too quiet without the kid around.” He added, quietly.
“He’ll be back in a couple weeks. I’ll be sure to pick up a fire extinguisher.” Lao Shi patted Fu’s back a few times and then began perusing the shelves, examining ingredients and taping the tank of one angry bullfrog, complete with horns and a hatred of red.
"This the final batch for the wizard order?” Lao Shi asked, turning away towards the front of the shop, though his view was obstructed by the curtain. The old man seemed to do things like that nowadays, Fu observed. Likely to keep up that air of “wise Chinese man” as opposed to anything age related. Fu had seen the man do a double helix back flip to grab the last serving of dumplings just last week at “The Lotus Lantern,” one of the few Chinese-Elven fusion food joints that have popped up in the last ten years.
“Yeah. Complicated stuff. Took me three tries just to keep it from turning into flan.” Fu said, carefully adding a few drops of Essence to the now purple mixture.
“Flan?”
“Don’t ask.”
At that moment, the tinkling of a bell rang through the shop. But instead of looking back towards the curtained entry to the front, the one meant for human traffic, both Fu and Lao Shi looked to the side, to the other doorway, the one that led to the back. To the entrance used by magical clientele.
"Wǒ fāshì yàoshi yòu shì nà gāisǐ de xiǎo yāojing..." Lao Shi grumbled, hurriedly shuffling toward the hallway. ”I’ll go and check, it may be the courier. You hurry and finish that order.” Lao Shi made his way through the clutter and disappeared into the dark hallway.
"It just needs to stew for a few more seconds.” Fu said, leaning over the beaker. Sure enough, the purple liquid inside began shifting to a bright orange, now smelling like a fermented papaya. “Badabam! She’s finished! Something I’ve accomplished many times, ah guhgoo!”
He grabbed a ladle and 3 vials and began carefully transferring the potion. It shimmered with an amber aura each time the surface was disturbed. He could hear voices from the other room as he stoppered each vial and added them to the box. At last, the last vial was added to the box and the order was finally, gratefully finished.
Right on cue, Lao Shi’s head reappeared around the corner. “It’s the courier. Hurry up.”
”This one’s a dog, isn’t it? Tall? Cute?” Fu asked and slid off the stool once again with a grunt before reaching up for the box of potions.
”Tall? No. But yes, cute, fluffy and round. Now hurry up!”
”Yeah, yeah, yeah. So very grateful for the help, Gramps.” Fu mumbled, but the old man vanished down the hallway, robe flaring behind him. Scarily, for someone retired, the geezer could still move like a caffeinated unicorn. 
“Another magic pup,” he muttered to himself. “Cute, fluffy, and round, huh? Sounds like my type.”
His mind wandered as he pushed through the beaded curtain that separated the back room from the hall. Chow chows. Oh, those chow chows. With those little button noses and floof that you could just sink into. Still, it had been… a while. A long while.
“Maybe this one will finally be someone with some decent haunches,” Fu mused aloud, shifting the box in his arms. “Could use a little eye candy between newt guts and secondhand VCRs.”
The hallway opened into the delivery foyer, a small, square room tiled in faded green linoleum, dulled from decades of foot traffic and potion residue. A battered couch sagged in one corner beneath a flickering fluorescent light, its upholstery pocked with cigarette burns and frayed by time. Beside it sat a leaning stack of folding chairs, half-collapsed against the wall. At the center of the space was an old poker table, its felt surface worn bare in spots, bathed in the glow of a single dangling pendant lamp overhead. Against the opposite wall were a few more shelves, thankfully kept devoid of any electronics. Instead, these were filled with bottles and vials of finished potions, some faintly glowing or firing “radioactive glitter.”
Lao Shi stood just off to the side, arms folded, shadowed in a way that would have been intimidating if he had ever grown past 3 feet, his expression unreadable as he tilted his head toward the courier.
Definitely a dog.
But not a chow chow.
Not a she.
Fu stopped in his tracks.
A corgi stood there: short with a slight belly, and wide hips characteristic of his breed. He certainly had a good set of haunches, engineered for power but in a compact form. His fur was a a soft, sandy gold that caught the light like brushed suede, offset by crisp white accents along his snout, chest, and the tips of his paws. One ear stood tall, the other slightly tipped, and casually confident, the sort of asymmetry that made it look like he was in on a joke you hadn’t heard yet.
His eyes caught the light with a glint of mischief, or maybe magic, and when they met Fu’s, the corgi’s muzzle split into a grin that could’ve sold snake oil to a naga.
”Oh hey there! I’m Brooklyn, guessing you’re Fu?” He stuck out a paw for a shake, then paused, noticing Fu’s were full. “Ah. Never mind. You’re clearly already holding something more important.”
Fu just stared for a beat. Then, slowly, “You’re… the courier?”
Brooklyn nodded, then laughed. “Never been called a courier before, sounds so official. Better than ‘damn delivery boy,’ that’s for sure. But nah, I'm just a simple 'familiar,'" he made air quotes at the word, "turned errand boy for the boss. ” He leaned sideways slightly to peer at the box. "So… you got something glowing and possibly unstable for me?”
Fu shuffled forward, still wearily sizing up the corgi like he was a riddle wrapped in fur. “Cute, round, fluffy,” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Lao Shi to smirk.
Fu turned back towards his friend, a disappointed scowl on his face, “Should’ve known you meant male.”
“I get that a lot,” Brooklyn replied easily, clearly not missing a word. “Usually followed by, ‘Wow, you’re shorter than I expected.’”
Fu set the box carefully on the poker table. “Well, here it is. Try not to drop it. Stuff took me three days and a minor existential crisis to finish.”
“Sweet. That makes for the best potions,” Brooklyn quipped, standing up on his tippy toes to pick one vial, popping the cork and whistling low at the amber shimmer that rose in a twisting ribbon. “Oooh, perfect aura. You do good work.”
Fu blinked. "So you do know potion quality? ”
Brooklyn gave a shrug and a lazy grin. “Just ‘cause I can't make them doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m carrying. The boss doesn’t let amateurs touch his orders. Even made me retake Alchemy 101.”
Fu’s brow lifted. “He what?”
“Yeah, he’s a real stick in the mud type. I had to spend a week in a swamp learning to identify newt spleens by scent.”
Fu snorted. “You’re full of it.”
“Only about eighty percent.” Brooklyn’s grin widened. “The other twenty’s charm.”
Lao Shi, who’d been quietly watching the exchange with a knowing squint, finally gave a small grunt and turned toward the hallway.
“Well, looks like you’ve got it from here. A pleasure to meet you, Brooklyn,” he said, already halfway out the door. “I’ll leave you to it, Fu. Try not to spill anything on the couch this time.”
“You spill one coffee and suddenly you’re the couch menace,” Fu muttered.
“I had to call in the cleaners,” Lao Shi called back, voice echoing faintly down the hall. “Twice.”
And then he was gone.
Fu turned back to Brooklyn, who had wandered over to the old couch, eyes sweeping the cluttered room with the air of someone both amused and unimpressed.
Fu gave the box of potions one last check, mostly to keep his paws busy, and nodded toward the couch. “You want a receipt or something, or up for a little break?”
Brooklyn stretched with a soft grunt, his stubby legs barely making a difference in height but somehow adding flair. “Nah. The boss’ll know if I mess it up. Got a sixth sense for inventory. But I wouldn’t say no to a glass of water, if you’re offering. Got a bit of a walk ahead of me.”
Fu rolled his eyes, but turned toward the kitchenette tucked into the corner, slightly hidden in shadow. “Go ahead and take a seat. Just don’t get too comfortable. This ain’t no hotel, bud.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Brooklyn said, flopping dramatically onto the couch. “You’ve got ambiance, charm, and a couch that smells like mothballs and,” his nose gave an exaggerated sniff. “Emotional trauma? Real cozy.”
Fu tried the tap, it gave a short groan and then burped out a stream of water.
 
“Tap’s clear today. You’re in luck. Glass of New York’s finest vintage coming right up.”
He grabbed two mismatched mugs from a drying rack, one had Asian dragons on it, and another that read “Waggy Daddy,” (he pretended not to notice that,) and brought it over.
Brooklyn flopped onto the couch like it was an old friend, one leg dangling off the edge. “I’ve had worse. One time a jackalope gave me swamp water in a wine glass. He called it ‘elementally rich.’ Guess that's code for ‘diarrhea in a cup.’”
Fu snorted and handed over the dragon print mug. “You ever been to one of their covens during molting season?”
“Oh sure, but only once,” Brooklyn said, accepting the mug with a nod. “I’m still finding fur clumps around the house. Pretty sure they’re breeding.”
Fu gave him a look, one brow lifted. “Ya sure that ain’t your own fur, Fluff?”
  
“Aw, just look at me, My grooming's immaculate!” To demonstrate, Brooklyn pulled at his fur. A huge puff followed and floated gracefully to join the grey fur covering the cushion.
Fu stared at Brooklyn with a mischievous glint. “Alright, smart guy. If you’re half as experienced as you talk, let’s see what you know.”
Brooklyn’s ears perked. “You’re not gonna quiz me, are you?”
"I don't do quizzes, kid," Fu smirked. “This is a full blown test! 75% of your grade.”
Fu plodded over to the poker table and, after placing his own mug  precariously on the edge, reached beneath the table with a grunt, and pulled out a water damaged cardboard box. Bringing it closer to the couch, he fished  out a squat, corked jar. Inside, something green and gelatinous blinked at them. “Alright then, Mr. Swamp-Schooled Delivery Dog, what’s this?”
Brooklyn didn’t miss a beat. He leaned in, gave the jar a sniff, and wrinkled his nose. “That’s either a juvenile slime sprite or a really old pickled egg.”
Fu smirked. “Lucky guess.”
Brooklyn grinned. “Nah. Pickled eggs don’t blink. Usually.”
Fu chuckled under his breath, then grabbed a second container, this one a small wooden box bound with silver string and covered in carved runes. “And this?”
Brooklyn gave it a once-over, then pulled back with theatrical caution. “That’s a box of binding. Used for containing evil spirits, cursed heirlooms, or enchanted legal documents. And ya should not be touching it without gloves. Last time I did, I sneezed and accidentally married a poltergeist.”
Fu barked a laugh despite himself. “Right, and let me guess... you’re still fighting over furniture?”
“She kept the ottoman and the blender,” Brooklyn said solemnly. “I got visitation rights with the toaster.” A wide grin spread across the corgi's maw, revealing he was joking.
Fu shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching, “Smartass. And don’t worry, this one’s empty.” And unceremoniously tossed the box onto the poker table. It collided with Fu’s mug with a hollow “thunk” and both box and mug fell right back to the floor. The “Waggy Daddy” status symbol shattered like the relationship it came from, along with the wooden box. It cracked open with a snap, and a thin, silvery wisp shot upward, vanishing through the ceiling with a strangled “kuwaa!”
Brooklyn’s head tilted up as the wisp vanished, his eyes tracking it until it disappeared through the ceiling tiles. He dropped his head to look at Fu, mouth slightly open, expression frozen in disbelief.
“…Okay. Now it’s empty.” The dog put the next jar he had pulled out from under the table back. The contagious crocodile tumor inside threw itself at the glass once, twice, then went still.
"So is the test over? Did I pass, Teach?"
Fu pushed the box further under the table. Should've chucked that whole collection into the Hudson years ago. "Oh yeah, ya pass, pup. Flying colors."
Fu brushed his paws on his wrinkled knees, kicked what shards of ceramic he could to join the box he probably should have left forgotten under the table, and stood with a creaky stretch, a few pops echoing from his joints. Brooklyn's face twitched, which Fu caught from the corner of his eye. A small wince? Sympathy for an old dog's back, maybe? But when he turned to look, Brooklyn was smiling as usual, bright and easy.
”You’re somethin', kid. I like ya.”
And there it was again. The tiniest shift. Brooklyn's smile held, but his ears twitched, just barely, and that left one flopped down subtly. They seemed to be getting red with a blush as well.
Huh, guess he liked the compliment. Must still be green.
But Brooklyn quipped back, silver tongued as always, “I get that a lot, too. Usually from someone who thinks I’m just here to wag my tail and go.”
“Which you’re clearly not doing,” Fu said, arching a brow.
Brooklyn gave a wink. “You didn’t say you wanted me to go.”
Fu opened his mouth, paused, then closed it again. His tail gave the faintest flick behind him.
“Hmm, s’pose I’m just appreciating the company.”
Brooklyn took it with a grateful nod. “Same. You’re pretty cool, Fu. You’ve got that whole  ‘grumpy but secretly soft’ vibe. Like a cranky pastry.”
An airy laugh escaped Fu’s throat, “A cranky pastry?”
“Yeah, like… a croissant that yells at you, but then hugs your insides with butter.”
Fu gave him a deadpan stare. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to throw something.”
Brooklyn simply stuck his tongue at Fu before taking a sip of his water with theatrical daintiness. “Mmm. Tastes like how mama used to make. My compliments."
Fu gave a bark of laughter despite himself. “Alright, smartass, that’s enough jokes out of you.” Fu then plopped down on the couch beside Brooklyn, their legs brushing against each other as Fu positioned himself into the most comfortable position.
“I’ll try,” Brooklyn said with a mock bow of his head. “Though really, I think I’m just filling the silence while you figure out how you feel about me not being a Pomeranian with lashes for days.”
Fu’s ears flicked. “Still figuring it out.”
“Hey, no rush. Take your time.” Brooklyn leaned back against the cushions, one arm draped lazily over the side. “I’ll just be here. Being cute. Fluffy. Round.”
Fu raised an eyebrow. “And short.”
“Careful,” Brooklyn said, wagging a finger. “Thems fighting words.”
“You gonna bite my ankle?”
“Only if you ask nicely.”
Fu’s jaw twitched, a smile threatening to betray him. “Damn, you sure are cocky, kid. You ain’t short enough for a shrinking potion not to work.”
"I'd like to see you try. Not before I show off my mad ironing skills."
Fu couldn't stop the slow forming smile on his muzzle and nodded. This pup was quick with wit and standing toe to toe with his own jokes. "Touché. Well played, my young Padawan." He raised a mock glass that Brooklyn met with his still intact one. Both dogs chuckled as their witty battle concludes.
Brooklyn leaned back, stretching his legs out with a contented sigh. “So, any wild stories from your glory days?”
Fu smirked, eyes glinting with mischief. “Ever hear about the time a batch of cupcakes nearly turned a school carnival into a magical disaster zone?”
Brooklyn’s ears perked up. “Cupcakes? This I gotta hear.”
Fu chuckled. “Jake, uh, Lao Shi's grandson, had this school assignment—bake five dozen cupcakes. Simple enough, right? Kid was trying to juggle high school and hero work. So one minute it’s flour and frosting, next it’s venom extractions in Central Park. Krylock venom to boot!”
Brooklyn nodded, intrigued. “Let me guess, the venom ended up in the cupcakes?”
Fu pointed a paw at him. “Bingo! Jake mixed up the ingredients, and took venom-laced cupcakes to the school carnival. Next thing we know, folks are sprouting fangs and claws mid face painting. Complete chaos!”
Brooklyn’s eyes widened. “That’s… horrifying and hilarious.”
Fu laughed. “Tell me about it. We had to track down the main Krylock in its own dimension to reverse the effects. Beat the damn thing and saved the day.” Fu’s grin softened. “All cause he wanted to find a girl.”
“He ever find her?”
“Eventually, but not this time. Had to give up his shot to save everyone. He was a good kid. Grew up way too fast.”
Brooklyn looked at Fu with newfound respect. “You were there through all that?”
Fu nodded, a hint of pride in his voice. “I was Jake’s animal guardian. Helped guide him through the magical messes he got into.”
Brooklyn’s smile wavered to a look of confusion, his head tilting slightly. “Animal guardian? Sounds almost like Jake is a. . .”
“Dragon. The American Dragon.”
“HE’S THE WHAT!?!” Brooklyn yelped, springing up onto his hind legs. “I just assumed he was a wizard like my boss, but a dragon? Dude, that’s awesome!”
The poor cushion gave beneath Brooklyn’s weight, it’s plushness now only suited for butts and not corgi feet after so many years. The dog instinctively grabbed Fu’s head for balance, displacing many a wrinkle that covered Fu’s eyes. Fu couldn’t help but chuckle and pushed a paw against his fellow dog. He pushed against Brooklyns belly fur, and couldn’t help but marvel at its softness.
“Hehe, yeah, guess you could say that. Now You mind sitting down? I don’t let anyone get that close to my face unless we’ve shared drinks, names, and a long weekend.” 
“Oh, uh, sorry, lost my balance there.” Brooklyn shifted back and let gravity plop his rear back in his still warm spot. “But seriously, you’re a lot cooler than I already thought. Didn’t think I’d meet Jake’s guardian.”
“Yeah, kid, take it all in,” Fu said, grabbing his belly and giving it a jiggle. “This is what peak coolness looks like.”
Brooklyn leaned into the couch, one paw behind his head as he grinned at Fu. “Oh, don’t worry, I’m redefining coolness for you right now.” He gave his own, much smaller belly a shake. Though more than just his belly jiggled with the effort.
Fu opened his mouth to retort this challenge to his awesomeness, but Brooklyn cut him off. “But I actually have a park related story of my own. Slightly less apocalyptic, but does involve fire. Lots of it.”
Fu raised a brow, interest piqued. “Oh? Go on then.”
“Central Park, about five years ago. Boss’s son was trying to impress this exchange student with a flashy binding spell. You know, ‘watch me tether a wind spirit using a improvised spell and raw charisma.’”
Fu made a face. “Don't tell me that worked?”
“Hell no! He managed to lure her in with a fancy accent,” Brooklyn said, waving a paw. “but of course, he botched it. Turns out if you skip the stabilization spell and your focus is, let’s say, kinda drunk, the wind spirit just gets irritated.”
Fu’s mouth twitched. “Hm, so I’m guessing it got windy?”
“Windy doesn’t begin to cover it. It whipped through the North Meadow, tore up a summer stage rehearsal for Oklahoma!, and somehow flung a flaming trash can into a pretzel cart. Brooklyn paused, then grimaced. “That part might’ve been me, actually.”
“You’re not exactly helping your case,” Fu said.
Brooklyn gave a sheepish shrug. “In my defense the can caught fire after I'd flung it." That left ear drooped again at this. "AND I was the one who contained it, thank you very much. Managed to trap the spirit in a thermos while Boss Junior ran distraction duty… which was mostly him yelling in Latin and falling into a duck pond.”
Fu blinked. “You caught a rampaging spirit… in a thermos?”
“A heavily enchanted thermos. And I had to give up my sandwich for bait, which honestly hurt more than the pretzel burns.”
"Didn't peg ya as one to cause trouble," Fu snorted. "And remind me to never leave ya with my sandwich."
“Hey,” Brooklyn said, laying a paw on his chest in mock offense, “eighty percent charm, twenty percent chaos containment. I thought we went over this.”
Fu shook his head, but the smirk pulling at his lips betrayed him. “You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were showing off.”
“Only a little.” Brooklyn grinned. “Gotta keep the grumpy croissant impressed somehow.” 
Fu huffed a short laugh and leaned back, letting the moment settle. “I think I’m craving French pastries now.”
Brooklyn smiled, gaze sliding sideways toward Fu. “Ah, don’t worry, I’ll bring you a dozen next time.”
The room went quiet for a beat, just the hum of old pipes and the low creak of furniture as the two dogs sat in the soft aftermath of shared stories.
“You know… I don’t get to talk like this with many folks.” Brooklyn was quieter now, almost a whisper. All the humor from earlier seemed to be gone from his voice. “Most of the time it’s just grab the potion, dodge a spell, run from whatever’s been accidentally woken up. Not a lotta chances to just… hang out, cut loose, you know?"
Fu’s eyes flicked toward him, studying. He’d mostly known the loud, funny side of this odd little corgi. But now… this? This was someone opening up, letting him in.
It had been a long time since anyone had done that. Lately, folks only stuck around without needing something. The Longs had only last invited him over to help set up their new TV. Stan had only wanted help moving to a new sewer line.
Even Jake had seemed a little distant, the last time he was home, only going on missions, no “just chilling” with the dog like the old days.
Brooklyn looked at Fu, his brown eyes catching the lamplight. And in that glow, Fu saw how they were threaded with gold, like back-lit amber. Fu stared back, confused, as Brooklyn simply watched him, quiet.
Then the corgi smiled, soft and sincere. He took a slow slip from his mug and shrugged.
“It’s better lately.”
His eyes lingered on Fu’s for a moment longer than they needed to. 
“Weirdly better.”
Fu didn’t respond right away, but his tail gave a slow thump against the cushion. There was something in the way Brooklyn said that, like maybe he wasn’t just talking about life in general. Like he was talking about this moment. About him. 
And Fu couldn’t help it. He was enjoying this. Enjoying being with Brooklyn.
He wasn’t like his poker buddies, always bickering or bragging about dames after only two beers. Or Lao Shi, who, without Jake and constant dragon training to deal with, had withdrawn to reading and web chats, rather than reminisce the way Fu sometimes wanted. Or needed.
Not that Fu minded a little girl talk now and then... but some variety? That was nice. And Brooklyn had brought plenty of variety.
Brooklyn turned back toward the ceiling, pretending he hadn’t said anything particularly meaningful.
Fu gave a low hum, his eyes on the ceiling as well. “Yeah… weirdly better sounds about right.”
A beat passed. Quiet, comfortable.
Bi-Di-Beep
The chirpy, unmistakable iPhone Tri-tone cut the moment like butter.
Brooklyn jolted. ”Oh crap! That’s mine!”
He rolled off the couch, barely stopping himself from face planting on the hard linoleum, and scrambled toward the poke table where his messenger bag waited. The glow of the phone lit up the canvas from within as Brooklyn plunged a paw deep into the bag, shoulder-deep, muttering under his breath.
Fu watched him go, head tilted just slightly. The sight was comical, sure... but something else made him keep watching. There was something about Brooklyn’s movement: quick, clumsy, but deliberate. Like every motion had its own rhythm. Fu’s gaze lingered, trailing from those tall ears all the way down to the wide butt, every inch blanketed in soft, untamed fur. The corgi’s legs, clearly used to running, flexed with each step. Every muscle and tendon sharply outlined beneath the fluff.
Then Brooklyn reached for the table, stretching up on those tiny hind legs, reaching high.
Fu’s heart gave a single, traitorous skip.
It wasn’t just the stretch. It was the curve of his back, the way the soft fur along his side shifted with the movement, the sway of his tail nub as it flicked up- just high enough to catch a glimpse of something pink…
Fu cleared his throat and yanked his eyes away. Suddenly that mysterious stain on the ceiling looked like the Mona Lisa. What the hell was that?
Brooklyn’s voice cut through the static in Fu’s head. He looked back before he could stop himself.
“Ugh, of course.” Brooklyn was scowling at the phone now. In the pale blue light, his fur practically shimmered.
 Fu’s eyes wandered again, against his better judgment, down to that chest, broad yet deep, down to the slight pudge of his belly. Not nearly as far along as Fu’s own, but… promising...
He stopped his gaze there. He felt it- that thrum in his gut, the harder beating of his heart, a rasp in his breath, and that familiar stirring between his legs. He couldn’t feed that beast now, especially not with the forbidden fruit before him. 
He swallowed hard, eyes darting past Brooklyn to the light streaming through the small smudged door window. 
“It’s the boss man,” Brooklyn said, oblivious to Fu’s inner turmoil. “Telling me to hurry up and grab some chips on the way back. I swear, you’d think after all this time in the States, he’d start calling them fries.”
Brooklyn looked up from the phone, brow cocked at the strained look on Fu’s face. “Everything alright, Fu?”
Fu blinked, trying to iron the tension from his face. “Yeah. Fine.” His voice came out rougher than he meant. He cleared his throat. “Just… thinking about what kind of ‘chips’ your boss deserves. Salt and vinegar, maybe? You know, for the pain.”
Brooklyn snorted. “Perhaps. I'll tell ya, the man’s a menace with ketchup. But hey, ‘orders are orders.’”
He set the phone down and turned to the table, picking up the box of potions. Fu figured he’d just take it and head out.
But Brooklyn didn’t.
Instead, he crouched beside the table, box on the floor, and began transferring the potions into his messenger bag. One by one. Carefully. Deliberately. His small, practiced paws cradled each bottle like it might shatter.
Fu meant to look away.
He really did.
But his eyes stayed locked, drawn in and helpless, as Brooklyn leaned forward, shifted, twisted. His tail nub wagged with each movement, high and animated. From this angle, every roll of his hips played like a performance. The soft swell of his backside, shifting under plush fur, rolled with each motion. Tight. Curved. Magnetic.
And it kept pulling Fu’s gaze.
To the center.
Right to that spot that made his breath hitch and his tongue press against his teeth. A spot of pink- like a rose that draws in a bee. A perfect ring, soft, tender, and more enticing than any he’d ever seen before. Entirely not what he’d expected to crave. It made his maw fill with saliva. Made heat crawl up his throat like it had claws.
Nope.
His brain lurched into defense. Nope. Not happening. He’s a guy. He’s just a flirty corgi. You’re not into…
But then that ring winked, and his body went beyond listening.
That earlier stir had turned into something heavier. Hotter. A slow burn in his chest and belly. Like something long-buried had shifted. Awakened.
Brooklyn moved again, reaching deeper, and Fu caught a glimpse of what he’d refused to notice before. Two round orbs, nestled tight in soft white fur. They bounced gently with each motion, catching the light like virgin snow. His jaw slackened, a thick strand of drool slipping past his lip: falling, slow and silent, onto the hard red tip now peeking from between his legs.
Betrayal. No, not of Brooklyn.
Of himself.
The beast in his belly was awake. Curious and hungry.
Fu let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
Damn.
What the hell was happening?
His body was blazing, thoughts like static, but underneath it all was something quieter—and scarier. A pull. Not just physical. Something warm and dumb and deep, something that made him want to reach out and touch. Something that made him ache to be touched in return. That was new. That was dangerous.
He’d been around for centuries. He’d seen flings, fantasies, firework romances come and go. This wasn’t that.
This was something slower but far more powerful. Something that snuck past the guard dogs in his head. And it was lodged deep now, in his chest, in his gut, in the way he felt like he could still taste Brooklyn’s name in his mouth even without saying it.
He swallowed hard. Tried to breathe. But it was like his throat was blocked with a truth he wasn’t ready to name.
        And just as the heat in his belly began to tip toward something unbearable…
“Unngh…” Brooklyn groaned as he straightened up, slinging the messenger bag over his shoulder. “Every time I think I’ve packed light…”
The sound rolled through Fu like thunder. Low, careless, unguarded. There was nothing flirtatious about it. And maybe that’s what did it. It wasn’t a performance. It was real. Just a tired dog groaning under the weight of a long day and a heavy bag.
And yet…
Fu’s heart lurched. His breath caught again, sharper this time. That groan shouldn’t have done anything.
But it did.
It slipped past the usual filters, plucked something coiled tight and long-ignored in his chest. In his gut. Lower.
He shifted on the couch, trying not to squirm. Trying not to be seen. Trying to hide what was becoming a bigger problem with every heartbeat.
But Brooklyn wasn’t looking. He was brushing fur off his bag, readjusting the strap, muttering about whether to stop at Fiero’s or McDonald’s.
Fu could have fed that beast inside one more glance. The tantalizing space between Brooklyn’s stubby legs was right there on full display. Pale, furred, with teasing tufts that half-hid what lay beneath. He let himself look... but only for a moment. His gaze didn’t linger.
Instead, he studied Brooklyn himself. Not his body, but his being. That odd little fire he carried around with him. That mix of irreverence and care. The way he could fill a room, even without trying. The way he listened. The way he had looked at Fu earlier. Like he truly saw him.
That memory softened the wild spark in Fu’s chest, replacing it with something gentler. An ember of warmth that felt like… home.
And Fu wasn’t ready for what clicked into place behind his ribs.
Longing. Real, frightening, hopeful longing.
He looked away, jaw tight. Tried to shove it down. Pretend it hadn’t happened. Pretend he wasn’t still buzzing with it.
“Guess I’ll head out,” Brooklyn said, lifting the bag with a little grunt.
Fu nodded. Or maybe he blinked. Either way, his mouth didn’t move.
Until Brooklyn turned toward the door.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then tried again.
“B-Brooklyn…”
The corgi paused, looking back over his shoulder with a curious tilt of the head.
Fu cleared his throat. “I…uh…if you’ve got time, sometime, you’re welcome to bring those pastries by.”
Brooklyn’s ears perked. Then that warm, slow smile spread across his muzzle.
“Pastries and more stories? You’ve got a deal, Fu.”
He gave a small wave and slipped out the door. The soft click of the latch echoed in the quiet room.
Fu watched until the door shut behind him, then let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. A small smile tugged at his lips, and for a heartbeat, he let himself bask in that strange, unfamiliar warmth.
He held the smile a moment longer before it curved into something more mischievous. Running a paw through his fur, Fu leaned back against the couch, tail flicking lazily behind him. Okay, Fu, time to figure out what this means.
Thoughts danced between anticipation and confusion, but beneath them all was a steady, undeniable spark. Something he’d never felt with another male.
Eventually, though, his eyes dropped downward.
That bold, crimson pillar of what could have been a shameful end to a pleasant encounter still stood proud, nearly fully out of his grey sheath, not yet at full length, but stiff and pulsing all the same. He swallowed, the memory of Brooklyn’s stretch and sway still fresh. A fleeting thought of how Brooklyn’s touch would feel down there. Of that ring he stared so longingly at embracing his rod. A soft whine slipped from his throat, sharp with longing.
I think I just need to get laid.
He allowed one paw to graze his exposed flesh, sending delightful tingles through his stomach. No one around to see him if he took care of this now.
Just need to grab a towel....
Just then, Lao Shi’s voice boomed from the back room. “Fu! Something is wrong with my computer! Every time I try to check the Magus Bazaar forums, it plays ‘The Hubba Hubba Hula’ on loop!”
Fu groaned and rolled his eyes.  
"Zhè shì shénme guǐ dōngxī? Wǒ cái bù xiǎng kàn shénme Xiàwēiyí dà xiōng mèi!"
Then it dawned on the dog.
”Oh crap, that thing in the box!” He gasp, bouncing up from the couch, eyes now wide with realization.
He darted toward the back, ready to handle whatever supernatural mischief had slipped free… though now, with a very different kind of mischief still dancing in