Rain pattered against the windows in a soft, steady rhythm, the gray afternoon light filtering through the glass and painting the living room in muted tones. Ivy had her legs stretched out on the couch, Hazel curled against her side, one hand absently tracing patterns on Ivy's thigh while some reality show played unwatched on the television. The apartment smelled like the lingering ghosts of breakfast—scrambled eggs and toast—and the faint, sweet hint of latex that had become as familiar as the scent of their shared shampoo.
Neither of them had moved much in the last hour. That was the point of a lazy day. The kind where the world outside could do whatever it wanted, and they could simply exist in the same space, breathing the same air, letting the afternoon dissolve around them.
Hazel shifted, her head tilting back against Ivy's shoulder. "Do you think it's still raining?"
"Listen," Ivy said, not opening her eyes.
Hazel listened. The patter against the glass answered for her. She hummed, satisfied, and settled deeper into the warmth of Ivy's body. "Good. I don't want to go anywhere."
"Then don't."
"I won't."
A commercial break blared from the television, something about car insurance, and Hazel reached blindly for the remote on the cushion beside her. Her fingers found it, but before she could change the channel, movement caught her eye.
The green balloon—the teardrop one Ivy had ridden for her, the one that had hovered near the ceiling for days now, slowly losing its helium buoyancy—was drifting downward. Not falling, exactly. More like descending with a deliberate, patient grace, its surface faintly dusty, the dried patch of Ivy's arousal still visible as a slightly darker stain on the latex.
It sank past the level of the bookshelf, past the framed photograph of the two of them at the botanical gardens, and came to rest on the hardwood floor with a soft, almost apologetic tap.
"Oh," Hazel said softly. "It finally gave up."
Ivy opened her eyes and followed Hazel's gaze. The green balloon lay on the floor like a sleeping animal, its ribbon curled beside it in a loose coil. "It had a good run."
Hazel laughed, a warm, easy sound. "It really did." She disentangled herself from Ivy, swinging her legs off the couch and padding toward the balloon on bare feet. The floor was cool against her soles, the rain-damp air seeping through the cracks around the windows. "I should put it somewhere safe. Retire it with dignity."
Ivy watched her bend down, her fingers reaching for the ribbon.
And then something small and fast and feathered shot out from under the armchair.
Pebbles.
The duck had been napping—or pretending to nap, because that's what ducks did, apparently—in his new cushioned box near the radiator. But his beady black eyes had tracked the balloon's descent with the patience of a predator. The moment the green teardrop touched the floor, his body went still in that particular way ducks have, a coiled tension that preceded explosive movement.
Hazel's fingers were inches from the ribbon when Pebbles launched himself forward, his webbed feet slapping against the hardwood as he closed the distance in three rapid strides. His beak closed around the ribbon, and he was off, the green balloon bobbing behind him like a strange, rebellious tail.
"Pebbles!" Hazel's voice cracked with a mix of laughter and alarm. "No! That's mine!"
The duck paid her no mind. He zigzagged around the coffee table, the balloon bouncing off the legs of the armchair, off the edge of the bookshelf. The latex stretched and flexed, the air inside sloshing audibly with every impact.
Ivy sat up, her glasses slightly askew. "Did he just—"
"He stole my balloon!" Hazel was already in pursuit, her bare feet slapping against the floor. "Pebbles, you little menace, give it back!"
The duck veered sharply, heading toward the kitchen. The balloon caught on the edge of the doorway, stretching thin for a heart-stopping moment before springing free. Hazel gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.
"Watch out—the corner—"
Ivy was off the couch now, moving with a different kind of urgency. She didn't run—she angled, cutting off Pebbles's possible escape routes, her hands slightly raised in a gesture of calm that was entirely at odds with the chaos unfolding. "Don't chase him directly. He'll just run faster."
"He has my balloon!" Hazel's voice was pitched high, caught between panic and laughter. "The one you rode. The one I—"
"I know which one it is." Ivy's voice was steady, but her eyes were tracking the duck's movements with sharp precision. "Circle around the other side. We'll box him in."
Hazel nodded, breathing hard, and moved to the left. Pebbles stopped in the middle of the kitchen floor, the green balloon bobbing gently behind him. He turned his head, first toward Hazel, then toward Ivy, as if calculating his odds.
"Good boy," Ivy said softly, her voice dropping into the gentle register she used when feeding him or settling him into his box. "Good duck. You found a fun toy. Can I see it?"
She took a slow step forward.
Pebbles took two steps back. The balloon scraped against the cabinet, the latex groaning softly.
Hazel's breath caught. "Ivy—"
"I know." Ivy didn't take her eyes off the duck. "He's not going to pop it. He's just curious. He's been watching us play with them for days."
"He's going to drag it under the couch and pop it."
"He's not going to pop it." Ivy took another step. "Because we're going to get it back before he has the chance."
Pebbles quacked—a short, sharp sound that seemed almost defiant—and bolted.
He shot between Hazel's legs, the balloon bouncing off her calf with a soft thump, and veered back toward the living room. Hazel spun, her hand catching the edge of the counter for balance, and Ivy was already moving, her longer strides eating up the distance.
The duck rounded the couch, the balloon trailing behind him like a banner. He was heading for the hallway, where the bedroom doors stood open, where there were more places to hide, more corners to wedge himself into.
"Not the bedroom," Hazel said, her voice tight. "If he gets under the bed with it—"
Ivy changed direction, launching herself into a low dive that landed her on the floor just ahead of Pebbles. The duck skidded to a halt, his webbed feet sliding on the hardwood, and Ivy's hand closed around the ribbon just as his beak tightened on it.
For a moment, they were at a standstill. Ivy on the floor, her hand gripping the ribbon, Pebbles holding the other end, his head low, his eyes fixed on hers.
"Drop it," Ivy said, her voice calm but firm.
Pebbles tugged.
The balloon stretched, the latex thin and vulnerable between them. Hazel made a small, desperate sound, her hands pressed against her chest.
"Ivy, the balloon—"
"I've got it." Ivy didn't pull harder. She loosened her grip, letting the ribbon slide through her fingers, giving the duck slack. "Good boy. You can have it. Just don't—"
Pebbles took the slack and ran.
He shot past Ivy, the ribbon snapping out of her hand, and headed straight for the bookcase. The green balloon bobbed behind him, and Hazel's heart lodged in her throat as the latex grazed the sharp corner of a shelf.
But then the balloon was past it, and Pebbles was scrambling up—somehow—onto the second shelf, then the third, his claws finding purchase on the wood grain. He tucked himself against a stack of paperback novels, the green balloon settling against his chest like a grotesque, deflating chick.
He quacked, softly this time. Contented. And tucked his beak against the latex.
Hazel stared.
Ivy, still on the floor, let out a long, slow breath.
Neither of them moved.
Pebbles ruffled his feathers, shifted his weight, and settled deeper into his perch. The balloon rested against him, unharmed, the dried patch of Ivy's cum catching the dim light from the window. He looked, impossibly, like he was nesting.
Hazel's legs gave out.
She slid down the wall, her back hitting the plaster with a soft thud, and then she was laughing. Not a small laugh, not a relieved chuckle—a full, body-shaking laugh that doubled her over, her hands clutching her stomach.
"Oh my god," she gasped, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Oh my god, Ivy. He—he's—"
"Nesting," Ivy finished, her own voice thick with suppressed laughter. "He's nesting with your balloon."
"It's the one you rode." Hazel's voice cracked. "The one you—and he's just—" She dissolved into laughter again, her head falling back against the wall.
Ivy pushed herself up, her knees aching from the dive, and crossed the room to slump down beside Hazel. Their shoulders pressed together, warm and solid. Above them, on the bookcase, Pebbles had closed his eyes, the green balloon rising and falling with the rhythm of his breathing.
"He's our pet," Ivy said, her voice quiet and wondering.
Hazel wiped her eyes, still laughing. "He's a menace."
"He's our menace."
Hazel leaned into her, her weight heavy and familiar. "I thought he was going to pop it. When he pulled it past the cabinet, I thought—" She broke off, the laugh catching in her throat. "Ivy, I was so scared."
"I know." Ivy's arm wrapped around her, pulling her closer. "I saw your face."
"But you didn't panic." Hazel's voice was softer now. "You stayed calm. You kept your voice steady. You—" She turned her head, her forehead brushing Ivy's cheek. "You kept it from popping. Every time."
Ivy was quiet for a moment. Above them, Pebbles shifted, his beak pressing against the green latex, a soft, contented sound escaping his throat.
"I didn't want to lose it," Ivy said finally. "Not that one."
Hazel's breath caught.
Ivy's hand found hers, their fingers interlacing. The floor was cold beneath them, the rain still falling outside, the gray light softening everything into something tender and fragile. "That balloon was the first time I—" She paused, searching for the words. "The first time I let myself want something, for myself. Not for anyone else. Not because I thought I should. Just because I wanted it."
Hazel's fingers tightened around hers. "The green one?"
"The green one." Ivy's voice was barely above a whisper. "I bought it for you. But I ended up—" She laughed softly, a self-deprecating sound. "I ended up riding it for myself. Thinking about you. Wanting you. Letting myself have that."
Hazel's eyes were wet, but she was smiling. "And now it's on our bookshelf. Being nuzzled by a duck."
"Our duck," Ivy corrected.
"Our duck." Hazel laughed, the sound watery and warm. "Who is currently stealing my balloon."
"I think you mean our balloon."
Hazel turned, her face inches from Ivy's, her breath warm. "Our balloon."
They sat there for a long moment, pressed together on the floor, the rain filling the silence, the duck's soft breathing a counterpoint to the patter against the glass. The green balloon above them, suspended in its strange, peaceful vigil, was a witness to everything they had become.
"We should probably get it back at some point," Ivy said, her voice dry. "Before he decides it's his permanent sleeping spot."
"Probably." Hazel didn't move. "In a minute."
Ivy's arm tightened around her. "In a minute."
Above them, Pebbles quacked once, softly, and tucked his head deeper against the latex. The balloon sighed, deflating another fraction of an inch, settling against his chest like a second skin.
And the rain kept falling, and the afternoon kept dissolving, and two women sat on the floor of their apartment, holding each other, watching a duck cuddle a balloon, and feeling, for no reason they could name, like the world had finally, impossibly, clicked into place.