Chapter Text
The night has been rough, the night has been eventful. There is stress prickling in his neck, there is an eternal urge for his tail to sweep low in nervous irritation. There is a new cat to introduce, there are cats disappearing, there is an outcast on the doorstep that the other cats cannot resist making a fuss over, there is the pressure for this year to go just right once more. There was only the sweet respite of the Jellicle Ball dance to lessen the anxiety that crawled through him, locking eyes with that ginger tabby and knowing everything would be alright the day after.
He was still so lost in the glow of those few dancing seconds with a tom he knew only behind doors, that when Skimbleshanks' name was called, he forgot for a minute exactly what they were competing for.
Watching his dance partner in the spotlight of this year's ball, getting the appreciation he /deserved/; Munkustrap was all too eager to tell his story, prepared to sing his praises at the drop of a hat. (That red conductor's hat, perhaps, hiding that scruff of amber hair that Munk loved to ruffle in their private hours.) What more could he want? His smile grew bigger with every clack of his fellow tabby's feet, every twirling step on the railroad and professional gesture within that Night Mail that Skimbleshanks loved so dearly.
It was only amidst the height of their personal victory that Munkustrap found his world crumbling around him.
(The bigger they are, the harder they fall.)
Tapping shoes together on opposite beds after a successful shooing away of mice, the highlight of an already euphoric festivity, and locking gaze with those famous glass-green eyes—suddenly, Munkustrap saw a regret in the face of his lover, and with the hidden melancholic guilt in that stare he remembered everything they were here for tonight.
Sliding down from that mattress, and chasing after Skimbleshanks in the only way he could—there would be no interruption of the performance, there was no way he could stop it now, all he could do was keep supporting something he was afraid to think about—there was only one thing he could think, one thought left in his head:
/Why/?
Why would Skimble ever go chasing after that particular prize?
Why would he want a new life?
And why, Everlasting Cat /why/, wouldn't he tell him?
Munkustrap kept his act up as best as he could, and it was not terribly hard to smile at the sight of Skimble tapping out a beautiful rhythm atop a drum (he hardly ever got to see him perform, and so talented he was!), but every moment drove the nail of worry deeper into his heart.
He was surprised he wasn't bleeding out onto the floor of the Egyptian.
The song was coming to an end, the song he knew by heart—it was his lover's, after all; Munkustrap was well familiar with the innate tune assigned to every Jellicle from deep in their heart, but could never forget the chugging lilt of Skimbleshanks's—and the red suspenders of the ginger tabby grew closer and closer to him as he drew near to Old Deuteronomy.
Munk's ears perked up as the tune drew to a close, an eager drawn-out 'train' filling the room as the cat of the railway spun and spun and spun and—
Oh, /shit/.
Watching Skimble rise inch by inch towards the ceiling of the Egyptian, watching the metallic soles of tap shoes withdraw above him.
Watching him disappear completely.
Munkustrap's heart plummeted in his chest, feeling his emotions suddenly drop and melt down into a horrible sickening feeling in the bottom of his stomach. With a single cloud of magical dust from a cat no one could ever find, with the swirling limber form of orange fur silhouetted by scarlet fabric blinking out of view, with the man he /loved/ and was so worried about already being snatched away from him, his world came crashing down.
He could hardly keep himself from curling up on the ground and hiding away within his own fur, and for a moment he loathed the position he'd chosen that assured him he could not do just that. His ears were perked up in vigilance; his gaze drifted back up to the ceiling in the foolish hope that maybe, just maybe, Skimbleshanks would return, brought back here and now by some strange, wonderful magic.
He did not.
He wasn't /there/ anymore, not close enough to touch, wasn't right where Munk could reach out and grab him whenever he wanted. (He wished he'd grabbed him before he even started; maybe they wouldn't have gone through this mess. He'd take emotional conflict over physical absence any day, if it was Skimble. He'd rather see him angry than not see him at all, knowing he was taken away by a horrible force but not knowing when he would return.)
Yet, and he faced the facts with a dry, heavy gulp—there was nothing Munk could do about that. He was only here, only now, and he turned to Old Deuteronomy to comfort the elder Jellicle with a falseness of reassurance.
"Macavity," he breathed, a quiet, definite utterance of the man who had done such a thing, and the undertones of vengeance in his breath were heard only by Deuteronomy herself—she flashed him a look with ancient eyes, and her gaze was a question he answered only with the hint of a shrug.
He should have seen this coming, should've known that when Jennyanydots went away, when Asparagus disappeared, when Bustopher Jones vanished into the rubbish can—Macavity was going after the contestants. In his own confusion, he'd failed to put two and two together, and now...
Skimbleshanks was gone. He did not know if he would ever get him back.
Dear Everlasting Cat, and he thought Tugger would be the mess of the night.
To no surprise, the night did not get better.
Almost directly after that great crushing of a heart he had left too soft, just when he thought his problems had peaked—Macavity himself came to light, first in name as that dratted femme fatale made an appearance, dulling his senses with rare intoxicant (he faintly remembered twitching up on a tabletop, brains addled with catnip, a cocktail glass in his hand providing the entertainment to a much younger version of him buried down somewhere in his soul), and then in person. A dreadful song, bearing the same taste as displaying a severed head—still bleeding, mind you—at an art museum; its end was worse, Macavity somehow finding the gall to demand ascension.
(Macavity was a /bastard/, he knew, depraved and monstrous—but. Anyone, /anyone/ was preferable to Skimble.)
Munk, shaking the drugs from his system, watched the conflict play out on the dazzling stairway, Old Deuteronomy's shadow trickling down the steps and Macavity's grossly shining form backlit by the false Heaviside Layer showcase. He was proud, really, of how their leader, tottery as she was, stood up for the sanctity of the Jellicle Ball in the face of a criminal, a dog-killer, a maniac. He was proud of her, at least, if ashamed of himself for falling prey to gaudy moonbeam theatrics and temptation.
It was hard to keep himself fully sober, struggling his mindset out from the floor of the Egyptian and hoping for some sort of miracle—at least hoping against disaster. It crossed his mind that Macavity might actually /kill/ the Jellicle leader, and the thought sent another wave of nerves wracking his mullered mind and his wobbling body alike.
Once again, there was nothing he could do.
His helplessness was almost revolting, wrestling with the control of his own body on the wooden floorboards and watching the woman who had raised him be pressured by a fiend to violate the highest event of the Jellicle tribe. Munk felt tears prick in his eyes, giving a shuddering breath lost amongst the gradual gasps of outrage and still-intoxicated moans of his fellow cats.
There was /nothing/ he could do.
He couldn't save the other cats, he couldn't stop Skimbleshanks, he couldn't fight off Macavity, he was useless, he was worthless, he was incompetent, he was—
Old Deuteronomy was gone.
Munkustrap blinked. The false staircase, proving empty, gone of both hero and villain, retreated. Macavity was gone, and Old Deuteronomy with him.
He swore under his breath, a low moan of a curse serving as his last resort of expression.
The silver tabby grit his teeth, rising from the floor.
"Where is Old Deuteronomy?" He queried, soft and rhetorical, in some way a child asking for his mother.
The twins, notorious as they were but never causing any real trouble until now, scurried along the edge of the Egyptian, desperately trying to hide the shakers of catnip they had bore. Munk felt frustration bubble up hot inside him, and he stood tall and demanding.
"Where is she?" He repeated, insistent.
"...We don't know," offered Mungojerrie, and though anger shot through him at the statement, Munk knew that it was true.
Alonzo, on the other hand—Munkustrap stiffened as Alonzo bore down on Mungojerrie, bearing claws and a hiss of contempt. "/Where is she/?" said the snarling brown tabby, poised to strike.
"Look, it was only a bit of fun," came Rumpleteazer, kneeling up by her brother; "We didn't know he was going to take Old Deut," protested Mungojerrie.
Munkustrap felt their sincerity, saw the guilt lingering in the corner of their eyes; nonetheless, there was anger still boiling in his bloodstream, and he raised his claw. A pause, standing in a predatory pose, and then—he let his arm drop, face falling. He was supposed to lead, supposed to be the reasonable one, and reason said there was nothing violence would help now. The twins had been misguided, it was the Mystery Cat to blame...
He almost wished to be back under the influence. That, at least, had taken the prickling stress off his shoulders.
Tantomile stepped toward him—him, the leader, brought to helplessness by a few quick strokes of malice—with her eyes wide with hope: "There must be something we can do."
"We can't just magic her back," drawled Cassandra, and the defeat in her voice was an awful sound.
"Yes, we can!" Victoria's voice pierced suddenly through the Egyptian, and all eyes were on her. Her smile was so innocent on that white face, and Munkustrap felt the compassion he had given her at the start of the night rise up again. She seemed different, now, if not as young as she was before (her youthfulness he envied, just a little), changed by the Jellicle dance—most kittens were. Her visage was lit up with something like faith. "...Yes, we can."
Her look was as interesting as her statement; Munk started towards her with one eyebrow raised in curiosity. He was fully willing to listen—he'd listen to anything, he'd listen to /Macavity/, if it would fix this night's disaster.
And then the white cat turned to the Jellicle crouched on a wooden beam—Mistoffelees. Munk smiled, for a second; there was a young cat he'd seen promise in, and here might be something promising after all.
"You're a magician," said Victoria, prompting a muddled "What?" from the tuxedo cat.
Munk was quick to interject, knowing he had to be the first to offer guidance in a tribe of reluctant Jellicles: "It's not a bad idea."
He gave a long look at Misto, brows lifted and eyes trusting. "Might be worth a try."
"Really, I can't," insisted Mistoffelees—
"You could try." Victoria, and the intimacy between the two was palpable.
And with that, they were off on another endeavor; Munk felt the air shift as the magician's hat was offered to him and he crept tentatively up towards the stage. He knew he may have to carry the action here—the other cats were afraid, confused, some still partially asleep from Macavity's attack. That was why he was here, in the end; to orchestrate the Ball, to give a little guidance to his fellow Jellicles.
"Cross paws," uttered Mistoffelees, and the quaver in his voice prompted Munk to scurry up the stage.
"Can we get a spotlight?" asked the silver tabby, with enough gusto to bring some confidence to the beginning of the stumbling act. What the magician could not bring himself, Munk would have to provide—that, for now, seemed to be conviction.
(He wanted Old Deuteronomy back, and /Everlasting/ did he want Skimbleshanks back, but for now he was distracting himself with directing Mistoffelees forward. That, at least, was some competence—that, at least, started Munk back to self-respect.)
"Please—don't make me do this," begged Mistoffelees.
"And a drumroll, please," added Munk, with a little force.
He scrounged around in the corners of his knowledge for the proper tune belonging to the 'magical cat', and pressed him further towards the front of the stage with a beckoning voice.
...It didn't seem to work. Munkustrap felt the trembling form of the tuxedo cat pressed against his arm, and felt a ray of sympathy shining through his own heavy sky of nerves. A sort of paternal feeling rose in him, and he turned to look squarely at a quivering Misto.
He tried again, this time direct; he pressed a hand under shaking white chin, raising it up so that wide-eyed head was held high. Gently, voice giving the hint of a promise of trust, he started up chorus, and slowly Mistoffelees was urged towards center stage.
Munk watched intently as the magician pulled item after item out of button-lined top hat, shakily introducing himself. His acts seemed strung together loosely, almost random: he was stalling, Munk realised, trying to increase the time before he had to try something real.
Misto gave a slow, half-esteemed chorus, and then paused before the basket Deuteronomy had laid in; Munkustrap gripped the edge tight enough to pale his knuckles.
A grunt, a flick of a wand—
Nothing.
Munk followed Mistoffelees's wobbling movements as he gave a half-hearted strut across the stage, repeating the chorus as if he intended the failure all along. With Victoria's encouragement, the Jellicles chimed in for the tune, and Munk saw the magician straighten slightly as if the crowd's cheering was all he needed. He knelt before the other side of the stage, struggling with his magic and offering it another place to work; the gesture of the wand was repeated—
Again, nothing.
Munkustrap's heart fell for the second time in the night; he found himself much too invested in this solution. Nonetheless—he /had/ to fix this, and if Mistoffelees needed a few more tries to find the answer to the problem they all had, so be it.
Munk, while prying inside his own faith to find another chorus of endorsement, heard that high, hopeful voice ring out again: Victoria was the first to sing this time, and he discovered himself moved by her support.
(He wondered if Skimble had felt like Misto looked now; he wondered if he had invoked in his own inamorato that same connection, if Skimble had felt the love Munk bore for him that strongly. Munkustrap's heart panged, feeling as if it strained from within his ribcage even while he joined in to the chorus.)
There was a rising of conviction in the room; he was all but carried along by a collective hope as they crowded around the magician now kneeling before the basket once more.
A flick of that wand, one that sent Munk's heart skipping along with it—
The Jellicles fell silent as hard work fell fruitless.
Mistoffelees' head drooped, Munk biting his lip as he frantically abandoned this faith and searched out in his mind something, anything else to serve as a solution—
"Oh, well, I never... was there ever..." A croaking, gentle voice seeped throughout the Egyptian; a voice he knew so well came from behind him.
They all turned, and there was the august silhouette of Old Deuteronomy, standing there elderly and floccose, a knowing smile on her face and a twinkle in her eyes.
Munkustrap felt a grin come over him instinctively, and he was upon her as quick as he could be. His joy seemed childish, deep-set and congenital, burying his face in the velvet of her fur and taking pure delight in the warmth coming off her. His love was familial at the root of it, feeling maternal hand brush his back and buttermilk scruff brush his ears. This was more than relief; in the few moments it lasted it was euphoria.
Misto set into another rousing chorus, his magic blossoming out from him in the form of a laughable amount of cards and bouquets bursting from his sleeves; he was in the air, he was commanding up the inanimate, he was on the floorboards taking up a dance with Victoria. Munk held Deuteronomy's hand through the display, feeling the elder's awe through the faint quivering of her wrinkled wrist.
It was beautiful; it was a triumph of a messy night.
(Oh, how /badly/ he wished Skimble could see it. It was the sort of showmanship he would have loved.)
(Old Deuteronomy shot him a glance from the corner of her eye, and once again he shrugged it off.)
Down on the floor once again, joining into the spirited dance with as much vigor as he could muster in the afterglow of reuniting with the Jellicle leader; Munkustrap slid out in front of the tuxedo and the white with a gleeful look.
"Ladies and gentlemen," started Munk with an almost manic zeal, "I give you—the marvelous, magical Mr. Mistoffelees!"
The subject of his exclamation took Victoria by the hand, gave a twirl of remarkable grace—and by the time Victoria was turned back to look at him, was gone. She paused, and then her face filled with delight—they turned, and there the magician was, appearing beside Deuteronomy in a burst of smoke.
(Apparition, thought Munk, for a second, even as he proudly watched Misto rub noses with Deuteronomy. Could he do the same as Macavity? Could he—?)
This was a fine time, this was a respite from the hassle of the Ball; Munk let out a low breath, trying to focus himself back in the present when he could rejoice amongst the horde of happy Jellicles.
He passed a remark here and there to his fellow cats, bumped cheeks, took a moment to /breathe/ and distract himself from missing cats and maniac ones.
And then—because of /course/ she did, Munk should've made the connection earlier—Victoria crept in, side by side with a tottering, tentative Grizabella.
It was just one thing after another, wasn't it?
There was the highlight of the night, where he found himself stock-still in the whispery moonlight of the Egyptian, hearing the outcast Jellicle's song vibrate through his body, the /sorrow/ of it all almost incomprehensible. At the side of Deuteronomy, watching Grizabella cry out from within her ragged furs, face turned up to the Jellicle moon and practically begging for the Everlasting Cat to come to her rescue.
He had pitied her from the start, always made sure the queens weren't so harsh on her—but he had a resentment nonetheless, a congenital dislike of her association with Macavity. But this? The sheer misery in a powerful voice broken by a jagged past? The audible pain of only the memory of happiness? He could have never imagined it.
His eyes were damp as could be, his body cold with saddened sympathy; he could not feel her distress but, Everlasting, he /understood/.
Old Deuteronomy stepped forward, reaching out to take the hand of Grizabella—to /touch/ her, the first of the Jellicles to do so in a very long time.
"You," Deuteronomy started, her voice soft but definitive, "are the Jellicle choice."
They gasped, collectively, and Munkustrap could see the weight lifted off Grizabella's shoulders.
And with that, it was done; the Ball had come to its conclusion.
(Was it wrong of him, underneath his happiness for her, to be /glad/, so deeply glad, that it was not Skimble?)
Victoria took up her dance, slender body fulfilled with a latent grace that spoke much more than her song ever could, and slowly they brought the Jellicle choice to the ascension; he watched Mistoffelees light up the chandelier with a sort of fatherly pride.
Grizabella took her place, the look in her eyes as incredulous as it was euphoric. The crystal amenity started upwards, its second function slowly becoming evident as she floated up past the ceiling—up, up, up, past the Russell Hotel, perhaps, up to the Heaviside Layer. It was beautiful, plain and simple, the hot air balloon taking off to a fate remarkable and unknown as the Jellicles hastened out to the square to watch.
Out in the center of London, out by that feline statue that bore its majestic gaze up to the heavens—there was what he was looking for, there was something that sent his heart soaring up past the Jellicle moon.
Slowly, he let himself take it in, already scampering up the head of the lion to be with Old Deuteronomy; from here he could see Jennyanydots being greeted with much more excitement than earlier that night, here he could see Alonzo and Asparagus making peace with theatrical conflict, here he could see Bustopher Jones reunite with the maitre d'.
And there, as if nothing at all had happened, red overalls as vibrant and impeccably creased as ever, whistle shining around his neck and hat solid upon his head—Skimbleshanks.
The feeling was peculiar in just how sweet it was, borderline nirvana as he took in the sight. He had worried, all night long, driving in an ache in his head and a rippling distress all along his spine. He had /worried/, all night long, and seeing that worry taken away was, in this moment, the most wonderful thing in the world. Munkustrap felt his tail stick up and vibrate in the pleasure of it, eyes dilated with the pure rapture filling him.
If the Everlasting Cat truly was out there, and for now he certainly hoped that it was—he was goddamn grateful.
Munkustrap all but /stared/, taking advantage of his towering position to relish in the sight of ginger tabby mingling amongst the cats, brushing noses with the familial queen he was so fond of.
For a moment, Skimble glanced upwards, locking eyes with him. In the margins of a second, they gazed at each other with deep, unspoken communication, those glass-green eyes flashing a horrible guilt at him that only furthered with Munk's compulsive look of betrayal.
And then they looked away, and the praise of the Everlasting Cat rang through them.
(He couldn't stop /thinking/ about him, couldn't get the image of that orange-furred face out of his mind, whiskers curled meticulously and eyes deep and bright, mouth ever so serious... He'd fallen in love with it the moment he'd seen it, and every night he got to spend looking at was another medicine to his deep-rooted worry.)
(Was it selfish to want it to never leave him?)
(Was it selfish to want a thousand nights more with tabby-ticked face, with ginger frame and brown tail tangled along his?)
Old Deuteronomy took her turn in the spotlight, to give her peculiar tune and Jellicle manifesto, and it was his duty to join in. It was remarkable how unfazed she was, having been threatened by the Napoleon of Crime, having been kidnapped by him and dragged off to who knows where. He was proud, even, content that it was him sitting at her side at the end of this incomprehensibly eventful night.
Nonetheless.
They gave their applause, and the Jellicles took their cue to disband; Munkustrap lingered for a second to bid farewell to Deuteronomy. He watched scarlet suspenders tentatively skitter off, tap shoes slung over hunched shoulders—a pause, and Munk took off after him.
The same thought echoed throughout his skull, the only thought that bothered to climb over the kept memory of railway cat visage, just one piercing thought:
/Why/?