You: Where Dreams Come True (Mickey Mouse x Homer Simpson)

It Starts with You

Tires screech against weathered concrete, accompanied by obnoxious honking, blaring warning signals into Homer's yellow skull.

Desperately, he covers his ears, trying his best to block out the noise. Unfortunately, this leaves his nose uncovered, exposing him to the putrid scent of sidewalk-piss and some other scent that smells vaguely like burnt rotten eggs.

Tired of waiting for the pedestrian crossing sign to go off, Homer stumbles onto the crosswalk, clumsily swerving through heavy traffic to get to the other side of the road.

He accidentally brushes against many cars, but pays them no mind, even as their honking increases by tenfold. Instead, he pulls a bottle of bourbon out of his left pants pocket, taking a swig of it and flipping off several of the cars with his right hand.

Despite the loud beeping protests of the automobiles and their inhabitants, he somehow makes it to the other side of the road unharmed.

Though, there's plenty of people rolling down their windows to remind him he's "a useless piece of shit" and a "homeless pig."

He can't tell whether he's lucky or unlucky to have not gotten hit. Part of him had hoped some driver would've gotten sick of him and decided to just run him over.

He takes another swig of his drink and does something he absolutely loathes doing the majority of the time: thinking, more specifically, reflecting.

Never before had he felt so lost. He didn't have him wife to tell him what to do, or his kids to pretend to care about. All he had was his trusty bottle of bourbon, which honest to God should've been enough, but it wasn't. He found himself missing his home... his painfully comfortable couch... his beloved television.

Yes, he missed home, the home Marge had kicked him out of. Apparently he had become "too much" for her, or in her words "too little." She had no idea what she was talking about, babbling on about how he was a lazy sack of shit and she wouldn't deal with it anymore.

It was her fault for marrying him. She should've known from the start who he is.

But Marge is an idiot, unlike him obviously, so of course she didn't know. She had filed for divorce, kicked him out, and refused to let him see the kids.

So now, here he is, wandering the streets of the worst place in the world like a homeless bum: Los Angeles.

Suddenly, as he's turning the corner of another street, he trips. His legs refuse to obey his orders, slow and discombobulated. He's suddenly aware of how warm he feels, how much he's been drinking. He falls, his head colliding with the pavement that has no doubt been pissed on just minutes prior by other homeless stragglers.

As his vision begins to fade, he turns to his side and catches sight of a blur of black and white, peering down at him.

"Oh jeez! We have to help him out!" A goofy sounding voice resounds, echoing throughout his fuzzy skull.

Everything goes black.

———

When Homer Simpson awakes, he finds himself in a queen sized bed, a mauve-colored duvet covering him. He sits up, glancing around the ornately decorated room around him. Looks fancy.

On a nearby chair sits a large mouse, and not just any mouse, it's THE Mickey Mouse. Not like the name means much to Homer though.

"Uhhhh..." Homer winces from his pounding headache and Mickey in turn gestures towards the water glass sitting atop his bedside table.

Homer chugs the whole thing down in one go, which reminds him of his treasured alcohol. He glances down at his pants pocket to find it missing, "What'd you do with my bourbon?"