Starving Together (A "Don't Starve" Story)

7: Orange Ball of Fluff

There was a sort of routine that went into their mornings now. They hardly noticed the habits as they began to pile up in such a short amount of time, but six days were enough in their minds to begin trends that felt safe and secure. If something deviated from the new norm, it was mildly disconcerting.

They'd wake up (or stand, depending if one—or both—of them had decided not to sleep the night before) and make their way to the crockpot they had set up opposite to their stash. Wilson would normally toss in some form of meat while Westley would add the fruits and vegetables. Her contribution always varied from day to day, depending on what they wanted to eat. Wilson still always wrinkled his nose if he even saw a hint of carrot; Westley saw a particularly scrunched up face of his once and was quick to assure him—in a sort of tone one would use with picky children—that he wouldn't taste it, much to his eternal embarrassment and chagrin. Needless to say, he kept all of his expressions on orange roots to himself after that.

Once the pot ceased its rumbling and boiling, they would take up their bowls and serve themselves evenly; it was important to them that the other had as much to eat as they did. They ate quickly and heartily until the crockpot was empty and their stomachs were full. A lightly scalded tongue was only to be expected in those cases.

A pond just beyond the evergreen trees of their campsite was their general wash up area. Dishes were done, wounds were cleaned, and faces were splashed with the chilly water that was just beginning to frost along the grassy edges.

With that frost came the end of Wilson's morning shaves.

"I should have let it grow out sooner, to be honest," he commented as his hand grazed against the thickening hairs on his chin. "It's already beginning to turn even colder. We'll have to start wearing earmuffs now."

"Will that be enough? Shouldn't we find warmer clothes too?"

"Of course we should. I've been reviewing our options and I believe Beefalo fur would make a good substitution. It's all just a matter of gathering the materials." Wilson paused to bring water up to his face. The shiver that ran from his fingertips down to the junction of his arm was a far better wake-up than any coffee he had ever had.

"I think we should get some more silk, too," Westley added. "You know, for sewing. Can't make clothes without thread."

"Right." He dried his face with his shirt, noted he'd have to wash it again soon, and stood to pack up for their trip.

"...Um, Wilson?"

"Hm?"

"Why didn't you take off your gloves to wash your face?"

He looked back at her, eyebrow raised. "You barely noticed?"

"I just never thought to ask, I guess," she admitted.

"I suppose it's because I never care to take them off." He was lying through his teeth and he knew it, but she didn't. That was all that mattered. "I've always worn them; they've almost begun integrating into my skin, haha."

That half hearted laugh was what tipped Westley into bringing the conversational train to a screeching halt. Her lip worried under her teeth for a moment before she, too, stood up. It was time to change the subject. Or maybe to stop asking questions altogether.

Wilson appreciated her notice.

The seventeenth day of autumn began as normally as the days before it. They hunted and scavenged and collected and created just as they had before. The air might be turning cold enough to make their idle hands shiver, and their ears might be covered by fuzzy muffs to keep the frost from biting them so insistently, but they learned to adapt to it. They had to adapt to it. Surviving was everything. Above sleep, above basic comfort. And the longer they went without those things, the more they missed what they had before.