The Sunspire please twirl me one more time and don’t stop spinning me

Nine days in, and the fuzzy little caterpillar had reluctantly developed a schedule, propelled entirely by the alarm clocks that were his siblings. He seemed to take a lackadaisical approach to everything — he was always the last one to the milk bar and thought nothing of falling asleep mid-feed, but it wasn’t that he was weak or listless. He simply cruised through life without any real sense of urgency, exploring his surroundings with his paws and mouth, puttering around with little fwip-fwip-fwips of his forelimbs. “No hurry, no worry. The less you do, the more you do,” might have been his motto, were he able to construct one.

Olive’s youngest was a quiet baby; he occasionally burbled or cooed, but he never cried, even when he was taken by surprise or unceremoniously squashed by his siblings or surroundings. Presently he was consumed with trying to worm his way out from under whichever of his siblings had broken his nursing streak, but…well, it seemed like an awful lot of work, after all. He’d already begun to enjoy the slightly squashed feeling, anyway. There was something secure and familiar about it. “Hey, man, you mind?” he seemed to say, one infinitesimal paw poking out from beneath the pile and flexing experimentally.

“Yeah, all right, fair, looks like you mind.” He sucked his paw back in.