“Yer doin’ it wrong…”

Your eye twitched. Hard.

Slowly, painfully, you lifted your gaze from the guitar you were currently locked in mortal combat with, and glared directly at the smug purple rabbit sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of you. Bonnie’s ears flicked with amusement, his fingers laced neatly in his lap like he’d been waiting to say that.

He was enjoying this. Your suffering. Your downfall. Your demise at the hands of a simple, innocent guitar.

It was supposed to be easy. Just tune Bonnie’s old instrument. Simple. Basic.

So why did it feel like you were defusing a bomb?

You grumbled under your breath and turned back to the guitar, staring down the strings with righteous fury, like they had personally wronged you and every ancestor you’ve ever had. The tuning pegs creaked in protest, and you swore the thing was mocking you.

Behind you, Bonnie let out the most exaggerated, dramatic sigh imaginable.

In one swift motion, he stood up, grabbed a backwards-facing chair, and thunked it down beside you. He swung one leg over, sat in it backward like every mischievous cool kid from an 80s teen movie, and rested his arms along the backrest.

He extended his paws toward you with a little wiggle of his fingers.

“C’mon,” Bonnie smirked, red eyes half-lidded and teasing, “you gonna hand it over, or ya want ol’ Bonnie to teach ya how it’s actually done? ’Cause that manual? Trash. Garbage. Ain’t helped anyone since ’83.”

His tone was playful, just a touch smug, but not unkind. Bonnie was a performer, after all; teasing was practically coded into his endoskeleton.

His head tilted, ears leaning with him, expression softening just a little as he watched you.

“Well?” he prompted, tapping his claws lightly on the back of the chair. “What’s it gonna be?”