Shyena: Part 1
Chapter 1
Exhaustion and nerves racked Jonas' body, his chest hollow and icy while his forehead burned, as if he leapt from a sauna into an ice bath. The hyena felt like a spider had spun a web inside his throat, restricting his laboured breaths as they surfaced, prickly legs irritating his tightened oesophagus and making him feel sick. He and the other students had spent the last hour running circuits around the school track. Jonas was the most out of breath and imagined he was the only one whose ankles ached and quivered like he walked on stilts made of twigs. His cheek-length blonde hair was tugged underneath a white headband that cut into his forehead, his brown fur a wiry mess where it pinched underneath the Nike logo, the entire headband so moist with sweat it was like a wet towel wrapped around his head.
Jonas had never dreaded a race before, as he'd only recently developed the paralysing fear of failure that tortured him with its slick, icy grip. He'd once been the fastest sprinter in the entire school without ever having to train. Jonas is a natural talent who excels effortlessly; his teachers had once told his father at parent-teacher conferences. This was true for his academic studies as much as it was for his athletic pursuits. His teachers sang praises for his remarkable intelligence, and his straight-A grades proved their song true. They also praised his father for instilling Jonas with a diligent work ethic that made him their lowest-maintenance student. The truth was that Jonas had never studied any earlier than the night before an exam, and neither his father nor his teachers knew this. Whenever Jonas' father found him sprawled on the bed, gamepad in hand, study notes abandoned on his cluttered desk; he'd tell him he was taking a break. His grades spoke for themselves, so Jonas' father never had reason to doubt the lie.
Jonas' school career had been like driving down a clear, straight highway in cruise control. His foot was on the gas, and his eyes were on his phone. Exams blurred past like open checkpoints, barely registering to Jonas, and no one at the stations bothered to check to see if he was paying attention. He'd gotten so used to success that he'd become complacent. Despite the clear warning, he had not seen the checkpoint looming on the horizon, with its gates closed and attendants on high alert for gifted young men who hated studying but knew how to navigate exams.
He got an F.
Since then, Jonas' disappointed teachers and his dad have done nothing but scrutinise him. His peers, who harboured vast reserves of spite from years of special treatment, were happy to witness the fall from grace of the teacher's pet. He'd always been held to a higher standard than other students, except now he was chastised for when he slipped from an A-grade and rarely congratulated when he succeeded.
Jonas believes that the pressure exerted by the grown-ups led to him losing the top spot in his school's yearly track competition last spring. His father had claimed that Jonas 'needed to focus' and thus imposed strict restrictions on video games and social outings, which left him little time to go outdoors and train. He'd come close to admitting, to himself and no one else, that this was a convenient excuse that freed him from responsibility for his own failure. He'd never trained once, simply born with a runner's physique and ran around outside with his friends often enough to maintain it. But then, if his dad hadn't enforced his authoritarian studying regime, then he wouldn't have wasted away indoors and would have won the race easily! If his teachers hadn't been complacent, relying on his natural aptitude and instead had taught him the mechanics of studying, he wouldn't have failed his exam, and his dad wouldn't have gone all dictator on him. Jonas drew a sharp line of cause and effect between these events, placing responsibility on anyone's shoulders but his own.
It was now September, and Jonas had been back at school for a couple of weeks. His close-knit group of misfits had thrown him a party for his birthday a week ago, which he appreciated, but hadn't felt like celebrating. The aftertaste of last year's failures lingered, salting the taste of the dubiously obtained alcohol they'd drank straight from the bottle.
Jonas had been a ghost to his friends this summer, choosing instead to stew in his room playing online video games and jerking off. His reclusiveness concerned his Dad, which Jonas found frustrating, wishing he'd decide between locking him up or letting him free. He'd decline any plans arranged by text or online, and his friends soon realised the best way to guarantee his attendance was to show up at his doorstep unannounced. 'Your friends came all the way here!' his dad would say, their expectant gazes squeezing down on him. He'd always relent and later bask in the euphoria of arriving home with sun-blushed skin, sea salt-speckled fur, and an aching stomach from laughing too much, unaware that he'd forged memories that he would learn to cherish years from now. By the next morning, the memory of that sensation was already distant and cold. The day after that, he'd forgotten it completely.
A sharp buzzing pulled at the insides of Jonas's ears as if the ear drums were trying to wrench their way into the back of his eyes. The athletes chatted and gossiped around him, though he couldn't hear them for the noise inside his skull. He stretched with clunky robotic movements while he regulated his breathing. The thought of the whistle entered his mind, Jonas bounding from the starting line, his legs tangling like a pretzel made from jelly, tumbling to the ground, the other student's laughter cutting through the static crackling in his ears. He played to himself a slideshow of every conceivable, embarrassing possibility and felt such an intense burning in his forehead that he feared his headband would catch fire.
He cast his eyes up from the floor to find Colin. The white rabbit was sitting on the bleachers, hunched over and looking bored, a phone clutched in his hand. He was swiping the screen, giving one second of his time, at most, to each social media video post he scrolled by. Seeing his long-time friend anchored the hyena. Each breath drained the alarming temperature from his body, then dispelled it into the air. His breathing calmed, and the world seemed a little less uneven. Colin lifted his head, waved, and sank back into the phone.
Coach Bronson's voice boomed from the track-side with the commandeering power of a drill sergeant. Rumour has it the alligator was ex-army before becoming a teacher. Jonas wondered if the persona was a façade that kept students in line. Maybe he had heard and rolled with the rumour since it worked and made him seem enigmatic. Why ruin the magic? Jonas reckoned the act would've been laughably cringeworthy if the alligator wasn't 6' 4" and built like a tank fuelled by sirloin steak. Bronson caught Jonas staring, his voice like a bullet from a 50 calibre sniper rifle, the shockwave rattling Jonas' legs and yanking the blood in his brain southwards.
"You hard of hearing, spots? Get in position!"
Jonas quickly approached the starting line, refocusing his thoughts and willing away the tent in his shorts. The other athletes lined up on either side of him like a procession of soldiers on parade, bending themselves into starting positions. Jonas lagged behind, unconfidently assuming the position like an insecure boomer entering his first-ever yoga pose. His fingers splayed across the asphalt, rear tucked underneath him as he waited for the first signal. Coach's voice was forceful and demanding, and it had its scope trained on Jonas's groin. Another round fired, commanding the students into their ready positions, and Jonas automatically obliged while his thoughts wandered, stealing him from the race and placing him directly beneath the coach in some unspecified location. A bed, perhaps, though the rough asphalt cutting into his fingertips gave incredulity to that part of the fantasy.
Jonas's rear rose, breaths staggered and hot as dream-coach's claws grazing down his arms to find Jonas' hands, pinning them to the ground. Juicy muscle wrapped tightly in scutes grazed down the outside of Jonas's comparatively meagre arm, a twig to a tree. He felt small, helpless, and rightfully placed beneath authority. Dream-coach's gut flattened against Jonas' back, his swollen shorts into Jonas's rear, and the hyena dreamed that the coach's thick, gargantuan, ex-army dick slid perfectly between his cheek, like Cinderella's foot to her glass slipper. Bronson was slick and ready to breed.
Great race today, Spots. I think you've earned a reward.
Too considerate, Jonas thought, not fitting to Bronson's character. Jonas edited the image by repositioned one of the coach's hands to squeeze his neck lightly, so that they dug into his flesh, on the precipice of pain.. Bronson's breath shivered down the back of the hyena's neck, his glasses misty from the alligator's sirloin steak breath.
Disappointing race today, Spots. Time for some more drills.
A whistle tore through the dream, and the flanking rows of soldiers pelted forward like they were spring-loaded. Jonas lurched into Pavlovian action, though he knew already he was late off the mark. Rows of sneakers battered the asphalt like a chorus of drums. The wind whipped Jonas's ears, and he noticed the buzzing had faded, and while he hadn't fallen, he had fallen behind, with a lot of ground to make up for.
Chapter 2
Matt had been working in the upstairs office when the doorbell rang. It was 3 pm, and work had been uneventfully slow. He'd been caught off guard when he opened his door, expecting a package and instead met with his older brother Deacon. His frame, both broader and taller than Matt, filled the entire doorway, the afternoon sun peeking through a gap between Deacon's shoulder and the doorframe, its shine paling compared to his brother's wide gnarly smile. A red football cap shaded his smile, denim jeans strained around his thighs, and a grey vest stuck with sweat to the solid curves of his pecs and stomach.
They'd been chatting for two hours, with Deacon leading the conversation. It was all casual, and the topics gave no cause for alarm. Yet Matt's had his guard up, his muscles tense like he was anticipating a jump scare in a horror movie. He should be happy to see family, but there were sensitive childhood scars that itched whenever his brother was around. He was 43 years old, Deacon 46, and Matt knew it was irrational to hold Deacon accountable for how he had acted back then.
Deacon had been passionately and one-sidedly recounting the happenings of the current football season. Matt was content to let him ramble, for he was too distracted by the phone on his lap. One ear was tuned in to his brother's station, which might have been static for all football meant to Matt, and the other ear listened for his phone in the event work tried to reach him.
His phone pinged, and Matt turned it over, nodding perfunctorily while his brother continued. He unlocked the screen and saw an active chat dealing with a customer support issue, which wasn't his remit, so he locked the phone and cupped it face down against his thigh. Matt worked as a software engineer and worked remotely. His skill set was in demand and lacking in experienced engineers. Companies had to advertise internationally to find the perfect candidate, enticing them with inordinate salaries, remote working, and asking that their employees show face at HQ at least once a year. It was a perfect setup for Matt. He had a child to raise and had read enough horror stories about workaholic single parents to understand that the best place for him was right by his son's side. The hours were flexible, which was ideal when you were forced to entertain surprise visits from your brother, whom you hadn't seen in three years. Being away from his desk was no issue, provided he was easily reachable.
Deacon continued to talk, and Matt continued to listen actively. He'd learned decades ago that listening came naturally to most people. He had struggled, however, easily distracted or more preoccupied with his thoughts humming inside his head, reverberating against the inside of his skull like a discordant choir singing from different hymn sheets. Sometimes he'd been unable to think about anything except his current fixation, which as a child, had been video games or music and, later, his programming projects. He had to teach himself to listen actively, to avoid distractions, and not to interrupt. He'd never quite learned how to spot the cues indicating his turn to speak, so he'd gotten exceptionally good at listening.
Matt had never been interested in sports like his brother. Their hobbies had only ever overlapped when it came to music. Guitars, drums & whiney vocals of their favourite childhood band, Doorstep, twinkled throughout the house. A wireless sound system connected every room allowing the nostalgic emo tune to float freely from room to room. They'd first heard about them from one of Deacon's schoolfriends, who had recorded the band onto cassette tape live from the radio. They knew it word for word, and Deacon could chunk through the chords while Matt carried the performance with angsty wailing that had once earned them 3rd place in a school talent show. He didn't perform these days, except to the walls of his home while his son was at school.
Deacon's rant simmered just as the album concluded, and an uncomfortable silence followed. Uncomfortable because Deacon loved to talk, and he wasn't talking. Neither of them was. Those songs had been a distracting aria sung to keep a demon at bay, the real reason for Deacon's visits, and without the song, it was free to show its proper form. Matt's mouth was dry; his tongue rolled against the back of his teeth to try and paint moisture into them. Deacon's expression was tense and pensive, that look people had when carefully considering the right way to phrase something, as if a catholic nun daunted over him with a ruler, ready to clap his wrist unless he said the correct words in the correct order.
"You probably want to know why I'm here, huh."
Matt pulled the corners of his mouth into a curious and sympathetic smile like a trained therapist. Beneath the mask, he was unsettled, struggling to feel grounded. He felt cornered by obligation, knowing he'd be expected to entertain whatever his brother asked of him because they were family. In the past, they'd argued over requests Matt considered outlandish but that Deacon claimed "wasn't a big deal", like over a decade ago when Deacon had asked to borrow Matt's car for a weekend away with some guy he'd met in a bar. They'd also argue when Deacon asked for money, insisting it would be the last time, Matt reminding him that it never was. Matt realised it had been a while since Deacon had asked for a loan, and to his credit, he always squared up, though not as promptly as Matt would have liked.
"I figured you wouldn't have driven here just to say hi."
Deacon took in a slow, deep breath, the kind that makes your shoulders rise towards your ears, where the arms cross tightly across your chest, pulling against each other and down to stop your shoulders from floating away.
"My landlord is selling up, and I lost my job."
Matt saw the landscape of the conversation painted in front of him. Two roads forked off in different directions: one straight, narrow and boring, and the other exciting, yet turbulent and riddled with blind corners. He wanted desperately to continue driving down the road where his destination was clear but could feel Deacon yanking on the wheel, pulling them towards the unfamiliar. He felt guilty for wanting to steer the conversation away from his brother's vulnerable admission. Matt's phone pinged, but he ignored it.
"That's awful." He sympathised, waiting for his brother to continue.
Deacon's eyes clenched shut as he massaged the bridge of his nose so firmly that Matt feared his thick fingers would crush it to dust. Deacon's other hand dug into his pocket and withdrew a packet of cigarettes, flipping the lid with his thumb. Matt tried to pull forward, ready to bite his hand off, but his mind resisted the urge. Deacon seemed to remember he was a guest, his fingertips grazing the rows of noxious treats like the forbidden fruit, but he didn't pick one. His brother stared at the cigarettes with desire, the way Matt imagined his ex-wife had wanted him to gaze at her, despite her knowing he'd never been a good liar. Deacon closed the lid and motioned to put the packet back in his pocket.
"It's fine," Matt said, surprised that compassion had overruled his many other neurotic sensibilities. "I'll get you an ashtray."
Matt stood and headed for the kitchen. He passed through the dining room, his son Jonas beaming at him through picture frames adorned with a collection of awards and prizes from numerous school and extracurricular events. These pictures were the only thing set on the wall- wooden framed islands clustered together like a nostalgic archipelago with a bare cream ocean running between them. Once in the kitchen, he shuffled through a cluttered drawer he called his 'everything drawer' before finding a dusty, unused ashtray in the back. He rinsed the dust of it in the sink and made his way back through to the living room. Deacon lit up the second Matt re-entered the room.
Deacon's thigh was sturdy like a denim coffee table, which he placed the ashtray on, keeping it steady as he smoked. "Thanks, man."
Matt waved this off as if it was no big deal but couldn't help imagining Deacon's apartment, which he'd just lost, with its congealed and yellow skirting boards and the dry exhalations of chairs respiring trapped smoke when they were sat upon.
"So," Matt's expression softened as he prepared himself to listen, his eyes snapping to the chimney of pollution flowing from Deacon's mouth, making a conscious effort to yank his gaze back to meet Deacon. "What happened?"
Deacon settled into the couch, fingers making the 'OK' symbol with the cigarette pinched between his finger and thumb.
"Okay, well, I don't know if I told you, but I quit the steakhouse and moved to this family-owned place. Owned by this young, entrepreneurial couple. Kind of Italian, Mexican, everything fusion type place, you know? A real 'something for everyone' kind of menu." Matt gauged from Deacon's tone that this wasn't a good thing.
"Last guy quit 'cause he tried to do something about the menu, but the owners wouldn't hear it. They had it in their head that more options meant more customers. I mean, they weren't wrong; that place was packed most nights." Deacon's expression was bright and reminiscent, perhaps relishing the memory of a chaotic, noisy kitchen as Matt had seen in those clips of chef reality TV programs that Jonas shared with him. It looked like hell.
"Here's the thing: if your menu's too big, you're gonna throw away a lot of food, and the amount of wastage was God damned insane." Deacon was starting to become animated, the hand with the cigarette whipping the air like a conductor. "It's part of the job to track all that. We had to be losing money, but the boss assured me it balanced out after drinks and fees for booking functions. I took his word for it 'cause he paid well, and I'm a sucker for a pretty face."
Matt thought to comment on Deacon eyeing up a married man but restrained himself, remembering his own missteps with infidelity.
"Sure enough, I show up for my shift one morning, and there's these guys sniffing around. Soon as a try to unlock the door, they pounce, asking me about money, about the boss and his wife, spouting off about unpaid debts. It turns out they'd be in the red for a while and skipped town when the collectors came calling."
Deacon paused to smoke. The cigarette wore a glowing auburn halo just above the filter, fizzling as he took his final drag, then tapped the residual ash into the tray and discarded the smouldering butt inside it.
"So just like that, we're out of a job. All of us. Then there's the apartment! I'm driving home from finding out I lost my job when my landlord calls to tell me he's selling the place. Fuck me, right? That's some luck." Matt noted that Deacon's tone was oddly bright considering the circumstances. A testament to his boundless, intolerable levels of confidence.
"I've moved around a lot. Normally it's not an issue finding a new place, but that's always been when I had money coming in. I'm in a bit of a bind."
Matt suspected Deacon was closing in on the reason for his visit. It was almost certainly money. Matt could see it a mile away. He struggled to read people but excelled at identifying patterns, and his brother was nothing if not a creature of habit. He deployed futile delay tactics as if he could stave off the inevitable question.
"What about your savings?" Matt said as if savings were an expectation rather than an exception.
Deacon laughed incredulously like Matt had told him a surprising joke. "Come on, man; you really think I've got that kind of money stashed away, living in the city on a cook's wages? It ain't easy when all your cash gets burned on rent, trains and taxis."
"And cigarettes." Matt's muzzle hopped ahead of his brain, his neck tensing as Deacon's expression soured. There was a pause, where Deacon begrudgingly bit back a spicy response.
Matt's head faced forward while his eyes tried to escape sideways into their sockets, desperate to escape Deacon's slighted stare. "Sorry, that was shitty."
"It's cool," It was not. Matt vented the tension by clawing at the back of his hand, which still had the phone cupped underneath it.
"Like I said: no savings, no job, and I'm out on my ass in a few weeks. I was hoping I could stay with you two for a while."
The conversation had been a rollercoaster, slowly pulling upwards, knowing that a sudden drop waited at the top. A pit opened in Matt's stomach, his organs twisting and pulling inside it, his thoughts turning to panic as he fought to find a diplomatic way to refuse before his muzzle spoke ahead of him. This was worse than if he'd just asked for a loan.
Jonas could not afford the distraction, not during his final year. What did Deacon expect? Free lodging in the spare room, scraping together pennies at a local burger joint until he could afford to move out. He knew what would happen. Deacon would become comfortable, then complacent, happy to leech Matt's goodwill and remarkable salary for as long as he was tolerated. He would wait for Matt to be the one to sever the arrangement, then make him out to be a heartless villain.
How could you do this to your own brother? Deacon would say. Matt was thinking of his brother, though. To move in together would allow Deacon to regress. It was for his own benefit that Matt refused.
"I know what you're thinking," Deacon's tone was scorned and resolute. "You're sick of always having to bail me out. Trust me; I am too. Do you think I like having to beg my little brother for money all the time? It fucking sucks. And it sucks bouncing between jobs where I get managed like shit and get paid just as badly. I'm tired of being a little cog in a machine that I know ain't built right and is just seconds from falling apart without warning."
Deacon paused for a breath, taking a moment to compose himself. The knot in Matt's stomach started to untie itself. He waited with nervous curiosity for Deacon to continue.
"I want to get out of the kitchen and run my own place. I want to go to community college and get a real qualification that isn't some hygiene certificate. But it costs money, you know? And I'm not about to ask you to pay for it. I just need somewhere to stay so I have the breathing room to make it happen. I've been in the industry for a long time. I know the ins and outs. But I need a formal qualification before anyone would consider investing in me. I'm a sure shot, Matt, I know I am. I just need to convince people that I can do it, and that starts with you."
Deacon's quixotic speech had stunned Matt. He sat, still awkwardly scratching the back of his hand as he wrestled with what to say. He wanted to be supportive but was afraid of giving too much ground. Matt wondered why he should be shouldered with this burden. He presumed Deacon had friends in the city he could call on for a favour and imagined that countless community colleges offered business degrees. He saw no reason why he should be obligated to help beyond their familial ties. He loved his brother, but it was a confused love born out of necessity and overexposure. They hadn't chosen one another; they'd just lived in the same home for 18 years. They'd become estranged as soon as their living circumstances allowed it.
"Couldn't you have messaged me about this? We have Facebook, you know."
"You'd have said no." Deacon said with certainty, and Matt knew he was right.
"Well, maybe, I don't know. But coming in person to pressure me into it? That's not fair."
"I know; I'm sorry. I'm in a bind, man, and need a hand here."
He realised it was always Deacon who reached out. His brother always picked up the phone, checked in to see how he was doing, and even showed up for Jonas' birthdays when he'd been able. It'd been three years since they'd seen each other in person, but they'd talked online, and it was always Deacon initiating the conversation. Matt wanted to believe that if he read those chats now, he'd find that each of Deacon's greetings was followed by grovelling for money. It would make this easier. But all he'd find were streams of messages from his older brother reaching out and Matt's perfunctory responses, widening the rift between them.
Would it be so bad if Deacon lived with them? His brother might not be a distraction if he were studying. Jonas might follow his example and return to studying as he used to, or perhaps view Deacon as a cautionary tale of what happens when you skip school and underperform in your exams. Jonas would see that you can spend thirty years scraping by before realising that he should have made the effort when he first had the chance.
Matt surprised himself when he accepted that he was amenable to the idea. Only in theory, of course. He'd need reassurance that Deacon would commit to the plan and follow through. There'd be contingencies if things went wrong or if Deacon had second thoughts. If he stayed, it would be under Matt's conditions.
Matt's palm vibrated as his phone begged for attention with the rhythmic humming of a phone-call. This concerned Matt, as he was only called directly when there was an issue. He unlocked his phone, his tone terse as he feared the worst, struggling to navigate the conversation while checking his phone. "It's Jonas' final year of school, and he has a lot of ground to make up after last year. He can't afford to be distracted."
Deacon seemed about to speak but stopped as Matt cursed, glaring at his phone screen. A colleague from work had messaged him multiple times and was now calling him directly as he had not replied. He declined the call, hammering a message into the screen to let them know he'd call back ASAP. He sifted through the messages and found, sandwiched between them, a message from Jonas:
"Hey dad. Colin says you were supposed to pick us up today?"
Matt and Carter, Colin's father, took turns picking the boys up from school. Jonas had track tryouts today, which meant they stayed later than usual. Carter already had plans for the evening, so Matt had agreed to pick them up today, an agreement he'd forgotten until now. The issue at work required immediate attention, as did his son and best friend waiting to be collected from school.
Exasperated, Matt explained the situation as efficiently as possible, simultaneously scrolling through his phone to catch up on the ongoing fire raging at his workplace. An integral service had failed in the live environment, and the team had only found out when their client came to them screaming about lost sales and service level agreements. Now all bodies were being conscripted to man the battle stations, where they'd combat the issue diligently until it was resolved--the nightmare scenario for every tech worker at 5 PM on a Friday.
"Don't sweat it; I'll go get them." Deacon said, polishing off his cigarette as he stood, handing Matt the ashtray.
Matt reached cautiously for the ashtray like a jittery rat in an experiment, monitored by curious scientists looming over his enclosure, who zapped him with electrodes whenever he braved a bite of cheese. His irrational thought was that if he took the ashtray, he'd have implicitly accepted his brother's offer to help and would subsequently owe him the value of one room to sleep in. His concern must have been written clearly in his expression, like the white block capitals on a red stop sign. Deacon clasped Matt's shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze and shake, which was more physical intimacy than Matt was comfortable with, but he nonetheless appreciated the gesture.
"It's cool; go sort work out; I'll get the kid. It'll be a fun surprise. It's been a few years since I've seen him."
Matt relaxed. "I appreciate it; thanks, Deacon. We can talk more later after I've fixed whatever the hell all this is." He shakes his phone like the software bug is rattling around inside it. "You came all the way here, so of course, you can stay the weekend if you'd like."
Deacon didn't have time to process his surprise as Matt's phone vibrated violently in his hand, the zoom call of angry voices threatening to burst through the screen. Matt cursed quietly, lifting it and readying himself to accept the call while he moved towards the stairs.
"I've really got to go. He's at Mayfield High. You can Maps it, right?" He queried, worrying that he may have characteristically insulted his brother's intelligence. Again.
"Mayfield. Got it." Deacon replied.
Matt caught that simmering tone in Deacon's voice, aware that he was biting back a smarmy remark, eager not to make waves. He wondered briefly how much he could get away with saying to his brother before he snapped back. He pinched himself for the poisonous thought. No matter how old or wise a person became, they were vulnerable to regressing to their childish tendencies when faced with figures from their adolescence.
"Tell him you're on the way." Deacon said with a smile. "It'll be a surprise when his favourite Uncle shows up out of nowhere!"
Deacon was Jonas' only uncle, but Matt kept that to himself. He navigated past the swarm of relentless notifications and smashed out a quick response to his son.
"I'll see you later." Deacon tipped his hat as Matt saw him out the door.
Matt thumped up the stairs in a hurry, remembering how as a child, Deacon had sworn with conviction that it was faster to climb a staircase on all fours. Matt had been fascinated by the discovery and was confused why no one at school used this technique. Didn't they know how much time they could have saved already? Matt was mocked relentlessly by his grade school peers after he'd proudly demonstrated the clumsy four-legged gait to them. Deacon and his middle school friends had laughed too. This was one of many times that Matt had ended up the butt of Deacon's jokes. The seemingly petty teasing had chipped away at Matt over time, like he was a wooden board that would eventually snap, leaving only frayed and splintered edges that cut Deacon whenever he tried to get close. Over time, he had glued the board back together, but the splinters remained.
He entered his spacious office. His work machine sat on a corner desk with a sparsely populated surface. A mouse and keyboard created a small island in the centre of the wooden desk, which was remarkably clean and free of rogue artefacts. Three monitors hung in place by a rear arm fixed to the desk; a screensaver bounced between the three monitors as if they were all a single screen, a digital ball that disappeared between the gaps in the monitors and reappeared on the next. Self-assembled bookcases lined the walls, filled with programming primers, horror novels, and a splash of fantasy & sci-fi. The room was tidy and meticulously ordinary, as if Matt would faint at the sight of any colour that wasn't cream or grey.
He shook the mouse, and his monitors sprung to life, three purple windows into a world of exhausting professionalism and stress, protected by a password that every website complimented as being Very Secure. His phone rattled against the wood as it was placed beside his mouse mat, a loud clicker clacker of mechanical switches as he shredded his password into the keyboard. The purple windows transformed, presenting streams of code bulging in large fonts, continuous integration systems and live server status displays that were rows upon rows of green boxes, save for one box that stood out like a blood-red zit: the failing server. He'd have seen it hours ago if he hadn't been downstairs.
He clicked open Microsoft Teams and joined the active call. His phone vibrating was silent, replaced by a slurry of angry or panicked voices. It was going to be a long evening.
Chapter 3
Deacon was already lighting another cigarette as he stepped onto the porch, an auburn flicker disturbing the shade beneath his cap. His cheeks puffed up with smoke and stress, then deflated like an untied balloon, smog rumbling from his muzzle like a car exhaust. Smoke billowed between his fingers, coiling into wispy tentacles that clawed towards his nostrils as he took a breath. He walked the right-angle pathway connecting the front door to the driveway, identical to the neighbour's pathway and the houses across the street. Deacon felt like an inky misprint trapped under the laminate plastic of a brochure which presented the homes in their ideal state: unlived. It was as if the designer had drawn up one house and pasted the rest, creating rows upon rows of anaemic homes never meant to be inhabited but admired. Deacon saw no point in owning a home if you didn't make it your own. What good was a bare lawn except for a bi-weekly chore?
Despite Matt's home's similarity to its neighbours, it did stand out in some regards. His neighbour's homes had thin avenues of soil parallel to their walls, flush with bright flora and neat shrubbery that the home wore around itself like a flower necklace. Matt's home was instead guarded by a moat of loose copper-coloured stones that ran along the edges of the building, like a necklace of bone teeth. Matt had broken the mould in a characteristically dull manner in service of giving himself less work to do. 'Stones don't need to be watered' is what Deacon imagined Matt would say in the face of any complaints from disgruntled neighbours.
A curtain shifted across the street. Deacon pictured a surveillant busybody clutching a walkie-talkie, binoculars hanging from their neck, reporting to the neighbourhood watch in a shrill panic: I've sighted an unfamiliar man! By the house with the hideous stones littering the street! He's smoking right in view of the kids! And his car is filthy!
Deacon opened the door to his vehicle and was greeted by a wave of stale, salty air that made his nose pinch itself. His sweat was burned into the upholstery from when the sun on the highway had scorched the windshield and sweated him like a hog roast in an oven. It had been a six-hour drive, during which he'd apparently been marinading in his own juices. The dull taste of cigarettes caught in his throat despite the fresh smoke tickling his lungs, like having two open beers and accidentally sipping from the can that's already flat. Worst was the sickly scent of discarded fast-food containers that were crumpled together on the passenger seat and floor, which stank of meat, sugar and regret.
The inside of his car was a notable low but not indicative of Deacon's general hygiene. He had more food hygiene certificates than food preparation certificates and was sure he spent most of a shift cleaning rather than cooking. He was a rigorous cleaner when he wanted to be but refused to commit to the responsibilities of a cook while at home with the white jacket off. He was content to indulge in this slob-like behaviour so long as it only affected him, which was convenient as he lived alone. He always tidied in advance of visits from sexual partners. He preferred his filthy reputation be in regard to the bedroom rather than because there were beer bottles and cigarette butts stuffed under his couch.
He crumpled the brown food bags between his palms, blasting him with a rank burger-tasting air pocket. He shoved the trash into the glovebox, noticing a can of deodorant that had rolled out and sat cupped against the lip of the glove box door. He held it to his ear and gave it a testing shake like a water-logged maraca, gauging from the sound that it was likely almost full. He shuffled awkwardly in the front seat, wrapping his arm over the side of the headrest and felt an uncomfortable stretch in his lower back as he twisted his bulk to face the backseat. The driver's seat yawned as he leaned forward and started to spray, mist jetting out the can like TV static, waving the can like a youth tagging their first wall of graffiti.
His nose wrenched at the spray's chemical sting, more than it had when he'd first opened the car. He hated the smell because it made his nose itch. His partners weren't fond either. They craved the uninhibited masculine tang of a real man found sponged into the fur of Deacon's armpit, and deodorant tried to hide that scent as if it could be contained.
He rolled around in the driver's seat to face forward, holding the spray face up in his palm. He thought of how many of the guys back home would have driven over at the drop of a hat to burrow into him and suck that armpit dry, their spines rising into Deacon's hand as air floated into their lungs, thick with the Hyena's scent, and how when they kissed him afterwards, he would taste himself: bitter and intoxicating. He sprayed each armpit as if scared the can would explode if he held it loo long. What a waste.
He unlocked his phone and impulsively tapped the icon for a gay hook-up app. The app opened with a bespoke bwoop bwup notification sound that fizzed from the phone's tinny speaker. A small red circle was pinned to the corner of a more prominent envelope icon, indicating that he had unread messages. He wondered if the app had been running in the background during the drive, where it had transmitted his approximate location to nearby suitors, a highway's worth of broken horny hearts stuffed inside the inbox as each invite for rough and visceral sex went unanswered.
He hit the home button and minimised the app without checking the inbox. He had a job to do, couldn't afford the carnal distractions, and didn't especially fancy the thought of his nephew opening the car door to find his uncle nursing a fat, heinous bulge.
He searched Mayfield High School in the Maps app and waited while a circular arrow, which resembled a blue snake trying to eat its own tail, circled on the screen of his old but serviceable phone. The map loaded slowly in a checkerboard pattern, each square beginning life as a fuzzy approximation, like how he saw the world without his glasses. The squares sharpened in an unpredictable order, racing one another to be the fastest square. The route formed once the race was over. Two solid-blue snakes coiled between grey block buildings, their paths diverging near Matt's house and then converging on Jonas' location, a journey that took 22 or 23 minutes. He turned the volume of the phone to the max, the charmingly chilly voice of a robot buzzing from the passenger seat as he lay his phone on it. The sound of the engine overpowered the assistant as he twisted the key, and the car spluttered to life like it had woken itself up with a hacking cough. It soon settled to a strained rumbling that was just soft enough to hear the directions from the phone. He reversed out of the drive and followed his guide as it navigated Deacon through the suburban maze.
Deacon spent the drive reflecting on the conversation with Matt. He could admit to himself that it was manipulative to have shown up announced. But he knew Matt. He knew he'd never have considered the idea if he'd heard it through text or instant messenger. Deacon understood why, of course. Deacon was adaptable, whereas Matt craved structure and predictability. As a child, Matt would get bent out of shape whenever plans were altered, or changes were made to a comfortable routine. Matt ate separate meals from the rest of the family until he was sixteen, and Deacon recalled how Matt's irritating sobs would spoil the evenings that their parents dared to serve him a decent meal. Picky eating was just one of many idiosyncrasies Deacon had teased him for. At the time, Deacon convinced himself that his brotherly duty was the reason he'd teased Matt, to correct behaviours that bullies swarmed to like bees to delicate flowers. Deacon knew now that he'd been the bee, and Matt was terrified of being stung again.
Deacon could admit that his past treatment of Matt was rooted in his own desire the adoration of his peers. They'd laughed when he told jokes at his brother's expense, and Deacon laughed too when his friends had joined in. It was always playful, he told himself, never insidious; funny nicknames or reminding Matt of something embarrassing he'd said or done, but he never let anyone take it too far, and no one except his friends had the privilege. If Deacon ever heard of a stranger teasing or harming his brother, he'd beat the shit out of them. Once in their teens, Matt had come home in tears, dried blood flaking through his blonde hair and forehead like scarlet dandruff. He'd been looking at frogs when some kids in his year had ridden on their bikes, stopping to throw a rock from the other side of the pond. It'd taken one punch for the little rat to get the message, and he never bothered Matt again. Deacon's over-protectiveness was another reason Matt had distanced himself. He saw himself as necessary for Matt's protection, as a sentient, talking mace that Matt could use to defend himself, but in return, was cursed to endure its incessant jeers and taunting.
Matt's few friends noticed Deacon's efforts and started inviting him to hang out. Back then, it was validating to be in demand. He knew now it was probably more to do with the image of being friends with a high-school graduate who could ward off bullies and buy them alcohol. Deacon stepped gleefully into the role of the cooler older brother, which frustrated Matt enough that he'd regularly leave early to go home and cry when he'd had enough of Deacon muscling his way into his life.
Deacon no longer recognised that selfish, hot-headed and egotistical boy; the boy couldn't help but see. They'd both grown, walking different paths, their roads only now crossing decades later. They'd seen each other occasionally and checked in online rarely, never enough time for the brother-shaped hole in their mind to remould into their present image. They hadn't seen one another grow into mature, rational, and successful adults. Matt had a lead on him in those respects, Deacon figured.
Deacon had rounded so corners blind that he yearned for a pit stop. He knew that if Matt helped him, even for a little while, it would be the refuelling he needed to drive head-on towards his passion for cooking. His job was physically and mentally demanding, and he loved it. The kitchen was a vessel, and he was its captain. His crew cursed, smoked and drank in severe measures, and each respected their captain as he did them. Together they endured the sweltering heat of the ovens and stoves, the crackling roars of the fryers and Deacon's commanding voice above the noise, booming like the horn of a freighter. The kitchen was a cramped coal engine, and together they shovelled fatty and delicious coals into their patron's mouths.
Unfortunately, it was thankless work for mediocre pay. The restaurants he'd worked in were only a small step up from fast food and didn't demand culinary expertise. He'd thought about applying to more prestigious establishments but didn't like working under people. Deacon could admit he found taking orders difficult. His teachers always complained about his reluctance to take direction. There'd been intense tension between Deacon and his peers during his first kitchen gig due to his reluctance to accept criticism as well as his hair-trigger temper. He teetered on the chef knife's edge of being fired for months. But he found ways to channel his anger rather than suppress it, using that enraged adrenaline to fight through marathon shifts like an axe-wielding barbarian in chef whites. Soon he was stepping into jobs as a head cook in establishments that prioritised the quantity of food over the quality, demanding a firm hand and an evenly furious temper in order to keep the ship steady. This pattern of employment had continued uninterrupted for years now, and Deacon had grown comfortable with his position of authority. The next logical step was to graduate from running the kitchen to running the whole place; he needed a degree.
Ironically, he thanked fate for dealing him a bad hand. Losing his apartment and job had lit a long-simmering fire beneath him. He'd spent too long gazing at the dwindling embers of that fire, only ever dreaming of how tall it could rise, but now he had an opportunity to set it ablaze and show everyone how gloriously bright it could be. He just needed his brother to provide the kindling.
His thoughts had sunk into a deep, contemplative ocean. His phone pinged, hooking into his brain and dragging it to the surface.
You have arrived at your destination.
Chapter 4
Jonas' ached and felt deflated like a popped muscle. Coach Bronson had expressed his disappointment by saying nothing to Jonas and praising the athletes who had outperformed him. He'd overheard them brag about the rigorous diets and training regimes they'd submitted themselves to during summer, and Jonas felt chagrined. He felt inadequate by comparison. He wondered when they'd taken the time to enjoy their summer between all the time spent jogging up mountains and eating blended kale, then had a horrifying thought that they actually enjoyed it.
He sat on the school's front steps, feet planted a few steps below his backside, elbows propped on his thighs with his phone in his hands. He curled into himself like a hedgehog, with a posture that would make a chiropractor faint. He was looking at his hookup app profile, staring forlornly at his own pictures, which were only visible to himself or anyone on the app he permitted to view. It was all temporary: his flat stomach, round ass, and thin limbs. He was at his peak but was throwing it away, too apathetic towards the idea of work that his supple body would start to waste away. People dedicated their lives to maintaining their physique, and Jonas knew he'd never have the willpower. The thought of going to a gym made him queasy. He imagined himself as a lost child at the fairground, surrounded by towering metal structures that moved in impossible ways.
An instinctive surge of alarm shuddered through Jonas as Colin brushed against him. They were alone, but Jonas wasn't as comfortable as his friend with public displays of affection, especially between two men, even if they were platonic. His head spun like a weathervane in a storm, ensuring no one was watching. Once confirming the coast was clear, he softened, letting his rabbit companion use his shoulder as a pillow. A warm tingle glowed along Jonas' upper back as one of Colin's long, flopped rabbit ears brushed against it, right above the hem of the hyena's sports vest.
Jonas treasured these small windows where he and Colin could be intimate. They had dated each other, which had been fine, but amicably separated when they knew enough about sex to know they were both bottoms and preferred different kinds of men. They were too alike, physically, at least. Jonas had a couple of inches on his friend, but neither broke six feet. They were 'twinks', according to the titles of porn videos they'd watched online together. Jonas preferred bears, and Colin was relieved when he'd admitted it, so now neither had to pretend. Jonas still found his friend cute, but cute was different from sexy. Cute was something you cuddled up to and watched Netflix with while ranking the straight boys in a class by their attractiveness. Sexy smelled like car oil and sweat, was a foot taller than you and had a gut that pressed into your back while he split you open. Coach Bronson flirted with his thoughts for a moment, but then he remembered how he'd offered no words of praise or encouragement today, souring the fantasy before it could manifest in his shorts.
Colin's finger hovered over the screen where Jonas' ass and stomach stared back at them, gesturing with a limp swipe. The pictures had been altered to protect his identity; the fur was fluorescently coloured, and the spots were removed. It was common practice considering how easily someone could be identified by their colour and pattern.
"Show me something I've not seen before. Go back to the main page. No fugly guys, though." He sounded like an entitled child whining for more candy on Halloween.
Jonas was conflicted over Colin's attitude towards the men inside his phone. He regarded them how you would a foreign cold caller that phoned out of the blue or a hair-dyed charity worker in your path on a busy high street--petty annoyances to whom impertinence and time-wasting were justified. He didn't consider the person behind the profile picture. Colin was only 17, so the rabbit was restricted to peering over Jonas' shoulder and contributing mean-spirited, sometimes humorous jabs at the men flirting desperately with Jonas. It seemed in poor taste, but some of them were awful, truly awful. Pushy pests that couldn't take no for an answer and had one hand glued to their phone and the other glued to their dick. It was those kinds that Jonas felt vindicated in letting Colin tear into. Sometimes he let him do the talking, although he wasn't quite sure of that legality. Maybe it was illegal to show Colin the app at all.
Jonas backed out of his profile, the screen flooding with body shots and the odd smiling face. Jonas wondered if he'd ever have that amount of confidence. They were the same pictures as always, just ordered differently, maintaining the illusion that anything in Mayfield ever changed. A jigsaw presents the same picture no matter which piece you begin with.
"There's no one new. It's the same guys, as always, and I'm not going to meet up with them anyway."
"I'm not saying you need to meet them," Colin sounded deviously animated like a defence lawyer convincing his client to lie by omission. "Just lead them on. Get them to send you some spicy pics."
"Then they'll think I want to fuck and won't leave me alone until I block them."
"Don't you want to?" Jonas felt Colin's head leave his shoulder. He turned from his phone to meet his friend's gaze, which was salaciously crude.
"Want to what?"
"Fuck." His rabbit buckteeth pinged against his bottom lip as he enunciated so sharply that the word sounded almost sinister. Colin had the devil's eyes and its lustful grin, practically drooling with anticipation.
Jonas wanted to slip out of sight, to disappear into the shadows, but Colin had a spotlight trained on him, entertained by his squirming.
"What's the big deal? We've done it before." Jonas gestured between them like his finger followed a ping-pong ball bouncing between them.
"Yeah, but that sucked.
"It did suck. But it still counts."
Colin regarded him like he'd quoted a ten-year-old meme. "Counts for what?" Jonas realised he wasn't exactly sure what his own point was.
"I don't know." His chest was heavy and cold like a block of ice was trapped in his lungs. He remembered being at the track, barely able to draw in breath. Colin always teased him like this, and he usually laughed about it. He wanted him to back off, but he continued.
"Okay, so, message someone! Or just reply to one of the 50 guys that you've left on read. We can take some custom ass-shots for a personal touch!"
Jonas imagined laying on his bed, Colin snapping pictures with the camera, directing him like an auteur composing their magnum opus. They were pictures of a skeleton doused in fluorescent white and stinking of shame and failure. He wasn't smart, he wasn't fast, and he wasn't attractive.
"I'm just saying I'm not in a rush to jump into bed with someone, so stop pressing me." Jonas' voice pitched upwards, the last few words hitching in his throat, clipping the hurdle as they stumbled out of his mouth. His cheeks were tightening, and he felt tears welling behind his eyes, forcing the dam that had worn away throughout the day.
The corners of Colin's eyebrows and mouth were held in the air as if by puppeteers strings, making him dance and say hurtful things. The strings were cut, and Colin's expression dropped. Through the watery haze, Jonas saw Colin's features soften with empathy.
"Oh god, Jonas, are you--oh no!"
Colin's arms flung around Jonas and pulled him in. Jonas flung himself into his friend, holding him tightly and letting the surge of emotion seize control. The wind caught his ugly sobs and carried them to the street, where he hoped no one happened to be passing by.
These two weeks had been difficult. During summer, he had found an escape from the looming responsibility of the school year. He was back at school now, and his teachers had been like a song playing on repeat, chanting about how this was the year that mattered. Jonas had said he would try; he'd promised his Dad and meant it. But two weeks in, he'd already failed and had not wanted to face the misery that failure had brought him. Colin's teasing hadn't upset him. It'd simply been the trigger.
"I'm sorry Jonas!" Colin cried. His hand caressing the back of Jonas' head was the most comforting thing in the universe. "I was just being dumb"
"It's okay." Jonas punctuated this with a wet snort as he sucked back tears and snot.
"No, it's not, I was pressuring you!"
It was all in good fun, Jonas knew. They bantered like this often. Colin had much more confidence than him, and Jonas appreciated how his friend helped him explore his boundaries and made him feel cute and sexy at once without needing sex to do it. He truly loved his friend, and honestly, he enjoyed the teasing. It just wasn't the right time. Not today.
He inhaled the last tears, then surfaced from Colin's shoulders. His eyes stung, and the fur on his cheeks was matted and streaked. He felt suddenly vulnerable like a thousand eyes had their faces pressed to the school windows to catch sight of the drama. He was thankful Colin was the only one to witness his outburst.
"It's fine, really Colin, thanks." Colin's expression was somewhere between concern and guilt, like a driver checking on an injured cyclist they'd run into while checking their phone. Jonas placed a hand over Colin's, and their fingers laced tightly. Friends forever. Inseparable.
The wind danced past a tree and wove its fingers through the branches, grasped at the autumn leaves and fluttered them across the blacktop. A car engine rumbled, and the squeal of breaks sliced the air. They sat in silence for a moment before Jonas spoke. The words didn't feel like his own. It was as if sorrow had left the door ajar on the way out, and something cogent and stoic had stepped through it to speak for him.
"I'm really scared of failing, Colin. Last year was awful. I disappointed everyone, and it feels like it's going to happen again. I was always the fastest or the smartest, so it didn't matter that I was quiet. People could poke fun, but I didn't let it get to me because I was better than them. It's so fucked to think like that, right? Like you're gifted, and everyone else is normal. Well, you're gifted until you fuck up, and then you're just lazy. That's what the teachers all say, and my Dad says. They tell me I need to work harder, but I've been working hard my whole life, and now I'm tired."
"It's just one more year." Colin reassured him, though didn't seem confident in that advice.
"Then there's college or university, assuming I even get in."
Colin scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous. So you had a bad exam. That doesn't make you stupid. You'll get into college for sure."
He knew it was likely true, though it was conceited to admit it, and so conceded the point. His final grades had been better than his midterms, at the expense of his freedom and sanity. He'd studied as much as he could between bouts of impenetrable lack of focus like his brain was wrapped in a net of barbed wire that cut his head when he thought too intensely and snagged any knowledge that tried to seal itself in his memory. He was tentatively confident he could get into a decent school if he once again pushed himself to that breaking point.
Jonas remained silent, and Colin seemed to accept the end of his tirade, no doubt glad for the tone to simmer. His phone dinged in his hand, and he lifted it between them, both eyeing it curiously. It was a generic home screen message from the hookup app. New guys in your area! Say hi! He instinctively flicked the screen to unlock it, Colin's infectious giddiness rubbing off on him as they got back to business. It was a nice distraction, window shopping for guys he'd never have the confidence to meet. He could daydream about them rather than replay school nightmares.
They returned to the home screen and were met with the usual array of faces and body shots that were arranged in a grid that scrolled off-screen. The suburb was within commuting distance of the city, so some faces vanished during the day, reappearing when they were home from work. They recognised a couple of faces: those who had graduated high school a year or two ago and stayed with their parents either because they were studying in the city and it was cheaper to commute or because they'd fucked up in school and had no future plans. Jonas wondered for a moment if he'd meet a similar fate.
"Oh my God, daddy? Daddy?" Colin piped up, mimicking a trending TikTok audio. Jonas followed the line of his white finger to a square on the page. It read D - 46 with two arrows pointing in opposite directions, separated by the number 4, followed by an emoji of a photo frame containing a rainbow square, which was a shorthand way of letting admirers know you'd colour-altered your photos. A slip of underwear bordered the bottom of the screen underneath his pronounced but firm-looking gut. His broad dad-bod took up most of the screen; his arm was lifted out of shot, exposing a jungle of darkened fur that Jonas could smell through the screen, bitter and overwhelmingly masculine. His eyes cut off just above the edge of the screen, but his smile was visible, wide and gnarly, with facial fur bristling over his top lip. His other arm hung across his stomach, a cigarette held loosely between his thick fingers. Jonas imagined his head squashed between the man's bouldery bicep; cigarette ash tapped onto his scrunched-up little with his cheek pressed into the man's armpit.
"He's from one state over!" Colin exclaimed, having already skipped to his profile description. Jonas was still focused on the photo. "That means he's visiting! Maybe he's just passing through?"
"What does that mean?" Jonas was curious and embarrassed. It'd taken just one little cry to get back on his bullshit, lusting over strangers through his phone, thoughts of college and disappointed fathers a distant memory, replaced with thoughts of a different kind of Daddy.
"It means if you were to meet him, and I'm not saying you should, but if you wanted to, you wouldn't have to worry about it getting awkward. He might not know anyone in town and he wouldn't be sticking around, so he wouldn't harass you every day for round 2! You can just fire and forget!"
Jonas found himself considering Colin's words more than he expected to. The guy was hot, sure, but he was still just a picture. He'd want to speak with him first to make sure he wasn't crazy, possessive, or creepy. Would there be enough time for such a preamble if he was only visiting town briefly? Part of him realised he was especially malleable to the prospect because he was vulnerable. His body and soul ached from tryouts, and his eyes stung from crying, and he thought about how wonderful it would feel to be held by a man like that. Older and wiser, he would scoop Jonas up into his powerful arms and let Jonas bury his muzzle into the older man's chest. He'd impart sage-like wisdom and comfort upon Jonas, telling him it would all be okay and that he was good enough.
Jonas squeezed the screen with his thumb, pressing the icon next to D's name, a hollowed-out fire symbol that became whole as it was pressed. He liked the profile.
"Jonas!" Colin slapped Jonas on the thigh, so hard it made him yelp and laugh. "All it takes is a big, musky lookin' beef-cake huh? I knew it!"
Chapter 5
Deacon rolled the car to a stop, scanned for his nephew, whom he hadn't seen in three years, and realised he was smiling with anticipation despite the gloomy haze that gave his eyes the impression of a distant fog. The school was quiet and empty, its windows dull with fading natural light. Two figures huddled together at the bottom of a central staircase that descended from the entrance, a phone shared between them. One was a white-furred rabbit with floppy ears and dyed blue hair, notably smaller than the figure he did recognise. Holding the phone was a young man he'd last seen as a boy, speckled with familiar brown spots and blonde hair spilling past his ears, the lenses of his thick-rimmed glasses opaque as they caught the fading sunlight. He banged the horn of his car three times to get their attention, feeling nervous as he saw their eyes zip up to him like two deer detecting a threat.
The ding of his phone was drowned out by the horn, a notification from the hookup app flying down from the top of his screen as he stepped out of the car to greet them.
Shyena has liked your profile!