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( _CONTENT WARNING: Homophobia, Domestic Abuse, Substance Abuse__ (Alcohol) . _ _Emotionally Heavy Conversation. )_

The Apartment above Ryan’s Pub, Sunday Morning

Dylan had spent the night with Ash, after all, too shaken up by his encounter with Michael the night before to want to try taking a cab home. On top of that, he had not particularly been looking forward to being alone afterwards, anyway.

The coyote had woken early, the slim stoat curled up against his chest under the blankets, and had gently rolled over onto his back, where he lay for an hour or better, just staring at the ceiling and listening to his and Ash’s breathing mingling in the quiet stillness of the room, thinking. Michael had seemed… off. Looking back, trying to draw a connection between the man he’d seen last night to the one who had terrorized his school years… it wasn’t quite like two different people. He’d still been Michael, but now the anger and the hate seemed thin, wispy, as though they were playing on autopilot without any real force behind them.

Every time he found himself wondering if he’d done the right thing, inviting Michael to come along with them, he remembered that weird look on his face, as he’d been leaving last night. As though he’d wanted to say something, but stopped himself. It had seemed vulnerable, almost forlorn, as though the tiger felt like he couldn’t say what he was thinking. The more Dylan thought about it, the more it made his chest feel heavy.

“Mm.” A soft sound from Ash made Dylan look down to where the stoat rested, his head on the coyote’s chest. He slowly opened his eyes, stretching and yawning with a cute little squeak, before glancing up at Dylan. “Morning.” He said, smiling. “Thanks… for last night. I needed that.” He said, humming to himself, softly, as he slid his hand down under the sheets. “Honestly… wouldn’t mind dessert.” He said, a teasing note in his voice.

Dylan had to grab him and stop him, smiling and shaking his head. “Good God, Ash, you are just incorrigible.” He said, grinning and leaning down to kiss the stoat on the forehead.

“I think you mean ‘insatiable’, hon.” The stoat teased, poking his tongue out, before tilting his head back, capturing the larger canine’s mouth with his and kissing him. When asked about their relationship, the two had found it best to just say they were friends and leave it at that. While the Community was a lot more open about alternative lifestyles and relationships than most, fitting for people that had spent so long being denied the right to live and love how they wished, normies still seemed to find it hard to grasp the concept of ‘Friends-With-Benefits’. Somehow, it seemed, they assumed that you couldn’t just be ‘friends’ and also have sex. It was just impossible to grasp, surely you must be in a relationship. Mentioning the word ‘love’ only seemed to add fuel to this assumption, as though it was equally impossible to love a friend.

Dylan broke the kiss first, groaning, and laid his head back. “Sorry, Ash… I just… Did I do the right thing, last night? Should I have not invited Michael?” He asked, huffing out a breath as the stoat, free now, continued to explore the canine’s body, gently stroking his nimble, slim fingers through his fur.

“… Do you think it was the right thing?” Ashley asked, looking at the coyote as he idly petted him. He might be a perv, a sex pest and a flirt, but he was also Dylan’s friend, and he could tell that the bigger man was needing to talk more than anything, right now.

“… Yes. No.” Dylan groaned, reaching up to rub his face with one hand, huffing out a breath in annoyance. “I don’t know! That’s the problem, Ash. Part of me feels it was absolutely the right thing to do! He was… different than I remember him. Withdrawn, subdued. The Michael I knew would have never backed off, not from me, at least. Cliff, maybe, but… I felt like he was so down he couldn’t even get up the energy to argue. He needs help, and I think he might actually want help, even if he doesn’t admit it. But then… I think about Mandy and I know she is NOT going to be happy, about any of this.” He stroked his right hand up and down the stoat’s back, claws gently combing the thicker fur there, which led to the little mustelid purring slightly.

Ash took a breath, looking up at him and smiled a little sheepishly. “Sorry, Dee. I know it can suck, to argue with a friend, but… I think you should just bite the bullet and talk to Mandy about it. Do what you think is right. Mans is your friend, I think she’d understand that, if nothing else.” He said, placing a gentle kiss on the ‘yote’s chest.

“Hmm. Maybe you’re right. Happy or not, I’d like to think that Mandy wouldn’t flip out too badly.” Dylan said, laying his head back on the pillow, staring at the ceiling again. He felt the stoat shift, slipping his hand down the canine’s abdomen and beneath the sheets, his mouth trailing kisses close behind. This time, Dylan didn’t stop him. He had to admit, it would be nice to just forget about last night, for a little while. So, with a soft sigh, he simply lay back and closed his eyes, letting his friend do as he pleased, hoping for the best, when it came time to talk to Mandy.

* * * * *

“You did what?!” Mandy snapped, sitting back in her chair at the breakfast table in the Ryans’ kitchen. Dylan sat on the other side of the table, hunched forward, as though to weather a storm. He was holding his coffee cup in his hand and taking a breath of the scent to soothe his nerves. Ashley leaned on the counter, wearing only a large, oversized t-shirt and sipping his own mug of coffee. The stoat glanced at Dylan and gave a little shrug of his shoulders, as though saying ‘Don’t blame me, I made the waffles’. Sure enough, there was a plate of waffles sitting in front of Mandy covered in butter and maple syrup. Everyone in their group loved Ash’s waffles. Mandy had walked into the room, taken one look at the plate, crossed her arms and said “Okay, what did you do?” And Dylan had told her. Now, she sat across from him, plate pushed aside and forgotten, as she stared at him. “Answer me! Because I know I must have misheard you!”

Dylan sighed, closing his eyes. Honestly, this was going about as good as he figured it could, under the circumstances. At least she hadn’t broken anything. Yet. “I… invited Michael Tsang to come with us to Amplify, Friday.”

The doe reached out her hands, as though contemplating strangling the coyote. “… Why?!”

Dylan sat his cup down on the table and held up his hands. “Mandy, you weren’t there, you didn’t see him-”

“No! I didn’t! And I don’t fucking want to! Dylan, setting aside the question of why you would want him to come with us, why would you invite him without even thinking to ask the rest of us, of asking me, if we were okay with that?!” Mandy stood up, pacing back and forth, her eyes wide, one arm across her stomach while the other gesticulated angrily. She was frowning in confusion, and the left side of her mouth kept twitching in a sneer of disgust every few seconds. Her tail kept flagging, a warning flash of white against the soft brown of her fur. “With everything that son of a bitch did to us, to you, especially, just… why?!”

Dylan sat there for a second, looking at her, feeling his heart beating as he looked at his oldest friend, who had every reason to be as mad as she was. He nodded. “I’m sorry, Mans. If I could have asked first, I would’ve, but… I just didn’t have the time. I felt like I had to do something, to offer him some kind of… help.”

Mandy stared at him for a second, before she reached up, clenching her hands in front of herself and groaning. “Ohhh, my fucking God, Dylan! This ‘everyone needs kindness’ shit is gonna get you hurt some day, you know that?!” She said, gesturing towards him, almost desperately. “What makes you think he needs or wants your help?!”

Dylan crossed his arms, lifting his chin, ears standing up. “I could tell, Mandy! You weren’t there and didn’t see him! He wasn’t the punk that bullied us in school! He looked fragile. Like one wrong move would have broken him. I couldn’t just send him on his way like that.” He said, clenching his jaw and taking a steadying breath.

Mandy looked at him, before taking a breath and closing her eyes, rubbing her muzzle with one hand. The doe blew out a breath and opened her eyes, looking at Dylan tiredly. “You are not going to back down on this, are you?” She asked, to which Dylan simply shook his head. She stared at him for a moment longer, then sighed, putting her face in her hands. She stood like that a moment, before looking up, rolling her neck as though it were stiff, and then looked at him, lips thin. “Fine. Fine, Dylan. He can come. And I’ll just… allow it, I guess. I’m not fucking happy about it, though! And if he lays one fucking hand on me or you or any of our friends, or says anything out of line, I will knock his bitch teeth down his throat!” She snapped, eyes flashing and nostrils flaring while her ears snaked back.

Dylan blinked, sitting up and uncrossing his arms. She had caved easier than he thought she would, but he wasn’t going to argue. Something about looking a gift horse, or in this case ‘deer’, in the mouth. “That… that’s fair, Mandy.” He said, nodding. “Thank you.”

“Do n __o_ t_ thank me, Dylan. This is a mistake. You’re going to see that. I just hope it doesn’t hurt you, when you do.” She said, turning on her hoof and heading for the door.

“H-Hey! What about your waffles?!” Ash hollered after her.

“Not fucking hungry!” She yelled back, the sound of the door opening then slamming shut punctuating her abrupt, angry exit.

Ashley cleared his throat and shrugged, turning to look at the plate. “Okay, more for me, I guess.” He said, before hearing movement and looking up. An older male stoat, wearing a pair of boxers and nothing else stepped into the kitchen, scratching his large stomach. He was a dark brown in color, with flecks of gray just starting to touch his fur around the ears and muzzle. He was packing a few dozen extra pounds than he probably shouldn’t have been, mostly around the middle. He wasn’t but a few inches taller than Ash, maybe five-seven, but his chest and arms showed the corded lines of muscle that said he still worked out. Ash blushed, rolling his eyes. “Gah, for fuck’s sake, Dad, put on a shirt or something!”

Connor Ryan yawned, turning to look at his son with a grin in his blue eyes. “This is my house, boy, and I just got up. What was all that yellin’ about, anyway?” The elder Ryan asked, stepping into the kitchen and walking over to get his coffee cup. “Dylan, nice to see you.” He said, nodding to the coyote, who nodded back, a small smile on his face, even though his eyes were still a bit distant, worried and upset at how things had turned out with Mandy.

“Hey, Uncle Connor.” Dylan replied. The stoat wasn’t really his uncle, of course, but he might as well have been. He and Dylan’s Dad had been like brothers, practically joined at the hip ever since they were in high school.

“Oh, nothing, Dad.” Ash said, in response to Connor’s question, going and sitting down to eat the waffles. “Just Mandy, losing her shit at Dylan.”

“Why would she be doing that?” Connor asked, turning to look at them as he poured himself a coffee.

“Because I… may have invited our high school bully to come with us to karaoke night.” Dylan said, reaching up and running a hand through his headfur. “And I am really starting to worry if I did the right thing or not.”

Connor raised his eyebrows, walking over and sitting down, sipping his coffee. “I’d heard from Cliff there was a bit of a ruckus at the bar last night. He said he thought he was gonna have to jump the guy, but then he just petered out. Was that him?”

Dylan nodded. “Yeah. Michael Tsang.”

“Tsang… Oh, yeah. The tiger boy. Isn’t his daddy a Doctor over at St. Francis? David Tsang, I think his name is?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Dylan said. “I never really knew too much about him, but I remember him coming to the school once, when my Mom got Principal Shockley to call him.” He sat and thought about that day. He’d gone to the nurse’s office after one particularly nasty encounter with Michael in the locker room after Gym class, Sophomore year. He’d wound up having to go to an Emergency Dentist to get one of his back molars removed. Michael had shoved him and he’d tripped, landing on the bench and hitting the side of his face. He bruised his jaw, badly, and broken the tooth. It was the most pain he’d ever been in, in his life, and a small part of him had wanted to just pass out to escape it, but he never did.

David Tsang had been a tall, stately looking tiger, as he recalled, in a nice but modest suit and tie with an easy smile and a twinkle in his eye. He seemed like a doctor, like someone who should be taking care of you, with a fatherly air about his voice and a quick laugh that had got the Principal on his side immediately. “Boys will be boys”, he’d said, smiling. But Dylan remembered seeing a look in his eye, when he had turned to glance at him, sitting next to his mother, his mouth packed with gauze. Dylan was young, and lacked the training he now had, but even so he couldn’t shake the feeling that the older feline had been glad he was in pain. He never lost his smile, and even turned his face down into a sad frown, as he made apologies for his son’s behavior, but something had felt false about it. Like he was only saying what they wanted him to hear when he promised that Michael would be punished.

“You alright, Dee?” Ashley’s voice broke Dylan out of the memory he’d drifted into, and he looked up, seeing the slim, young stoat standing to take his plate to the sink.

“Oh, uh. Yeah, fine.” He said, shaking his head. “Hey, Ash, could you take me by Highmore Park, in a bit?”

Connor looked up from his coffee cup, an eyebrow quirked. “Going to visit your old man, kid?” Dylan nodded, and the older stoat did as well, downing his coffee. “It’s been too long since I went to see Ray, myself. I’ll drive you.” He said, standing up and giving Dylan a smile.

“Oh, I couldn’t ask you to do that, Uncle Connor!” Dylan protested. “What about the bar?”

“Ahh, it’ll be fine. Ash and Clifford can handle it until I get back. Isn’t that right, kiddo?” Connor said, walking over to the sink and ruffling his son’s headfur.

Ashley pulled away, laughing, but nodded excitedly. “Yes, sir! I promise, I’ll have this place ready to rock by the time you get back!” He said, bouncing on his paws lightly, clearly excited to show off how much he could do, if left in charge.

Dylan took a breath and nodded. “Okay, then, Uncle Connor. I’ll just need to stop by the smoke shop, first.” He said, and the stoat turned, quirking an eyebrow.

“Didn’t think you smo- Ohhh!” He interrupted himself, smiling. “Gettin’ a gift for the old dog, eh?” At Dylan’s nod, he glanced aside, before nodding. “Can do. Go on and wait for me by the truck, I’ll be down in a minute.”

* * * * *

Dylan came out of the shop, a small bag in his hand, and climbed into the passenger seat of Connor’s Ford pickup, shutting the door and buckling his belt, putting the bag in the floor, between his paws. He shifted in his seat a bit to get his tail comfortable as Connor started the truck and pulled out of the parking lot, getting back on the road. The stoat had changed into blue jeans and a plaid shirt over a white tee, his paws bare. It was still early, only about ten-thirty in the morning, and traffic wasn’t too bad. It would only take them ten minutes or so to get out to Highmore Park, where Dylan’s Dad was.

“So,” Connor asked, glancing at the canine, who sat with his hands cupped in his lap, one thumb rubbing the back of the other. Dylan blinked, turning to look at him as though coming out of his own thoughts. “What happened last night, between you and this Tsang boy? Why’d you invite him to come with y’all?”

Dylan pressed his lips together, a common body language with predator anima, when they were trying to prevent themselves from showing their teeth. He reached up, rubbing his muzzle, and glanced out the window. “He seemed… hurt, Uncle Connor. He needs help, I know it, but he’s never gonna ask anyone for it.”

“What about his own friends? Family?” Connor asked, turning his eyes back to the road.

“I don’t know. But I wonder if that’s maybe why he came to your bar. Everyone in town knows that Ryan’s is, well….”

“The closest thing Deepwater, metropolis that it is, has to a gay bar, yes.”

“Right.” Dylan smiled at Connor a bit, before looking back out the window at the passing buildings. “Even if he didn’t, you can’t miss the mural Ash and the rest of us painted on the wall. I think he came there because he thought none of his friends or family, or anyone who knows them, would be there. Like I said, I think he’s too proud to ask for help, even if he knows he needs it.”

“You think his family is as homophobic as he was?”

“Oh, absolutely. That kind of bigotry is usually learned from some outside source when you’re young. It’s not present in children.”

“And you think this guy isn’t a bigot like that anymore? That he ‘unlearned’ all of that?”

“No.” Dylan said, shaking his head. “It’s never that simple, nothing to do with our brains ever is. But… I think he wants to unlearn it. The way he acted, the way he talked, like he was making himself stop and think about his words, or getting angry with himself when he didn’t.”

“Hmm. And you think he’s hurting?” Connor asked, glancing at him again, before turning his eyes back to the road.

“He was withdrawn, quiet, standoffish. Didn’t want to talk. And kept touching himself, his arms, his head, rubbing his hands. Soothing actions, to combat stress.” Dylan said, and Connor laughed a bit.

“Listen to you, the soon to be shrink.”

“Therapist. ‘Shrink’ is not a polite term.” Dylan said, and Connor held up his hand.

“Alright, alright. No offense.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “What was a he drinking?”

“… Whiskey, neat.” Dylan said, glancing at the stoat.

“… Sippin’, or drinkin’?”

“… Drinking. They weren’t gulps, but he was still taking big drinks. I think he was in a hurry because of me, butting in.” He said, glancing down, feeling a bit guilty about how he’d behaved when he first walked up on the tiger.

“Hmm. How was he treatin’ it?” Connor asked, making the coyote frown at him.

“What?”

“His drink. How was he acting with it?”

“Umm.” Dylan thought back. “He kinda looked like the classic movie drunk, I guess, though I don’t think he was drunk yet. Kept staring into the glass like it was the most important thing in the world to him.” He said.

Connor nodded. “Mm. Was he sloshing it around? Tapping the glass on the bar?”

“… Yes, actually. He was. Is that important? I thought it was all just nerves, because he didn’t want to talk to me.”

Connor took a breath, glancing over at the younger man again, and shrugged. “Well, this is just my opinion, and I ain’t had no training in psychology like you, but… I’ve been tending bar for damn near a quarter century at this point, son. What you just described sounds to me like a man who’s life has just changed so drastically he ain’t sure what’s gonna happen tomorrow. Did he tell you anything about what had happened?”

Dylan leaned back in his seat, frowning. “He said his girlfriend, Kelly, broke up with him. They’d been together since… sophomore or junior year? So, five or six years, probably?”

Connor grunted. “Well, could be that would do it, but he’d have to love her pretty damn bad. Normally, guys acting like that at the bar fall into two categories; either men who’ve been married for years that are now in the middle of a divorce they know is their own damn fault, or guys who’ve got laid off and don’t know what they’re gonna do for work.”

Dylan looked at him, blinking, and huffed out a breath. “You can tell all that, just from how he was treating his drink?”

“And what he was drinking. Guys, especially young guys that likely just started drinking, don’t opt for a whiskey, neat, unless they’re trying to forget something.” He said as he made the turn into the parking lot for Highmore Park. He pulled into a space and put the truck in park, killing the engine. They both say there, listening to it tick for a minute, and Dylan’s brow slowly furrowed.

“You alright?” Connor asked, and the canine looked up, blinking again, before nodding.

“Yeah, Uncle Connor. Come on, let’s go. Dad’s waiting.” He said, giving a small smile as he took off his belt and opened the door, hopping out of the big pickup, turning back to grab the bag out of the floorboard. They both walked through the gates, finding themselves surrounded by a manicured, artificial beauty. Fake nature to hide the real nature that was all around them. The pair walked silently down the narrow, cement walkway, surrounded either side by flat, green lawns, interspersed here and there with trees or shrubs.

They passed by a memorial, a big old mobile artillery piece, from the 1970s, with a black, marble wall, made to mimic the one in the country’s capital, covered in white names. Men from the town that had been lost during the Vietnam War. Connor remembered often coming here with his parents, back in the ‘90s, and playing on the big old tracked field gun, climbing on it and pretending he was a soldier, firing the canon at the bad guys. Now there was a high fence around it, and signs warning people to stay off of it. He grunted, turning away and continued along.

They left the path not too far past that point, walking along the grass between neatly spaced stones, until they both found themselves stepping under the branches of a big, lone oak tree that stood among them. They stopped, looking down at the monument that rested in the shade of this tree, a simple granite slab, flat topped, and low, with space for two full names on it.

_ Raymond C. “Ray” Starr – May _ _ 16 th , 1984 – _ _ June _ _ 4 th , 2022 _

_ Abigail L. Starr – March 8 th , 1983 - _

They stood for a moment, in silence, before Dylan reached into the bag he’d brought with him, pulling out a slim, black plastic pouch, stepping forward and setting it down on the top of the gravestone, his hand lingering for a moment. Connor watched him, smiling slightly.

“Black Cherry. That was always his favorite, for his pipe.” He said, and Dylan nodded, stepping back as he stared at the stone, thoughtfully.

“… First time I told him about Michael Tsang, I came home with a black eye.” He said, softly. “He wanted to go out right then and there, find Michael and beat the hell out of him.”

Connor laughed softly. “Yeah, that sounds like Ray. He was always looking for a reason, and hurtin’ his son was certainly a reason and a half.”

They stood for a moment more, before Dylan took a small breath. “… Uncle Connor, can I ask you something?”

The stoat glanced at the young man, who’s ears had folded back, his tail tucked slightly. He had his head down and his eyes averted, his hands clasped in front of him. “What is it, Dylan?” He asked, hands in his pockets, but letting his concern out as a soft note in his voice.

Dylan was quiet for a second longer, mouth and throat working, before he found what he wanted to say. “… Do you… was my Dad ever… ashamed of me?” He asked.

“Hell no.” Connor said, firmly, and the boy looked up, turning to meet his eyes. The stoat reached out to the canine, touching his arm reassuringly. “Why would you ask something like that?”

Dylan took a breath and shook his head, looking a bit lost. “I don’t… I just, I know that, when he and Mom first got together, his dream was to have a son. Someone he could… take hunting, fishing, work on cars with… Talk about girls to, when they got older.” He said, looking down. “He tried, he really did, and I know it, but I always got the feeling that… it was hard, for him, to accept that I was gay.” He said, softly.

Connor rubbed the canine’s arm, sniffing and trying to think about what to say. “… He did ask me, once. How I had dealt with it, when Ash came out. I told him, I said, ‘I didn’t, cause there wasn’t anythin’ to deal with’. Hell, we all already knew about Ash, how could you not? You were a little more of a surprise. What were the chances we’d both have a kid that turned out that way?” He asked, chuckling slightly. “… I won’t lie and say you’re wrong, Dylan, it wasn’t always easy, for your Dad to… put aside the bullshit we were both raised with, when it came to that.” He took a breath. “But he tried anyway. He tried for you, cause he didn’t want you to feel like… like you had done something wrong, or that you didn’t have any family to turn to.”

“I always kinda thought it might’ve had something to do with him drinking more. It seemed like it started around the same time.” Dylan said, the emotion clear in his voice, though he was trying to keep it under wraps.

“No, no. That had nothing to do with it, son, and I want you to stop thinking that way.” Connor said, looking back to the headstone. “Your daddy had a lot of… problems. He had regrets, and pain and all sorts of shit he was dealing with, long before you even came along. That’s why he drank so much to begin with. And then, the booze… well, you know how it made him. You saw it. That’s why you’re Momma wound up walkin’ out on him and took you with her. She loved him to bits, still does, but she just couldn’t be around him. That was what caused his problem to get worse, I’d put money on it.” He paused for a moment, taking a breath, before nodding slowly. “You remember the first time, only time, he and I tried to take you out hunting?”

Dylan turned his head a bit, ear flicking, but didn’t look up this time. If anything, he seemed to droop more. “Yeah.” He said, softly.

Connor patted him on the shoulder. “You were, what? Eleven, I think? Do you remember what happened?” He prompted.

Dylan sighed, looking away and nodding. “Yeah. I hadn’t slept the night before. I told everybody it was cause I was excited, but… I had felt sick to my stomach all night.” He said, voice rough around the edges. “… You had spotted a deer, and Dad was showing me how to line up the crosshair in the scope… I know it was just a feral, I did then, too. It wasn’t sentient, not a… not like us. But I looked at it through the scope and all I could see was Mandy. And I… I puked all over my paws, before I could even pull the trigger.” He said, head low as he remember how ashamed he’d felt.

Connor nodded. “Yep. And, what’d your Daddy do?”

“… He took the rifle away and sent me home.”

“… He took the rifle away, and patted you on the back, and said ‘That’s alright, Bucky’, and then called your Momma to come and take you back to the house.” Connor corrected, seeing the young man’s ears flick up slightly.

“… He did? I forgot.” He said, frowning a bit.

“Mm-hm. Our brains tend to shift the focus, when it comes to remembering stuff, so it matches up more to how we felt at the time, or how we feel about it now.” Connor said, shrugging. “… After you left, he didn’t take that deer. I don’t know that he took another, at all, after that.” He said. “We sat on the tailgate of his truck, drank beers and talked all night.” He shifted his weight, turning and sitting down on the ground with a grunt, patting the ground nearby. Dylan watched him, eyes heavy, before slowly sitting as well, not far from his Uncle’s side, facing his father’s stone.

“A lot of people thought your Daddy was just some redneck. A real ‘civilized injun’.” He said, sneering a bit as he said it. “But you know that ain’t true. He was always big on the old ways, that’s why he loved the outdoors, hunting, fishing, camping, so much.” He said, and Dylan nodded.

“I remember.” He said, voice a bit thick as he looked away.

Connor nodded. “That night, sittin’ there drinking, I asked how he felt about what had happened, about you not being able to do it. Asked ‘when are we gonna try again?’” He snorted a self-deprecating laugh. “I was still an idiot myself, I guess. He looked at me and he said ‘Mick… I have done wrong by that boy. I should never have tried to make him do this’.” Dylan turned, looking at the stoat with a surprised noise, and Connor nodded. “Yep. ‘What do you mean?’, I asked. ‘Dylan doesn’t have the spirit of a hunter, he never has’, he said. ‘I’ve watched him since he was a baby, and he’s never hurt a fly. It’s not in him to do so. He has the spirit of a shaman, of a healer’.”

Dylan sat there, biting his lip, frowning, and shook his head. “He said that?” He asked, voice cracking slightly as he looked aside at the older man.

“Mm-hm.” Connor said, nodding. “You know what else he said to me?” Dylan shook his head a little, and Connor took a breath, smiling softly. “I asked him how that made him feel. And, he took a long pull of his beer and didn’t look at me. But he smiled. And he said ‘I ain’t never been more proud of him’.”

Dylan stared at him a moment, before his face began to break, ears folding down as tears began running from his eyes. “… H-He… he….” He tried to speak, but his voice choked as he looked down at his hands. Connor reached out, putting a hand on his shoulder, and he glanced back up at him.

“Dylan. Your father might’ve had some dreams of taking you out to do the things he liked, we all do. But it’s not our place to dictate to you who you should be. And… Ray never wanted you to be like him. He had problems, and he knew it. More than anything, he wanted you to be better than he was.” He said, squeezing the younger man’s shoulder. “And I think, if he saw you now… Workin’ your tail off to become a therapist, to help others, like you and your friends… and like him, and like this Tsang boy, to heal and be better, to be happy. I think he’d be more proud of you than he was that night.”

This was the final straw, and a gut deep sob ripped it’s way out of Dylan, as he leaned forward, putting his head on the older man’s shoulder, crying. “I… I-I just m-miss him so much! I kn-know he wasn’t perfect! But he tried! He d-did try! And he was better than m-most!”

“He was, yes.” Connor said, his own voice thick with tears as well, as he held the boy close, letting him cry into his shoulder. They both sat, two figures, one holding the other close as he shook with deep sobs, silent tears running down his own face. One wept openly for a father, imperfect and broken as any man could be, but who still tried, only to be taken away too soon by the twists of his fate. The other wept for a friend, a brother, lost in a sea of confusion and anger who he had lacked the ability to throw a rope to, to haul in and rescue.

They stayed there for a while, until the sun was high in the sky, before finally bidding their fallen family goodbye.

* * * * *

Avon, 20 miles northeast of Deepwater

After Sunday dinner, faking a smile and polite conversation and trying to dodge questions about how things were going, Michael had been exhausted. Monday had been almost too much for him to bear, and he’d managed to make up an excuse to get out of the house that evening, and had spent it parked down by the lake, drinking beers and throwing stones into the water. Still, he hadn’t thought he could handle any more of it, so he went and lied to his Dad’s face, again.

“I need to head back to Dulsee for a few days, Kelly’s needing help getting through practice and they’re wanting my opinion on plans for next season’s team layout.” He had told his father, looking the older tiger in the face.

David Tsang had always been hard to read, his face almost perpetually locked in a friendly, bedside manner, except for rare occasions in the privacy of his own home, where that mask would slip, showing a much less kind, much more cynical expression. When Michael had finished speaking, his father had leaned back in the armchair, behind the big old desk in his private office and interlaced his fingers on his stomach. “Really?” He’d asked. Michael had felt his heart drop into his guts, fearing for a moment that the gig was up, that his father had found out the truth and that this was it.

David had smiled. “Well, good! It’s about time they started consulting their star player, after all!” He had said, nodding. “When will you be back?”

Michael had almost stammered, such was his shock that his father had bought the line he was feeding him. “O-Oh, uh. I should be back by this weekend. I… Made some plans, for Friday night. Going out with some old classmates.” Why did you tell him that?! A voice in his head shrieked in fear.

“Oh? Anyone I’d know?” His father asked, lifting his eyebrows.

“Oh, n-no, Dad. They weren’t really friends, like I said, just classmates wanting to catch up. It’s not a big deal.” He had said, hoping his voice wasn’t shaking as much as he felt like his stomach was.

“Hm. Alright, fair enough. Here, take this.” His father said, getting up and reaching into a drawer, pulling out a billfold. He casually peeled off a handful of bills, passing them to the younger man.

“Oh, no, Dad, it’s… it’s fine, I don’t need-” Michael had tried to argue but his father had gotten up, walking around with a smile, and pressed the money into his son’s hand.

“Take it, Michael. Buy Kelly something nice, just be sure to keep some for Friday! Don’t want these old classmates of yours to think you’re cheap, now do we?” He said, laughing and patting the boy on his back.

So, Michael had taken the money, counting it in the car. Jesus, there’s a grand here. He’d thought to himself, pressing his lips together, clenching his jaw. His family lived in a nice house in a gated community on the Northeastern edge of Deepwater, butting up against the Cree Falls nature reserve, their street overlooked by low, rolling hills covered in dense forest. He had always known they had money, but three years living in the dorms at Dulsee State University, being exposed to other people, other ideals and other sensibilities, had really hammered it home how fortunate and well off his family was, compared to most. And then when his father did shit like this, just casually handing him more money than some families made in a paycheck like it was nothing, it made him feel… dirty, all over. Like he shouldn’t even be touching this money.

But, right then, he had an idea of something he could spend it on.

He had driven his Charger out of town, first heading South-west, as though making for Dulsee, before turning around and backroading it around Deepwater, through the hills, to get back on the highway North of town, and heading for Avon.

Avon was an old coal mining and oil town from the turn of the century, built around the same time, give or take a few years, as Deepwater. It had boomed back in the day, from a combination of the aforementioned industry along with being a major stop on the railroad. However, the coming of the automobile, followed by the construction of the Silver Oaks Hydroelectric Plant outside Deepwater and the oil drying up, had pretty much killed the town. It was now a little hole in the wall with more houses than it had people. The whole place had a dirty, quiet feel to it, old buildings and weathered people, covered in dust and dirt and the scars of hard lives. Filled with white trash, rednecks and drug addicts.

The sort of place Michael’s family and their friends wouldn’t be caught dead in, so the exact kind of place he wanted to be, right now.

He’d pulled into a Motor 8 on the edge of town and checked in, paying in the cash his Dad had given him, and then walked into town to the local liquor store and walked out with a 45 of Bark Daniels, a 12 pack of beer and a bottle of Saluki brand vodka. He walked back to his motel, not even worrying about food as he let himself into his room.

Four days later, he had still been in that room, having barely left it except to grab snacks from the vending machine outside, and to make another trip to the liquor store when he started running low on the hard stuff. He had logged into his Tunify account on the motel’s smart TV, and had been doing nothing but listening to Shinedown, Three Days Grace and Theory of a Deadman for three days straight.

He jerked awake to the sound of his phone alarm going off, reaching out and silencing it with a groan, checking the phone and seeing that it was Friday, now. He rolled onto his back, groaning and rubbed his face. Friday? Four days? Where had he lost a day? His stomach grumbled, and rebelled, and he sat up, head spinning. “Oh, shit.” He groaned, staggering to the bathroom and fell to his knees in front of the toilet.

Ten minutes later, when he was sure he was done bowing to the porcelain god, and he didn’t think his head could possibly hurt any more than it did, he climbed painfully to his paws and turned, slowly, going to the sink to wash his face. He turned on the water and the sound made his head thob, but the sight of liquid running out of the faucet made him realize how horribly dry his mouth was. He bent down, panting, and tried to shove his entire muzzle under the faucet. The water washed over his tongue and he lapped it up like a feral, shivering as he felt the liquid running over his tongue, which felt like it was made of cotton, soaking up the moisture as fast it could. He gasped, coming up for air, and spit into the sink, standing up and looked into the mirror. He stopped, staring. Naked as the day he was born, his fur was a mess, matted and tangled, knotted in places, as it was in bad need of a trim. It was also filthy, stained and faded from sweat, grease and… yes, that was old vomit. When had he puked before now?

“Fuck.” He said, leaning on the sink. He felt his throat stopping up as his eyes burned, and he looked away, shaking his head. “Fuck!” He snarled, lashing out with one hand. He heard the heavy thud and a jagged crack split the mirror, before he felt the pain. Stepping back, he looked down, seeing a cut running across the first two knuckles of his right hand where he’d punched his own reflection. He leaned back against the dingy, dirty bathroom wall and laid his head back.

“Fuck.” He muttered again, feeling all his energy leave him as he looked back at the now distorted image in the mirror. His eyes were baggy, bloodshot. He had lost weight as well, a lot of it in a short space of time, it felt like. Three… Four days, living off of junk food and liquid, most of which you wound up emptying back out of your body seemed to be a pretty good way of shedding excess pounds.

For some obscene reason he wouldn’t be able to explain later, the thought made him grin, and then start laughing, which only led to him groaning and holding his throbbing head in his hands. He sank to his ass on the floor, teeth clenched to hold back sobs. What the fuck was he doing? Why was he here? How did this happen?

Why did I have that alarm set?

He sat there, trying to think through the throbbing in his head. Why had he set that alarm? What was so important about Friday? Wait, Friday? I told my Dad I’d be back in town today. Why?

He pushed himself off the wall and, unable to bring himself to stand up yet, fell to his hands and knees and crawled back into the main room and to the bedside table. He grabbed his phone and turned, sitting on his butt against the bed, unlocking the phone. He had multiple missed messages. One from the Dean’s office at DSU. This nearly made him puke again, and he quickly deleted it without even opening it, before looking at the others. His Mom, worried about him, asking if he was alright. He had no idea what to tell her. She loved him, he knew she did, but she wasn’t the one that worried him. The last couple of messages, though, were from his Dad. He was also asking if he was okay, and when he’d be back in town.

He swallowed, frowning. Why had he told his Dad he was coming back to town today?

…. Shit.

The thought hit him like a freight train, unseen and unheard through the fog of alcohol poisoning his brain until it was too late. Dylan’s invite. That was tonight. He looked at the time again, seeing it was only just now noon. He groaned, leaning his head back. He remembered, a couple of times, during his stupor, reaching for the phone to call the canine and tell him he wasn’t coming, but then realizing he didn’t have his number. He hadn’t wanted it, didn’t want that much connection to the fag….

He closed his eyes, clenching his jaws, and nearly felt himself sob again, before he swallowed it. He just wished those words would stop popping into his head the way they did. Those cruel thoughts and ideas, planted in his mind when he was younger, left to seed and grow into twisted, ugly things that tried to spread into the rest of his brain. And they had, for a while. Then, he had gone to college, started learning more, talking to more people, outside of his family and the circle of sycophantic ‘friends’ he’d acquired in high school, and it started dawning on him that those thoughts weren’t his own.

They were his father’s.

The old man had some really old fashioned ideas, about a lot of things, really, but certainly when it came to gays. He wasn’t overly religious, not in any Christian way, that might espouse the idea that they were sinful. But, instead, he had held onto some outdated beliefs that gay people were mentally unwell, that they needed help, to be cured of their unnatural impulses, their ‘disease’. On top of that, they were all predators, violent rapists, he had assured a young, impressionable Michael. Monsters who wanted nothing more than to defile any man they could get their hands on, to turn him into one of them.

It wasn’t until college, until meeting some gay guys and, out of his hometown, no longer living with his parents and not worrying, at least as much, about his father finding out, Michael had talked to them. hesitantly. And… they hadn’t been predators, or monsters. Nor had they seemed at all mentally unwell. Some were depressed or angry, sure, but… he couldn’t say he blamed them, really. He’d be angry too, if people treated him like his very existence should be a crime.

And that was the first time he had started thinking about his own actions, and looking at them from a new point of view. He had gotten a bit drunk, one night, and climbed up on to the top of the clock tower at DSU, and sat, watching the city lights spread out before him, and thought. Thought about that voice in his head, that sounded like his own, but spoke like his father.

And thought about Dylan.

And he had cried, alone and drunk, angry and confused, he had cried and in that moment chosen to rebel against these alien thoughts, this foreign invader in his mind that wasn’t who he wanted to be anymore. This monster that beat and tortured a defenseless kid, just because It wanted his father’s approval.

But then the next day, when he sobered up, those thoughts had come again, and he had felt it: Fear, like ice water poured into his veins, sending a shiver up his spine. He couldn’t. He could never tell his father about these thoughts. He couldn’t admit to him the truth, that he didn’t want to be the person his father wanted him to be. If he did….

Memories would arise unbidden, fragments of them, dark shadows he had buried long ago, trying not to think about. His father, the ever smiling, gentle family man and doctor, his voice raised in anger, face a snarl of contempt and disgust. Michael’s mother sobbing, pinned against the wall by the throat, while Michael himself cried and screamed on the floor, begging his father to stop….

No. He couldn’t tell his father. Could never let him find out. His only recourse was to do as his father told him, as little as he could get away with, without angering him, and to try to be better. To change, to stop those thoughts, those words, that cruelty, from getting out to hurt the world around him. To bottle it all up, as deep inside as he could, and bury it under a mask of conformity. It was the only option he had. Anything else, and his life could be over, left to drown in a gutter, broken and alone, with no one and nothing.

What was he, if not what his father wanted him to be?

Now he sat there, leaning against the bed in this dirty motel room. He stank, of sweat and vomit and urine and other things. He was surrounded by empty beer cans, liquor bottles and snack wrappers.

He couldn’t do this. Couldn’t go. It was stupid. Insane. If his father found out…

He’ll kill you! Or he’ll throw you out! And then you’ll die, like you’ve always known you would! Cold and alone, sobbing in the gutter!

He sat there, clenching his teeth, fighting back the sob trying to come through his teeth, as he reached up, clenching his fingers in his headfur. He couldn’t… He couldn’t….

Why not? He sat there, blinking past the tears burning his eyes. It’s only a matter of time before Dad finds out what happened. He’ll throw you out, then. Your life will be over.

He looked down at his hands, sucking in a shaking, terrified breath. So what do you have to lose in going? Go. Maybe you can try to talk to Dylan, and Amanda. Apologize. Make it better.

Men don’t apologize! That voice again. His voice, but his father’s words, his tone, his beliefs.

You know that’s bullshit, Michael. At least try. If your life is over, at least _ try _ to fix some of the mess you’ve made of it, before it ends.

He looked down at his phone again. Twelve-twenty. When did Dylan say to be there? Eight?

You can’t go!

“Shut the fuck up!” Michael snarled, pushing himself unsteadily to his feet. “You’re not God! You can’t tell me what to do! I’m an adult, now! I am not going to listen to you, you s-sad, ugly, horrible s-sack of shit!” He turned, grabbing the half empty bottle of Bark Daniels off the bedside table and throwing it at the TV, where it shattered. He stopped, looking around at the room as he realized how trashed it was. How he’d not been found by housekeeping and thrown out, or had the cops called on him yet, he did not know, but it might be better to not stick around.

No. No more running. No more hiding. I’m tired of it.

Sighing, he found his clothes, and decided on his course of action as he got dressed.

First, he needed breakfast. He went into town, to a little diner on main street, and went inside. He did his best to ignore the stares he got, or how the waitress tried to stay downwind of him when taking his order. He ate a full breakfast and drank almost a full carafe of coffee by himself. He paid for the meal and left a generous tip, before moving on.

Second, he needed clean clothes to wear. Just something simple. A thrift store in town would have to do, where he found an old pair of blue jeans, a Buckcherry t-shirt and an old M-62 army jacket with a Nirvana patch on the sleeve, which he actually really liked.

Then, third and finally, he needed to clean up. He headed to the Karps Marketplace on the South side of town and bought toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo and a shower brush, as well as some trash bags and bleach. When he got back to the motel he groaned at the thought of what he had to do, but he shook his head, puffed out his tail and got to work. He cleaned the whole room, as best he could. It wasn’t spotless, but it hadn’t been when he checked in, either. Then he took a shower, as hot as he could stand, and scrubbed every inch of himself that he could reach with the brush, groaning at how good it felt after four days of literally stewing in his own filth.

He stepped out of the motel at six-thirty that evening, feeling… better. Not good. No, too much stress, too much worry for that. But he at least felt like he had a purpose now, even if it still would have the same end.

He had nothing to lose, anymore. So what was there to be afraid of?

He got in his Charger, starting the engine, and nodded to himself in the mirror. He was going to go to Deepwater, and go hang out with the guy he’d treated like shit for so many years, and his gay friends. And he was going to do everything he could to make it up to them, for how much of a piece of shit he had been. Because at least then, maybe, he’d have done something decent in his life.