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There's blood in his fur. It runs from the gash in his ear and from his nose, marking gruesome crimson lines down his face.

"Get the fuck away from him," I yell.

It makes me sick to see other people ignore violence and brutality. When people choose not to see somebody getting beaten, to me that means they're part of the problem. I don't want to be like them.

He's bleeding, they're kicking his stomach while he lies on the floor. He can't be much older than twenty.I can't just walk by. It doesn't matter to me if it's dangerous, I have to help him. I won't be the problem.

He's wearing a lilac jacket, now stained with splotches of red, over a plain white shirt. His black and white ringed tail give him away as a raccoon. The pain on his face is unmistakable.

One of the two coyotes that was kicking him stops, looks up at me and says: "Back off. What do you think you're gonna do about it?"

The question strikes a particularly sensitive nerve. It's a challenge both to me and my principles. What am I going to do about it? I'll show the bastards.

This fucking coyote and his thug friend are about the same age as the raccoon, they're slim, vicious, ugly looking things. I keep on walking towards them. I'm a bit older and quite a lot taller and more imposing than either of them, although being that I'm a bear it's none too surprising.

"You mean apart from beating the fuck out of you two scrawny cunts?" I ask in a growl, leaning forward a little and leering down at them as I approach. "Maybe I'll snap your fucking necks so you stop stealing oxygen."

Oh and they were such hardcore little thugs until they heard what I had to say. Being within a couple steps of them probably didn't hurt either. For the most part I'm talking shit, I'm not even particularly good at fighting and I certainly don't have the stomach for homicide, but it's not like they know that. They're scared out their minds.

"What's your problem man? What're you protecting this fag for?" Asks the second coyote, taking a half-step back, but otherwise holding his ground for the moment.

The comment flips a switch. So that's why this raccoon deserves a beating? Fuckers.

"You shoulda told me he was a fag," I say. That gets the coyote smirking, he nods at me enthusiastically. Because, of course, all bears in these parts are fag haters. Fuckers. By now I'm standing above the raccoon, who is silent other than his ragged, wheezing breaths. I'm stood right next to the second coyote, who seems to have calmed down since my last comment. "Now I know what to do."

I swing an outstretched paw at the coyote's face with unsheathed claws, making forceful contact with the side of his muzzle. I rake my claws across him, nicking his nose. Blood oozes from the ragged wounds and he shrieks in pain.

"You fucking psycho!" He screams, twisting around in an attempt to leave. His friend is already halfway down the street. I grab the injured coyote's arm and tug him back toward me. Another yelp of pain. His other paw is pressed against his bleeding wounds. "Help!"

I laugh in his face.

"You think that's going to save you?" I ask in a low whisper. "Only a psycho like me came to intervene with your little fag-beating party over here, so who exactly do you think is going to help a lowlife like you?"

"You're fucking crazy," he says. "Let go of me."

Below me the raccoon stirs and starts the slow process of getting back to his feet.

"You're right," I say. "I'm crazy. Just so you know, if I ever see you or your little cunt of a friend doing anything even half as bad as jaywalking I will slit your scrawny little throats. Do I make myself clear?"

I can feel the adrenaline wearing off, but I fight for it to sustain my vicious persona for just a little longer. It's true that I'm not practiced at fighting, or even a violent person for the most part, but being physically strong and having a bit of a temper means I won't bat an eye at doing this. The murder part is a bluff, of course, but as long as the coyote isn't sure about that it doesn't matter.

The coyote stops struggling, I wouldn't be surprised if he'd pissed himself by the wide eyed expression of terror he's shooting my way. He's shaking.

"Absolutely clear, it won't happen again." He says, a sudden and unmistakable tremble infecting his voice.

"Now go tell your friends you got beaten up by a fag." I snarl, pushing him away so hard he stumbles and almost falls over. He's about to recover when a fist makes contact with the bleeding side of his muzzle and sends him toppling over and shrieking in anguish all over again.

"After you get up, that is," says the raccoon, panting and standing over him with a bloodied fist.

The coyote attempts to lift himself up, but the raccoon gives him a swift kick in the stomach sending the coyote right back down again, leaving him gasping for air. After that the raccoon turns away and walks toward me.

*

The raccoon, who's name I've learned is Matthew, was in a bad way. After the last coyote sprinted off in a blur he was panting and wheezing, hunched over. I told him I was sorry for making a scene, but he brushed the whole thing off with a wave of his paw.

By then, the adrenaline had run out and I was left wondering whether I really needed to slash that coyote's face in the first place. I don't really know, but it's not like the bastard didn't deserve it.

Matthew was obviously in pain, I asked if he'd like me to walk him home, or if he'd like to come to mine and recover seeing as I live close by. He said he'd like to come to my place, he would need a bus ride to get home otherwise. He said he'd love to be in the company of somebody who actually gave a shit. He asked me my name.

Sam.

I couldn't imagine how it felt for him to be humiliated and beaten like that. Even thinking about it made me angry. And all that simply because he's gay? How ignorant can you fucking be to think that somebody's sexuality makes them a fair target for a beating?

I said I'd do anything to help him feel better, and that I'm not really a psycho and that I'm not planning on killing anybody.

"I'm glad for confirmation that your not a psycho," he told me. "But I didn't think you were in the first place. Then again if those two were to stop breathing I wouldn't complain." It would have been funny if he weren't so serious. I can't really blame him.

Now we're back at my place. I got him settled down on an armchair and I made him a coffee; now he's cradling the mug in his paws and staring into the murky blackness inside.

"Now that smells like good coffee," he says with a weak smile. Despite the expression his eyes betray a sense of tiredness, and he's still clearly shaken from the beating. Who could blame him? This certainly hasn't been the best day of his life.

"I'm glad you think so, I hope you like the taste too."

He peers over at my mug and his face lights up a little, he grins a more self aware grin and returns to the present moment.

"So we both have it black?" He asks.

"It's the only way to have it," I state.

Now that we've settled down a little I can finally see the damage. From the occasional wincing and pained expressions I can tell he's still recovering from the worst of it, and my guess is his pain goes deeper than the external injuries, not that they aren't bad enough on their own. Dried blood is caked into the fur around his nose and down his muzzle, some is even spattered on his jacket and shirt. There's a nick in his left ear too, leaving even more blood stains radiating from the wound. He's stopped bleeding but he badly needs a clean up. I don't know whether to offer him a damp towel or a shower. Is it weird to offer a stranger a shower?

He takes off his jacket, folds it and places it on the floor beside his chair while he waits for the coffee to cool.

"Thanks for your help back there," he coughs out tersely, gaze centered firmly on the carpet. Its obvious he's finding it difficult to confront what's happened to him. Seeing him like this leaves a pit in my stomach. "And for bringing me here, and for the coffee, and everything."

"Hey, it's no problem at all, I'd love to help in any way I can. It's unfair what happened to you, thinking about it boils my blood. And, I'm sorry. I may have got a bit carried away back there, maybe I shouldn't have threatened them like that," I say, a little embarrassed, running a paw down the back of my neck.

"Don't apologize, you were amazing, I bet you scared them off for good." He opens his mouth, then shoots a glance at me and holds himself back for a second before continuing. "I hope this doesn't come across as ignorant, but I sometimes wish I was born a bear. Nobody fucks with a bear."

I have to laugh at that, but I make an effort to keep my laughter soft and friendly.

"Well, that may not be one hundred percent true, but it's true enough. Being a bear has its advantages."

"It does," he says offhandedly. "Plus..." Again he catches himself and with quick distortion of his features I guess he wishes he hadn't said that. I shouldn't pry, but my curiosity gets the best of me.

"Plus what?"

"It's so silly. I was gonna say, uh, that bears are hot," he chokes out a short laugh. "Sorry, it's totally inappropriate. I don't really, uh, mean anything by it."

So he thinks bears are hot? That makes me smile. It's not a direct compliment, but I'm happy to hear it regardless.

"I'm glad you think so. I think raccoons are very handsome too, so don't sell yourself short." He looks up to meet my gaze all of a sudden and beams at me wordlessly. "Hey, I was thinking, we really should get you cleaned up. I can get a you a cloth or towel, or something," I say after a short pause. "Or if you'd rather you can use my shower."

"Shower sounds good," he says, nodding. "After the coffee of course."

"Of course," I say with a smile.

We nurse our coffees in a swelling silence as I wonder what to say or do next. I've invited him into my home so I think it's pretty important that I don't let things become awkward.

"Hey," I say. "Do you want me to put some TV on, or some music, or something?"

Matthew considers the question and takes another measured sip of coffee. If it weren't for his obvious tiredness and blood-matted fur he would look cute as all hell with that thoughtful expression on his face. Fuck it, he looks cute as is, which is pretty impressive really.

"I don't think I'm in the mood for TV," he decrees. "I could maybe go for some music. I'm not sure what you like listening to, but anything chilled out will do."

"I like to think I have a wide range of musical taste," I declare with an over-the-top air of class that maintains the grin on the raccoon's face. I plug my phone into my speakers and after a bit of browsing I choose an artist to play. I'm about to ask if this sort of thing will do when he speaks up.

"Oh nice, you're a Boars of Canada fan too?" He asks, leaning forward, head slightly tilted. I can't help but laugh.

"Hell yeah, they're great." I exclaim, perhaps a little too excitedly over the down-tempo music.

"So you have good taste in coffee and in music? Plus you're a bear, damn." Matthew says, laughing and shaking his head. "Not to mention you saved me from those bastards. You're pretty much Mr Perfect aren't you?"

"Ah, don't be silly, I'm just some guy." I say, inwardly glowing at the praise. If it weren't for the circumstances I might think he was flirting with me, as it is I think he's probably just a little light-headed from the fight. Well, the beating. "I'm nothing special really."

Matthew nods and his smile doesn't fade, but a certain vibrancy becomes absent from his features. I hope he isn't taking this as some kind of rejection; frankly I just don't want to take advantage of him.

We listen to a couple more songs and finish our drinks in relative quiet, and I'm thankful for the time to clear my mind. Eventually the raccoon passes me his empty mug with a thank you.

"Can I admit something to you?" He asks bluntly as I place it on a side table. His eyes hold a measure of uncertainty and his body language suggests to me that he's anxious, the tail curled around his leg being the biggest giveaway.

I pretend I don't notice and say: "Of course, I'm here to help."

"I'm not holding up very well," he says, his eyes quickly finding the carpet once gain.

My body tenses without my permission and I find myself glad for my short tail, tails are such bad liars when it comes to emotion.

"What do you mean?" I ask quietly, softly, attempting to probe for more information without upsetting him.

"That fight..." he only speaks two words, but his voice breaks halfway into the second. He bites back whatever he had to say next and scrunches his eyes closed. His paws tighten around the arms of his chair. I get the feeling he isn't far from tears. "There's a lot to unpack there," he settles on saying after a long pause, his voice fought back to a relative calm state.

"Definitely," I say uselessly. The poor bastard, I wish I was better at dealing with situations like this. I'm probably more use in a fight than I am here, and apart from my strength and size I'm not exactly spectacular in a fight either. I clear my mind and put myself in the raccoon's position. I imagine getting beat up for being the way I am, worrying for my life, feeling pain all over, bleeding. I feel what he might have felt: alone, abandoned, worthless. Then I'm being saved. I wish that happened sooner. I wish I never needed saving begin with. I feel weak. "Matthew... I want to help you in any way I can. You can talk to me about anything you want. Fuck it, if you don't want to go home any time soon you can stay as long as you like too, stay the night if you want to. You don't deserve what those bigoted thugs did to you, don't let them convince you that being the way we are makes means we're worth any less than anybody else. They're fucking idiots if they really believe that."

It's the best I can think to say. For now Matthew simply nods and keeps his muzzle shut.

The repetitive somber beats of the music don't do anything to lighten the mood. The notes of the song become the only sounds to fill the room, leaving us both to wander among our thoughts.

I feel like such an idiot. I want to help Matthew, but I have no idea how. There's so much I wish I could say to him, I so desperately want to make him happy, but I have no idea how to say any of it or how it would actually make him feel. I barely know the guy, so I can't be blamed for not knowing how he'd react, but still, seeing him like this brings me nothing but grief. He's still covered in blood. The sight of it makes me feel a little sick.

"You're staring at me," he says. His mouth hangs open after the last word as though there were more to say but no way to say it.

"I'm so sorry." I say, feeling like a tool. I can't even get the direction of my gaze right. Fuck, it's like I'm trying hard on a first date and failing horribly. "For everything." I add, then regret the words immediately.

"It's not your fault," he asserts, as if the concept were entirely ridiculous. "I'm the one who should be sorry. You've shown me so much generosity. And now I'm here... ruining your evening."

He struggles to push out the last few words and then there's a sharp intake of breath as though between nonexistent sobs.

"Oh Matthew, no." I stand up and take a step toward him before hesitating, unsure whether getting any closer is the right idea. "Don't even suggest that. Don't worry about me. Tonight is all about you. What happened to you was beyond unfair, I want to help you recover."

"And then what next?" He asks. The question catches me off guard.

"What?"

"After you help me recover, what next?" I don't know how to respond and in my indecision he continues. "I guess I just go back out there don't I? To the people that hate me for who I am and the family who pretends it's just a phase and the few friends I have that would rather talk about everything fictional before confronting issues in the real world. That's where I'll be headed. Dead end job, dead end friends, dead end life." His venting ends in a tone of venomous self-condemnation. His eyes are wet and silent tears are making their way through his fur. "You don't deserve to hear any of what I just said, but I don't know. Maybe it helped a little to say it. Anyway, there you are. That's me. That's Matthew. Bet you're glad you saved me now aren't you?"

Of course I'm glad. His woes and fears resonate with me in a way that forces me to stop and think. I need to consider my next words carefully.

"Life doesn't have to be like that," I say gently.

"Yeah?" He asks, but it's not really a question. He's heard it all before.

"Things can change. Once you leave here your life will be different."

"And why is that?"

"I'm not saying it's the answer to everything," I begin, "But you can at least count me among your friends. I know it's only been a couple hours since we met but I already know you better than some people I've been around for years. I like you Matthew and, unless you'd rather it was, this doesn't have to be the last time we see each other."

A look of complete resignation plagues his features as he absorbs my words. He stares idly at a plant pot in the corner of the room, thinking more than seeing. I've fucked up again; I haven't helped him at all. Damn it, this hurts.

"Do you even know what I was out doing tonight?" He asks.

"I'm not sure, considering where I found you I thought maybe you were at a club."

"That's right." He sighs and shakes his head. "I was there alone. I don't really know what I thought was going to happen. In my head I was going to find a gay prince charming to pick me up and take me home and make sweet love to me, in reality I was just bobbing my head up and down in a corner with a coke in my paw, avoiding eye contact with anybody in the vicinity."

I let his words sink in to the room.

"Anxiety isn't easy," is all I can think to say. Inside I feel a sudden closeness to him, a sort of bond. The way he explained it all, it was like he held a mirror up to me and showed a vision of years gone. Yet, I can't quite bring myself to let him know how similar we are. Anxiety. It's a subject I have never linked to myself openly, as though admitting it would give it complete control all over again. I wish I could finally speak up, but even now it's too damn difficult. Instead I resort to encouragement. "That doesn't mean you aren't worth anything, or that you won't ever find the right guy."

"I'm starting to think I might settle for any guy. It's not something I normally talk about, but hey, I'm already telling you my deepest secrets so why shouldn't I tell you this too? I'm still a virgin." His eyes are screwed shut but still damp.

Right now he's vulnerable. I've heard it said before that victims often find a way to blame themselves when they reflect on their attack. I guess it's the only way you can reconcile that event with the rest of your life, something that horrible could only happen to somebody so awful as you, right?

No. Wrong.

Every person is an elaborate labyrinth of contradictory geometry weaving in and out of itself, ever changing and ultimately unknowable. By the time you find the center the dimensions have already shifted. That's how I look at it, anyway. By all that I mean to say I don't know Matthew very well, and I could never truly know him entirely, but for some instinctive reason I'm as sure of my next action as I have ever been sure of anything.

I take another step toward him, reach out and stroke down the side of the face before cupping his muzzle in my paw ever so softly and nudging his gaze towards me. He looks at me shocked, anxious, excited.

Here in front of me is a wonderful, flawed, fully formed person. He doesn't deserve to feel the way he feels now. He doesn't deserve blood caked fur or a tear strewn face. He doesn't deserve the anxiety or the pain. I wish there was a way I could make it all go away, but for better or worse I know there is no easy answer.

I don't reply to his dejected ramblings and secrets, instead I say: "Matt, I just want you to know, you're beautiful."

In spite of all the blood and tears and his self destructive attitude, I mean it.

He finds a smile and loses it in the blink of an eye.

"You're just saying that to cheer me up," he says, his voice far away and his eyes full of the hope that I will prove him wrong.

I don't need any more convincing to kiss him. It's just a quick smooch on the side of the muzzle, but this time his smile doesn't fade so easily.

"Thanks," he says faintly. It's obvious that he wants to make more of the situation, but I know that left to his own devices he won't.

"You don't have anything to thank me for," I say, shaking my head.

I want to separate this moment from his pain and anxieties. I want this moment to be pure and focused. I want to help him, to make him feel happy, as much as I've ever wanted anything. I feel like Matt is a kindred spirit, like our paths in life are two sides of the same coin longing for a sight of the other side. I feel like I'm making no sense, but I'm too invested in the moment to care.

I lean in again, our noses touching this time. His mouth parts in uncertainty, mine follows in anticipation. Our eyes lock and I tilt my head. Every action I take strengthens his desire and resolve. This time he's the one leaning in and our muzzles lock. Our tongue's taste one another. His paws are all over my back and under my shirt in moments. They're tugging lightly on my tail seconds later.

The dried blood causes his fur to brush coarsely against my own, reminding me of his circumstances. Given our current situation it ceases to matter. My actions stops being a gesture, or an answer to his cry for help, and instead become complete reality. I need this every bit as much as he does. It just took me until now to admit it.

We've both been alone for so long, lost in our own heads.

We come up for air, but the taste is no good so we try each other again. Much better.

My legs are apart as I kneel over him on the chair. I'm much taller than him so I push my neck down to find his muzzle and he lifts his up to reach mine. The effort is worth it, no debate needed.

Then he's pulling my shirt off, and I'm doing the same to him. We come up for air once again. When I see his bare chest I remember myself. I begin to feel a little dizzy.

Am I taking advantage of him? Are we moving too fast? I don't really know. Maybe this idea was ill conceived. Maybe all of this is going to make him feel worse in the long run. Or maybe I'm the one who's scared and I'm trying to talk myself out of something that I'll actually enjoy.

Time slows and quickens at random intervals, seconds stretch into hours and minutes melt into moments as our clothing finds its way to the floor and our paws explore and stroke and grab and our tongues continue to fight and coerce and embrace. We take breaths. I lead him to my bedroom. The king size bed will hopefully be able justify its size again for the first time in months.

I let the raccoon lead once we're in my room, unsure of his preferred position, if any, and happy to oblige him. He sits on the bed and I kneel over him as I had on the chair. He lays back and I fall to all fours above him, staring into his eyes as he stares into mine. I had no idea how badly I needed this, and from his excited, nervous demeanor I think he might have needed it even more.

I lean in close and our noses touch once again. His whole body softens as all lingering tension in his muscles evaporates, he giggles. It's the sweetest fucking sound, so sweet that I don't even know how to put it into words. Then he licks my nose and grins. The tingling feel of his tongue forces a laugh out of me and his grin is infectious, but his actions remind me of his inexperience. I lick his nose back instinctively and his arms wrap around me as he pulls me down on top of him. Our hard cocks are pressed against each other's bellies and are no doubt leaving damp patches.

The sickly taste of blood lingers in my mouth and it takes me a second to figure out why. Licking him was a mistake, I was so caught up in all this that I wasn't thinking about the blood. My mind conjures up a deeply unwanted image: Matthew on the floor being kicked in the stomach and nobody helping him despite being a few seconds walk away from a crowded street. I bury my arms under his back, the duvet acquiescing just enough to allow me to do so, and hug him tight.

He returns the gesture, but soon enough he nudges me and I pull away.

"Careful there big guy, I need to breathe you know," he says. He's not annoyed, if anything he took it as a compliment, but I can't help feeling a little embarrassed.

"Sorry. You're just so damn cute I couldn't resist a good squeeze," I say. At least it's only half a lie. My ease at speaking the words and my confident delivery surprise me though. It's as though his innocence is causing me to forget the total lack of my own. I'm no stranger to the bedroom or the wordplay of lovers. I may not be an expert of any sort, but I'd like to think I'm not too shabby either. Then again, I haven't been in such a position in months, so I guess I'm just glad the rust hasn't set in.

"Flatterer," he claims weakly. We kiss again at length, the proximity of naked bodies heightening the experience all the more. When we pull apart, my mind takes hold of me and inconvenient thoughts break through.

"Matt?"

"Sam?"

"I just want to be certain, I know this is your first time and everything, are you sure you want to go through with this?"

"You make it sound like a medical procedure," he says, laughing. "Yes I'm sure. In fact it's basically a dream come true: you're hot and gay and a great person to boot, and you're naked in bed with me on the day we met. I don't even know how this could get any better."

"Well, we haven't actually started fucking yet." I observe dryly. He shakes his head and giggles once again. Fuck I love that sound. His teeth find my neck with a playful nibble which sends a shiver of pleasure through me and down to the tip of my cock.

I almost reciprocate the action until I remember his blood-matted fur all over again. It's pretty unusual being naked with a guy who's partially covered in blood, but the immediacy of the moment diminishes the issue. Matt is a gorgeous, intelligent raccoon in need of a good time, the rest doesn't have to matter.

I have another unwanted flashback of the blood oozing out of his wounds as he's writhing on the the ground and a flash of uncertainty passes over me. With concentration I manage to dismiss the thought before it overwhelms me. I still have another question for Matt though.

"Well then, that's settled. But, since this is your first time, do you know, uh, what position you'd like to be in?"

There's a pause where I can only assume Matt is deep in honest consideration. I'm sure he must have thought about it before, but the conception and reality of a situation are two very different things, maybe right here in the moment he's unsure. That's just fine by me. I want him to feel safe, supported and happy, if that requires some patience then I won't hesitate to provide it to him.

"I'm guessing that means you're happy either way?" He asks. I nod. Of course I have my preferences, but I'm not fussy, especially given the circumstances. "Then I suppose I'd rather be on bottom."

"That's fine with me," I say, my paw finding it's way to his rump and giving the raccoon a quick squeeze. Another giggle. Fuck, he's so cute.

"Oh, uh," he starts hesitantly. He nudges me away and I lift myself to my knees. He's smiling but avoiding eye contact. "Do you mind if I go get cleaned up first?"

"Oh, of course, yeah, that's no problem," I say. There's a pause and then I realize I'm in his way. I maneuver myself to a standing position and gesture for him to head to the shower room. "Everything you need is in that room down there, let me know if you, uh, can't find anything."

One last giggle.

"Of course, thanks." He strokes my still-hard cock on his way out and winks at me. "Make sure you'll still be ready for me."

"Oh I'm sure that won't be too difficult."

Then Matt is off down the corridor, tail lifted and wagging giving me a good look at his butt. Such a tease. He heads into the bathroom with one final wink.

Time to play the waiting game. If my dick had it's way I'd fap one out right here and now, but I know I should save myself for Matt. To distract myself I head into the living room, get a glass of water, put on some music and settle on the sofa closing my eyes. This has been one strange evening. First I help to stop a beating, then I invite a stranger home, he starts crying and laying bare his heart and now we're gonna fuck. Putting the details so plainly makes me feel weird. Once again I wonder whether I'm taking advantage of him.

Don't be stupid Sam, if anything he wants this even more than you do. It's definitely been an odd evening, but that doesn't mean it's been a bad one. Either way I shouldn't think about it so hard, life is too complex to solve in the next handful of minutes.

After a couple songs finish I end up on a piece with an ambient, prolonged intro. There's something in it that I haven't heard before, as though an additional audio track were added to the song between listens. At first I furrow my brow and try and pick out the asynchronous, jerky, deep sound. Then my eyes open wide and I turn off the speakers. The sound continues.

Without the ambiance of the music I can make the sound out more clearly. It's so obvious, not for the first time tonight I feel like an idiot. It's the heart wrenching, bassy sound of sobbing fed through a wall, joined only by a constant pitter-patter of shower water. Oh God, he's crying.

For a while I'm frozen in place, without a clue how to react or what to do. I'm just stood here, listening to him cry, feeling sorry for myself. If this is all I can do, I'm pathetic.

I don't know if I can help, but I need to go there and talk to him. I consider getting dressed first, but I have no idea whether that would make Matt feel better or worse. Considering the fact that he's naked in there I decide to stay as I am, half regretting the decision from the moment I make it.

I'm at the door before I can think what to say. Should I just go in? No, I don't want to startle him like that. He's still sobbing, oh God.

"Matt, is it okay if I can come in?" My muzzle moves without forethought as though it were speaking for me without my input.

For a few moments his sobs die down and I wonder if he's going to ignore me completely, maybe even pretend that this never happened.

Then he says: "I'm so sorry Sam. I'm so sorry." And he's sobbing all over again.

It's not a yes, but it's not a no. I'm conflicted. I don't know how he'll respond if I ask him the same question, I feel like it might engender him to refusal if it achieves anything. An intense desire to help him in any way I can jolts through me. Without knowing if it's the right choice I open the door and step inside.

There he is, sat down, his knees hugged up against his chest, his eyes closed and face scrunched up, crying in the shower. The water is still running, although not at a high pressure It's not been long enough for the glass door of the shower to cloud up completely, but any further details are shrouded by condensation.

Now is not the time to stop and consider every little detail. Based purely on instinct I get into the shower and sit down beside him.

I stare right at him but his eyes are shut tight.

"Listen to me, because I'm being damn serious when I say this: you have nothing to be sorry for."

"But I've come into your house, messed up your evening, shoveled my stresses onto you and now I've even fucked up the one good thing that was about to happen between us tonight."

"And you know what?" I ask him. He lifts up his cute little raccoon muzzle and opens his eyes to see me.

"What?"

"None of that matters to me." Gently, I move my paw and place it on top of one of his. After a few moments pass he accepts it and takes hold of me, our fingers interlaced. "What matters to me is your well-being, so lets talk about it. How come this came over you all of a sudden?"

"It's hard to explain..."

"I'm here to listen, I promise."

He opens his eyes and watches the water as it splashes to the floor and rushes past us. He breathes several slow, deep breaths.

"When I came in here and looked in the mirror, I saw all that blood all over my face... Oh God. I thought I would be able to get over it easily. I got in the shower. And the water was running off me and, fuck, it was running red. I couldn't deal with it. All I could think about was lying fetal in that street, getting kicked hard in the stomach by those bastards, being in absolute agony all over and bleeding." He lets out a large sob, then works to gather himself once again. I clutch his paw tightly and he mimics the motion "I don't know how to put into words quite how that made me feel. The isolation, the worthlessness, the despair, and more. All I could do was cry."

I get to my feet and I offer him an outstretched paw. After wiping his eyes he takes it. We're both stood here naked, vulnerable, wet through and right next to one another. I open my arms and wordlessly take him into them, pulling him into a warm, wet cuddle. His arms wrap around me soon enough and his face buries into my neck.

I wasn't in the same position he was in today, I never have been, I can only imagine how he feels. He deserves so much better. I don't have the answers or even a solution, so all I can do is use what little I do have to help him. I've got two big arms and a fluffy, comfy body to press against, so I figure that's a bit better than nothing.

"You can move on from this Matt, you're stronger than them."

"What makes you think that?" He asks in a choked squeak.

"Because you haven't given in to the rhetoric or violence. Because you're here with me now. Because I know you'll be able to pick yourself up and keep moving." I pause, my thoughts half drowned out by the clatter of the shower water. "It's not always easy for people like us and the fact that your still here, still surviving, is proof enough of your strength."

"It's not like I've never thought of ending it."

The words sting as much as they ring true.

"That doesn't matter."

"How can you say that?"

"Look at me Matt," I command, and he does. "Because despite all that you're still here. That's what matters."

"Have you ever felt the way I'm feeling now?"

It's not an accusation, but an honest question.

"I don't know, I'm not in your head. But I've felt fear and hopelessness before. I've felt loss, and I've felt lost." I stop, and half start again before snapping my muzzle shut. Part of me wants to tell him more, to open up about my own issues, my own anxiety and bouts of depression and flirtations with suicidal thoughts. But I can't bring myself to go on. I just hope that I've said enough. "Either way, I'm here for you."

We share silence. His arms tighten around me, and mine around him.

"Thank you," he says eventually.

The words strike a chord and bring his pain into focus for me. I'm glad for the shower water as it washes the silent tears from my face.

We stay in each other's arms, unmoving, for some time. Without a point of reference I couldn't even begin guess how long it is until he finally loosens his arms. I follow his example and we disentangle. He turns off the shower.

We shake the worst off and then I fetch us both a towel. Despite the fact that we're both still damp and dripping I lead us to the living room and we sit side by side on my sofa. His head leaning on my shoulder, his eyes closed. We haven't said a single word. We haven't needed to. Between us, all the meaning that matters is as clear as day.

After a while we make ourselves dry, and then finally our vocal chords return to use.

"Sorry for cockblocking you," he tells me with a small, determined grin on his face.

"Oh that's fine, just don't you dare go without giving me your number."

"I won't."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

"And I promise I'll give you a call tomorrow, at the latest." I say.

He likes that.

We get dressed and exchange numbers. It's getting late.

"I guess I'll be off then, and, Sam."

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for everything. Rescuing me, the hospitality, the company, the comfort, everything." It's hard for him to get through the words without his voice cracking. It's not like all the pain and raw emotion he felt have just gone away, this is only the first step of moving forward. Step by step by step I know we can get there.

"Thanks for being you," I say. It's lame and clich辿, but I mean it. He knows I do. "But it's late. You don't have to go, you can sleep in my bed and I'll stay on the couch, it's no problem."

The idea tempts him and his steps momentarily waver on the way to the door, but ultimately he continues on.

"No, I need to sleep in my own bed tonight." He says. I know the feeling so I say nothing and nod. "I appreciate the offer though."

"Are you going to be all right getting home on your own?"

"Yeah, I checked my bus schedule and there's a late night one soon from a stop not far from here, I'll be fine. If anything happens I'll call you,"he wiggles his mobile in an outstretched paw as though it were proof of this.

"All right, I'll stop acting like your mom then," I say. We share a brief laugh. He's at the door now.

I catch his eyes with mine and we stare at each other for a moment. I kiss him on his nose. He kisses me on mine. He smiles. I smile too.

"Bye Sam."

"Bye Matt, take care of yourself."

"I will."

And then he's gone.

I put the music back on, sit on my armchair and close my eyes.

He's right there behind my eyelids, swirling in the infinite darkness. His face, his voice, his confessions, his tears.

Suddenly I feel isolated.

He had the courage to open up to me, a complete stranger, and I couldn't even offer him that same courtesy. To me, opening up is harder than facing down a bully, or staring in the face of somebody else's depression and doing my best to help them. Those are external issues. It's the world inside of me that scares me most.

He's so much stronger than he knows. Stronger than I think I'll ever be. I miss his presence more than I possibly could have predicted.

How can a few hours change so much?

I don't know. I don't have the answers.

I retreat into myself, then I begin to cry.

Soon enough I'm staring at the blank, black screen of my phone hoping he'll text or call before he gets on that bus, knowing he won't.