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Oliver wasn't entirely sure how he was supposed to act. He watched the people around him, faces all a blur, the world spinning around him. It was always this way when he didn't recognize his surroundings. And now, with the ocean roaring ahead of him, and the countless unknown faces, he felt completely out of his element.

"Come on," Jeff said, walking next to him, "Don't be that creepy guy who just hangs around."

"What would you have me do?" Oliver asked, scratching his pointed ears nervously. A frisbee sailed through the air and nearly clipped his head. "This isn't how I'd normally spend my time."

"Make the best of it while you can. I'll bet you and I can score tonight and we won't even have to try."

Oliver frowned.

"You're calling me a creep."

"I'm not preying on anyone or anything like that. I'm just -- you know, just keeping my eyes open."

"Yeah, yeah. Keeping your eyes open. I've heard you use that one before."

"All right, don't be a dick. I'm just trying to have an unlit time. Trying to show you one, too."

"Sorry, I guess. I just don't know how to have a good time."

"Suit yourself," Jeff downed a plastic cup of beer, waving his friend off as he walked away.

He was right though. That's what bothered Oliver so much. Here they were at the beach and he had no idea how to have a good time. When had that happened? He used to love going to the beach. Throwing frisbees around had been fun. He'd passed many a day body-surfing. And he'd tossed his fair share of bocce balls with friends.

That was the problem. Friends. He had had more friends when he was a teenager. Now, he didn't have much but Jeff, and what did that amount to? Jeff wouldn't hang out with Oliver while there were girls he could try to pick up, and definitely not while there was free booze. The fox sighed. He'd have to find someone else. If only it were that easy...

He dropped to the sand, softly imprinting the shape of his cotton shorts in the dunes. Oliver absentmindedly curled his tail up around himself, sending up a fine spray of sand as the bottlebrush swept the ground. He immediately heard a sputtering cough from behind him.

"Oh! Oh, oh dear..."

Oliver spun around, catching sight of a skunk stand up behind him, blinking repeatedly and wiping off the coat of sand the fox had given him. The skunk continued repeating, "Oh dear, oh dear," as he cleaned himself off. When he'd wiped the sand from his eyes, he looked up, the rounded orbs watering. He locked eyes with Oliver, who was immediately struck by the vibrant color. The skunk had grey irises; in the bright sunshine they seemed to twinkle a pale shade of lavender -- never before had so simple a color seemed so complex, so wondrous. He blinked.

"I'm so sorry," he said, standing and reaching out to help clean. The action was instinctive, until he thought: I've never even met this guy before. He thought twice, and checked his hand, but repeated his sentiment. "I'm so, so sorry. I didn't mean it."

"It's all right," came the reply. The skunk put down a book he'd been holding (Thomas Mann's Death in Venice), and stifled a sneeze. His hand came up to his face and replaced a set of spectacles he'd just removed to clean his eyes.

"No, no, I'm sorry, I should have been more careful."

"No. It's fine," the skunk looked at Oliver and smiled. A little sand still hung from his short whiskers. He seemed flustered. "Really, don't worry about it."

"You sure? I mean, you need any help?"

"I'm fine, thanks," the skunk wrinkled his muzzle and the last bits of sand fell free. He wiped his shorts and extended a hand, "Uh, hey. Name's Rian. I don't think we've met."

"Oliver," the fox shook his hand. "Have I seen you somewhere before?"

"Can't say for sure," the skunk looked nervously at his feet, "I don't really socialize too much."

"Are you in Cooney's screenwriting class?"

"Cooney? Y-Yeah. I'm in that class."

"Knew I'd seen you somewhere," Oliver said. "Um, didn't you say you don't socialize? What're you doing here?"

"A couple of friends dragged me along. This isn't really my kind of thing, but, you know... They wanted to be here, so I had to come along too."

Oliver said, "I know exactly what you mean."

"Then you know my pain," Rian looked out over the waves, "I like this sort of thing, with my friends. But with a hundred people I've never met? I'd rather not."

"So what are you studying?"

"Excuse me?"

"Your major? What's your major?"

"Oh, my major? Creative writing. Yours?"

"Undecided."

"I see."

"I just don't know exactly what I want to do," Oliver rubbed the back of his head. "Do you?"

"I know what I want to do, but not necessarily what I will do."

"And what's that, if I may ask?"

"I want to write books."

"Oh yeah, what kind?"

"Novels, mostly. Probably fantasy or... I don't know, maybe classic type stuff."

"That's cool, that's cool. That's...Really cool. I can support that in full."

I couldn't believe that I was floundering so badly, that my words were coming out the way they were. I couldn't stop them, couldn't seem to fit them together. They tumbled out in a jumble, while I tried to keep a rein on them. I didn't want to fuck up conversationally. At least not so early into this introduction.

"It's something," Rian admitted, "But it's not exactly a job you can just jump into."

"I'm sure you'll manage."

"Thanks."

"No really, I mean it. Look at all the people reading at the beach and what do you see? John Grisham? James Patterson? You're the only one on the beach reading Mann, as far as I can tell."

"And what would you know about Mann?"

"Not a lot, but enough."

How was I supposed to tell him that I loved him? No, love's not the right word. It wasn't love -- not then -- but it was something. And that something was enough, if nothing else was. I had never felt this way about another boy before. Sure, I'd been curious about some things when I was growing up. Curious enough to know that I couldn't rule that out as a possibility. But up until Rian, I'd never felt it before. He woke something deep inside of me. I had felt for girls before; for plenty of girls. But was it love or just lust?

And could I say the same about Rian?

I barely knew the guy before I realized that I liked him. Pretty much the second I laid eyes on him. But I don't want to be that sappy guy who says 'love at first sight,' so I'll rephrase that. From the moment I heard him talk. The moment I first saw him smile. The very first time that I felt his touch -- who knew a handshake could be so much more than an introduction? -- the very first time I smelled him. Everyone's got a unique scent, the kind you can recognize as soon as someone walks into a room. I didn't recognize his at first, but it was a delightful first, to say the least. It had the tell of many more.

I wanted to grab that face and kiss it. But it wasn't that simple. Never is.

"That's more than most," Rian said.

"I guess so. But, I should really let you get back to that reading, shouldn't I? It's been lovely meeting you."

"Nonsense. I've only just met you; you don't have to run off so soon."

"I --" Oliver looked around. He saw Jeff, playing volleyball with a few people he didn't know. "I actually have to be somewhere. I told a friend I'd be right over."

"Oh," Rian cast his eyes to the ground below. "I didn't mean to presume... Sorry."

"I'm sorry," Oliver said, "I didn't mean to --"

"I'll just get back to my book," Rian adjusted his glasses nervously, "Um. Enjoy yourself."

"Yeah, I -- Yeah. I'll see you around."

God, why did I do that? I can't forgive myself for it. I'll never forgive myself for it. All those wasted years we could have been together. Maybe things would have worked better if I hadn't run off like a coward. It's really my fault.

It really is.

I went up to Jeff and tried to play volleyball. I might have been able to have fun if I hadn't been thinking of Rian the whole time. I kept looking back at him and most of the time he was reading his book but a few times I saw him watching me. I smiled at him and he smiled back but then went back to reading. I was hopeless.

After a few minutes I saw some other fox walk up to him. Rian shut the book and stood up, embracing the fox and kissing him. That really got me going. I felt something stirring inside me, flaring with a hot jealousy. I couldn't remember feeling jealous over anything before. Never jealous jealous. It didn't help that the fox looked so much like me -- I could so easily insert myself into that picture.

But before I knew it I was shaking myself off, asking myself if I'd lost my mind. I'd literally just met the guy.

Rian and the fox walked away together towards the pier. That was how I first met Colin -- Rian's first boyfriend, and the one that very nearly destroyed him. If only I'd known then what was going to happen I would've punched that damn fox right in the gut.

But I guess I'd do the same to myself, if I could have met me when I was dating Rian. Well, hindsight, huh? Colin very nearly destroyed him, and I guess I kind of succeeded.

I watched them go but it was like saying goodbye to a photograph. After a while I left the volleyball court and walked back to the sea in the sunshine.

One day, while sitting at the breakfast table, Rian looked up. His expression was startled. He spoke quickly and with trepidation.

"Do you believe in Hell?" he asked.

I was stunned, of course. Where the fuck does a question like that come from, so early in the morning?

"Me? No. I don't know. Why?"

"I'm terrified of it."

"What's to be scared of?"

"If being gay is as bad as everyone says it is I'm bound to wind up there."

"Hey. Calm down."

"I don't want to go to Hell."

"Is this what you spend your time worrying about? Relax. You'll have time to worry about that sort of thing later."

"But that's exactly it Oliver. If Hell is real, I won't have time to worry about it later. It will be too late."

"Where's this coming from?"

"I think about it a lot."

"Well don't. It can't be good for you."

"I can't help it."

"Listen. Do you really believe in Hell?"

"I don't actually know."

"Then what are you so worried about?"

"Can I explain myself?"

"Shoot."

"There are people who think no one goes to Hell. Or who think that God only punishes people for a time, then saves them. I'd like to think that makes sense."

"Who teaches that?"

"I don't know. People. But... I'd love to believe there's no such thing as Hell."

"But it's inconsistent with what you were taught."

"Yes; but doesn't it sound plausible? If God is truly the 'loving father' he's always described as, he doesn't want to see anyone have to be punished. That's what everyone teaches. It's one of the many aspects of God. But if God is love and God doesn't want to punish us, he wouldn't, would he? Not eternally at least. The whole point of a punishment is that you learn something from it. You take what you learn and you move on to a new life. You can't do that if the punishment lasts forever. And no father could just leave his children to die when it's within his power to save them."

"So you're saying you don't believe in Hell."

"I'm saying I don't want to. Not that I don't."

"It sounds like you have some pretty convincing evidence against it. What's for it?"

"I don't know. Thousands of years of people saying it does exist? Why would we even have this concept of Hell if it doesn't originate somewhere?"

I stood from the table. I looked back at him as I walked to the bathroom to get ready.

"You're asking the wrong guy," I said. I shut the bathroom door behind me.

I watched him emerge from the bedroom with his bathrobe on and he was mussed from the night time and looking bedraggled when he reached for the mug. The coffee was hot because I had just made a fresh pot and he filled the mug and stood at the counter drinking deep and the steam fogging up his glasses. He looked over the rims at me but too blind to see. It didn't matter I guess. He knew I was there. And he drank the coffee and poured himself more and all the time standing by the counter until he had almost finished and then he stooped over to kiss me where I sat with pen and a blank page.

"Writing?" he asked.

"Trying, at least," I said.

"I'm glad to see you applying yourself."

"I don't know how you do it."

"What's the trouble?"

"Nothing I'm writing is good. I have ideas but every time I try it comes out so... so blah."

"So keep writing. You're bound to stumble upon something good eventually."

"Easy for you to say."

"Hey. I believe in you. You should too."

I smiled and stood and kissed him full on the lips. He sagged against me and eased his jaws a little wider, warm, inviting. My tongue brushed against his. I didn't even care that he'd been drinking coffee; the coffee breath was trivial, and he was a marvel. The good fortunes of life are plentiful and boundless.

I'm not entirely sure how long it went on -- minutes or hours or days -- but he distanced himself after a while.

He said, "Sorry. I have to go finish getting ready."

But he had a little tweak on his cheek that made me think my good fortune wasn't through yet. Those were the days when he drank out of my coffee mug and it felt like a privilege, those lips breaking from the ceramic to mark the minor circle stain. The days when we shared the same toothbrush and neither of us cared. It was a thing of beauty.

Now it's 3 in the morning and you aren't here anymore. I've got a fever and I'm coughing and miserable and thinking of you. Sometimes I get sick, sometimes I can't sleep, and always and forever am I thinking of you. The stereo is playing that Justin Vernon record you used to love so much and finally the words make sense. If I could run away and write down all the aches I feel and the longings then maybe I'd produce something even half as beautiful as that music but I think I'd just fuck it up the same way I handled my situation with you. In a way that's what I've been doing, every day of my miserable life.

My fever is breaking but I've felt far worse before. I know I only have a twin sized bed these days but I'd make it work for you. I'd sleep on the couch or even the ground for you but I hope you'd want to share my space. It would be a tight fit on that bed but we could make it work -- we'd only have to be closer.

It's painfully dark without you, and cold. And I know I've mentioned it before but I miss that scent of yours. It's a sort of subtle thing but it used to be everywhere, as I'm sure I used to be everywhere for you. I miss that sudden rush, that intake, that greeting every time I climbed into our sheets. It filled me with comfort beyond words. It enveloped me and kept me quiet even when you were gone. That's why I slept in the same bed for so long after you left. I didn't want to let that feeling go, even though it made me cry every night. I still associate the smell with happiness, but it's a joy I've lost. I'll never get that joy back. Believe me, I wish it were not so; grant me any wish and it would be to take back what happened. When the scent vanished from the sheets and the bed I knew it was time to move on. But not even my new twin sized bed could help me with that.

By now the record is playing on repeat and it's causing you to spring to mind unbidden, overfilling me, reopening my ancient wounds. I wanted you to help me in my sickness but it only feels like you're twisting the knife. I know you don't want to hurt me but I can't blame you. I gave you no other choice. Even while the blood flows freely I can see it written on your face -- horror, pain, shame. You never wanted to hurt anyone, least of all me. But I'll keep my hand on yours and force you to dig that knife deeper and deeper, because it's all I have left and I can't let you go.

Do you really think I care what happens to him? Not anymore I don't. I'm every day closer to telling her myself. Shit. How could he do this to me? He didn't even stop to think about anyone, not even himself. He's fucking me over, he's fucking Ashleigh over, he's definitely fucking Rian over. Hell, he's fucking himself over and doesn't even realize it. Or doesn't care.

God damn it all to hell, Oliver. Figure out your shit.

It wasn't until Ashleigh invited him to Chicago that he first realized how deep the hole he'd dug was.

"She what?" Rian exclaimed.

"She... invited me to go to Chicago with her. She's about to go on her Christmas vacation. Told me I could spend it with her... I could... meet her family."

"If you even think about going."

"I can't just tell her no."

"I don't know what to think anymore," the skunk sat down on the couch and took off his glasses. He rubbed at his eyes in irritation. Oliver noticed that his chest was rattling, his lover trying hard to keep his cool.

"Rian --"

"I told myself I couldn't get involved with you. I told myself to stay away. But you make it so damn hard," there were tears in his eyes.

"I know. This is all my fault."

"Of course it is," Rian sniffled, "And you know it. But you won't do anything about it."

"What am I supposed to do?"

"Choose. Me or her. In your best interests you'd probably want to pick her, but in my best interests... Well, my interests aren't what matter, now are they? But you already knew that too."

"I can't just choose. It isn't that simple!"

"Of course it's that simple. You're being a fool, Oli. You really are."

"Rian, I love you," the skunk's chest stilled momentarily, his breathing cut short. "I love you, but how am I supposed to leave her? We're engaged!"

"You should have thought about that before you got tangled up with me," Rian muttered.

"It's more than just that."

"It's entirely that. You don't have the boundaries you need."

"I have boundaries. I thought I would be happy with her, but then you came along and turned things upside down. After you... Well, I knew I couldn't be happy without you."

"So you pick me up, go for the quick fling, and then tell me you're engaged."

"I meant to tell you first, but..."

"But then I wouldn't have slept with you. Brilliantly deduced."

"Don't give me that."

"It's the truth, Oli! You led me to believe that you were single until after I'd gotten involved. That's as bad as lying. You've gotten my emotions all stirred up and things are complicated now. I love you too, for better or worse. But you shouldn't have slept with me if you were engaged. Now you have to do something. Tell her that it's over, or tell me that it's over. But don't expect me to let you run off and vacation with her in Chicago and welcome you back home with open arms."

The fox didn't answer for a long while. When he did, it was slow, careful, calculated.

"It's too soon for me to tell her no. I'll ruin her Christmas. Her family's excited to meet me. I have to go with her and let her have her moment. But I'll break the news to her afterwards. I won't keep this up. I promise."

Rian's eyes grew wide and he bristled all over. He stood wordlessly and stormed to the door.

"That's a dirty, disgusting trick. I don't know... I don't know what to think."

He grabbed his keys and slammed the door and Oliver was sure he could hear his lover sobbing on the other side.

"Rian!" he called, but heard no response. A few moments later he heard a car starting outside, then drive off. He was alone now.

So he did the only thing he had left to do. He called Renee.

"Hello?" her voice came through loud and clear, if not a little confused.

"Hey Renee."

"What is it Oli?"

"Um, well. You know Rian pretty well don't you?"

"I would say so, yes."

"Where would... Where would he go if he were, you know, pretty upset?"

"You bastard, what did you do this time?"

"That's not important," he growled, quickly growing exasperated, "What's important is that I'm worried about him."

"I can't say for sure," she sighed, "He was always a bit of an odd one. A little unpredictable."

"What does that mean?"

"That means he could be headed to La Jolla or all the way to Pomona. I have no idea where he is. Listen, what did you say to him this time?"

"This time?"

"He's come to me before, complaining about some shit move you tried to pull."

"So you know everything, then."

"It's not exactly a secret that you're dating Rian. And you're engagement isn't exactly a secret either. I'd wager a guess the only person still in the dark about this is your fiancée."

"Yeah, well, it can't be helped."

"I know you're my friend, and my co-worker, but that's not going to stop me from telling you that that's low."

"Thanks, Renee."

"I used to think you were just this shy, sweet guy. But what you're doing is fucked up."

"Thank you, Renee. Just -- just call me if you see him, okay?"

"If I catch hide or hair, I'll let you know."

"Thanks. For real. I'm really worried."

"Don't ask me why I'm helping out or I'll rethink myself."

"Got it. Thanks a lot. I'll, uh, I'll see you later then."

"8 o'clock tomorrow."

"Right. See you then."

He hung up, feeling more lost and confused than he had before he called.

Renee looked up as the bell rang, the distraught skunk shuffling in, arms crossed. He wore his jersey hoodie with the hood drawn, shading his face and obscuring his features. Only the blunt end of his muzzle protruded, but the short whiskers trembled. Renee glanced around at the cafe. There were only a few customers, and they were sitting in the distant corner talking to themselves. "Thank God, for that," she muttered. Renee put on her happiest face and tucked her bobbed hair behind her ears, bracing herself for the storm.

"Rian? Is that you?" she asked.

"Hey," he said. His voice was hoarse. Quiet. She'd expected a storm and gotten a drizzle.

"Is something wrong?"

"No. Nothing's wrong. I just need some company."

"Oh, uh, okay. You want to take a seat? Anywhere's fine. It's been pretty slow today."

"Uh, yeah. Sure," he walked to a booth nearby the counter and sat, skinny knees splayed up and out like the bent joints of a spider. Rian took his hands from his jacket pockets and removed the hood. Renee saw red rimmed eyes behind fogged glasses, but didn't say anything. If Rian said nothing was wrong, she wouldn't intervene.

"So, what's up?" she asked.

"Nothing much," he said, staring at nothing in general. She began to mess with machinery he didn't recognize, pulling levers and pushing buttons and wiping steaming pipes.

"It's Oli's day off today, yeah? What's he up to?" she grabbed a fine silver cup and stuck it under a gleaming metal tube. Frothy liquid spurted up, steam bubbling the milk and filling the vessel.

"I wouldn't know," Rian looked away. "His business is his business."

Renee emerged from behind the counter with a stolid mug and a saucer and set down a cappuccino, the pottery still radiating heat. She pushed it towards Rian. He knew better than to refuse it and weakly smiled his thanks.

She said, "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. But if I find out he's been mistreating you in any way, he's gonna hear from me."

The image of the kind-hearted barista threatening his imbecile of a boyfriend nearly made him laugh. Then he looked at her warily. She had a history with Oliver, so she knew how to deal with him.

"What did you do when you were angry at him?" he asked, ear twitching absentmindedly. He took a sip of the coffee and burnt his lip. His reaction was subdued and graceful -- a hand covering his mouth, the other setting down the cup. He stifled his yelp. Even in pain Rian had no propensity for excessive show or noise, preferring to keep it held inside.

"I didn't really get angry at him ever," Renee said, watching him carefully. He wiped his mouth with a napkin.

"What do you mean you didn't get angry at him? Everyone gets angry sometimes."

"We didn't really -- well, our relationship wasn't like that."

"What was your relationship like?"

"You probably don't want to know."

"I can handle it."

"Rian, it's best we don't get into this."

"No, really. I can handle it."

"I'm not talking to you about that," Renee said. "I'm sorry but it's a little too personal."

What was I supposed to do? My relationship with Oliver was purely sexual. I've discussed it before. We didn't do anything but sleep with each other. We went out a few times on group dates but even then we spent most of our time making out quietly in the corner. Both of us knew that we were only in it for the sex and that was fine. It was what we wanted. There was never any time for me to get angry at Oliver because he was nothing but my boy toy.

Suffice it to say, I never had a beef with him. But I wasn't going to share certain personal details about our sex life with his current lover.

"I get it," Rian said, withdrawing slightly. He bowed his head and grew quiet again, but drank the cappuccino. Renee didn't say anything -- better to leave him to his brooding, she thought. He'll open up when he's ready. And he did. When he'd finished the coffee, he set down the heavy mug and looked at Renee. He'd seemed to have calmed down.

Speaking in a low voice, he asked, "Renee, be honest. What would you do if you were me?"

"I was you, at one point in time. And I left him."

"You think I should do the same?"

"That's not at all what I said."

"You're confusing me."

"Do what makes you happy, Rian. When I was in your position, I wasn't getting what I needed from him. So I left. And that's what I needed. But if you love him, and he's giving you what you need, then you have to stay."

"I told him he had to choose. Between me and her."

"What did he say?"

"Said he would choose me, but that he couldn't tell her just yet. Not till after Christmas."

Renee thought, That little shit is at it again.

"Is that what's been bothering you?" she asked.

"I feel dirty, being with Oli like this. I want to be with him but not secretly. Not with some girl in the way."

"I can't help you with that," Renee said, "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault. It's not mine either. If anyone's at fault, it's Oli. But I can't do anything about that. He's got to figure that out on his own."

"So give him time."

"I am giving him time. But I feel like I'm being held ransom. I'm not willing to leave him and he's taking advantage of that by putting off telling her."

"Why don't you tell her yourself?"

"And risk ruining things with Oli?" Rian's ears flattened against his head, "No. Can't do that. Besides, I wouldn't know how to break that kind of news to her."

"Sounds like you're doing all that you can."

"I am. It's just -- I wish there were more I could do."

"Well," Renee mulled over her words, choosing them carefully, "Things can't be easy for Oliver either. Imagine the situation he's stuck in. Surely he needs your support. Running off without a word can't help."

"Running off without a word?"

"I mean, not telling him where you're going."

"How do you know I didn't tell him where I was going?"

"Uh," Renee froze. She hadn't chosen her words carefully enough. Talking to Rian was like walking on thin ice. He was fragile, and the balance could be easily upset. "I've... I've known you for a while. I tend to know how you work."

His eyes narrowed.

"That's not true, is it?" he asked. "He called you didn't he?"

"Rian --"

"How long ago did he call?"

"Fuck, I don't know, about twenty minutes ago?"

Rian checked the time and bit his lip. "That must've been only a few minutes after I left. He must be really worried, huh?"

"Probably. He sounded pretty concerned when I spoke to him."

He didn't answer for some time, then nodded to himself. He stood resolutely and returned the empty mug.

"I have to get home."

"Sure. Tell Oliver I said hi."

Rian smiled, illuminating a face so often marked by sorrow. Like a dying ember, alone in the cold and dusty hearth. His tail no longer dragged, but crested over him as of some black, voluminous wave.

"I will. Thanks for being there."

He bustled out, hastening to get back. The active, worried figure was a complete opposite to the weary, resigned skunk who'd entered several minutes earlier. That skunk had been all gloom and doom and thunderclouds. Only when she'd seen his car pull out did she stop holding her breath. The wolf let out a sigh of relief and spoke under her breath.

"Dodged a real bullet there."

She picked up a broom and began sweeping the empty floors. Not even the clients in the corner spared her a moment's attention.

Rian grunted, Oliver landing heavy on top of him. He could smell the fox, the scent sharp and musky. He was growing excited and kissing him in earnest. He felt Oliver's lips move from his face to his neck, down to his shoulder... The fox struggled clumsily to remove both his own shirt, and then the kissing continued. Rian felt his heart begin to beat quickly; his breath grew short. A sudden panic began to overtake him -- he almost didn't feel the fox's hand moving to remove his top. His own hand shot out and caught Oliver at the wrist.

"N-Not yet. Please, not yet."

"Not yet."

"No," Rian could barely speak. He gently detached himself from Oliver and closed his eyes, counting backwards from one hundred while his heart rate slowed.

"Rian? What's wrong?"

He exhaled slowly and didn't respond. It was another few minutes before he felt calm enough to talk, and even then he quivered. Oliver sat uncomfortably on the side all the while, not sure how to react.

"Oli, I -- I haven't told you everything about me."

"What do you mean?"

"Can I trust you?" he asked. His eyes shone in earnest.

"Of course," Oliver said. He seemed less perturbed now, but extremely curious.

"No, can I really really trust you? I don't want you to tell anyone."

"Sure, yeah. I won't tell a soul if you don't want me to."

"Well I don't. But you're going to have to know if this is going to go anywhere."

"Your secret's safe with me," Oliver grinned, trying to lighten the tension.

"You won't think less of me?"

"Hey," he tipped Rian's face up by the chin and looked him dead in the eyes. "There's nothing that could possibly make me think less of you."

Rian felt his face grow hot. He knew he was crying and wished he weren't, but didn't stop himself. He choked on the tears as he rolled up his sleeves, paused, and then pulled the whole shirt off. Oliver looked hard, straining his eyes for whatever he was meant to see. At first he only noticed his figure, small, trim, and shapely. He worked his eyes over Rian's body, setting down every detail, then noticed that the skunk let his arms hang limply forward. On each forearm was a long patch where the fur was thin. A smooth white scar lit each arm, their ugly surfaces mangling his skin. There were traces of older scars, less pronounced, faded, but Oliver wasn't sure he was meant to notice those. The thick, cord-like scars were what he was meant to see. They too had faded, but would never fully vanish. The fox reached out and touched his forearms gently, feeling the thin, velvety fur. He took Rian's arm in his hands, and, lifting it to his face, kissed it.

"I didn't want you to know..." Rian mumbled. Oliver kissed the other arm. He hugged Rian and spoke softly to him.

"Hey. It's okay. It's gonna be okay. You don't need to worry anymore."

Rian nodded but couldn't speak; the tears made Oliver's shoulder damp.

"Don't hate me Oli, please... Don't hate me. Don't..."

"I don't hate you," Oliver whispered. "I never could." He rubbed his lover's back, fingers digging deep against the bumps of his spine beneath his fur.

He held Rian until the crying slowed to a steady whimper, then he patted him on the back and stood up.

"Come on, I know what will cheer you up."

"But -- What about...?" Rian bit his lip and glanced nervously at the bed.

"Not right now. I wouldn't do that to you," Oliver looked over his shoulder into the living room. "Up you go, come with me."

He was not strong, but he managed to hoist Rian up in his arms and carry him to the couch in the living room, taking great pains to make the feat appear easy. Rian seemed shocked and had a hard time smiling but his eyes twinkled. Finally Oliver set him down, wheezing slightly.

"There you are," he said. "Sit tight."

Rian watched unsure as the fox raced around the apartment, putting a pot on the stove and dashing to the bedroom. He returned with the comforter from his bed. "Here, use this," he said, and draped the comforter around the skunk and wrapped him tightly. The comforter was warm and smelled of fox. Rian drew it around him until his face barely peeked out. Oliver fussed in the kitchen for a few minutes but finally returned with two mugs he'd filled with the pot from the stove.

"Hot chocolate," he said, handing a mug to the skunk.

Rian blinked. Without the glasses, his eyes looked so small. "Oh, right," Oliver muttered to himself, then dashed off to fetch the spectacles from his room. He returned them to Rian who stuck them on his face and smiled a silent thanks. Rian opened the comforter and Oliver snuggled in by his side.

"What're you doing now?" he asked, as Oliver picked up a TV remote and turned on the television.

"We're watching your favorite movie," Oliver said, flicking past advertisements to reach a DVD menu.

"The Princess Bride? I didn't even know you had this movie," Rian said. His smile parted the rivulets that had cut their paths down his face.

"I didn't, but I've had it since you mentioned it," Oliver said. Rian put his arm around Oliver's neck, kissed him. The movie started, and they watched quietly for an hour -- no laughing, no talking, just soaking in the screen's light. Finally Rian looked up, his head on the fox's shoulder, and spoke.

"Thank you, Oli," he whispered. He wanted to apologize, to explain himself, but knew that he didn't have to. Oliver understood. There was no apologizing to be done.

On that night they didn't make love. Oliver turned on the speakers playing the Justin Vernon record, the subdued musical crescendos washing over them like some draught of sleep. He kissed Rian once and they fell asleep together side by side in the open bed, sheets over their legs and cool air over their chests. It was a quiet night. A night for dreaming. A night for solitude in the thoughts of a man, whether they bring peace or trembling. But with each gentle snore by his side Oliver felt himself fall deeper into a slumber of content. The night was quiet. The night was all.