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Paul

April 22nd

My leg is not aching anymore now, and my ribs don't complain when I'm with him. I see the desire in his eyes when I pull him into my bedroom. Our bedroom now. Right then and there, nobody could have stopped me.

After the housewarming gift I gave him, which is trickling gently from under his tail, he's basking in the afterglow, and eventually falls asleep beside me. My dalmatian. My boyfriend. My roommate. We could not be closer if we tried, I'm sure. His little chest moves up and down slowly. I've never noticed how small and vulnerable he actually is, how frail he looks. I know it's rich coming from me, right now, but I'm struck by the thought and I can't get it out of my head. His fur is so thin around his belly that it looks almost bare. Naked. Exposed and defenceless. But the skin underneath has spots on it all the same. His sheath is moving in rhythm with is belly. It has the thinnest layer of white fur on it, and has not a single spot on it, apart from the ones he's put there himself. The scent of me is all over him, on him, and in him, strong and unapologetic, overpowering his own. I have an overwhelming need to protect him from the world. I can't let anyone take him from me.

It's only 9PM, but he's sleeping soundly. I can still give him a workout, even though he did most of the job himself. I'm not ready to go to sleep just yet, and I've got my laptop next to me, so I pull up the email client and get to work.

There is a frankly frightening amount of unread stuff in here. Reece has done wonders, but recently, contract offers have started trickling through, and the trickle has become a flood. I really wish I'd gotten an agent when I got fired, though that would mean getting on Whyllis' bad side. Who knows what kind of shit might come up and surprise me while I'm stuck in this cast? An agent would know, I'm sure. I pull up the first likely looking mail and read through it.

Dear Mr. Courage

You have inspired me with your racing, and I wish to be like you one day. I've asked dad to help me get into go-karts, but he says we can't afford it. I hope that one day I will be able to race with you.

With regards, Timmy age 9 ½

"Hmm... dear... Timmy..." I mumble as I type out my reply.

Thank you for your email, I hope to see you track side one day. But you'll never beat me if you don't stay in school. Racing drivers are smart and always try their best to be the best. That's something you can do every day and it doesn't cost anything. I'm sending you a list of charities who might be able to help you.

I copy and paste some links I've collected and hit send. I hope Timmy makes something of himself, but without money, there's not much you can do in this sport, and there are thousands, if not tens of thousands of Timmies out there, wanting the same as him. I try not to think about it. How on earth did Reece do this for almost two weeks? God damn it, pup, you're giving too much of yourself. Or I'm not giving enough... There are a few emails like this from fans. Then I notice some company names in the mix. I scroll to those and open one at random.

Dear Mr. Courage

We are excited to learn that you have recently been left without a contract. We would be excited to offer you a place in our tryout session starting June the first at Circuit of the Americas. Travel and accommodation will be covered.

We would like to add our most sincere wishes for a speedy recovery, and hope that it comes in time for you to join us at this most prestigious event.

Sign.

Peter Morbidelli, CEO

Gibson Racing

"Hmm, Dalmatian last name. Perhaps," I mutter to myself, but June 1st is a bit early. I'm not out of my cast until then, and even if I were, I would be way out of shape. I file the mail into a folder and keep reading.

There's some more fan mail, and a few well-wishers, some advertisement getting through the filter as usual, and then there's another company name from an email with an Australian domain.

Cheers Paulo

Heard about your little bump. You know the boys and me, we don't mind a bit of rough racing. We're putting boots on the ground at this year's supercar championship. You're welcome to come down and join in. It's been a while, pop round to Jonno and Darling in Manitoba for a tinnie while you're at it. Come before summer starts. Cheers from all the guys at the shop, we're all rootin' for ya.

Dazza.

Sharp-Sinclair Racing

Some people certainly don't subscribe to the polite business speak. I set a reminder on my phone to ask dad about this mail. I'm very tempted to go with it, but I need to check my contracts with a lawyer. I reply and say I'm interested. But they want to meet before summer, and I'm not going to be ready by then. Unless they mean Australian summer, which would be December. I pin it to the top of my inbox.

There is a pawful of other mails like the first one. Cold, business-minded suit-speak. They fade in my memory as soon as I skim them, but wilt against the sheer force of the one from Dazza at Sharp-Sinclair. I make sure to file them in the same folder, however, just in case. I spend the rest of the night politely responding to the various well-wishing emails. By the time the clock ticks over midnight, I've got a bunch of offers for jobs, and I find it really difficult to stay polite, so I close my laptop.

Reece hasn't stirred. He looks at peace when he sleeps, nothing like his awake mind. When he's not resting here besides me, he's always worrying about me, and it cost him his education, his sleep, and who knows what else? The silly pup. I stroke his head and plant a gentle kiss on his muzzle before settling in for the night. He's safe here with me, whatever his worries are. He won't have to struggle for me again, I'll protect him.

May 11** th**

Reece is driving my car, and I'm in the passenger seat. We've just visited dad's work, and got the cast signed by the entire staff. It feels brave keeping him with me, but he knows how to act around me in public. He convinced me to go outside with him one day to that coffee shop where we first dated, where I got even more signatures. I think he regretted that, after we were mobbed by journos and concerned fans, and some of them wanted to know who he was... Anyways, today is the day that the cast comes off.

I'm surprised with how quickly they get me out of it. We've not been in the hospital for ten minutes before they've got the little saw out. It tickles like you wouldn't believe, and the itching, oh, god, the itching is horrible. The smell isn't really nice either, but they clean my leg with some sort of fur shampoo that hides some of the smell. I'll need a long shower and another visit to my specialist. When I pull my pant leg down, you can almost not tell that it's been boxed up in a stinky, sweaty cast for five weeks. The smell gives me second thoughts about hanging the cast on the wall in my apartment, and Reece is definitely not a fan of the idea, so the cast go in a plastic bag into the boot of the car. We've already given my home our shared scent. I'm sure he'd appreciate it if I didn't overpower that too, like he claims I do with everything else.

However, as with all fractures, the lack of movement while in the cast has made all my muscles stiff and all my joints locked. Moving it hurts worse than trying to move after leg day, but I manage to limp along, leaning on Reece's shoulder. Bending my leg, stretching my toes, or rotating my ankle is agony. But it's free, at least.

"How about we go for a run?" Reece jokes as I hop along besides him to the parking garage.

"You don't look like the type to run," I smile. "Unless I'm ahead of you with a tight pair of shorts, probably, you spotted hound-dog, you."

"Oh, hardy-harr. I bet I could outrun you."

"Judging from the way we used to fuck," I say, and the poor dalmatian almost changes colour, but I've already made sure to sniff around for other people, and I know we're alone. "Unless you've done some amazing cardio while I was decommissioned, you'd not get half a foot ahead with a running start. I'm not that rusty."

"Yeah? Well... Now that we're on that subject." He grins, and lets a paw trail across my butt, squeezing it possessively. "How about we get that workout routine up and running, again?"

"Aw, you slut," I tease him, sticking my tongue out. "You're just in it for the dick!"

I've got him close to me, holding around his chest while I nuzzle my cheek against his thin plush-like ears. I feel really horny and pent up, and don't want to spend time debating it, so I push him into the driver's seat and limp around to get in besides him.

"Really?" he asks as I climb in, his eyebrows raised at me as he turns the engine over. "I thought you'd be anxious to get back in the driver seat."

"I'm anxious to get in your pants, Spot" I tell him, "I can't really drive with this foot. I need to run it in. You can drive while I enjoy the view."

Reece is a considerate, careful, and some might say slow, driver. I prefer it. I'm a racing driver. I'm not impressed by aggressive driving. I'm not impressed by loud or modified cars. I'm not impressed by daring, dangerous moves. Because I've taken this car around Laguna Seca in under 1:40, and that is a god damn lap record for this car. Despite the Maserati being a paddle-shifting semi-manual, with a dashboard matted with unconventional, but no doubt clever, Dalmatian design choices, he's handling it very smoothly and confidently.

My mind quickly drifts from the road to my boyfriend. He's got his eyes fixed on the road, but we're moving slowly through traffic. I lean over to put a paw on his thigh, feeling slightly daring with all the cars around us. The spotted fur poking out from his shorts is soft and smooth, recently brushed and washed. His legs are lithe, and yet they have some power to them. I wonder if he actually did work on his cardio, or if he's just tense. Maybe he's just lucky to be made like this. His thighs fill my big paws out quite nicely.

"Getting frisky there, wolf?" Reece smiles, but he keeps his eyes on the road. There are no real attempts from him to stop me, so I don't. I slide my paws up his thigh, brushing the legs of his shorts up. His tail wags and he's got his little pink tongue out, panting lightly while he clutches the steering wheel. We're no more than a few blocks away from home, which gives me more confidence. I slide my paws up underneath his shorts and find his boxers. He's got a full bulge in there, slightly sticky, and smelling of musk.

When we get to the driveway of my apartment, we're in each other's arms as soon as we've gotten out of the car, and we're still in each other's arms two hours later. All I can do is pant with exhaustion.

"I take it back, Spot," I breathe heavily. "You probably could outrun me."

"Told ya', you slob," he giggles, and snuggles up close. "Better get in shape, then."

"I'm going to."

He rubs his naked, sticky and sweaty belly up against the matted, long fur on my right thigh. "I miss how you used to fuck me."

"Don't you worry, I'll talk to my PT tomorrow." I stroke him and kiss his forehead. "Where did you get all that stamina from, all the sudden?"

"Oh, you know. I walked around a lot."

He smiles and brushes a paw through the long fur on my right leg. "Glad you're back, so that I can ride with you instead. Walking everywhere alone gets really old really fast."

I know what he means. He doesn't do it just to get around. He usually has to take a walk every now and then to calm down or set his mind straight. But I'm not going to feel bad about that now, he's here with me and he's clearly happy, I can smell it on him. No need for him to go on his walks anymore.

"Yeah, you can ride with me as much as you want, pup." I laugh and clutch him closer. I will fuck him properly, in a few weeks, or a month. I've got it all planned out, now that I've had time to think about it. At least, the personal training stuff. I'm still struggling with contracts, but I've got a lawyer on board to help me, so that Reece doesn't have to worry about that, either. But I said I wouldn't mind him sticking his nose in, and I think it's best I told him that.

"Have you been thinking more about what you'll do? What with the school and stuff?" I ask him. I've been leaving the subject alone for a while now, while he's been staying with me. He's gradually moved more and more things over to my place, and I think he should have something to occupy himself with while I'm out getting myself back in shape and getting my career back on track.

"I'm willing to hear suggestions, because it sounds like you have some."

Alright, Paul, this better go well, or you might have another argument on your paws.

"I was thinking... It's going to be busy so... I would like to ask you if you wanted to help me out with some of the management stuff?"

"I'm already helping you with that, aren't I?" He shifts his muzzle to look into my eyes.

"It's more than just emails and stuff. I have to get a diet together. I have to talk to the media. That means that there's a lot of phone calls to deal with, a lot of scheduling to do, and a lot of planning which you could help with. I need to keep shit tight and coordinated while I work overtime trying to get back in shape, and I'm going to be busy a lot. It's going to be a full-time job. Like... an official one, with salaries and benefits and stuff."

"Well, that depends." Reece shrugs. "Since it's a serious job and all, I'm going to ask some pertinent questions."

I prepared for those questions beforehand.

"For now, it's strictly unofficial, but in the future, if you like it... I can talk to some accountancy firm, and make it into a job, if you want. You don't have to if you don't wanna. But if you want to tell anyone that you're my manager, that probably sounds better than-"

"Than saying I'm your boyfriend?"

I fold my ears down, but continue as steadily as I can muster. "Better than saying you're out of work. I mean, you got to tell your mom something, right? She's probably going to ask. You're already the best person I know for this job. The only person for this job. Please say yes, dear, please."

I really hope I didn't say anything wrong. I know he's not out to his mother and I know she's curious about what will become of him. I just hope I didn't touch a nerve or anything. He's not mentioned anything for the longest while, and it's been liberating just keeping my head down and plan for the future without that hanging over me. But I know I have to confront it sooner rather than later. I hope I'll figure out something soon, when I've gotten my contracts out of the way, and found a place to race for. There's just too much on my mind. He considers my request for a moment.

"On one condition," he says and grinds close to me, planting a kiss on the side of my muzzle. "I get to have an office next to yours."

"Uhm, I don't have any office."

"I mean, can I keep staying with you, dumbass." He laughs.

Score one for Paul.

Reece

May 31st

I'm really enjoying my new job as Paul's personal assistant, with an emphasis on the ass. Now that we're living together, there seems to be no limit to the amount of sex he's managed to squeeze into his schedule, not to mention underneath my tail. He calls it 'part of his workout routine' and tells me to rate him on a scale of one to ten after each round. Lately he's gone back to score high eights and nines. I have to admit, I never imagined I'd get this much job satisfaction from my first actual job. Or that I'd have a career at all after university.

Teams are all offering themselves up on silver platters, and the figures they offer are frankly staggering. But whenever I tell him about them, he asks me not to contact them, and tells me to print out the contract offer. He's probably just taking his time, waiting for the right names to crop up, but I wish I knew exactly what he was thinking. He doesn't have all the time in the world to consider. Unfortunately, he doesn't have all the time in the world to explain his motives either. I keep forgetting to ask him, with all this new workload. Once there was an offer from an Australian racing team, and when I told him about it, he wondered what kind of car they drove. I mean, who cares? For the amount of money they offered, they might as well put him on a bicycle for all I care, as long as he wears a helmet and stays safe, of course.

This morning I received the official email from Whyllis Racing, with the legend "Termination of Contract". It had several attachments filled with dry legal stuff I couldn't get my head around, and a lot of hollow and dishonest well whishing. I'm tempted to call their offices and tear them a new one, just for being downright rude. I can speak as his manager now, and that lends weight to my words. But secretly, I'm happy. I print the papers out and read through them briefly. They symbolise the last ties with Paul's old team, who exploited him and treated him so badly. In the email attachments, I find a copy of the contract Paul was under since he first started, containing his handwriting, and signature. Perhaps I should frame it? Keep it as a reminder where he started from, even if it is embarrassing, or even painful to remember some parts of it? Like the cast I managed to convince him to pack into storage instead of keeping in the house. A reminder of something which couldn't break him. I print the old contract out, staple its pages together, and stack it on top of a bunch of other contract offers which he's asked me to print out. I'll ask him about it later. Maybe, since he's going to the gym, I'll have the time to read through it and see what they actually put in it. He's seeing a lawyer, he says, but he rarely talks about it. I'm guessing he's probably half asleep in those meetings, which I can't blame him for. This kind of work isn't so bad really, it's kind of interesting to me, but I can see how he would find it tedious. It's neither quick, nor particularly exciting.

He's changed a lot after our last fight, after his father talked to him. I don't know what they talked about. I've been reluctant to ask; one doesn't look a gift horse in the mouth. And anyways, asking means bringing up the memories of his mother, which even I would be reluctant to talk about. He's been happy lately. His exercises and diets are really helping, and he really picked up once he got used to seeing me beside him every morning. The sex has been amazing, too.

Though it's not very noticeable now, there's still an underlying strain between us. I have to be careful when we're outside together. I have to pretend I'm a friend or colleague. I have to keep my paws to myself, and never kiss him. If I want to compliment him, or tell him I love him, I have to whisper. I agreed to it all, because I love him. Because he's going to be swamped by the media as soon as they catch on to the fact that Whyllis Racing has lost its star driver. Because I don't want him to associate these little outings, which I adore, with fear and worry, and risk scaring him away. That's the hard part of this relationship; I didn't know it'd be so difficult.

As I go to drop another bunch of contract offers on the pile, I notice the inbox light up with a new message. It stopped doing that every other second, once I managed to work out how to filter fan mail into its own folder using the client's basic algorithm. But that means that the ones which get through, every few hours, usually require my attention. The mail is from the radio station KSST. They tell me, or rather, Paul, that they've set aside a primetime spot anywhere in the next week's schedule where he can talk about the crash. I swallow a lump in my throat and begin to type out the reply which I know he'll want me to write. But then I stop myself. Maybe he would want to go on the radio after all? He could still do it, if that's how he wants to do it. And he already has the job offers, so now he wouldn't have to worry about it. I'm almost certain I know what he'll say, but I want to hear what he thinks of it. I want to know if he's changed. Perhaps there's some of that old enthusiasm? Prime time means lots of attention, which I know he likes. He has a lot of adoring fans already, who will be listening. I'll be there with him, supporting him. He doesn't have to worry about anything really. His father's company seems to be doing well. His job offers are safe. He's no longer connected to Whyllis Racing.

I know bringing it up to him is going to lead into a discussion which might lead to an argument. But we could stand to have another argument about this. I'm happy for him. But I'm not quite as happy with him as I know I should, and it's eating me up. I can't just subject myself to this for ever.

"I've got some updates you might need to know," I tell him, as he's about to leave. "The radio station, KSST, they got back in touch, want to hear all about your crash. I can tell them that you're free Wednesday on the third, but you have to confirm. Prime time, Paul. Lots of listeners. This could really be it."

Paul scoops up the contract offers I've printed out for him, and looks wistful, curious and a bit mischievous. "Sounds like a good idea. Go ahead. I think I'm going to tell them how Whyllis ditched me while I was in hospital. I think the world needs to know about that. Those bastards are going to pay."

"Are you going to tell about... you know?"

He pauses and looks at me for a long time. God damn it, Paul. I just wanted a yes or no. Not any of that judgement I just know you're cooking up in your head. I can see him going back and forth even from where I'm standing, but I'm not so delusional as to think he's trying very hard to argue in my favour. He's replaying conversations we've had before, probably, or considering arguments with which to counter mine. Perhaps he's cooking up some scolding put-down. It feels like it's been an eternity when he speaks again.

"You really are diligent, aren't you," he says, with a smile and a shake of his head, but I can tell his eyes have grown serious, and they're not smiling along with his muzzle. "First, I lose my job with my team, so that I don't have to worry about being fired. And my dad cuts ties with them, so I don't have to worry about them cutting him out of the deal. Now suddenly the radio wants me on an even bigger spot. Kinda convenient, don't you think?"

"Are you honestly suggesting I set this up, Paul?" I ask, and I can't help my voice from sounding cold.

"I don't know, Reece," he returns quickly, "Are you?"

His suspicion stings me. It just hurts, there's no complicated justification. It's unfair. It's a slap across my muzzle which leaves me reeling.

"No!" I cry out defiantly. "The mail came just now, check it if you want. I just think it's going to be good for you to come out. Good for us."

I want to stand my ground but he's looking at me with those eyes. He's looking past mine, into my soul.

"I'm sure the publicity would be massive," he says shortly. "Let me take care of this Reece, Okay? I've got a few things to prepare before that."

His voice is quick and dismissive, and permeated with the potential for a massive argument which he doesn't want to take the time out to have. My ears are folded back. I know he's not mad at me per say, but I feel as if he just shouted at me. He's annoyed, and even I can tell from his scent. Which means he can clearly smell my own annoyance and hurt feelings.

"Take care of it, hmpf," I mutter to myself when the door closes behind him. Petty, I know. A weaker soul might have argued more fiercely. But I know he doesn't respond well to arguments. He needs to feel it, himself. He needs to feel like something is at risk, and right now, with all the contract offers, me living in his house, and his exercise and diet bringing him back to his spritely self, he probably feels like he's got everything he could ask for.

Loving Paul is the only thing I can do anymore. He's taken over every other wish I had, and well... I'd hoped he'd take that a little bit less for granted. Why can't he see that this means a lot to me? Do I have to demonstrate? Well, I'm about to. I call mom, because I've been holding it off. I have something to show for the month I asked of them. And I've gone ten days over that deadline because I've been worried. But I'm nearing my limit. I need to prove a point.

"Reece, how nice to hear from you again," Mom thrills over the phone after a few rings. My tail doesn't wag, but my ears twitch at the familiar sound, unchanged to my ears for as long as I can remember. She's always sounded the same to me, and yet, I can barely stand to hear that sound now. There's no comfort to be found in her voice. It might be the last time I hear from her.

"Hey mom," I say, my heart beating like crazy. I take a seat and pull my short tail into my lap. "Do you have time to talk?"

"Sure, dear," She says, and in the background, I hear the creaking of the old comfy chair which is usually dad's favourite spot. "What's on your mind?"

"I thought I'd tell you what I've figured out, with the school and apartment and everything."

"Oh?"

I have to come up with this shit myself, and I'm all alone. God, I wish Paul hadn't left. I don't know if I can do this. But I should be able to, if I expect him to manage it. I'll show him just how tough I can be. How brave I can be without him. I know that's ironic, coming from me now, where I stand in his apartment, in front of his desk and PC which he bought me. But despite the security which I feel all around me, this is not easy.

"I've moved out of the apartment," I begin, slowly. "You can go ahead and cancel the lease or whatever."

"Where are you living now?"

"With a friend," I say, my learned behaviour momentarily distracting me from why I called, but I stop myself. I feel tears well up behind my eyes, as I prepare to risk it all. "Actually, he's not a friend."

"I don't understand, Reece."

"I'm staying with my boyfriend."

The silence seems to go on forever. What have I done? What have I just gotten myself into?

"What."

It's not formulated as a question.

"I've... I'm gay, mom," I stammer. I have to use all the willpower I have to resist saying sorry.

"Reece... If this is how you kids joke around, let me just tell you I don't appreciate it."

"Mom, I'm not-"

"Because if you're not joking-"

"I'm telling the truth."

There's another long pause. "When were you going to tell us? How long has this been going on? How-"

"Mom, please..." I feel my voice cracking. "Please don't be mad. I've been dealing with a lot, and I don't know if I could take it just now."

"Mad? Do I sound mad?" She exclaims, voice increasing in volume. Another long pause separates us even further. Better get it all out, now that I've started it.

"I've been gay since I was a pup, but I only knew since I was thirteen. From there, nothing much happened. Then I met Paul Courage. Remember the racing driver at the track? That's... He's my boyfriend. We've been together for a few months now, and I'm living at his place."

"Oh my god."

Damn it, can you just tell me you hate me already? Don't leave me hoping.

"So yeah, Mom. Sorry I couldn't tell you in person. But-"

"But, Reece," She says, her voice seems thinner. "What about pups?"

"Pups?" I almost laugh.

"Yes, Reece. I'm being serious," She says. "Look. I'm fine with you being... you... Congratulations, dear. I love you, but what about your family? What about the line?"

"I can have pups, mom," I groan, embarrassed but slightly relieved. "I'm not infertile... They'll just have two dads."

"I'm not following," Mom says, and I think she's being honest. "Can you raise them with another male?"

"Yes, mom," I mumble, slightly annoyed.

"And you can have them with another dalmatian?"

"Where else would dalmatians come from?" I say, sarcastically. I'm honestly not sure what Paul thinks of cubs, or pups. I'm definitely not bringing that into the mix just now. If I wanted to scare him away, that'd be the way to do it. But I have to get the talk out of the way with mom so that she won't ask him like dad did. God, that'd be just great.

"Honestly. Is that what you're worried about? Me having pups? What about my happiness?"

"We're scattered, us dalmatians," She says from the other side. "I'll always love you for who you are. I'm just looking out for you, dear. I think you'd do well with pups and... and I think perhaps we should meet this Paul again, and have a proper talk with you both, okay?"

"I guess, mom," I say. I don't know how to answer her question to come and meet him. It's too much all at once, and I'm relieved, but my body seems to think I should cry now. So that's what I do. Shakily, I manage to summon my voice. "I have to go, mom. Sorry. Busy day. Thanks."

I hang up and let my tears flow, but even so, I can't help but smiling. She'll call me up again, maybe later today, maybe tomorrow. I won't have an answer for her, then either. But the worst is over. I can't believe it went that well. I'd almost want more parents, so I could come out again, just to feel that rush of relief and feel that everything was actually heading in the right direction, because despite all the progress in Paul's life and career lately, I don't get that feeling very often. See how easy that was, Paul? I did it all by myself, and save from some embarrassing questions, I made it unscathed. That's how you show off, Paul. That's how it's done. I wish he'd seen me.

June 3rd

Radio KSST is based in a single-story square building with a faded red brick facia. It's got a big neon sign on the roof, but other than that, it looks like any downtown community centre or public building in a poor or rural neighbourhood. Paul pulls up outside and parks neatly between a beaten-up van with the radio's logo, and a station wagon.

While we drove down, he refused to answer any of my questions, and I couldn't help becoming more and more annoyed with him, which I know he knows. He did concede that it was sweet that I came out to mom. He even bought me a coffee and said I could have the day off, but it doesn't sound like he's figured out the connection I intended for him to make, and it doesn't feel like he's going to do anything like that himself.

He says he's taken care of a lot of things; he says he's got it all under control, and he says he doesn't want me to pep talk him before the interview, because he's got something prepared. I still feel meek and emotionally exhausted from yesterday, and I don't want to talk more about this interview anyways, in case he gets more worked up. I'll let him talk and hope for the best outcome. Then I'll deal with the fallout later.

Once we get inside, Paul is ushered towards the studio away from me, constantly coached by a small weasel lady half-running beside him. Everything happens so fast that I can't process it, and suddenly, I'm in a small room with a couch and television, which I'm guessing is the green room. On the screen, there is a camera feed from inside the studio with sound. The rest of the building is completely radio silent. I can't even get a phone signal in here. There's a Wi-Fi, but there's nobody around to ask for the password. So, I put my phone back in my pocket, focus on the white wolf on the television screen and try to keep my expectations grounded.

"Aaaand welcome back, those were our sponsors, please check them out. It's a wonderful day here in Safewell springs, you're listening to KSST, Kenwood, Safewell Springs and Transacota Talk radio. We hope you're all having a great day, if you're going to work, coming from work, or just relaxing and doing your own thing. Hopefully, you have a better time at work than my next guest had. That's right, folks, I'm joined in the studio by local racing hero Paul Courage. I think we can all agree, you've had some bad few weeks lately. Isn't that right, Mr. Courage?"

The radio announcer rattles it off as if it was a single sentence. You don't usually notice just how seamless live banter is, but it's hard to keep up with when I'm so intently focused on every single word he says. To my surprise, Paul can almost mirror this radio patter perfectly.

"That's true, Trev, I've had better days." He laughs casually, not enough to upset the flow of the conversation, but enough to suggest to the audience that he's completely at peace. "I've just gotten out of my cast and I'm now ready to race again. It's been tough, let me tell ya'."

"That's good to hear, Paul, that's great, and how has the team been doing without you?"

"What team?" Paul responds calmly, making the host jump slightly.

"Eh, I was given to understand you race for Whyllis Racing, is that not so?" The poor radio host stumbles out of the gate but carries on at the same pace as before.

"I would love to tell you that that was the case. It is unfortunately not. Vincent Whyllis altered the terms of my contract while I was in hospital with broken ribs and a broken leg. Then, as I got out of the hospital, he fired me. That's the price of failure at Whyllis racing."

There's a second of hesitation from the host. He looks to his producer, who shrugs.

"They fired you?"

"They sure did Trev. I was not able to move, I had three broken ribs and a massive cast on my leg! Can you believe that they would do that to their oldest, most experienced driver? I was winning races for them up until my accident."

"I am astonished. I'd love to hear what Whyllis would have to say for himself."

"Oh, I'm sure I know exactly what Whyllis have to say for himself, Trev," Paul smiles at the host, who looks uncertainly between him and the producer lady. Before they can decide whether or not this could get litigious, Paul continues. "I'm betting they'll say anything to discredit me now, so keep an eye on the papers. Hopefully, the good listeners of KSST will understand what dishonest businessmen I believe Vincent Whyllis, and his son Walter Whyllis are."

Oh god. He's got a flow going, and I almost can't contain myself. I don't care if I have to answer a million angry conservative emails, say it, Paul, say it. You've got them reeling and the floor is yours, maestro. Perform.

"Holy moly, Paul," Trev says in that tone he probably uses with batshit callers who complain that the earth is flat or something. "You sound like you've got some scores to settle with the old boss."

"He took my job, Trev. He's just the kind of guy America despises. I work hard, I do well in my job. I was the victim of an accident, and suddenly I'm worthless to him? How can he justify that?"

Paul's grievances run deep, and he's going to be heard, because his story is real. There is probably a lot of people listening who've been fired for getting in an accident. He's causing such a stir that it might even make the news. I can't help but think that there are also people who struggle with who they are and who they love, who need someone they can look up to. Paul could do something big here. He could just be true to himself. Or he could be himself.

Through the stunned silence, there's a faint whisper behind the mic, an urgent voice directed at Paul. I can see Trev leaning over his mixing table, making gestures to Paul.

"I'm sorry Trev, that was a bit harsh, you're right," Paul concedes after a few seconds, "but I stand by my words. My father came over from Australia when I was just a cub. He had a business, and he ran that business well. He never cheated anyone and paid his taxes fair and square. Many of your listeners probably have Courage Performance products in their cars, and know what sort of solid, honest businessman I'm talking about. I wanted to follow in his footsteps, and work my way to the top, The American dream, you know, but then in comes this dishonest, scheming, profiteering-"

He's suddenly cut off. I can see his muzzle moving, but the light on his mic is off, and the producer lady is frantically pointing and talking to her subordinates.

"Paul, I'm afraid that's all we have time for," Trev suddenly says, loud and clear. "Thank you so much for joining us. I'm sure Mr. Whyllis won't, but we appreciate your company!"

Trev's uneasy laugh comes across again. Soon enough, bland rock starts up over the speakers in the little room. I'm pretty sure he wasn't ever going to do it. I knew that from the start. But man, he keeps getting all these amazing chances, chances which I'd have jumped on if I were him, and he keeps letting them slip between his fingers. What is he doing, stalling like this? He knows damn well I'm not about to forget about it.

When he gets back, I can see him smile. I don't understand why, the Whyllis family will go apeshit for that. Does this mean he's already come out? They are not going to let something like that slip, I'm sure. We'll be lucky if they only sue us. What if Walt isn't generous enough to simply out him? Am I going to have to check the bushes outside our apartment for angry wolves with baseball bats?

"See, this is why I want you to explain shit to me, Paul," I say before he can open his muzzle. "You just got us in a heap of trouble, and you couldn't even-"

"I'll explain in the car," he says shortly. Then he claps a paw to his thigh, like I was meant to come heel. The fucking cheek of him. I growl slightly, under my breath. I'm still annoyed with him, but curiosity gets the better of me. I remind myself what I've told myself. Let him talk and deal with the fallout later. I'll let him explain himself. His life, not mine. Unless we're talking about my job, which is going to be more stimulating now that he's made such a spectacle. There's going to be a spike in difficult emails which he doesn't have to think about.

I can barely close the door behind me before Paul starts up. His enthusiasm is measured at first, but he's getting more and more excited.

"It was my lawyer's idea," he tells me, "Well, not the radio thing, that was just for me. But listen to this Reece..." His tail is tapping against the footwell behind his seat, his fingers are drumming the steering wheel while he's driving, and he nods along with the music. He's tuned to KSST but turns it down when he begins to talk. "I brought all the offers you printed out, but in among them, we discovered my old contract. My lawyer noticed something strange about it. Turns out that contract has some issues, to say the least. They've been underpaying me, misinforming about my rights, and the way they broke the contract was a breach of the law! We threatened with a lawsuit."

"But, Paul, I-"

"Don't worry, my lawyer fixed it all. They agreed to pay a pretty fucking big sum for this to go away. That old crook is too concerned with his image by half. I let them get away on two conditions."

"Uh," I hesitate, barely overcoming my confusion and annoyance, "and... those conditions were?"

"One, that if they so much as utter my name in an attempt to slander, smear, or otherwise publicly affect my image, they will be slapped so hard with they'll be bankrupt before you know it, and two. They or any other affiliates stay at least 6000 miles away from me at any time."

"6000 miles?" I exclaim. "That's bull, there's no way anyone can enforce that."

"I was kinda' joking about that. The agreement actually entails that they won't do any business or have any racing teams in Australia."

"Australia?"

"Which is where I'm going to be racing next season!"

Stunned, I sit in silence for a long time.

"So, you already accepted a contract without telling me? You went through all that without telling me? Your manager. Me... Your... you-"

"I'm telling you now, aren't I?" He says, placing a paw on my thigh. "Surprise, sweetie."

My ears droop a little. I feel my tail droop too. My body sinks just a bit further into the seat, and I let him rest his paw there.

That night Paul can't stop his tail from wagging. He's browsing houses in Australia, and those houses have large price tags. But he doesn't care. He has a seven-digit bank account. How nice it must feel.

I don't care about the money, that much. It'd be a lie if I said I didn't care at all. Who doesn't these days? I'm happy for him, I'm happy for us. I won't be a burden on him. But damn, if he isn't starting to become a burden on me. I expected more. I expected him to not find a way to weasel out of this opportunity too. He's had more chances to make this right than I care to mention. I left him to his own devices and thought he knew what was needed to keep me in his life, but he did something completely different. Something I hadn't thought of. Something that allowed him to avoid coming out, kicked his old boss in the shins and still won him a huge sum of money. He's got a guarantee that his former rival won't come back to kick his ass or spread his secrets. He knows I'm not going anywhere, and he knows I'm reluctant and hesitant to push him to do something he doesn't want, especially when it's this big. He's won.

So here I am, feeling miserable. Like I'm a bad boyfriend for not just accepting the situation and supporting him. Why should he even risk it, right? We can celebrate thanksgiving apart, and Christmases alone. I can lie and say I'm single to my extended family, and he can lie and tell his dad he's not found the right girl yet. I can see him on weekends so long as the media doesn't know, and on television, occasionally, where I'll see him having an arm around a pit girl or some fan and try not to think that it could've been me. I can let him race and do whatever he wants to do, and what keeps the money coming in. I can hide away and be his private little fuck-toy, and he can go out and be seen by all the world as the guy who worked his way to the top all on his own. Hopefully he'll be out a lot, so that he doesn't see my tears, because he doesn't like the thought of me crying or being miserable. I'm not paying attention to his stupid house hunt. I've had enough. I have one requirement for this relationship to work. One. And he's constantly been avoiding it even after I've done everything I could.

"What are you thinking about, Spot?" he asks, completely deaf to my simmering, building frustration. "You don't like Hunter Valley? Perhaps you're more of a Harbour kinda' guy, eh? Or what about a penthouse?"

"I don't give a fuck about your god damn house, Paul," I snap. "I want to know what you're going to do next."

"Next?" he asks, his ears splayed. "What do you mean? we're going to Australia."

"Oh, for crying out loud, Paul," I almost shout at him, my patience bursting. "When are you going to tell people?"

"What do you mean? I solved it; I can just focus on my racing!"

"You solved everything else, and Paul, That's great! I'm happy for you. I just wanted you to- "

"You just wish it was your doing. You wanted to be the one who made me come out?"

"Okay, ouch," I say, frowning.

"Don't be coy, it was totally all over your face in the car," he fires back. "You wanted to change me. You've wanted that since we met, and I can't understand why. I honestly can't. I fell in love with you for who you were. I thought you did too."

"I didn't want to change you, Paul. I wanted you to admit who you are to others."

"And that's not changing? The few people I have left in my life... You're trying to get me to risk losing them?"

"That's an unfair accusation-"

"No, actually, I'll tell you what's unfair. This. All of this shit. Reece, they don't deserve us. Let's leave this place. Come with me to Australia, everything will be better there. I swear!"

I sigh and turn away from him, roll over to the edge of the bed, and sit up.

"Paul, seriously, you're doing it again. You're trying to distract from the real issue here. You're just running away."

"What issue? Your issues?"

"Yes, my issue," I growl, wounded. I'm too annoyed to even cry. "You promised-"

"I didn't promise, I said I was going to consider it. And now I have. Why are you being so stuck up?"

"Stuck up?" I can't believe he said that. "I'm being stuck up. Am I in the wrong for finally having a boyfriend I'm so devoted to that I'd want to show him to the world? Or just my parents? My friends? I want to go to restaurants, and movies, and I want you to come with, and be happy to share in this relationship we had... have still. I'm in the wrong because I want to tell everybody how much I love you, and how proud I am? Is that so much to ask?"

"Yeah. It is much to ask," he sighs. "Reece, I love you. But I can't-"

I get up from the bed and start pulling my pants and sweater on. I'm not interested in another excuse.

"Hey, Reece, wait up," Paul calls to me, but he doesn't shift from underneath his laptop. "Listen, Reece... Hey, don't... you said you wouldn't leave-"

"You're just doing all the things you like. The easy things, all the things that mean you can feel good about yourself and just ignore who you are. But what about me?"

"I'm giving you all this!" he waves at his screen. "I'm prepared to spend millions so that we can have a life together, what the hell are you talking about!"

"You know what I'm talking about Paul," I say, letting all my anger into that sentence. "That's not a life, Paul. I don't want a life in hiding, with you or without you. I thought I made that clear. I came out to my parents, not because it's a law for gay people to come out, but because I finally had a boyfriend who I was proud of. Someone I wanted to show to everyone and say 'hey, see how lucky I am'. I don't want to go back inside. I don't want to run away. I'm not going to leave everyone I care about behind, if that's all I get in return. Living alone and secluded in a big-ass house with nobody around but the fucking garden flamingos."

All the pain I've felt these last few months erupt, directed at him. At my boyfriend. I pant. This talk feels more like a battle with my own emotions. I can't not say what I need to say anymore. If he doesn't listen now, he never will.

"You don't want to come with me?" Paul says, his voice breaking into a pathetic, sad whine.

"Paul, listen to me, for the love of god." My voice feels raw. I'm pleading with him to understand, because if he doesn't... "You have to take a long, hard look at yourself. Think about what you have and think about what you're willing to do to keep it. I'll go wherever you want me to, Paul, but I need to know that it'll be a good place for me. If I'm not happy... I'm not sure I could go. Think about that, Paul. Think about what your boyfriend feels that would make him say these things. I need some air, I'm going out."

And with that, I leave.