Shard~ Chapters 1 and 2
This story begins in Exeter, Devon, UK.
Chapter 1
"Aren't you going to leave your key?"
Dakota's hand caught the doorframe reflexively, and he stopped suddenly. A shiver raced down his spine, amber eyes gazing at the concrete landing before him; gazing, but not seeing. It gave him a bit of a dizzy turn, to stop so soon after moving so quickly.
The words echoed in his head, carrying hidden and awful meanings that he hadn't intended. To stop so soon. After...
Running away.
I'm not running away. I'm not.
His mouth was dry, his long canine ears flicked back halfway, his tail had gone from idle lashing to curling down near his ankles. He swallowed in an attempt to draw up moisture, an attempt which failed even worse than he thought it might.
He endeavoured to speak. "I..."
"I mean, I know you wouldn't think to come back. Likely you forgot. But still, I do feel a bit safer with one less key to my apartment out in the world." The other male spoke casually, conversationally, with even a tinge of humour in the last sentence. Dakota could hear him over at the table, drinking his morning coffee, where the wolf hadn't even thought to look in his m-NOT a mad dash-outside. He didn't turn his head, for he didn't think he was able to meet the other's eyes, but he knew what he would see in any case. The soft slant of midmorning sunlight would light a clean, shining strip across the gleaming kitchen counter, pale shadows tracing across the tile and adorning the toaster oven. The floor would intervene and catch a small section that was tossed chaotically amongst the legs and crossbars of the table and chairs, and then the sunlight would cross the table, a bright line on beaten Formica. There would be that slight shadow as it caught the corner of the inevitable newspaper, dimming as it rounded the curve of the surface, then brightening once more, illuminating crisp serifs and grainy images. Then it would touch base with the table for the merest moment, casting a slight line of shadow, before tracing its way up shining white porcelain and over a lip no longer brimming, over the earthy surface that lay still and permeated the room with its enriching smell. He didn't need to look to see that image, it was engraved in his mind, and would be until the day he died.
"I didn't think you'd be awake," he said, softly, voice a shell nearly broken. His mate's scent hung about the whole apartment. The wolf could smell him. He could...
"Was I in bed when you left the room?" The lupine could hear the sceptical tone in his voice, could see in his mind's eye the other's half-on fisheyed look, eyebrows quirked in the way he himself never could quite manage. Sitting kicked back with his chair against the wall, feet on the table, talking to his friend and paying no heed to the newspaper he had no doubt been engrossed in moments before.
"I didn't think to look..." he admitted. Admitted that he hadn't looked for his mate. At all. His tail drooped ever-so-slightly. Was it the first time he'd done that? Today? Then?
No...
The wolf's eyes raked the dirty street outside, searching out streaks of sand left from winter, windblown paper bags, discarded beer bottle shards. A rough swallow brought no relief to his dry throat, a soft breeze no relief to his tortured countenance. "I... I'm not coming back. I can promise that."
"Running away, then?" There was a chuckle.
"I'm not!" Dakota's voice broke, shattered at last; he choked, and the tears came so fast he couldn't hold them back as he always had. He couldn't. He couldn't do it. He couldn't leave. Teardrops struck his shirt, the doorjam, and he made no move to stem their source, having no strength for it.
After all, how many times had he tried? To stop? To leave?
After time, it got to be...
Forever.
His ears hung and his tail curled between his legs. His shoulders trembled slightly; his entire posture was weak, as if he might fall. Collapse. As if he might completely fall apart, might...
"Dakota..." He heard the other take a drink from his beloved chipped mug, not to be used for anything but that first cup of coffee. The chink as it met the table, clear as a bell. The image of the sun glinting on brown fur raced through his mind's eye. "I'm going to be frank with you. If living here makes you cry like that... Then just go."
"I c-can't! I can't do it!!"
"You know I hate to see you cry, Ducky..."
Wouldn't a passer-by have thought it odd? To see a young lupine man, a rather attractive one at that, standing in his doorway in the morning and crying fit to soften the most jaded of hearts?
"Ducky-boy... If you want to get away from me... If I make you cry..." There was something in his voice. Something the wolf had had nightmares about hearing.
"NO!! No, no, I would never, I..." Dakota stared through blurry eyes at the steps leading down to the pavement.
The other male had nothing to say now, there was just quiet, the distant sound of cars on the motorway and the fresh, cool feel of the air coming in from the outside. Cool air on his cheeks, hot tears running down them. Turning cold as the breeze chilled them. Icy like what lie inside him, burning as they dripped from the tips of his fur...
"I... can't do it. I can't. I just can't." Dakota took a faltering step back, made to shut the door.
"Dakota..."
He paused, staring at the floor, staring at his feet, clad in running shoes tied neatly and set together primly, innocently. Like someone a quarter his age.
"Ducky... it's been three years, now."
Silence.
"You can't spend the rest of your life like this. You know that."
"I..."
"I don't want you to live like this. I never did."
"I..."
"Ducky, I love you."
And the last shred of his control was now gone, just gone. He was crying harder than he ever had, since that day three years ago. The wolf sank to his knees in the doorway, slid down the frame and curled up, knees drawing up to his face, tail wrapping around himself. Soft sounds of despair broke the silence. He had never felt like this. So utterly dejected, so alone, so agonised, so completely unconcerned with whether he would even live until tomorrow. Not even then had he felt so... worthless. Regret, sorrow, and agony were no strangers to him, but such an aching feeling of lack, of something torn apart and stitched back together, with only the jagged edges showing...
The other male would be watching him, one hand gingerly gripping his mug, the other on his knee, the tension of motion lining his form, but forestalled into uncomfortable hesitation and anguish.
"I... don't want you to be unhappy. I don't want you to suffer. I want you to be you. And..." A deep, shuddering breath. "I know that I'm the reason you've been like this, but--"
"D-don't... Don't b-blame yourself..." Dakota managed. What might that passer-by have thought now?
He heard the other male smile a little, anxiously. "Don't you blame yourself, either."
There was quiet beyond the wolf's broken sobbing. His ears had lost any semblance of rigidity, flopped down like a common mutt's; his tail curled so much it bristled and trembled a little. His arms clung tightly around his legs, and the tears which soaked into his jeans did not slow or fade away, like drops of poison oozing from a festering wound, scarring everything they touched.
"I... guess what I'm trying to say is... However you manage it... please get back. Get back to the way you were... Because I do love you still, and I'm not proud to say I ever did anything to... ruin you, like this... So, just, get better, whatever the cost... Before... this... starts to define you."
He heard his mate swallow. "And if..." It was obvious from his tone what he was thinking, his voice shook slightly, and from somewhere in him a deep strength came to steady it, guide the words out as they were meant to be said.
"If... if you ever find... someone else... I want you to be happy. I don't want you to be alone, because you're never happy alone, and... since we can't be together anymore... I want you to find someone... Someone who can make you happy, the way I did..."
Dakota struggled to find his lost control, somewhere buried in the depths of his ruined sense of self. "No one... could ever replace you..."
"Don't say that..." the other male said, and his tone was not reproving or amused, or even flattered, just soft, quietly sad.
Dakota raised his head slowly, looked at the opposite side of the doorframe, and for a long moment simply considered it, a few tears still making their inexorable way down to stain his clothes and his conscience. "Where... do I go?"
"Wherever feels like a fresh start."
"What... do I do?"
"Get a job, first." Somehow, his voice managed to find a smile, a joking tone. "You can't live off your savings forever. Oh, yeah... What savings? They proved finite rather faster than you always claimed, Ducky-boy..."
Dakota tried to smile as he recalled the old joust, but it wasn't funny now. All it did was bring up a wave of nostalgia, less painful than the regret, and one more tear. His tail slowly uncoiled from around him, and he swallowed hard, feeling shaken, empty.
"I don't have any friends, anymore..."
"And you had best fix that damn soon, mate," the other male said sternly. "Or I'm going to be quite upset with you."
"...How can I fix..."
"Well..." his mate's tone softened. "I guess... That's something you'll have to relearn for yourself. I'm sorry."
Dakota pawed at his face; his fur was wet and mussed. He licked his nose slowly. "I'm done crying now," he announced, not knowing quite why.
"Good," he heard. Slowly, he dragged himself to his feet.
"I... still don't know if I can do this..."
"Start by getting rid of that silly key."
Dakota swallowed hard, and slowly drew the apartment key out of his pocket. Looking at it... brought back a lot which he hadn't thought of in years, having rarely used it since that day. Plain metal, with a stepped diamond head and a triangular hole in the top... His mate had given it to him a long time ago, it seemed, on another day very special to both of them. It had grown shiny from sliding in and out of his pocket, grubby around the top from where the keyring had shielded it, and bronzed along the blade from countless tugs and presses in its lock. It had begun to need a bit of a jiggle, the last few times he'd used it; the teeth had worn to nubs. It no longer lay on its ring.
Many times, that key had let him in late at night, to find warmth and light and his mate up waiting to make sure he got home safe. Many times, they had stumbled home together drunker than hell, both laughing like idiots and trying to get the bloody thing pointed the right way, in, and turned, at the same time. Many times had he looked at it and thanked god that they were together, that... That he had someone... and not just someone, this one...
Had to stop thinking like that, or he'd be crying for another twenty minutes. And he had said... Had promised...
It clattered when it hit the linoleum, fell with the handle inward so that the straight piece of the key pointed right at the open door. Then it lay horribly still.
"Now... what?"
"Now walk out the door."
"I..."
"Only just out the door. Just take it one step at a time." The other took another drink of his coffee. Dakota could hear the echo of his breath in the mug, it was so quiet. "Do you remember?" he asked, that smile in his voice again. "We did it every day for the longest time. You first, and I'd kiss you and you'd go, and then-"
"That's not helping!" Dakota snapped, tears welling again. He'd promised...
The other male flinched, it was evident in his voice, and there was the first silence that was tense. "I... sorry. I forgot, for a second."
"No... wait, I-" The wolf finally looked toward the table, where his mate always sat, every morning, drinking his coffee.
The sunlight filtered through a dingy window and lit upon the motes of dust which floated in the air, making only dull glows appear on a countertop spattered with grease and piled with plates unwashed. On the dusty tabletop, a yellowing newspaper lay, pages curling and ink fading where the sun had once graced its front page in full glory, several years ago. On the floor lay the shards of white porcelain that no one had ever cleaned up, the sticky stain of a half a cup of coffee that had been cold when it met the floor. The chair stood empty. There was no one there.
Dakota gave a shuddering sigh. "E... Ethan?"
Silence was all that answered him. Nothing. Nothing at all.
"Ethan..."
He had been talking to himself, hearing a memory and imagining a terribly familiar voice. That was all. Ethan... was long gone.
He turned slowly, looked at the key, lying innocently on the floor, then to where it pointed. Out the door, onto the street lined with run-down buildings, touched with cleaner sunlight, given a fresh cast of strange beauty.
One step at a time...
He took a step, and he was at the door's threshold again. There were no passers-by to see this poor creature, running away to find himself again. No one had seen his dejection, his evident past. His insanity.
Another step, and he was on the small square porch, little more than a raised path between the stairs and the door. The door shut with a soft thud and a click behind him. He hadn't looked back for one last glimpse. All he would have seen was his key and Ethan's chair, empty, so empty, the remains of the last newspaper he had read, the shards of the mug he had flung on that day... that day...
One step at a time. Down the stairs, four plus a half-step at the bottom where the pavement had settled. His jeans were wet about the knees, to match the streaks on his face, the patches on his shirt, the spots on the concrete, but he didn't care.
Turn left. Turn left and don't look back. There's nothing there. Nothing... and no one. Anymore. He set off down the block, and no desire to turn his head entered his thoughts.
One step at a time...
He hadn't been himself, for the last three years. That, he could confess to himself. He'd been something hidden deep inside, something released when all else holding it at bay had been devastatingly crushed by a simple, brutal fact. His steps carried him down the street in a stumbling, halting manner, tail low and ears limp, and in his mind he made the first effort since that day to shut it away. He could not regret the three years he'd spent wallowing in his own despair, not yet. Regret was an emotion he had sorely overused in that time; all where it once lay, so close to him, was stark and blank. But he swallowed, and as he regarded the sunlight striking the tops of midrise flats and small offices, a man three years dead left his place in the front of the wolf's mind, and he thought, with the slimmest, wryest, most bitter semismile, that the sunlight was beautiful to behold.
Chapter 2
Time Passed: 2 hours
It was a whirlwind of time which picked him up, flinging him hither and thither through the reaches of the world as he knew it. He didn't know, for a while, where he was supposed to go, and yet he found himself walking there, and when he arrived, he knew.
Wherever feels like a fresh start...
Maybe it's best to begin knowing nothing...
He stood at the ticket counter.
"And what was your destination, sir?" the female crocodile asked, typing away at her computer.
"What do you have?" Dakota asked quietly.
She gave him a look. "I'll see what I can get you for wherever you're going... ?" The end of the sentence was raised as a question, and the slight tone in her voice made him cringe inwardly.
"I'll take the first transcontinental flight you have that's got a free seat. Doesn't matter where."
She gave him a searching, aggravated look. "Maybe you should speak with our Travel personnel..."
"I don't want a travel agent," the wolf said.
"Sir, if you don't have a specific ticket to purchase, I'm going to have to ask that you--"
To Dakota's surprise, she was cut off by someone standing behind him. "Hey, wolf, how's Toronto suit you?"
He turned. Behind him stood a lizard who looked even younger than himself, barely beyond his teenage years, with a shock of peroxide blond hair that seemed to spring automatically into a mohawk; he didn't seem to use anything in it, judging from how it fwooshed when he moved. His scales were an interesting mosaic of periwinkle blue rimmed with mint green, lightening and darkening with the contours of his scrawny frame. His large eyes were softly lavender, and earnest, the youngest part of him. He had a complex scent, rather like something between almonds and peaches, mellow but still sweet, with a hint of salt atypical of a reptile.
The lizard grinned. "I know there's an empty seat right next to me, I've been checking all week because I hate sitting by the window." He edged up next to the wolf. His voice was sharp and light, and he had a pronounced accent. "Flight 3401 to Toronto, row 36, seat B," he said to the woman behind the counter.
Seeming very off-put, she keyed something in slowly. "That seat is free," she said, somewhat begrudgingly. "It's economy class. Rates are at 997 pounds, today."
Dakota swallowed, handing the woman his credit card. Well, that pretty much cleaned out his savings. He was lucky he'd been able to afford it at all.
"And what did you want?" the counter-woman asked of the lizard, rather rudely.
"I was just going to make sure the seat next to me was still open, but I think I have my answer now. Bye!" He strolled off, Dakota following, leaving her not a little irritated.
The two young men presented an unusual picture, strolling down the concourse. The lizard might have seemed slightly odd no matter whose company he kept, for his vibrant colouration and three large carry-ons. But the somewhat scruffy wolf, who had no baggage with him, made the whole of the group decidedly strange. They got a few stares, at the least, and a few gawks, at the most.
"So what's your beef?" the lizard asked, companionably. "Not minding my asking, it's not too typical to run up to the counter and ask what they have available. Like, anywhere."
Dakota considered how best to answer the question. "Just... looking for somewhere to start over, I guess."
The lizard smiled knowingly, an awkward expression on his young face. "Past catching up to you?"
"More like fighting my way free."
The lizard nodded and did not pry further, and the two walked in companionable silence to the gate, before he said, "Oh, pardon me, I'm Seymoure. Seymoure Phillips."
"Dakota Warren. You sound rather like you're going home, with that accent."
Seymoure nodded with a grin. "Yeah, that's about right. I used to live here, when I was really small, but we moved outside of Toronto before I can really remember. Dad was big on me coming back here for college, though, so that's what I did." The lizard stopped talking in a rather abrupt way, looking somewhat sheepish.
"What school?"
"University of Exeter, but down at Tremough."
The two sat next to each other outside the gate, and continued the ritual of small talk. Dakota found it easy, in a numb, automatic sort of way. His voice hadn't suffered any permanent damage from years of inconstant use, at least. And yet, it sounded different, much cooler, and somehow damp.
Seymoure spoke in a stilted, shy manner that was characterised by bursts of chattering information, followed by awkward silences as he realised he was babbling. Dakota couldn't say he minded. It was easier to speak on autopilot in the silences, and drift through the words, without having to think. He wondered if he could even handle a real conversation any more.
At length, they boarded the plane, and Dakota took the seat by the window. Feeling somewhat jumpy, he inquired, "A-are you scared of flying, Mister Phillips?"
Seymoure tossed him a mildly annoyed look. "No. I just don't like being blinded by the sun."
Realising how he'd sounded, Dakota tried to draw himself back into the present. "Sorry. I didn't mean... I've just never flown before."
"Oh." Seymoure began digging in the carry-on bag under his seat, extracting a notebook and pen. "It's not too bad. I don't think, anyway. Turbulence is fun. Not. But other than that." Crossing his legs, he set the tip of his pen to the page, then looked up to catch the wolf watching him with curiosity. Embarrassed, Dakota looked away.
"I'm writing a letter to my sister. She'll want to know that I'm back from uni," he said, answering the wolf's unspoken question. He grinned, then. "If I don't send it off from the airport the moment I get there, she'll be angry with me later..."
There was a soft doong, and the seatbelt light lit up cheerily. A female flight attendant came on and informed the passengers of the plane's destination, projected flight time, and other information, such as the lunch menu. Dakota looked out the window again, and didn't realise how tightly he was gripping the armrest until his claws sent lances of pain up his digits.
Scritches from beside him told him that Seymoure had taken to his writing. He watched the tarmac slide past lazily as the plane taxied onto the runway.
What was he doing? Dashing away across the ocean to...
To what? To get away from his past?
To get away from Ethan.
To get away from himself.
The runway queue must have been short, because they were accelerating nearly before he realised they had reached it. Seymoure stuck his pen and notebook between his legs and uncrossed them, looking up as the plane tilted back and the turbofans whined with ever-increasing pitch.
Dakota looked out the window once more, seeing the fields around the airport flashing past, then glanced forward again, feeling gravity pressing back against his face with mounting force. His heart thudded furiously; sweat broke out down his spine and on the backs of his paws, clenched around the fronts of the armrests, forearms pressed hard to their tops. Christ, was this how they got the bloody things in the air? He'd never imagined it would feel so much like a train wreck. Or be so loud; he could hardly hear himself think!
His eyes darted out the window again - bloody hell, how fast were they going to go? Were they even going to get off the ground before the end of the runway, before the grass and uneven ground which would send the plane into a skid, a tumble, a fiery, disintegrating dervish of deceleration? Would people even realise if something was wrong? Would anyone scream? Would there even be time?
There was a chilling lurch and thud as the plane lifted off for a second, then touched back down. Dakota swallowed nothing, worked his dry throat and focused on not looking out the window any more. The acceleration was almost painful; he would have been trembling if he hadn't been crushed into his seat.
Then, there was an odd feeling of buoyancy, as if the dual gravities pushing him down and back had suddenly become just one, pushing back into his seat. With a slight shudder, the whole plane seemed to shift. Dakota looked out the window again.
The plane was actually three feet off the ground already, but to him it seemed as though they were still down. Gravity began to reorient itself into its proper down-is-that-way configuration, and the roar of the jets slowly began to dull. And the ground fell away below them, tilted as the nose aimed up.
It was worse than falling. Suddenly there was nothing, nothing to hold them up if they stopped moving forward, nothing to keep them facing up, nothing to keep them from flipping right over backwards and flattening upside-down on the tarmac. All that kept them afloat was air, and what good would that do a person? Why the hell should it work any better for a massive hunk of metal?
A low whimper of primal fear escaped from the back of his consciousness as he stared, transfixed, out the window at what felt certain to be his death, at the ground now several hundred feet below. Every muscle in his body was as tense as he could make it; the seat belt was cutting into his lower stomach, and his instincts were responding a resounding FLEE, FLEE, but there was nowhere to flee, he was more confined than a pet in a cage.
His subconscious was not pleased when something grabbed his arm (or so it felt, in reality Seymoure had been rather tentative with the contact), but jerking his head around at least kept him from looking out any longer. The lizard shied away a bit, seeing the wolf's eyes bugged out with fear, his face twisted into a half-snarl.
Just the eye-contact helped. It brought the wolf back to where he was, what he was doing there (what was he doing there?), and he began to breathe again, or rather to pant. He hadn't realised he'd stopped.
"...Are... you okay, Dakota?" Seymoure asked, shy and a little scared.
The way the reptile said it...
...reminded him of Ethan.
Ethan.
Dakota swallowed yet again, taking deep breaths and trying to calm down. Seymoure's purple eyes were soft, worried, no matter what in his body language was shy, uncomfortable with a scared stranger. Dakota clung to that concern, swallowed again, and wilfully forced himself to relax his posture. Sit back, stop clinging to the armrests like it's a theme park ride, you dolt. Funnily enough, he had loved scary rides when he was young.
Maybe he'd learned that one needn't hunt to find fear.
Ethan...
He squeezed his eyes shut, shifted, took one sharp glance out the window. They were relatively high now, high enough that the whole airport, with its parking lots and terminals, looked around the size of a penny stuck to the glass. The plane had evened out, and another doong and announcement declared it was safe to get up and move around. A number of people around did so, and the quiet, tense atmosphere of the cabin was calmed as well; people began talking again.
Dakota looked back to the reptile, whose expression had changed subtly to less worry and more drawn-back sadness, more reclusive both in his eyes and his contact. He'd determined he wasn't going to get an answer, nearly looked away and left the wolf alone.
"I'm all right."
The resumption of eye contact was almost awkward, and both seemed to become aware of Seymoure's hand on the wolf's arm at the same time.
"Thank you, Mister Phillips."
Seymoure searched his eyes for a moment, looking for something he couldn't decipher, then he smiled. "No problem. Taking off is the worst bit. And... If it wouldn't bother you, I like my forename much better than my surname."
Dakota looked out the window again, found only a sharp twinge of nervousness instead of the mind-numbing fear he'd felt seconds ago. "Seymoure, then... What about landing?"
The lizard grinned. "Well, it's a bit tense too, but at least then you're supposed to be going down. So as long as it doesn't happen too fast, it's fine. Plus braking takes a lot less time than speeding up." He sounded as if he was about to continue, but caught himself and grinned.
His hand shifted slightly. Both looked down at it, blue-green scales against the wolf's silvery fur, and he quickly withdrew it. He acted nothing like Ethan. It occurred to Dakota with a start; that aborted contact marked the first time someone had touched him since his mate.
They looked up again and Seymoure grinned, then resumed working on his letter. Dakota took to staring at the fold-up tray on the seatback before him and thinking, occasionally glancing out the window to reassure himself that things weren't getting scary again out there.
How on earth was this uni kid like Ethan? Why had he thought that, in the midst of his closest brush yet with fear-driven hysteria? His actions were so different, not in any way bold or even confident. Ethan had never been shy about anything, especially friendship.
Most of the time, he didn't speak like him, either. Ethan was never hesitant. His great skill was getting his meaning out perfectly in as few words as possible; it was what got him through law school. And he would never be ashamed or embarrassed by anything he said, no matter what it was. The lizard felt absolutely different.
Except for that moment.
Looking at the wolf, his actions betraying his shyness around the stranger, but his eyes only soft, not concealing, but revealing something far deeper.
That was like Ethan.
Why?
He became aware of Seymoure's eyes on him, and looked up. The reptile had paused halfway through a sentence, or so it looked from his atrocious handwriting.
"I know I asked earlier, but... since it seems to be pretty tough for you to do this... why are you leaving? I mean, it sounds as though you've lived in Devon all your life, I can't think of anything that'd up and drive me across the ocean if it was like that..." he stalled out once again, giving the wolf an opportunity to answer.
Not that Dakota was eager to jump on it.
He tried to swallow again, failed. "I... well..." He studied the tray table. There was a chip in one corner, as though a toddler had been chewing on it.
"I'm trying... to forget s - "
Seymoure studied this quiet stranger. There was something to him, some feeling of past... or possibly future... "Someone?"
Author's Notes
I would like to note that I have never lived or even visited either Exeter or Toronto, though I have run around most of Scotland and also London, and spent weeks in the Canadian rockies. Sorry for any craziness due to this.
And yes, I know emigration is not nearly this simple. Ignore that. This is set back in the nineties, or at least that's my explanation for why there's next to no security in the airport. I miss the good old days. Also, I love flying, and thus had a lot of trouble writing a character who's scared to death of it. If you should happen to be less-than-fond of it yourself, I'd really appreciate it if you'd give me an inkling of how it feels - is this kind-of-on, or way off?
Chapter 1 is one of my favorite things I have ever written. It came out exactly the way I envisioned; every time I read it, I get goosebumps.