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Eve grabs my wrist as I'm putting on my jacket. I abort the attempt to dress and our eyes lock.

"Hey wolf boy, not so fast."

She pulls me into a hug and warmth floods through me instantly, melting the mounting ice inside. When we pull apart I kiss her cheek and flash a crooked smile.

"You want to know what I think of Jay, right?" I ask.

She laughs and looks away and it's obvious the answer is yes, though she's nervous and a little anxious to hear what I have to say. We're stood side by side, inside, by her front door; Jay's still out back in the garden. He understands that me and Eve need our alone time. We're traumatized, after all.

Soon after everything went down, we made a pact - Adrian, Eve and I - to go to therapy. We were messed up enough before watching a man bleed out in front of us, but after? Therapy seemed like a good idea. We encouraged Ryan to join us, but, well, he made his excuses.

It's early days yet, but I'll admit it's helped having someone I can say whatever's on my mind to without fear of judgment or disgrace. That's not to say everything is okay now, far from it. None of us have recovered. But, we're recovering.

Eve barely spends a minute in her dining room any more. For the first couple weeks after it happened she tried to avoid even walking through it. I get why. Even when the blood is gone, it's still there, in your head, every day.

"Yeah, you got me," she says. "But, also, I want to wish the best to you and Ryan. Send him my love, please."

"Aren't you gonna-?"

"Oh, I'll call him later. I don't plan on falling out of touch, I just want him to know he's on my mind, today of all days."

"Of course. He'll appreciate that, I'm sure." I pause and shift my jaw. It's an odd thing to think, an even stranger thing to actually mean, but watching Marty bleed out on Eve's floor bonded the four of us. Ryan quickly became a fixture of our lives - and we of his - when Marty died. But, no, it's not 'when Marty died', it's 'when we killed him'. "I'll admit, I still don't know why he only wants me to come."

"Seriously wolf boy? I thought you'd lost that naivety by now. He knows you best, he likes you best and, after what happened, he isn't exactly a fan of being surrounded by people."

"Hard to avoid that on a plane."

"Granted, but you know what I mean. Plus, he doesn't want to make a big deal out of this. His life has been nothing but drama for a while now."

"I know, I know. I'm just nervous, I guess."

Eve tilts her head. "What do you have to be nervous about?"

"I don't know," I say. "Nothing," I wave a paw to dismiss the thought. "Forget it."

She grabs at the air beside her head, then mimes throwing it away.

"Forgotten." She says. "But if you figure it out, don't be afraid to fill me in." I nod in thanks and she wags her tail. "Or, you know, tell your therapist. That works too."

It's a tease, but also a semi-serious suggestion. She can tell something's weighing on me.

The problem is I don't know what it is. Or, at least, I don't want to think about it.

I pull on my jacket, finally, and thank her for lunch.

"Hey, where do you think you're going?" She asks. "You still haven't told me what you think of Jay."

I wag and grin wide, showing off my teeth.

"He seems real nice," I say.

"Right?"

"Witty, thoughtful, kind. I'm really happy for you Eve. And..."

"And...?"

"He's hot," I admit.

"Isn't he!" She exclaims, the giddy joy that had been bubbling beneath her surface finally bursting out.

"He's definitely bi," I add.

Her muzzle falls open, then clamps shut.

"Really? I mean, he hasn't said as much." She shakes her head. "You can't possibly know that from ninety minutes of polite conversation."

"Oh, I can," I insist. "Ask him, he won't deny it."

She shakes her head.

"Thank the stars for Adrian. If he hadn't tied you down you'd be in my man's DMs fifteen seconds after walking out that door."

"You're thinking too small Eve. If Adrian hadn't tied me down I'd have Jay tied up in your bedroom by now." I perform an exaggerated wink. "Where do you keep that shibari rope of yours anyway?"

She punches me on the shoulder and laughs, then checks behind her as if suddenly aware that she may be under surveillance. After, she exhales slow and says: "If we made it a threesome I'd be all for it. Don't threaten me with a good time wolf boy."

"Ooh, are you and your man gonna steal me away? Should Adrian be scared?"

"What of? We can invite him too, make it a foursome. I'm sure he'd be up for it. I know you two aren't bothered about me in that way, but I'd be there for Jay. And, you know, to watch." She finds a woozy grin and I can almost see the scene unfolding in her mind.

"I've set you off now, haven't I?"

"Don't worry about it," she says, chuckling, shaking the image out of her head. "Being horny isn't a problem anymore. I'm getting dick the minute you're out that door."

"Lucky girl," I say. "Things are going well then, huh?"

"They are," she says. "He makes me happy."

From her, that means a lot.

"Good. I can't tell you how glad I am to hear that," I say. She smiles a warm, if small, smile. It's all a little too sincere and serious for me right now, so I wink and ask: "so, his dick's big?"

She laughs and nods, miming with her paws a length of about a foot.

"Seriously," she says.

"No way," I scoff. "You're bluffing."

"Only one way to find out." She locks eyes with me and mouths the word: foursome.

"Or I could just find his Liftr and hit him up for a dick pic."

It's all so ludicrous. We're both grinning like idiots as we chat, but time creeps on as it always does and soon enough I have to go.

"He's bi?" She asks, the question a total non-sequitur, as I hover in her open doorway. She's slumped against a wall, looking as if she's living more in daydream than reality. "For real?"

"You know, I thought you'd take that as a threat, not an opportunity, but, yeah, I think so. Don't take my word for it though, ask him."

"And you think he might be into shibari?"

I break into a fit of laughter.

"Just a hunch," I say. "God, I've created a thirst monster haven't I?"

"Oh, you didn't create this," she says, gesturing generally at herself. "You just fueled it."

I snort and shake my head.

"So," I say. "Is he the one?"

She taps the side of her muzzle and tilts her head.

"Honestly? I don't know. I used to stress about stuff like that all the time, but I've realized lately that I'm a lot happier when I'm not constantly analyzing every little thing. I'll figure it out one day - I'll leave him or, maybe, I'll love him forever - but, for now? I'm having fun, that's all it needs to be."

I have a sudden, joy-fueled compulsion to hug her. I open my arms, she approaches, and we wrap ourselves in one another all over again.

When we come apart our eyes lock and they say all the same things they've been saying for weeks now. Shreds of shared trauma and guilt are reflected and refracted back and forth. Those violent common memories echoing in silence. The sounds of Marty struggling for breath, all that blood, the fucking stench of his dead body as we waited for an ambulance to arrive. It's all there. We let a man die because collectively, wordlessly, we decided he wasn't worth saving. It's a heavy load to bear, and the relative ease with which we bear it frightens me. Still, I can't bring myself to regret what we did. Perhaps that's the most frightening part. But, it's alright. It's fine. We're still standing, Eve and I. We still have each other. We always will.

"Now," I say, snapping out of my trance and backing away. "Go fuck your boyfriend."

"You too," she says. "Well, after seeing Ryan off."

"Don't worry," I say, with a twist and a wave. "I will."

"And send video evidence," she yells after me.

Before I can come up with quip to fire back at her, she slams the door shut.

I'm giggling as I stroll off, and thinking two things. One: I love that woman. Two: Jay is gonna be shooting blanks by the end of the night.

Godspeed.

Hmm...

No. Not quite.

A third thing is nagging at me. A big thing. A good thing, maybe. A mixed thing, I suppose.

It finally feels like all is returning to normal between Eve and Adrian and I; although, with Adrian, 'normal' is not at all what it once was. We talk about regular stuff now: life, work, sex, news, gossip, TV, music. And the tension is gone. And the fear. For the most part, at least. We go days without a single mention of what happened. Sometimes I go hours without a single flashback, or without his name even crossing my mind.

Marty.

Ryan slit his throat in front of us. In the stretched out, endless seconds it took for his life to bleed from him, not one of us did a thing. Only the four of us know the truth of what happened that morning. The story we told various officials was a version of the truth, not a complete fabrication, but to call it honest would be a plain lie.

We weren't exactly sure what would happen when we started answering questions. I mean, we had witnessed the death of a rich and privileged man from a famous, powerful family and, worse, we were accusing him of rape and assault. As it turned out, the severity of our accusations served us well.

The Konroy legal team became involved almost immediately. They settled with Ryan and I, and made the whole thing go away. All we had to do was guarantee that we would keep our muzzles shut about what Marty had done. It was the easiest deal I'd ever made.

It turns out Marty's family care about him as little as he had thought, perhaps even less. All they wanted was to keep the family name clean, and sweeping the circumstances surrounding Mr. Konroy's disgraced son's death under the rug was their solution. They got what they wanted, silence, and we got to move on with our lives. Win win, I guess.

Still, it felt wrong. We hated Marty - I watched the life drain from his eyes and barely felt a thing - but this? It was too much. We weren't just getting away with murder, we were being paid for it. KE offered Ryan a lot of money as restitution for his trauma and, bluntly put, to buy his silence. They offered me a lot too, more than I knew what to do with.

It felt dirty taking the money, signing that contract, but I took it, and I signed on the dotted line. I felt like a fucking hitman. Even Eve and Adrian got a little capital for their trouble; the whole thing was completely fucking surreal.

Now, here we are, weeks later, acting like we're over it.

Over it? How could we be? I'm still fucking processing, and not just that awful evening or that blood soaked morning, but the entirety of those two short weeks, from meeting Ryan, to watching his ex-boyfriend bleed out on Eve's dining room floor.

Two weeks. That was all it took.

It seemed longer. A lot longer. Frankly, it felt to me like those two weeks stretched on for years.

So, no. I'm not over it. I don't know if I ever will be. I'm just acting that way. At times I wonder if going back to normal is even healthy. I wonder if we're merely papering over our trauma, pretending it doesn't exist. I wonder if carrying on as usual is a huge mistake.

Then, when I calm down, I tell myself: that's just what coping is.

*

Ryan enters the cab without a word, acknowledging my presence with a nod. He shoves his luggage down and wrestles his backpack off, then sits, exhaling. As he settles the driver sets off, heading straight to the airport, as arranged. Met with silence I'm unsure what to say. Instead of speaking I offer a small wave and a smile. He smiles back. I cant help but notice his distant gaze and drooping eyelids. He looks tired as hell.

At some point his gaze lingers into a stare. I wonder if I should say something. I wonder what I should say. The cab stops at a red light. Ryan sighs. The light goes green and the cab rolls on. Ryan closes his eyes and leans back in his seat.

"Thank you for coming, Kale."

"Of course," I say. "I wouldn't have missed this for anything." He nods, but says nothing. "Eve sends her love." I add. He nods again. "Adrian too." Another nod. Not a word. The beginnings of anxiety bubble up inside of me. "So, uh, how are you feeling?"

"I- Well..." He pauses, considering his response thoroughly. "I'm feeling a lot of things. But, right now, more than anything? Dread."

I grit my teeth and grimace. What am I supposed to say to that?

I settle on nothing, letting the silence ride for a while.

The cab passes over a particularly rough patch of road. I look out the window and watch the world speed by. I soon lose interest in it. I look at Ryan and think on how this might be the last time I see him. My gaze lingers into a stare.

I try to reignite the conversation, but before I can even finish a sentence he cuts me off.

"I'm sorry, Kale, but can this wait? I'm totally out of it right now," Ryan says, rubbing his temples. "Let's talk more at the airport, okay?"

"Of course," I say.

And that's that.

I can only guess what's going on in his head. The past weeks have been harder on him than anyone. For all the burden Eve, Adrian and I share, Ryan is the one who actually killed a man. Sometimes when I see him, I see that glint of light reflecting off of Adrian's razor as he pulls it out of his pocket, I see him lunging toward Marty, I see blood gushing from the otter's throat. I see all of that, and I feel fear.

For all my apathy toward Marty's discontinued existence, I don't think I could've done what Ryan did. I don't think I could have made that conscious decision to kill, I don't think I could have dragged that blade across his throat. Then again, that could be nothing more than a lie I'm telling myself to help me sleep at night. Though, if it is, it doesn't work so well.

Truth is, I'll never know what I would've done in Ryan's place. All I know is that Ryan's capable of killing and, for all that scares me - and it does scare me - I don't hold it against him. Most of the time I count my blessings that Marty is dead, so how could I muster contempt for his killer?

The cunt deserved to die.

I'm glad he's not still breathing, that he's not out there hurting people, that he will never have the opportunity to hurt any of us ever again. A lot of me thinks the world is a better place without him in it. A lot of me admires Ryan for all the same reasons he scares me.

We arrive, finally, at the airport and, leaving the cab, I take Ryan's luggage as he pulls his backpack on. He thanks me, but remains terse.

We're here early, by design. For now we make our way toward the airport's entrance. He walks a little ahead of me and I watch as he bobs his tail back and forth like a metronome...

Huh.

Déjàvu.

A sinking feeling.

When I first met him I had this exact same reaction; it's as if his hips can hypnotize. Something about his swishing tail and that bouncing bubble butt causes an almost instinctual reaction inside of me.

A wolf made for chasing tail. A tail made for chasing. The perfect match, right?

If it were that simple, this story could have ended as soon as it began.

So, what are we then, Ryan and I? Friends? Kind of. Victims? I guess so. I mean, I care about him, and I know he cares about me, but is that it? After all this time and all we've been through, is that really all I can say?

I won't lie, I find him attractive, and at times he's intoxicating. It's easy for me to see why Marty fell for him, and why I chased him in the first place.

Funny that these thoughts would cross my mind now of all times, today of all days. He's leaving, and I doubt he'll come back.

Instead of entering the airport Ryan gestures toward a bench with a tilt of his head. We go to it, set down his luggage and sit side by side. I make sure to leave a little space between us.

"It's okay," he says. "You don't have to do that anymore."

"You mean...?" I ask, nodding to indicate the gap.

"Yeah," he says. His tail wags and he budges up toward me so that our sides are touching. "I've missed contact. I'm not comfortable with it from just anyone yet, but, well, I trust you."

A fluttering feeling passes through me. His tail thwaps against mine as it wags. My heart thumps. I feel an uncanny mix of emotions swirling inside of me: fear, joy, suspicion, attraction, melancholy.

"It's weird, isn't it?" I ask, forcing myself into action. "How close we've become since... well, since Marty died."

I try not to let my features fall as I think of that morning, but I fail, my face settling into a wary grimace.

"After I killed Marty," he corrects me. "You can say it. I'm trying to live with it, not suppress it. I think that's the only way I can move on. But, yeah, I know what you're getting at. Our relationship was built on lies, mostly of my own creation. I suppose it's a miracle that, after everything, we can even stand to be around one another." He stares into the sky and blinks. "I did this to myself, I know. It's a shame though." He sighs. "Kale, I want to clarify something."

"Go ahead."

"Remember that first night we spent together?"

"Of course I do."

"It wasn't all fake. I had a lot of fun." He laughs and shakes his head. "You were a great fuck, and I thought you were pretty funny too. The more I saw of you after that - the more I got to know you - the more I liked you. I decided you were a genuinely good person, which surprised me. By that point I was struggling to believe good people actually existed."

"Ryan, come on. You know all the selfish shit I did. I'm no saint. I strung you along for the sake of my ego."

"No, I know that. I was right in the first place, there are no purely good people. But, there is good in you." He inhales deeply, then continues. "I have something else to admit."

My heart beats hard as I answer. "What is it?"

"When Marty took his last breath I was terrified - I had no idea what was going to happen next - but it was also freeing. I'd finally escaped his grasp. When it became clear in the following days that this was not going to land me in prison I realized that, for the first time in months, my life didn't have to revolve around Marty. My life was my own." He exhales, then smiles, still staring at the sky. "And, well, I wondered whether I should ask you out for real." His voice is quiet and controlled. On hearing his words my heart skips and stalls. "At some point I worked up the courage and I called you. We started with small talk, but before I could ask what I called to ask, you told me all about you and Adrian. I felt like an idiot."

I don't know what to say, I'm at a loss. I decide to examine the concrete and wish the whole world would go away. It doesn't, it stays, stubborn as ever.

"Why tell me now?" I ask in a murmur.

"I don't know," he says. "Maybe I'm hoping you'll blow your life apart and move to Canada on a whim just to hold me in your arms. Maybe I'm just lonely and emotional and reaching for anything to hold on to. I'm not sure. I'm rarely sure of anything." He wraps his arms around himself. "Maybe I feel this pull toward you because when I look at you I see a mirror. I can't help but think we're the exact same kind of broken. I don't quite know why, but I find comfort in that." He finally drops his gaze from the clouds and turns to me. Our eyes meet, but he's done speaking.

"I know what you mean," I say, my muzzle moving without express mental permission. I see all of my pain reflected in him. All of my struggles, mirrored in his eyes. We both fell for Marty's trap. We were both used by him, mentally and physically. We both used each other too. I used him to feel powerful and wanted. He used me as a jumping off point to escape Marty. We are both to blame for the fucked up cocktail of manipulation and lies that followed. "I'm gonna miss you."

Marty wasn't entirely wrong about Ryan. The husky lied almost as much as he did. It's only that Ryan did so out of self-preservation, where Marty did so out of malicious obsession. Maybe I should hate Ryan for what he put me through, but I don't. Not one bit. To hate him for that would be to deny my part in all this. To hate him for that would be to admit he should hate me for the very same reason.

"Kale... A huge part of my brain is begging me to stay. I've grown close to you and Adrian and Eve, I have my acting career here, and a job, if a kinda worthless one. I'd miss it if I left. I'd miss you."

"Then why go?"

"Because as long as I'm here, not ten minutes go by that I don't think back on it. On being raped. On murdering my rapist. On my whole fucking relationship with Marty, from start to end. I think about how he reeled me in and how naive I was to ever fall for him, and I hate myself so fucking much. Not just because of that, but because I've been selfish and blind, because I dragged you into my shit and used you, because I wasn't strong enough to stop him from violating me. Because I dragged that blade across his throat. That might be the worst of it all. I keep going back to that morning: calling him over, talking to him, yelling at him, getting up in his face. Him... him touching me. Me..." He stops, scrunches his eyes shut and shakes his head. "I took his life, Kale. That's going to stick with me for a long, long time."

I knew at some point the conversation would settle here. I was dreading it, but it was inevitable. That morning hurts to think about for so many reasons. God, everything about it was awful.

I blink repeatedly and breathe in, and out, and in before responding.

"He violated you," I say. "And you told him not to touch you, but he grabbed you. You told him again and again to get off, but he didn't. You were stressed, you'd been through hell, and the person you hated most in the world was forcing himself on you all over again. You lashed out. He died. You didn't do a damn thing wrong."

Ryan frowns and nods, then exhales through his nose.

"Kale, it wasn't that simple. You know it wasn't."

"I know. We all know. We stood there and let him die. We hated his guts, and it all happened so fast - we were in total shock - so we let him die. That doesn't make us monsters."

"The therapy's been helping, huh?" He laughs a humorless laugh. "I'm not talking about that Kale, you know what I mean. You saw it. The others didn't but you did."

My head aches. I go back and relive those final minutes before Marty's throat was cut open. I was full of a vague certainty, a premonition, an intuition.

"You had that blade in your pocket the whole time. You never let go of it."

"Yeah," he says. "I picked it up the night before. You'd dropped it and it was laying right there, beside Marty, a dash of his blood giving it color. I felt compelled to pick it up."

"And the next morning, when Marty admitted he'd tracked your phone, you fetched it. Not just the phone, but the blade too."

"After throwing my phone at him I stormed off to the dining room and I just stood there, listening, thinking, considering."

The subconscious becomes conscious. All those little context clues click together in my mind at once. It's awful.

"At some point you came to a conclusion. You agreed to talk to Marty, then actively twisted the conversation in order to provoke him, to upset him, to make him act irrationally..."

As awful as it is, it's not surprising. I sort of knew already. This whole time I sort of knew.

"And when he slipped up, when he touched me and couldn't bear to let go, I used that as an opportunity. As an excuse."

"You killed him." I say. He doesn't react. "It wasn't a spur of the moment decision, was it? Not really."

"I wanted it to happen. I wanted to kill him." He makes the admission in a distracted murmur, as if only discovering the truth of his words as he speaks them. I'm all but certain he's playing through that morning on repeat in his head. Examining it from every angle. Reckoning with it.

Obviously this isn't the story we fed to officials. This isn't even the story as Adrian or Eve know it. Ryan is trusting me with the absolute truth, and me alone.

Still, it doesn't feel like some bombshell revelation that changes everything, it's just another layer of grief, pain and rage to add to all the rest. Context stacked on miserable context.

An odd, intrusive thought pops into my head: if Marty's gun was loaded the night before, it could have been Adrian saying all of this, reflecting on his violent intentions, on being made a murderer. I wish Ryan didn't have to live with this, but more than that - as selfish as it may be - I'm glad Adrian doesn't.

"It's all so fucked up." I say.

"It is," he agrees.

"Not that."

"Then what?"

"That I'm not upset about what happened. That, however many times I tell myself I shouldn't be, I'm glad Marty's dead."

"I'm glad he's dead too." Ryan says. He stands and stretches. "But sometimes I hate myself for thinking that way. I'm full of doubts, Kale. I have all these theories and ideas crashing through my head every day and I feel like I'll never make sense of them all. There's only one constant, one thing I keep thinking: I'm a fucking murderer. What the hell am I supposed to do with that? Justify it? Act like what I did was right? How could it be? However awful Marty was, I had no right to take his life."

He's worked up, raising his voice. It's understandable, but this is the wrong place for it. Though I suppose I can't say it's the wrong time. It's the only time.

"Ryan, it'll be okay. Let's talk this through." His muzzle slams shut. He pauses, then nods, a strained expression set on his face. He sits down again, but struggles to maintain eye contact. I clear my throat. "Look, I can't tell you that what you did was the rightthing, but Marty had you in his grip for a long time. He pushed you too far, again and again, and you snapped. He reaped what he sowed. Ryan, I don't care if what you did was full on premeditated, I can't even begin to bring myself to blame you or hate you for it. Marty was awful. Everything about that situation was awful."

"Everyone is so sorry for me when it comes to Marty, as if I was a helpless fly caught in a spider's web, but it wasn't like that. I had power in that relationship, at least early on, and I exerted it. Maybe it gave way, maybe in the end I was just Marty's pawn, but I'm not sure. I've been thinking about it a lot lately. Sometimes I feel like I'm the one who caughtMarty up in an awful game, not the other way around. When I first met him I liked him a lot, for a time I even thought I loved him. But that didn't last long. By the time we had moved here I was already well on my way to being done with him.

"When I think back on our relationship I wonder if I was just an opportunist. I benefited hugely from his connections and his riches; I didn't get with him because of them, but... He gave me a place to stay and so many chances that I never would've had if not for him. He gave so much to me, and in return I drained him, used him and treated him like trash. He may have been a chronic liar, he may have been a drug addict and he may have done some immeasurably fucked up shit, but if I know anything real about him at all, it's that he loved me. And I killed him. I fucking_profited_off of killing him. That settlement, Kale? Fuck. I can't even look in my bank account without feeling dizzy. It's more money than I... It's beyond fucked. I got everything I wanted and more, and he's dead, yet he's the one you all think is a master manipulator. How the hell does that add up?"

"It's not like that. Yeah, your motives haven't always been pure and maybe you've been opportunistic - I'm not trying to tell you that you've been perfect, or even that you've been good - but you aren't the monster here. Not even close. Even if you were an awful boyfriend to Marty, it doesn't matter. It doesn't remotely compare to what he did. God, Ryan, he's the reason you're feeling this way in the first place. He manipulated everything and everyone around him to make himself out to be a victim. Do you know the kind of shit he told me the day before he died? He presented you as a scheming villain and himself as the supportive friend just trying to help, weathering the hardships you brought his way. It was all lies, Ryan. Marty was the predator. Remember that. He was the one with a dangerous and obsessive dependency. You weren't at fault for not reciprocating such fanatical devotion, or for growing distant from him. He was sick and twisted and just because he did all he could to appear sympathetic and vulnerable doesn't mean he actually was. He was the aggressor, he was the abuser, he was the one literally trying to control your life by removing everyone other than himself from it. You know it's true. You knew it the morning you took his life, don't forget it now. Don't let certainties dissipate into questions. There is no question here. For all the shit you or I have done, neither of us are anything like Marty. To doubt that now, to doubt yourself, is to let him win. Don't let him win, Ryan."

The husky runs a paw down his face, the corners of his mouth dipping. I feel as though he's going to retreat inside himself and let the conversation die, but he does the opposite, bursting into a short fit of frenzied speech.

"Fine. Fucking fine! But none of that makes me feel any better about what I did."

"Maybe you shouldn't, I don't know." I clench my fists as thoughts of Marty invade my head and all the rage and disgust and fear I had felt makes itself familiar all over again. God, I hate him. He's dead and still I hate him, so fucking much. "But I don't want you plunging into the depths of despair over that wretched cunt either. He isn't worth it, Ryan."

"Maybe," he concedes, sounding far calmer than I feel. "And ninety-five percent of the time I'd agree, but then I think back on that morning, on the things he said and how he acted and I... I mean, he was still a dick, he was totally clingy and overly preoccupied with me, but he said he wanted to change, that he would prove he could do better, that he would live a good life. Maybe it was all lies, but they were lies he stuck with right up until the end."

"He _was_lying," I say, the response almost automatic.

"Probably," he says. "But what if he wasn't?"

"Ryan, of course he was. He lied about near enough fucking everything."

"I know, Kale, but you're avoiding the question."

"Fine. If he wasn't lying to us, then I'm damn sure he was lying to himself. Think about it Ryan, there's no way he was going to flip a switch like that and live an honest life. There's no fucking way."

Ryan takes hold of my arm. His eyes are glistening wet. He's far more emotionally invested in this question than I'd realized.

"But, what if, Kale? What if he figured things out, turned things around? I know it may not be likely, but that's not the point right now. What if I killed someone who was set on living a good life? What does that make me?" He scrunches his eyes shut and breathes in deep, then exhales a ragged breath. "Fuck, Kale. I'm not sure anymore."

"Context matters, Ryan, it means everything. I won't condemn you for what you did to him after what he did to us."

"You're still avoiding the question. What if I killed a changed man?"

I stop and think. Confronting that possibility is distressing. Far more so than I would have guessed. Ryan's right, I'd been ignoring the possibility entirely, and not just now, but ever since I saw him die. I stowed away any doubts I'd had in order to maintain some sense of composure. Another damn coping mechanism piled on top of all the rest.

If Marty really was changed, as he had claimed, then for Ryan to slit his throat and for the rest of us to watch as the life drained out of him is...

It's...

"Then..."

"I would be a monster."

I shake my head, finding my steel. Marty isn't worth all this wondering. He got exactly what he deserved. I'm not going to get all mushy over the man who raped me. Fuck that.

"You're wrong. He violated us, Ryan. That means something. That context_matters_. Even if he was turning over a new leaf, that doesn't erase his past. He did terrible things, and if you had let him walk out that day he never would've had to answer for any of them, we both know that. He had all the privilege in the world and acted like the world was out to get him. Don't feel sorry for him. Don't give him credit he doesn't deserve. He's dead because of us, and that's the only reason he paid for what he did. Nothing else matters, whether he was reformed or whatever, I don't give a fuck. He got what he deserved."

Ryan is quiet for a moment. I slow my breathing in an attempt to calm myself.

"It's all so fucked up, Kale."

"You're not wrong." I say with a sigh, pushing a paw up over my forehead and running it through my hair. This conversation is taking a real toll on me. Still, if it helps give Ryan some peace of mind then it's worth it.

"You know, I keep getting these awful ideas about what happened, one after another. Like, I was wondering, and this might sound crazy, but what if Marty wanted to die?" He shakes his head. "I have this stupid idea that he wanted me to kill him, that he thought it would be a load off my mind, that he knew it would all ultimately be swept under the rug, that his family would believe my story and offer me a hefty sum to keep quiet. What if he was scheming until the very end? You have to admit it sounds like him, right?"

Ryan's starting to sound like a conspiracy theorist. Yet, somehow, I can see the thread of logic he's following, as brittle as it is. There's something both fitting and fear-inducing about the idea of Marty plotting the aftermath of his own death. If Marty felt guilty enough, worthless enough, perhaps he really would have wanted to die, thinking it would be the best thing for Ryan.

God, there I go, following bizarre theories in attempt to give meaning to something violent, grim and all too simple. I'm doing exactly what Ryan is.

"I doubt it," I say. "Look, Ryan, there doesn't need to be some greater meaning to all of this, or some extra complication. He violated us, you slit his throat. That's what happened. That's all it is or ever was. Don't let his ghost haunt you. I know that's easier said than done, but we need to try. I'll admit I'm having trouble escaping the impression he left on me; I can only imagine what it's been like for you. I don't really have any advice I just, I- I guess I want to remind you that even though you'll be in a different country that doesn't mean I'm out of reach. I'm only ever a call or a message away, okay? I don't want you to think that... God. I care about you Ryan, I- I care about you a lot."

"You know I feel the same," he says. I catch the wistful sheen in his eyes as they glint in the sunlight. His muzzle forms a faded smile. "I'm sorry about this. I've brought you all the way out here on my last day in the States, and all I've done is moan."

It strikes me how different he is now than when I first met him. All that bravado and alluring confidence he was once so full of has fallen to the wayside. He's less of a presence than he used to be, more the sort of person that could fade into the background, the sort of person you might not remember meeting the next morning. It's not only in his speech, but in his subdued body language. So much of his style and swagger has been sapped away and replaced with timidity.

Marty did this to him.

I wish, when the otter died, that all the negative effects he'd had on the world were reversed. That would be justice.

This? This is sad. Every injury the otter inflicted in life has merely matured into a scar.

I wave away Ryan's concerns and shake my head. "I get it, don't worry. It's nothing to apologize for."

He nods in limited, unhurried motions. "Look at me go, I've been so wrapped up in my own head that I haven't even asked how you and Adrian have been."

My heart flutters as I think of the fox, a smile appearing fully formed on my face. I think of holding him in my arms, kissing him, tasting his tongue, talking about anything, watching movies, eating snacks, fucking. Pleasant memories play out as a slideshow in my head. For all the pain, regret and trauma clouding my mind, Adrian outshines it all.

"We're good," I say, ears perked. "He's settled in now, we're enjoying living together so far. We aren't at each other's throats all the time anyway, so I'll take that as a good sign. He's starting his new job next week. As for me, well, the money from KE made looking for work feel a lot less important. I'll be back on the search soon enough though."

"Hey, no rush. You might as well make use of the money."

"I don't disagree, but I think sitting around and doing nothing hasn't been the best for me. Honestly I've been lazy as hell these past weeks. Pretty much all I do is veg out on the sofa, fuck and eat comfort food."

"Doesn't sound so bad."

"It's not," I say, laughing. "But I have put on a couple pounds. Adrian too, though I'm not complaining. I mean, that's the natural result of takeout and ice-cream. And hey, I'm not averse to a little thickness."

"No way, really?" Ryan asks in a sarcastic deadpan. "Next you're going to hit me with the shocking revelation that you have a thing for bubble butts." He grins and wags his tail then, with a flourish, he stands, twists and shakes his hips. My eyes focus on his rear before I can tell them not to. I can't deny it: physically, he's very much my type. It's no wonder that he caught my eye that fateful night. It's no wonder that he strung me along so easily. I was naive and malleable and horny. I'd like to think I've grown since then but honestly I'm still all three of those things, just less so, well, for two of them, at least. Ryan turns back toward me and winks. "Enjoy Adrian's ass all you want, but remember: mine's fatter."

I let out something that sits between a laugh and cough. Even now I find Ryan so utterly unpredictable. I guess that's something Marty didn't drain from him.

"Oh, is it a competition now?" I ask.

He leans forward until his head is roughly level with mine. "I don't know. Is it?"

A sudden sinking feeling. The sensation of spiraling.

He offers a toothy, uniquely canine, grin and it draws me in.

What is he doing? I-

Come on Kale. You know exactly what he's doing.

You think you hate him for it.

But really you just hate that it's working.

Ryan. Fucking Ryan. Part of me really does hate him.

Think about it: he's a murderer, he's dishonest, he's manipulative. I couldn't in good conscience call him a moral person. I don't entirely trust him and...

And as much as I wish I could, It's just like he said: when I look at him I can't shake the feeling that he's my twisted reflection. Perhaps all that separates us is the glass of the mirror.

I was wrong to ever think I was like Marty, at least past superficial similarities, but Ryan? He and I... God, I don't know. There's this sort of odd magnetic connection between us that repels and attracts in equal measure.

Or maybe that's more of the shit I keep making up to justify my worst impulses. Another reason to hate myself.

My mind's a maelstrom. My words? Well:

"I mean, there's no comparison," I say. "The answer's clear."

He laughs and I grin and my insides churn.

Sometimes it feels like the me inside my head and the physical me are two different people, and that though it's true the two are connected, they don't actually have all that much to do with one another. Sometimes it feels like no matter what I think, no matter what conclusion I come to or what thread of logic I follow, my body will do what it wants and say what it wants regardless.

Or maybe that's more of the shit I keep making up to justify my worst impulses. Another reason to hate myself.

"Ah, if only life rewarded us based on the thickness of our asses. I'd be a king, instead of the unstable wreck I actually am." He laughs again.

I smile, but struggle to match his positivity. My head is throbbing. "You know, I'm kind of getting whiplash from this conversation. We went from talking about Marty's death and our mental struggles, to fat asses, and now we're halfway back to depressing stuff again."

"Welcome to my life wolfy. It's all sex and sadness. Surely you gathered that by now."

I can't help but laugh. His ice has thawed and, like this, he's much closer to the Ryan I first met: blunt, intoxicating and wryly charming.

"I suppose I should've caught the hint, considering the night we met. One part hot sex, one part ear splitting argument with Marty."

"Don't forget all that crying I pretended to do," he adds. His jaw shifts, and his head dips. "I haven't been good to you Kale."

"You were going through a lot."

"That doesn't make it right."

"Maybe not, but I forgive you. I've moved on."

"You've moved on from two minutes ago?" He asks, his voice quiet and drenched in self-directed disgust.

Two minutes ago?

"I- Are you-?" Oh.

"Come on Kale. I was shaking my ass and flirting. You've got a boyfriend, you're happy, and still I can't help myself, can I?"

"You were just joking around."

"Yeah?" He asks, but it's not a question. His gaze pierces me with ease. "You sure about that?"

He can see the rot inside me, the dark, the broken pieces of something that was once whole, or perhaps never was. Maybe I've always been this way: contorted and uneven.

"If you've been bad then so have I," I say. I'm almost pleading.

He doesn't respond for a while. Instead he stands and puts on his backpack. I stand over his luggage, but don't pick it up.

"Maybe it's best this way," he mutters. Barely audible. "I'm not good for you."

"Hey," I say, quiet, confused. I feel lightheaded and halfway out-of-body. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, Kale, without you Marty would still be in control of my life. Regardless of your intentions, you've shown me little other than care and empathy in all the time I've known you. You're one of the best things that's ever happened to me, and all I've ever done for you is make your life harder, or at least more complicated."

"Come on Ryan, you've done more for me than that."

"Alright, a little more. I made you cum a few times." He sighs, then stares at the sky again. "Look, don't pretend I'm a good person. We both know I'm not. I'm the one who dragged you into this mess in the first place. If it weren't for me, Marty would never have violated you, and you wouldn't have had to watch a man die. I'm bad news."

"We've been over this, we're talking in circles. You know I'm no saint either, Ryan."

He huffs in distaste and shakes his head.

"So, what? We're two jackass fuck-ups cutting a reckless path through life, a danger to everything and everyone around us?" He balls his fists, his tail lashes erratically.

It's not like that. I believe there is hope. I believe in change. I believe we can take control of our own fates. I want to express all of this to him. I want us to find comfort in it.

"I- I-"

I choke.

"I fucking hate myself, you know." He says.

I go still, a sort of all-encompassing malaise settling over me.

"I hate myself too." I admit.

He nods. It's a quick and curt.

"I hate that I ever let Marty dig his claws into me."

"I hate how gullible I've been, how many lies I believed."

"I hate that I let him use me. I hate that I used him too."

"I hate how self-absorbed I've been, and how narrow-minded."

"I hate that I used you to get me out of there."

"I hate that I used both of you, and for something so pointless as ego."

"I hate that when you tried to get out I pulled you in deeper."

"I hate how my inaction has hurt the people I care about most."

It's not a competition, it's a jerk off session: an elaborate and overblown display of shared misery.

"I hate how easy it's become for me to lie," he says.

"Me too," I say.

He should hate me.

"You should hate me," he says.

"I... It's the other way around. You should hate me, Ryan."

"I don't," he says.

"And I don't."

"I... Fuck, Kale..."

"Part of me is drawn to you," I say. "It has been since we met."

"I feel the very same."

"I see so much of myself in you."

"Maybe you do," he says. "Maybe you should." His voice is dry and low, raspy, as if he hasn't had water in days. "But only the bad parts."

His words hit me in a way I never could have expected. My eyes sting with the sudden and unwelcome threat of tears. A knot of anxiety clogs the back of my throat. I fight through it.

"Not only the bad parts, Ryan," I say, and I lunge forward without really planning to.

I wrap him in my arms. Dazed, he stands stiff, then recovers and leans into me, wrapping me in him.

"Don't," he says, even as he's holding me.

"Don't what?" I ask.

"Don't be so kind."

Now he's the one struggling to suppress tears.

"Why not?"

"I'm not good for you." He says. "I'm not good."

"I don't care what you think. You're important to me, Ryan."

"I could love you, you know." He says.

My heart skips.

His heart thumps fast and hard. I can feel it, pressed up against my chest. When mine restarts it does the same. My head throbs. My mind melts into nothing but white noise and confused, conflicting signals. No conscious dialogue, no reasoned thought.

"I know," I say.

One of his paws strokes its way up the back of my neck and through my hair. He nuzzles into the side of my face, sobbing now, quietly.

"I feel like I've lost my mind," he murmurs.

"No," I say. "You haven't."

I pull my head back and loosen our embrace so that I can stare into his eyes, they're wet and wild, drenched in uncertainty. Mine, I'm sure, are much the same.

"I want to kiss you," he says.

A sharp stab of fear, an icicle pick through the back of the skull.

"No, you don't," I say.

His nose is pushing toward mine and mine toward his until they're touching. Cold, wet, but comfortable.

"I wish I didn't," he says.

His head tilts and he moves in slow. I don't move in. I don't move away either.

His muzzle parts.

I-

Mine-

My muzzle parts too.

And they lock.

He tastes my tongue.

And I taste his.

I could give in. I could commit my all to this.

It would be so easy.

Somehow, I find that I want to.

Or, at least, part of me does.

Part of me wants to give in.

Part of me wants to melt into him.

To meld and never look back.

To entertain my most base desires, even at the cost of everything I have.

Maybe one more mistake wouldn't be such a bad thing.

It would be so easy.

But it's not right.

This isn't who I want to be. Not anymore.

I want to be better.

I'm trying.

Failing.

Trying.

I pull my head back and push him away, gently.

We come apart. He lets go of me, and I of him.

He stumbles back a step. His eyes are wide, his muzzle sealed.

I'm shaking. I close my eyes. I breathe in. I breathe out. I breathe in. I breathe out. I open them again.

I fucked up.

I made another mistake.

I'm not the person I wish I was.

But I caught myself. I stopped myself. I didn't let it go any further.

Is this progression or regression? I can't tell.

But, it could have been worse. It could have been a lot worse.

I am not unsalvageable.

I am not lost.

I am not hopeless.

I feel guilty and wrong. I should never have let this happen.

But it happened, and all I can do now is move on.

"I'm sorry Ryan," I say, firm and resolute, in defiance of all that plagues me. "I'm attracted to you, even drawn to you in some way, but I don't love you."

"I know," he says, detached and distant. His gaze flits in random directions, looking at anything other than me. "I don't love you either, not exactly. Not yet. I just - as awful as it is - I want you. At least I think I do. I'm not entirely sure. I'm not sure of much at all. For a long time now - since before I met you, even before meeting Marty - I've been losing track of myself. I struggle to know exactly how I feel or what I want. Everything feels fuzzy to me, I have no sense of clarity, and that's not just today, it's every day." He finds focus suddenly and his eyes meet mine once again. He stares right at me for a few seconds, then bursts into tears. "I don't know if I really want you or if I'm just acting on instinct, scared and alone, clinging to anything that could offer warmth and stability. I'm so fucking confused Kale, all of the time. I think back on what I've said and done over and over again, trying to figure out what was right and what was wrong, but I find no answers, only a thousand fresh theories and endless possible outcomes. Every day I'm full of doubt and fear and... I- I shouldn't have kissed you. I- I don't know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Look at me go, I mean, what is this? I'm playing to your pity, manipulating you. I'm turning into Marty."

"You're not, Ryan. You're nothing like him. He turned your world into a jigsaw puzzle with a dozen missing pieces; of course you're confused, uncertain, but he's gone now. You can take a break, zoom out and give yourself the time and space you need to recover. You say you struggled with uncertainty even before meeting Marty, I believe you, but it's obvious that what he put you through didn't help. Be kind to yourself Ryan. It's okay not to have all the answers. Frankly, it's okay not to have any."

"Maybe that's it," he says, a timid smile forming.

"That's what?"

"Maybe that's the real reason I'm drawn to you: your endless optimism."

I grimace. "I've never really thought of myself as an optimist."

"Really?" His smile grows. "Hey, maybe it's not so rare after all: our inner and outer worlds not quite lining up. I guess I can find some comfort in that."

I think of Ryan and of myself, I think of Adrian and of Eve.

"It's far from rare," I say.

Ryan nods and runs a paw through his hair. "I've always felt a sort of disconnect with, well, everything. I've struggled with identity, with setting goals, even with understanding my own desires. I'm not sure if I've ever really known who I am or what I want, at least not in any definable way. Marty didn't help, but he didn't do this to me. Pursuing you as I just did - in such a petty, pointless way - is only more of the same for me. All urge, no forethought. It's as if I exist only in the moment, that I'm nothing more than a set of context-sensitive impulses and reactions wrapped in fur." He sighs and wipes both paws down his face. "I don't know. I'm rambling."

It's a lot, but I'm getting around to realizing just how difficult and complicated it is to be alive. We all have our stories, our struggles, our shortcomings. Sometimes they consume us and we hurt ourselves or those around us. Sometimes we cross a line we can't come back from. Maybe living twists us, maybe we're twisted from the start. I don't know. I'm rambling.

I guess what I'm getting at is: "I don't think I'll ever know what it's like to be you, Ryan, all I can do is offer my empathy. None of this is easy. It would be hard enough without what Marty put you through, but here we are, on the other side. You survived. I survived. What's left for us now is to keep going, and to try and find what makes us happy. Here's the only advice I have: talk to people you trust. Don't fall out of touch with me. Meet old friends when you're back in Canada. Make new ones if you can. Consider going to therapy, or talking to other survivors, whatever works for you. Just don't give up. We only get one shot at this."

"Sage advice," he says, deadpan. I'm not convinced he intends to follow it, but there's a certain vulnerable honesty to him when he says: "I'll do my best."

"That's all I can ask."

I approach and offer another hug. He accepts it, but without vigor or enthusiasm. It isn't romantic or erotic, it's nothing more than a gesture of friendship and connection, just as it was meant to be. Somehow, I find there's a tragic quality to that.

We come apart. He looks toward the airport building. I ask if we should go in but he assures me we still have plenty of time.

"We got here way too early to be honest, even with all this talking. I should have thought it through better. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize." I say. "I'm glad for it. The more time I get to spend with you today, the better."

He seems to cheer a little. His ears perk and his tail wags in short, shy bursts.

He shifts on his feet, then shines a crooked smile my way.

"Can I ask something?" He waves a paw as if dismissing his own thought. "You don't have to answer."

"Of course, go ahead."

"I, uh, I'm not sure how to phrase this, so I'm just gonna go ahead and say it. How are you sure of, well, anything?" He hesitates and laughs nervously. "I know that sounds weird but, humor me. Like, how can you be certain in any of your big decisions, or even in knowing the love you feel for Adrian is real? What convinces you that it's more than a fleeting feeling or delusion bought on by coincidence and context. I'm not saying you shouldn't be with him, I- I just want to know how you can be so sure. Not just about that, but anything."

Images of Adrian flood my mind. He's smiling, winking, we're cuddling, my muzzle is locked with his, he's covered in blood, he's cleaning up in his shower, he's naked, he's clothed, he's sat across from me with a coffee, he's offering conversation, accenting his words with some exaggerated flick of the wrist, he's in a hospital bed covered in bandages, he's in my arms, it's only been a few months since I met him and already we're close, he's in pain and I'm here for him, he's talking, I'm just listening, but, no, it's more than that, I'm falling in love with him and I don't even know it.

"I'm not exactly sure how to answer that," I admit. "Honestly, I struggle with making big decisions too. These days I just try and live with what I've done and move on to the next thing. With Adrian, figuring out how I felt took a long time - too long - but I got there. As for how I'm so sure, well, it's tough to put into words. I just... when I think of him, when I see him, when I touch him I just know. I just do. And, yeah, there are times when I'm at my worst and I doubt myself, and we have argued in the past - I'm sure we will again - and maybe at some point I'll feel like these feelings are nothing more than a trick of the heart, but they're not. They're real. And even if, years from now, we're not together, that doesn't mean it wasn't real now, in this moment. I don't know if that was what you were looking for, but, yeah, that's how I feel."

He nods repeatedly, absorbing my words, then says: "I wish I was as sure about anything as you are about him."

"Well then, let me be sure for the both of us that, one day, you will be."

He finds a weak smile and so do I, but it feels like an empty gesture. I want to say more. I want to comfort and encourage him, but I don't know how and I don't even know if I should. I can't know what's next for him, so why act like I do? I mean, god, I won't even be around to help. Not in person, anyway.

"I'm gonna miss you," he says.

"I'm gonna miss you too," I admit. I hesitate, then add: "I wish you weren't leaving." As I say it, I find the sentiment is more true than I had realized. My muzzle opens again, this time a torrent flows out. "I wish I could be there for you. I wish Eve could too, and Adrian. I don't want you to ever feel alone or lost or hopeless. I want you to be happy. But, it's more than that. I like you, Ryan. Meeting you led to my life changing irreversibly, in some ways for the worse, but in many for the better. It feels like you're an integral part my life now, and for you to just go? It seems so wrong. I know you have family back home, and friends. I won't presume that we're any better for you than they are. Its just- I guess what I really want to say is: take care of yourself, Ryan. And, please, don't be a stranger."

"Believe me," he says. "I would stay if I could, but there's too much trauma here. This is where Marty took me. This is where he abused me. This is where I killed him. Every time I wake up I'm terrified, and I don't even know what of. He's dead. I know he's not coming back to haunt me, I know he can't hurt me any more than he already has, but, still... Staying here, for me, would be difficult. More than difficult. Right now it would be impossible." He shivers and whips his tail to the side. "I'm sorry Kale."

"No. Don't apologize. Just, stay in touch, okay?"

"Of course," he says. "I will. I promise."

Neither of us say anything for several minutes; at this point it feels like we've said all there is to say. There's a certain melancholy to it all, but I suppose such a mood was inevitable for an occasion like this.

He's hurt - he's fucking traumatized - and, frankly, so am I. It's plain fact that neither of us can solve our issues in the space of a single conversation - or in the space of a day, or a week, or month - but that doesn't make it feel any better parting ways like this, encumbered by such mental turmoil.

A sense of emptiness pervades me as I consider his departure. My part in his story ends here. For me, the drama is done. All that's left is the rest of my life. I suppose that's not so bad really. The only problem is it won't have Ryan in it.

No.

I won't let that happen. I'll see him, I'll keep up with him, I'll visit. This isn't the end. I won't let it be.

On impulse I take his paw in mine without saying a word. His tail wags and, on seeing it, so does mine. The future, perhaps, is not to be feared. There is hope here, for both of us, in both of us. I know it. He knows it.

For now, that's enough.

At some point we start chatting again, and with the most overwhelming thoughts already out our heads we settle on easy small-talk: catching up on shows and music we like, talking about things we're looking forward to and various world events. I don't let go of Ryan's paw until he says it's time to get moving.

And when we do get moving things move fast, too fast for my burned out mind to keep up with. Before I know it, it's time for us to say our goodbyes. And we do, and we hug and share meaningful glances and a few kind, hopeful words. And that's it.

There's no fanfare, no dramatics. I'm talking to him, then I'm not. He's walking away as I watch. He waves before dipping out of sight, and I wave back. Then he's gone.

Leaving the airport I wonder if I'll ever see him again. I'm determined to, but what if our circumstances change? What if life gets in the way? This could've been the last time I saw him.

About twenty seconds into the cab ride I realize I'm crying. I only half know why.

*

I don't take the cab quite all of the way home. I get out at a shop that's close by and buy a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. A matter of seconds later I'm inhaling my first, blissful lungful of smoke of the day.

I tried to quit, I failed. For the most part I'm okay with that. Adding withdrawal symptoms on top of mounting stress and mental strain didn't seem like the best of ideas.

I exhale and watch the smoke dance in the air as it diffuses. There's something beautiful about the way it moves, and the way it tastes. Still, it's a bad habit.

I set off toward my apartment, savoring every pull. I failed to quit, yes, but progress has been made. I've kept down to two a day since restarting, and I feel pride in knowing I haven't gone over that limit even once.

The cab ride was uncomfortable, I'm glad it's over. I didn't cry for long, but I did cry. The driver noticed. Thankfully, she didn't say anything. Maybe its not so uncommon to see clients cry, especially when picking them up from an airport.

God, it feels so strange to know Ryan's gone, and stranger still to know that he kissed me. I kissed him too. I pushed him away, but, still, I kissed him.

I love Adrian, that's not in doubt. I just- I don't know. Ryan intrigues me. What I feel for him isn't romantic, it's just... an attraction. A connection.

A horrible thought invades my mind: what if Marty won after all? His goal all along was to cut Ryan off from me, or anyone who could help him. In a sense, he succeeded. Ryan is on a plane out of here, away from me and Eve and Adrian and back to a life he never loved and once happily left behind.

God, I wish Marty would get out of my head. I can only hope he won't be part of my life forever. His intricate machinations have left me paranoid, even weeks after his death. The way he acted in life makes any motive, any crackpot theory, seem plausible. Its no surprise that Ryan got so lost in it all. But, Marty's dead. He didn't win. For all the difficulty and pain I face, for all the hatred I hold for myself, being loved by and loving Adrian has brought unmatched joy to my life. Ultimately, I'm happy.

And as for Ryan? He'll be okay. I have to believe that. And I'll be there for him as best I can. Unfortunately, that's all I can do. Ultimately, he'll have to keep himself together.

God, I shouldn't have let him kiss me.

I have to tell Adrian.

I'm not looking forward to it.

As I enter our apartment I call his name - preemptive anxiety building inside of me - but there's no response.

I take off my shoes, shut the door and look around, but there's no sign of him. All of a sudden I'm anxious about something other than a kiss.

Keep calm Kale. Nothing has gone wrong. Yet.

I call his name again. No response.

The door to our bedroom is shut. My heart beats hard, the droning thud is near-deafening. I realize I've been holding my breath, so I breathe out, and in, and out, and in. My tail is as still as stone as I approach the door.

The predictable flashback hits as I clasp the handle.

All that blood.

The predictable paranoia.

A tragic death.

In some sense I'm getting used to such violent mental detours to the past, but that makes them no easier to bear. Logic and repetition play no part in my brain's ability to see reason in the face of these brutal waking nightmares that confront me time and time again.

What if Adrian's hurt? What if he hurt himself? What if I lost him? What would I do?

I'm shaking in fear as I twist the handle and push. For a split second I'm totally convinced that he's dead, that all of the pain we've been through added up to too much, that he's taken his own life, that I'll find him, veins cut open, as a corpse on our bed, a suicide note on the side table telling me how much he loved me and how sorry he is.

I feel sick.

The door swings wide and the room is bright and alive.

Disfigured fantasy gives way to warm reality.

There's Adrian. He's totally naked, the vibrant red and whites of his fur set him apart from anything and everything else in the room.

He's on paws and knees, his butt raised and pointed my way, his tail wagging, his head twisted back to observe my reaction with a toothy grin.

For a moment I'm stunned, then a smile plasters my muzzle.

"You bastard," I say, undoing my belt. "I called out and you didn't respond. You scared me."

His tail swishes and he shakes his ass before deftly maneuvering so that he's laying on his back, staring up at me. He spreads his legs and strokes his sheath, the tip of his dick poking its way out. I'm staring at him, eyes hungry, muzzle parted, almost drooling. He catches my eyes and winks.

I continue disrobing.

"I didn't want to spoil the surprise." He breathes the words, letting his tone convey his intentions. He wants me to fuck him, hard. I don't need convincing.

Still, the fear I was feeling a matter of moments ago hasn't entirely faded.

"It's a damn good surprise," I say. "It's just that, well, the last time I couldn't find you and had to check the bedroom to see if you... I- Well, you..."

He sits up, sharp. His eyes go wide.

"Oh." He wraps his arms around himself and fixes his gaze on his knees. Just looking at him I know he's back in that moment, the blade at his wrist, bleeding out on his bed, only half-conscious. "I'm so sorry, I... I didn't even think about that. I thought this would be a nice way for you to cap off a busy day. I- I'm sorry. I fucked up."

"Hey, hey. No. It was a good idea," I say, approaching. "Just, maybe not the perfect execution. But that's not your fault, neither of us knew how I'd react. Now we do." He looks up, silent. I smile. He doesn't. I lean down and run a paw up his back, his neck, his hair. We kiss. It's brief but it says all that needs to be said. Well, almost all. As much as I want to just fuck and forget, it wouldn't be right. There's something I have to tell him. "Hey, Adrian."

"Yes hon?

"I need to tell you something." I say. "About what happened earlier, when I met Ryan."

He pulls back a little and tilts his head, regarding me.

"Can it wait?" One of his paws reaches down and cups my balls through my underwear. "I have something else on my mind."

God, I want to give in, to just let loose and smash him exactly how he wants me to, but: "I, uh, I really think I should tell you now."

Adrian shakes his head, slow but certain.

"Listen, Kalie, whatever it is, it can wait. I need dick, badly."

He leans in and we kiss again and, dammit, how am I meant to resist? I _will_tell him the truth but - maybe - not right now. He says he doesn't want me to ruin the mood, but, still...

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," he says, and everything about his body language convinces me that he is.

Fuck.

Okay.

"Get ready then, foxy."

He falls back, sprawling across the bed theatrically.

"Yes, master."

I all but tear off my shirt and underwear, then I'm on him, all-fours above him. He's staring up, heart thumping, tail thwapping excitedly against my legs. We kiss and grope and the world melts away and, god, even in all this nothing I get lost in him.

Whatbeautiful, ephemeral things these moments are, like entire fields of stars speeding past before they can be taken in. An infinity of details and no way to account for them. All of existence compounded to a single point of time and space.

Here.

Now.

All too soon it's over.

And I find everything much as it was before, but now Adrian and I are a panting, tangled mess tied at the knot on the bed and I'm holding him tight, not letting go, wishing life never had to extend beyond this room. If we were all there ever was or needed to be I would be happy eternally. If only.

He tells me how good it was and I agree in a sort of breathy reverie. Internally I ponder why, since we got together, he's been on such a submissive streak. Before we were a thing he wasn't afraid of reminding me how much he'd love to top me, but now that we're a couple he hasn't even mentioned it.

When the post-coital haze has lifted I nibble his ear. He yips and bats me away, feigning annoyance, but I can see the smile hidden behind his frown.

I decide to ask. "How come you're a career bottom of all a sudden, foxy?"

"Huh?"

"I'm pretty sure I remember a conversation or two about your rabid desire for wolf ass."

"I, uh, well, you're not wrong." He shifts a little, repositioning himself. "I just sort of figured you wouldn't be interested."

"Me not being interested didn't stop you before."

"Well," he says, pausing a little too long for comfort. "Do you want me to top you?"

I try and imagine my beautiful lover taking control and using me, taking hold of my hips and...

Huh.

I hit a sort of mental snag. The thought dissolves in my mind before it can properly coalesce.

"I, uh, don't know," I answer honestly.

Nothing is said for a while and time stretches on. I test my knot, dragging it back against his hole, but it's still too swollen to remove easily. He lets out a little yelp and whacks my side with his tail. I apologize and he giggles.

A minute or so later he says: "I just thought that, after what Marty did, you might be sensitive to the idea of letting somebody fuck you."

"Oh," I say. The thought hadn't even entered my head, but now it has I find that he's right. The only person I've bottomed for in years is Marty, and the last time he took me...

He got me high the first time too.

The more I think about it, the more my head hurts.

Of course Adrian avoided the topic.

Trauma on top of trauma on top of trauma on top of-

"Hey," Adrian says, reaching back, taking my paw in his. "It's okay. He's gone. I'm here." I squeeze him, struggling to find my voice. "I love you Kalie. So much."

"I love you too, Adrian." It's somehow a response that's both automatic and deeply felt. "I'm sorry that I'm like this. I know you wanted to, you know, and I don't want to restrict you. I-"

"If you never want to bottom for me, that's okay. Don't apologize. It doesn't matter to me, not really. I love you for you. And," he grinds his butt against me. "That dick of yours gives me all the pleasure I'll ever need. Don't worry."

I'm reminded starkly that I don't deserve him. He's more thoughtful and selfless than I'll ever be.

Still, no matter how unfair it may be, I _do_have him. The least I can do now is endeavor to be worth the love he shows me. That alone is motivation enough to keep going.

I attempt to remove my knot from him once again, going at it more gently this time. Thankfully I come loose with relative ease and, free from his grip, I sit at the edge of our bed.

"Adrian," I say.

"Yes Kalie?" He moves to sit beside me.

"When I saw Ryan today, we kissed." I speak plainly. Matter-of-fact. I can't keep a secret like this from Adrian. I won't. Not now. Not ever. I have to face the consequences of my actions. "I pushed him away after a second, but that was too late. I'm sorry."

Adrian sighs, tired and worn.

"Why did you...?"

"I don't love him." I say. "I don't know why I did it exactly. I guess I felt a pull toward him, and an attraction, and there's this voice in the back of my head that tells me you're too good for me and... But the second his tongue touched mine it all felt so wrong. I was ashamed of myself." I pause for breath and thought. "I love you Adrian, more than anything. I want to get better, not worse, but acting out like that, turning my negative feelings into negative actions, doesn't help anything. I know that. I feel so stupid." On hearing my voice tremble, I take a second to steady myself. This is a lot. "When I pushed him away I made it clear it was a mistake, and that I didn't want him. He got the message and didn't try anything else. Please don't hate him for this, Adrian, it was my fault. And I shouldn't have waited until after sex to tell you. Another mistake to add to the list. If you're going to hate anyone, hate me. I'm sorry, Adrian, I'm so sorry, but I know that doesn't make up for what I've done. I keep fucking up over and over, and sometimes I feel like I'll never be able to stop, that I'll never be a better person. But, here and now, with you, I know that's not true. I want you to know that - whatever happens next - I'm gonna be better for you, and I'll never stop trying to improve, even if you leave me. I love you Adrian. I love you."

The apartment is unnervingly quiet in the wake of my speech. Adrian adjusts his hair and exhales.

"Kalie," he says. "You sure do talk a lot." I stare at him, dumbfounded. He shakes his head and laughs. "I already knew what happened wolf, though I'm glad you came forward and put it in your own words."

"You knew?"

"Yeah," he says, nodding along as if it's nothing. "Ryan messaged me before you got back. He told me everything. The only difference is that he said he was the one to blame and that I should hate him for it, not you. Predictable. You know, you're both gonna need to get rid of that savior complex some time, I don't think it does either of you any favors."

I struggle for words, working to wrap my brain around the information it is being presented with. "I'm so sorry Adrian. This never should have happened."

"But it did." He tilts his head and taps the side of his muzzle. "Look, I'm not gonna sit here and tell you that I'm happy you kissed him. Obviously it's upsetting, but you've both been through hell. You're recovering. If you make mistakes along the way, well, okay. I can empathize. I get it. You've both been hurt in the same way, by the same person, of course you have a connection. When he came on to you and you caved in for a moment, I mean, yeah, I wish you didn't, but you stopped it before it went too far. You recovered, you came home, and you told me the truth. Now, I'm not giving you license to brush this off like it was nothing and forget it - I know I won't - but I forgive you." He smiles and I know he means every word. I'm overwhelmed by his kindness and... Oh god, he's better than I'll ever be by such a wide margin that-

That...

Fuck.

I guess I'm just lucky. So, so lucky. I guess I already knew that.

"Thank you," I say, and I want to say so much more, but I have no idea where to start. "It'll never happen again, I promise. I love you so much."

"Good." He says. He gets to his feet and heads toward the bedroom door. His tail glides gracefully as he moves, guiding my eyes across his body as it sways to and fro. I take in his every feature and facet in an instant. He is beautiful. Maybe my love for him only exacerbates that assessment, but that doesn't matter. To my eyes he's practically glowing. "Now, enough brooding. Lets order takeout. I'm getting hungry."

I stand, walk over to him and pull him in. I lower my muzzle to his neck and kiss it, in doing so I find I don't want to stop. I keep on kissing, heading down past his shoulders and over his chest. I keep going down until I'm smooching just above his sheath, then I head back up. He giggles and wriggles in my grasp, but I don't let go. I lick and nibble at him as I come up, and soon enough his laughter has morphed into little moans and hums of pleasure. I kiss up his neck and along his muzzle until he gets what I'm going for, then we're locked at the mouth, our tongues melding into one. We stay like that for some time, but as long as we drag it out it's never long enough.

When our muzzles part ways I'm hit with a sudden, intense rush of emotion. I screw my eyes shut and hold him close.

I don't deserve him at all.

I haven't been good to him. All the shit I've done should have rendered him permanently out my league. He reached out when he needed me and I shut him down, multiple times. I dragged him into my drama with barely a thought for how it might affect him. I ignored my feelings for him. I ignored them for a long, long time. That one mistake caused us both so much heartache.

I failed him, completely. I failed Ryan. I failed myself. I've been a failure, through and through, for a while now.

I wish none of this had ever happened. I wish I'd never met Ryan. I wish, when Adrian asked if we should go out that night, I'd told him: no, I'd rather stay in with you. I wish I'd pulled him close and kissed him, as part of me had so desperately wanted to.

If only I could go back. If only I'd been there for him when he needed me, as he always has been for me.

But it's too late for that.

I'm too late.

That train left the station a long time ago.

A cold pang of déjà vu.

For a second I feel like I'm falling.

I open my eyes to find Adrian's face. He eclipses all else. His smile, his bright, golden eyes. God, he wears his love so openly.

In that love, I find a fact:

If I fall, he'll catch me.

And when he does I'll get to my feet and hold out my arms.

And if he falls, I'll catch him too.

That's just who he is.

That's just who I'll be.

That's just what we'll do.

"Adrian," I say.

"Yeah, Kalie?"

"I love you."

His smile grows. He's radiant. His glow outshines the sun.

"I love you too honey. But, uh, are we getting takeout, or what?"