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Harry was lying on his bed, streaming a movie on his tablet when loud, uneven hoofsteps in the hall caught his attention, but they passed by his door and went into the bathroom. Letting out the breath he'd been holding, Harry once again said a silent prayer to the weather gods. If Ethan could just make his Thursday flight, this would all blow over and everything would go back to normal.

Harry jumped, dropping his tablet on his pillow as his bedroom door flew open and Ethan charged in, snorting and staggering, an empty bottle of brown sugar bourbon clutched to his chest, wearing just a T-shirt and boxers.

"Show me," he said, his words slurred and his blue eyes bright and glassy. He dropped his empty bottle on the carpet and took a step toward Harry. "If she was really you, show me. Where's the clothes?"

"Un-under my bed," Harry whispered, his gaze darting from Ethan's broad chest, his T-shirt stretched so tight over his muscles, Harry could see his nipples under the fabric, to his crotch, where his boxers were stretched equally as tight over his hard sheath and full balls.

"Get 'em," Ethan said.

Slowly, Harry climbed off the bed and pulled the suitcase out from underneath. He opened it and stepped back, letting Ethan see the tangle of blue silk and black lace spilling out of one shoe box. Ethan staggered closer, reaching out to touch Harry's panties. Harry bit his lip, his heart pounding as Ethan ran a finger down over the silk crotch, his sheath tingling as he imagined being touched like that.

"Put 'em on," Ethan said, his voice low and husky. Harry couldn't move, couldn't breathe. He was pretty sure his heart had stopped beating, as well. Ethan turned toward him, a madness in his drunken eyes. "Did you hear me? I said put 'em on."

Adrenaline surged through Harry's veins. "No," he said, his fur bristling. "You have no right to do this. Get out of my room." His lips drew back from his sharp, white teeth, a snarl threatening to break free.

"I knew it," Ethan said, grabbing the edge of Harry's dresser as he listed dangerously to one side. "You're just fucking with me. Who told you? It was Jesse, wasn't it? That bastard ram couldn't stand the fact that I wanted you, instead of him. He put you up to this, didn't he?"

Harry's anger died, snuffed out by confusion. "I don't have any idea what you're talking about," he said. "Jesse didn't tell me anything, not about you, and not about this." He looked down at his secret treasures. "This is just...who I am. Who I_really_ am when I don't have to worry about what other people might think. Ethan...I--"

He scrambled out of the way as Ethan lurched past him, out the door and across the hall. It sounded like he made it to the toilet just in time, the bathroom echoing with his loud and forceful vomiting. Apparently, pancakes and bourbon for breakfast was not a good idea.

Harry waited until he heard the toilet flush and water running in the sink before he stepped out of his room, going no further than the middle of the hall.

"Are you okay?" he asked. After a minute, the water shut off and Ethan stepped into the doorway, the fur on his face dark and wet, tiny glistening drops clinging to the white fut on his throat and soaking into the collar of his T-shirt. He looked down at the floor, his arm braced against the wall to keep from falling over.

"I'm sorry, Harry," he said, his slurred words saturated with remorse and alcohol. "I shouldn't have...I just...when you said it was you, I pictured you in that little shirt, and I got so turned on, and then I got emra--embarrassed, and then I got angry. I shouldn't have gotten angry, Harry. I'm sorry. So sorry."

"It's okay," Harry said. He hesitated, then reached out and took Ethan by the arm. "C'mon, you should lie down and sleep this off. We can talk about it when you're sober."

"I'm not drunk," Ethan said with a snort, but he draped his arms over Harry's shoulders and leaned on him anyway. Harry helped him down the hall and into his room, the bed frame groaning as the big buck flopped down in the middle of the mattress. "Thanks, Harry," he said as Harry headed for the hall. "You're a good guy." He began to snore almost immediately, and Harry quietly closed the door.

Hours later, Harry was downstairs in the kitchen, his stomach finally settling down enough for him to be hungry. He couldn't eat when he was stressed, and today had been a_very_ stressful day. It was late enough, and the weather gray enough, that he had most of the lights in the kitchen on, mostly because the warm, golden light reminded him of home in Arizona, but also because he knew Micah would have a fit if he knew.

He was stirring a large pot of vegetable soup on the back burner when the slow, loud hoofsteps on the stairs alerted him to Ethan's presence. Harry wasn't sure if it was deliberate, to give him a warning, or just because Ethan was hungover, but it didn't really matter. He got another bowl down out of the cupboard and continued stirring the soup.

He heard Ethan come into the kitchen and linger in the doorway. Should he say something? Should he wait for Ethan to speak first? Were they going to pretend that nothing happened, or should he get out in front of this? These and about a hundred other questions flashed through his mind in a second or two. Finally, he moistened his dry lips and took a deep breath.

"Hey," he said, glancing over his shoulder. "You want some soup?"

"I don't think so," Ethan said, his voice rough. "My head is killing me and I feel like I'm gonna puke again."

"Soup will help that," Harry said, ladling mostly broth into his bowl and setting it at the end of the bar. "So will these." He got two aspirin and a can of warm ginger ale out of the cupboard and set them next to the soup. Ethan carefully made his way over to the bad and sat down, cracking open the soda and tossing back the pills.

"Thanks," the buck said, setting the can down again and picking up his spoon. Harry dished himself up a bowl and got a root beer out of the fridge, taking a seat at the other end of the bar. They slurped their soup in awkward silence for a while, until Harry couldn't take it anymore.

"Look, Ethan, about what happened--"

"Yeah, about that," Ethan said quickly. "I was afraid to ask what happened. Everything after I got out of the taxi is kind of a blur." He glanced up from his soup, his gaze meeting Harry's for a moment before he looked away. "In fact, I'm sure it wouldn't be hard at all to completely forget this morning ever happened."

"Oh. Okay," Harry said. Just forget about it. That seemed the best choice, but it left him feeling cold and hollow inside. Was he, perhaps, hoping for a different outcome? Honestly, he wasn't sure. "So, a Nor'easter, huh? I thought the weather people could see those coming."

"Yeah, but I guess they still can't predict exactly what they'll do," Ethan said, sounding relieved to be talking about something as harmless as the weather. "This one was supposed to stay off the coast and wind down before it came ashore further south, but apparently it had other plans. I called my folks from the airport. Mom said they'd lost power twice already and had nearly a foot of snow."

"Brrr," Harry said with an exaggerated shiver. "I don't know how people can live in a place like that. If we get a dusting of frost on the grass, I can't go outside unless I'm wearing my thermal underwear." As soon as the word left his mouth, Harry felt his ears heat up, and watched the insides of Ethan's turn dark red. The buck picked up his bowl, chugged the last of the broth, and grabbed his can of soda.

"Speaking of my folks, I should probably give them another call, see how they're doing. Thanks for the soup," he said as he headed for the stairs. In the doorway of the kitchen, his hoofsteps paused. "You know, I might be able to remember this morning if you were to jog my memory. If not, that's okay, too. It's up to you."

Harry sat, staring across the kitchen, as Ethan finally left. Slumping forward, he braced his elbows on the table and buried his face in his paws, his ears flattening. What the hell was that? It sure sounded like an invitation to...to...To do what? Talk about his interest in women's lingerie? To be fuck-buddies? To dinner and a movie? He was so confused.

Harry had never really dated anyone seriously, had never had more than few one-night stands. Having a closet full of secrets made getting close to anyone impossible. Now, here was someone who had seen that side of him, and wasn't repulsed. Was Ethan really attracted to him, or was that just the bourbon talking? Though it made him tremble like a leaf, Harry had to find out.