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"Today, we're finishing with the work of the Impressionists."

Professor Pete Fischer was about to begin the third unit of Exploring the Landscape of Art, one of the first required courses for incoming fine arts majors. About 200 freshmen had piled into Fletcher Hall's main lecture room, chairs fixed to the floor theater-style and surrounded by plain, dark green walls with none of the art deco trappings of the campus's actual theater halls. It was one of the few rooms capable of handling the collective boredom of the "I'm not here by choice" crowd. Pete, by contrast, could not.

At the foot of the audience stood a single Cornish Rex in a gray blazer, black dress shirt, and jeans over his tuxedo fur coat. The shorthaired cat gestured to the projection behind him with a laser pointer as new paintings and bullet-point facts appeared. Light shone in his big yellow eyes and contracted their slit pupils, which didn't help him look comfortable and approachable. His ears still perked with every stray noise, an obvious phenomenon since they'd outgrown the prominent skeletal structure of his face. This was his third year teaching the course, the first without a senior professor. Inexperience, in itself, was not the problem; he had handled it before.

He swung a skinny arm at a wide Gauguin painting. "After Impressionism, the idea to depict the inherent meaning of the subject gains traction," he explained. "Exact, literal form is no longer the only form, and we more readily embrace visual metaphor. What can we - hands up - what can we say about this painting?"

No response. Fingers and claws tap on chiclet laptop keyboards, but no one meets his eyes, lest they give the impression they have something to say - dear gods, the very thought! This was textbook student behavior, of course, no more an indictment of Pete's lecture than of the institution that housed it, yet not a compliment to either.

A dalmatian sitting near the front raised his hand. Pete locked eyes with him to ask for his answer. "The people in the painting could all, like, be there," the dog said. "But the way they're organized, left-to-right, it's like going from birth to death?"

A single clap of Pete's hands, and he responded, "Perfect." Best practice said to inject some positive energy when a student engages. He didn't have to try. "What we're looking at is the full journey of a sapient, birth to death, expressed through a crowd of people in various stages of that journey. The use of color here..."

From Pete's perspective, the lecture hall picked up the aroma of freshly ground coffee, and the walls drew inward. Airy windows grew on the wall panels until they fused into one long view of a Parisian street at midday, and tables sprouted out of the flattening floor, attracting the mixed clientele of a trendy cafe: the college students, the office workers on break, the day-trippers, and in Pete's corner, the foremost art critics, hanging onto his every word as he expounded on the genius of post-Impressionism.

There was a wet cough from the back of the room followed by a loud sniffle. Pete was back in the lecture hall. The students, if they were moved, didn't show it. Once the last sentence left his mouth, he couldn't find the one that was supposed to come after. Post-Impressionism, and then what?

He glanced at his watch. "Ah, well, that's all I have for today," he said ten minutes before the period's end. The din of students packing up to leave nearly drowned the follow-up, "Make sure you read the assigned material on the class site before Thursday."

Half of the class was out the door by the end of the sentence. The stragglers shuffled behind them, either not in a hurry or not awake enough to hurry. Pete walked back to the desk at the front of the room and pressed the panel button to turn off the projector, frowning. His lesson notes, scribbled on notebook paper, had gained another pound per page, it seemed.

"Professor Fischer?" asked a sunny voice from behind.

The cat's ears perked and he twisted around in place to see the dalmatian from earlier behind him. "Ah, hello, Mel," he said, and he glanced back to stuff papers in his briefcase-bag.

"Hey, um, so I wanted your opinion on something," Mel said. He gripped the shoulder strap of his messenger bag near the center of his chest where his orange shirt had some citrus soda logo. The bag held a minimum of three textbooks and a laptop, enforcing a slight hunch on the slight-framed dog.

"Sure, let's hear it," said Pete. Papers crunched when he tried to stow them without looking. They were already crumpled, anyway.

"Do you think I could be an artist?" asked Mel.

A pause. "Yes," said Pete. "If that's the whole question. If you make art, you're an artist."

Mel winced. "Yeah, but I mean full-time," he said. "As a living, just making art all day."

Pete's brow furrowed. "You'll have to be more specific," he said, now turning to lean his backside on the corner of the desk and fold his arms, the only "cool professor" pose he knew. "What's your medium? Animation? Comics? Are we talking visual arts, or music, or what?"

"Painting, I guess," said the dog.

Pete shrugged. "Painting's a tough one on its own, but art teams need them for backgrounds and all," he said.

Mel frowned. "Yeah, but I've always wanted to make art just by itself," he said. "Is there still room out there for a painter? Like Gauguin? I just don't know where to start, y'know?"

Pete's ears flicked. "There's only room for those who make room," he said, straightening his back. "You have to hone your talent either way, constant practice - and not just drawing, though that's important, but really expanding out of your comfort zone, trying new subjects and techniques and..."

He stopped. The dalmatian's ears drooped, brow flattened, lips pressed into the slightest of pouts. The look was unmistakable: Mel, like any young artist, had asked this question of someone else and gotten the same answer: practice. Anyone can say "practice," not that they're wrong, but he'd expected something else from Professor Fischer and gotten the stock answer. The worst part was Pete knew better. In the ratty shoes he wore as a freshman, he'd looked for basically the same answers to the question he could never put right. No one, of course, knew what he wanted. Answers only came when he...

Pete sighed, then slapped his paw on the desk for emphasis, rousing the dog from his disappointment. "Forget asking," he said. "It's not something I can answer for you. You already know how to start: paint. You already know it'll take months of thankless work." His voice grew louder, emphasis stronger. "If you want a reason to keep at it, get out. Go to a new coffee place. Go talk to a stranger. Go to a museum, appreciate the art, hate the art, feel something about it, about the museum, about the ride there and back, and take that feeling and a dozen others like it, and put it on a canvas." Wide-eyed, he continued, "And then, do it again. Do it until you barely notice a critic praising your work and a gallery exhibition is just a normal weekend for you, and then do it again."

When his voice stopped echoing in the room, Pete caught himself hunched forward with his paws contorted into claws, thankfully without the actual claws out towards Mel. A passerby loitered by the door until they caught his eye, prompting them to scurry away. Mel, on the other hand, was smiling.

Pete took a deep breath to look less like he'd gone feral. "Does that help?" he asked.

The dog nodded. "Yeah, I think so," he said, tail wagging. "Thanks! I mean, yeah, I can do that!"

"Great," Pete said, turning to put the last of his papers away. "Start with the art department and the local restaurants - it's cheap. There's a showing of grad student work this Saturday, free to all students."

"I was just thinking about going before, but I'll be there!" said Mel. He glanced at the clock. "Sorry, next class is across campus, gotta go - thanks again Professor Fischer!"

While Mel bounced up the incline out of the room, Pete zipped up his bag and slung the strap over his shoulder. He rubbed his forehead. It wasn't that long ago that he'd taken his own advice, went out people-watching and trying those new experiences, enjoying the high points and suffering through embarrassments. He put it all into his craft.

This wasn't Milan. What happened?

##

Lunch today was the food court's spicy chicken stir-fry served in a biodegradable to-go container. If there was a proper name for it, the folks running the window didn't know it. Pete chose a table for two by the window wall showcasing the beauty of the campus at midday at the very peak of autumn, where the ash trees are alight with yellow and orange leaves that shimmer in the sun next to the beige and minimalist buildings of the science section. There was another food court deeper in Fine Arts territory that held a lovely view of their museum-like exhibit hall, but that was too far for his usual dining partner who, even this close to his previous class, was speedwalking down the main walkway to make time.

In strode Borya, a bulky polar bear over six feet tall and clad in a dark brown suit. First impressions often led people to believe he was a mob enforcer taking a much-needed vacation. When his bulk bumped into those just under his line of sight, there were no objections, only a quiet "sorry, excuse me" from the bear, and when he fished out his card with clumsy fingers while changing his mind thrice on an order, the staff were happy to wait. His was a polite world.

Pete had been pushing around the rice with chopsticks to soak up all the sauce while he waited for Borya to show up. Soon, a tray appeared with a double cheeseburger from one window and an entree-sized bowl of lo mein from another. "I've never had lo mein," said Borya as he took a seat and immediately set to spreading a napkin over his lap. The square table was only about as wide as he was.

"You'll like it," said Pete, who took his first real bite of stir-fry. The spice hit his throat, and he reached for his water.

Borya stirred the noodles around in the bowl with his fork as if looking for something. When it didn't appear, he lifted a twirled forkful of noodles to his mouth. "How's your third year of teaching going?" he asked before taking a bite.

Pete sighed once the water went down. "It's fine," he said. "A couple students are getting into it."

The bear stopped chewing for a moment and squinted at Pete, then cocked an inquisitive brow.

"Ah, don't make that face, I know what that means," Pete said.

Borya swallowed. "Is it fine, though?" he asked.

"Yes," said Pete, a touch too loud. "Eat your noodles."

"So it's not fine," Borya declared, and he pointed to the cat with his fork. "Something's bothering you."

Pete rolled his eyes. "Okay, fine, yeah, I haven't been feeling right lately," he said. "You really should've been a journalist or something."

Borya gave a placid smile and shrugged. "Life had other plans," he said. "I wouldn't be talking to you if I did."

Pete snickered. "So I wouldn't be interesting enough to interview, huh?" he prodded. "Thanks for the confidence."

Borya sat up and splayed out his fingers, black paw pads visible. "No, no, that's not what I meant!" he said. "I know you're joking, but just saying..."

The cat shrugged and ate a chunk of saucy chicken. "S'fine," he said, food tucked away in a corner of his mouth. He continued in a moment, "I dunno, maybe that's the problem?"

"What, not being interesting?" asked the bear. "I think you're interesting."

Pete gave an exaggerated "Oh, you" flap of his paw before answering, "It's more about being...substantial, maybe," he said. "Important's not quite it, either."

Borya tapped his fingerpads together. "Try 'impactful,'" he suggested.

"Yeah, impactful," said Pete. "In class today, I was going on about post-Impressionism, and I just thought, you know, I didn't think I'd be there, or here. I thought I'd be traveling the world by now, having chats in coffeehouses and drawing for a living." He inspected his water glass. "Couch-surfing, maybe, but living."

"And you still want that?" asked Borya.

Pete blinked. "Uh, yeah," he said.

The bear stroked his snout. "I thought this was a step in that direction," he said. "That's what you told me when you were a TA."

"That's what I thought," Pete said while spinning chicken with his chopsticks. "But today, it just felt like I was stuck here spinning my wheels." His ears began to droop. "What if that's it, I'm just a professor now, no energy left to get into the real art world?"

Borya put down his fork. "Aw, don't think like that, Pete," he said. "Academia can feel oppressive, sure, but what you said before isn't any less true now. And you're not that far outside the art world; you're making a bigger impact here than you realize. If anything, you're helping students get into it."

The cat thrust a paw towards the sky outside the window. "That should be me, getting into it," he protested. "I should've tried, I don't know, something, anything different five years ago. Dropping out." He rubbed his forehead with his palm.

"You're too reasonable for that," said Borya. He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "And that's what they need, anyway: reasonable folks who can afford couches for surfing. I've seen a picture of your couch, it looks nice. Better than mine." He furrowed his brow. "Why do you get the better couch? I get paid more."

Pete slumped in his chair, sighed, and smiled. The tension he felt in his temples had ebbed away over lunch conversation as only Borya knew how to hold it.

The bear clapped his big paws together, sounding and looking more like two pillows colliding. "Well, you gave up a smile, my job's done," he declared.

"Eat your noodles," said Pete.

They finished up their meal with an unexpected few minutes to spare. Even with the conversation, there was usually more fat-chewing to be had. Borya was usually the one to either bring conversation or threaten to wax philosophical if Pete didn't, but his eyes kept drifting back to his bowl. When the time came to start heading to their next classes, the bear spoke up.

"Pete," he said, fingers interlaced, "are you doing anything tonight?"

"No, what, wanna go out somewhere?" Pete asked.

"Actually, I wanted to open that wine I got for my birthday last month," Borya replied. "You know, the port. Supposed to be a good vintage, but I'm not a wine guy, so it's wasted on me."

Pete's ears perked. "The Tawny?" he asked, to which the bear nodded. "I mean, I wouldn't say it's wasted. It should just be good wine, if you like port."

The bear shrugged. "Well, I guess I could try it with dinner, just the reheated chicken from last night," he said.

Pete shot him a look. "Okay, maybe you're right," he said. "I've got some cheese that would go nice with it, maybe come over to my place at 8?"

Borya smiled. "I'll be there," he said.

##

Once the cheese platter - two small blocks of sliced cheddar and bleu - was out of the fridge and warming up on the kitchen counter, Pete set to de-cluttering the apartment. It was a rush job, just getting the older magazines out of view, putting books on the shelves, and pitching any trash. The more he cleaned, the more he realized how a little clutter could shrink an apartment living room even smaller than it was. By the time the last armful of reading material landed in the closet, the space had gone from crowded to cozy.

The cover of the top rag featured a buff, bare-chested reindeer with his fingers hooked into his thong, shooting Pete a smoldering look next to a promise of "48 PAGES of the HOTTEST MEN of WINTER!" Pete frowned and put it under the latest issue of the art department's student magazine. Borya wouldn't just paw through people's closets, thought Pete, but you never know.

Nothing was left but a collection of potential improvements to the apartment Pete wished he'd done. The rugs on the hardwood floors were nice, the furniture and kitchen counters were clean, and the abstract paintings were aesthetically pleasing, if a bit shallow. The front door was right next to the divide between the kitchen and living area, but no matter which direction Borya would look first, it would be pristine. Great, no reason to be nervous. The cat straightened and re-straightened his dress shirt.

He answered a heavy knock at the door. Borya was here, having changed into a t-shirt plus flannel affair that Pete had never pictured him wearing. All of their outside-work meetings were right after class and usually in whatever they wore to class that day.

"Hey, welcome," said Pete, gesturing for the bear to come in. "Take your shoes off at the mat." No carpets, but the rugs were too nice for mud.

Borya shuffled inside and slipped out of his sneakers. "Pete, your place is nice," he said, looking around as he put a tall, colorful gift bag on the kitchen table. "I thought these were the low-rent apartments."

"They are," said Pete. "First thing I did after moving day was class it up. Couldn't stand the blank walls. Now, you can't even see the cracks in them."

Borya smiled. "God, this is definitely you," he said towards the living room. "I feel under-dressed. Shouldn't have slipped out of my suit."

"Oh, don't worry about that," said Pete, who had taken the wine out of the bag and was going to get the corkscrew. "Anyway, have a seat, I'll get the wine." He grabbed a couple of his nicer wine glasses from the cabinet.

Borya said, "Sure," and sat on the sleek sofa. The stereo system was off, but he could picture some bossa nova playing right now. What was he thinking, having wine with leftovers? Instead, he'd stepped into the closest place he'd been to an upscale restaurant, or maybe a VIP lounge, the perfect place to enjoy a quality glass. It was hard to believe the same junior professor who kept his illegible notes crumpled in his bag could keep his place so tidy.

The bear looked around. It was too perfect. The room told him nothing he didn't already know about Pete. He thought about his own place: mildly messy, hobbies visible, decorated with whatever spoke to him at the time, scuffed and imperfect in places like a favorite jacket. It said a lot about him. This place, meanwhile, could be a model home. Flawless, except for...

Pete came out to set two glasses half-full of Tawny on the coffee table. "Wait for me to get the cheese," he said, and turned back around, tail waving behind him in that self-satisfied feline way.

Borya leaned forward on his knees and squinted towards the stereo. Just beyond the front leg lay a Polaroid, face-up. There were two people on it, one with a tuxedo fur pattern - Pete, it had to be. He didn't recognize the other one, some larger green figure with more of a snout. Were they shirtless?

The bear peered into the kitchen. Pete was only just now taking the cheese out of the plastic wrap to slice it, apparently. Borya decided to count on that taking a little while, and he got up to walk a lazy half-circle around the room. Yes, from the sounds of his footsteps he was just admiring the decor and not, as he was doing now, crouching near the stereo to scoop up the photo and have a closer look with his back to the kitchen.

In the picture, Pete and a muscular alligator were laying shirtless, perhaps nude out-of-frame, together on a bare mattress on the ground with a pile of cardboard boxes next to them. The cat had nestled his head against the gator's chiseled, pale-green chest near the crook of his arm where his scales darkened, and his own arm extended past the left border to hold the camera. His gator held him in place with his snout pointed towards the ceiling, gentle eyes closed beneath a subtle brow; it was possible he didn't know about the camera until the click.

"Like the stereo?" Pete asked while walking back in with the cheese plate.

Borya palmed the photo and, as he turned, slid the paw into his pocket. "Ah, yes, it's a fancier setup than my little Bluetooth speaker," he said. Out of view, his thumb pushed the picture away. "Maybe we can turn some music on?"

He pressed the power button. There was a deep click followed by music fading in mid-song, which made Pete take a big stride to the coffee table. The plastic tray clattered against wood, and a woman, a strong alto voice, belted out the end of a bubbly pop song's catchy chorus. Pete twisted the volume knob to silent fast enough that it clicked at the lower limit.

"Ah, sorry," Pete said. "I would've had something classier on if I'd known you'd just turn it on like that."

The bear's big paw waved away the matter. "Nothing to apologize for," he said. "Like what you like, you know?"

"Yeah, but you're gonna, like, picture me dancing to that now," Pete said.

Borya grinned. "I will now," he said.

When Pete joined him on the couch, the wine tasting began in earnest. Pete demonstrated how a true wine aficionado does it: swirl the glass to inspect the color and clarity, then take a quick sniff over the top. Borya's ursine nose could pick up several aromas just from there, something like plum and spice in the middle of the burning sensation from the alcoholic vapors. Now, he had to put his nose in the glass to get a full profile. He didn't compensate for his extra sensitivity and just went with it, inhaling perhaps more than he should've. His sinuses burned, and he couldn't hold back a grimace. The way he came up for air, wrinkling his snout and squeezing his eyes shut, made Pete giggle.

Borya took it in stride. That giggle he'd never heard before was more of the real Pete.

The pair raised their glasses to sip - just a little, of course, and let it go down slow. As the wine poured onto their palates, Pete closed his eyes, and Borya pulled out the picture. There was enough time in that gulp to toss it by the table and make it look like he'd just found it there, but his fingers kept hold of it. Thinking about what he would ask, he almost forgot not to breathe mid-swallow and gulped the whole mouthful of wine.

Pete swallowed and lowered his glass, and he looked for any spots of wine on the bear's white muzzle. "Hope you didn't drink that too fast, I'm too much of a lightweight for another," he said. "What flavors did you pick up? I'll tell you mine after, don't want to influence your first impressions too much."

"Plum," Borya replied. It was a small lie; he'd tasted mostly grapes and alcohol but smelled the plum.

"There was a little of that, yeah," Pete said, rubbing his chin. "Surprised you picked that out. You must've really savored it before that gulp. Or you've got a good palate."

"Must be ursine senses," said the ursine. "Pete, do you mind if I ask you something?"

"Not at all, what..." started Pete, but he trailed off as Borya held up the picture, and his smile froze and his ears stood straight up. "Borya, where'd you get that?"

"It was by the stereo," Borya said, glancing at it. Pete made a motion to take the photo, too polite to snatch it from the bear. Borya ignored it. "Who's the gator?"

Fuck, Pete thought as he pinched his brows, I don't know how I missed that. "He was...ah, he's my ex," he said. "Boyfriend, I mean. That picture's from when he helped me move in. We took a break and cuddled." He scratched behind an ear. "He was really big into taking old-school Polaroids like this. I got into it too, for a while, and I stuck a bunch of them on my bedroom wall. It sounds so mushy when I say it out loud."

Borya smiled. "That's really cute, actually," he said. "Do you still have a lot of these?"

"Some," Pete said. He rolled his eyes, less from indifference and more to avoid looking Borya in the eye. "They're not on my wall, just in a box somewhere. Can't bring myself to throw them out."

Borya considered the photo. "And you still think about him, then?" he asked.

"He...well, sort of," Pete said, now also looking at the image as if talking to it. "We were together for a while. Shared a lot of memories, and honestly, he's pretty hot." He turned back to Borya. "Uh, if you don't mind me saying. I don't know who your type would be."

"It's fine, I guess I never really mention it," Borya said with a shrug. "I've been with girls, but lately I've been a little curious, you know?" He considered the gator. "Yeah, I'd say he's nice."

The cat's tail whipped in the air with a sudden spark of interest. "Really?" he asked, leaning closer to the bear.

Borya nodded. "Mm, I like his eyes," he said, pointing out features with a blunt claw. "And the shape of his snout, the way his scales cover his chest. He's handsome." He shoots a sly look to Pete. "But really, I think I like the guy next to him better."

Pete groaned and whacked Borya on the shoulder with a limp paw. "Ah, don't say that," he said, smiling while his ears sloped downward and got pinkish at the tips.

Borya grinned. "I've never seen you so flustered," he said. "But there's something else I wanted to ask."

Pete looked back at the bear and blinked, heart beating fast. "What's that?" he asked.

"Well, like I said, I've been curious," Borya said. "Never done it with a guy, but I want to try it. Preferably with someone...smaller than me."

The cat nodded once, slowly. "Uh-huh," he said, waiting for more.

Borya put his arm on the back of the couch. It was the most reliable move in his arsenal. "Definitely wouldn't mind if it was someone like that cat," he said.

A paw touched his thigh. Small fingerpads pressed into the fabric and kneaded at the fur and skin underneath. "Maybe he would, if you asked," Pete said, nearly a whisper as he leaned closer.

Borya's ears twitched just like they did several years ago on a night like this one and in much the same position, except at a party and with a grizzly girl who'd been trying to talk to him all night. Pete had that look without going three beers deep, and it definitely wasn't the wine. He took a deep breath through his nose. He'd picked up Pete's scent before, but he'd never fixated on it before and wondered what it was like under the shampoo.

"Pete," he asked, his voice deep and quiet, "do you want to?"

Pete grinned. "I'd love to," he said, and he scooted next to the big bear. Their thighs pressed together, and the cat slid his paw up the bear's elevated arm towards his shoulder. Under his pads and through two shirt sleeves, he could feel the bear's trepidation tightening his muscles. "Just relax."

Borya took another deep breath and made a conscious effort to relax, starting with his shoulders. He imagined the fresh air flowing into them, the same air that carried Pete's scent - it was new and familiar at the same time, much like how his touch felt reassuring, not unwelcome. It helped that his paw was squeezing his far shoulder and pulling him closer.

"Do you want to take it slow?" Pete asked to the bear's ear. "We can do whatever you want."

Then, the bear pawed Pete's chest. "If I need you to stop, I'll say so," he said. "I want you to show me exactly what you'd do with a big guy like me."

Pete pulled back and looked at his friend's face. Before, he would've told anyone Borya was handsome. His muzzle had a well-defined shape that made him look masculine, and he carried his bulk quite well - there was just enough to fill out his cheeks. The way the bear looked at him now under those strong brows, Pete could already imagine feeling the strength that must be in his arms, the passion behind those deep blue eyes. A rolling mrrowl slipped out, and he leaned forward to kiss the bear.

Their lips met and the cat's nose ended up just below the bear's, getting coarse bear fur up his nostrils. Mutual discomfort pulled them back. Pete turned and sneezed into his arm ("Bless you," said Borya) and Borya wiped his lip. They shared a chuckle and tried again, this time with Pete tilting his head - better, at least no nose-tickling here. Pete opened his lips a little wider and guided the bear's muzzle with his fingers to just the right spot...and there it was, that good angle that locked their lips together. The cat closed his eyes, purring with pleasure.

Borya had kissed girls before, but none of them felt quite as nice as Pete. Or were his colleague. He slipped his other arm behind the cat to form a loose embrace where the two shared their second, third, fourth wine-scented kiss, each separated with soft smacks. A low growl rumbled from his throat.

Pete, no longer finding the need to hold back, slid a paw onto the bear's thigh and squeezed through his jeans. It was soft, and not entirely because of his thick fur. This earned a soft growl from the bear, who reached up with his free paw to hold the cat's head in place, stroking his cheek with the pad of his thumb. Pete closed his eyes just as they began to roll back.

For a while, the only sounds in the room were purrs, growls, and smacks, with the occasional rustle of clothing when one of them shifted. Pete had draped his arms over Borya's shoulders, and Borya had lowered his paw from the cat's face to his hip. They communicated through squeezes and soft moans not to stop, to keep going, to give them more.

Pete made the first move under clothing: he slid a paw under Borya's shirt to feel his belly. His fingers sunk into his white fur and touched the warm, soft flesh underneath. He stroked it in slow circles, rising a little higher each time to lift his shirt. Borya pulled back with a grunt and struggled to get out of his flannel fast enough. It was midair on its way to the floor when Pete pulled the bear's shirt up and over his head, eventually getting it around the muzzle to cast it aside as well.

He got a quick look at the big polar bear. Borya's belly, especially from a sitting position, stuck out a good few inches from his chest in a rounded mass, though not distended - like Pete suspected, he had the wide frame to carry the weight well. Just above it were two palmable moobs, each with a dark nipple hiding in a gap in the white fur.

"Get yours off," Borya growled.

Pete gasped - he'd never heard Borya so primal. He resisted the urge to rip off his dress shirt, damn the buttons, and undid each button halfway properly while Borya watched. When he tossed the shirt aside, Borya could see the cat's slender figure, the same one his shirts always clung to. The short Rex fur revealed more detail: his collarbone and ribs were visible, and there wasn't a trace of excess fat. The bear moved in with a half-pounce and wrapped Pete in a tight embrace, chest-to-chest. His muzzle dipped to Pete's neck and gave it a long, wet lick.

"Borya!" Pete cried, hugging Borya close to have as much contact as possible with him. He didn't know how touch-starved he was until he got as much as he had. They fell together onto the couch with Pete on his back, pinned and moaning beneath the bear currently lapping and nibbling at his neck. Every breath and drop of saliva easily reached his skin through his short fur, a sensation that made his toes curl and made him lose all sense of time.

When Borya propped himself up onto his elbows to adjust his position, the cat heaved in a deep breath that filled his lungs. For a second, the bear came to his senses. "You okay?" he asked Pete.

"Yeah," Pete said with a laugh. "Forgot I need to breathe." He tugged down on Borya's shoulders, adding, "Don't stop."

Borya growled and licked his friend's lips. Their tongues met, and they ground their bodies together again, now with Borya being a touch more mindful of how to lay his weight on Pete. It felt good having Pete under him like this, begging for more. He'd neglected his primal side for too long and was letting it call the shots. Now, it said, he needed to take this further.

The polar bear pulled back from Pete's mouth and kissed near his collarbone, making his way down from there. Pete threw his arms back to give him more access to his body. He was curious, right? Let him explore. Borya's tongue delivered wet, sloppy kisses all over the slender cat's chest, and his paws stroked Pete's sides with growing hunger. When he was down to the cat's stomach, he felt where Pete's chest was wet and rubbed the drool into his fur.

Pete gripped the pillow behind him and tried to suppress a yowl, which leaked out as a hiss. It wasn't just the touch-starvation; for as long as they'd been friends, there wasn't a hint of any sexual tension between them, and not even an hour into his first visit to Pete's house, Borya's thick fingers were fumbling with the fastener on the cat's pants - not a standard button, more like a flat hook on the inside.

"Here," Pete said, and he pulled the hook out of its loop. The two halves fell away from the bulge in his dark blue briefs.

Borya reached for it, then hesitated. He looked up at Pete, a glimmer of doubt poking through. The cat took the bear's larger paw, squeezed his fingers, and placed the paw on top of his bulge. Pads pressed into fabric, and the warm manhood beneath throbbed against them. In case that didn't make his point, Pete drove his hips towards that paw and looked back at Borya, certain that this is where he wanted his touch. Those pawpads rubbed that length, ginger at first, then more like Borya might do for himself.

"Yeah, like that," Pete said, punctuating with a low purr. "Your paw feels nice."

It was clear to Pete that Borya was starting to hold back more. Perhaps he'd never done anything with a guy, only read and watched and heard, and now his nerves were getting the better of him. Perhaps, then, Pete needed to take the initiative.

He rubbed his paws up his sides and over his chest, making a real show of being played with like this. Those paws made their way down to his waistband and tugged, but didn't pull his briefs away - he made a mock struggle out of getting the band past his bulge, complete with a desperate, performative gasp he'd cribbed from a porn star. This was already one of his hottest encounters, and he wanted Borya to know it.

As the bear watched that little display, dumb lust returned to his gaze. He felt a wet spot develop on Pete's briefs: precum. Obviously, the briefs had to go. He took the waistband in his fingers and pulled them up and over the bulge, finally revealing Pete's manhood: pink and pale, about six inches, feline in shape without barbs, shiny at the top where it was coating itself in pre. Two furry balls hung beneath it and twitched upwards in response to being exposed to the open air.

The sight hit Borya just before the scent, which his nose took apart and analyzed in an instant. It reminded him of locker rooms and of his old college dorm where his roommate would bring playmates while the bear was studying at the library. He'd thought then that the literal stag must've been quite the stud, but he hadn't attached it quite so directly to the scent. Pete's was different, more earthy and perhaps sweet - is that just Pete, or a feline note? - yet still so intimate and male.

Pete watched Borya lower his nose to the flesh of his shaft and snuffle along its length. There was no danger, but something about those ursine teeth being so close to him, the animal way Borya was behaving, it sped up his heart by another twenty BPM, easily. Then, the bear's tongue lolled out and tickled the underside of his balls with a light, wet touch. It dragged over them, nice and slow, leaving them wet with just a single pass. Over his dick, it felt divine, endless with how long it was, coaxing it to throb at full mast and line up with his navel. Pete's claws were threatening to extend by reflex and tear into the pillow he was gripping.

"Mm," grunted Borya. He lowered his muzzle for another pass, and Pete mewled with delight.

Several tongue-strokes later, Borya took the purring kitty's shaft between his thumb and fingerpads and rubbed it between them. He'd already drooled over it, so a full-on blowjob was the next step - why the hesitation? His lips pursed and he approached it, focused on its head, opening his jaw.

"Wait," Pete said. His chest rose and fell, ribs in relief under his fur, and he tried to focus his vision on the bear. "Wanna get undressed?"

True, Borya was now overdressed, even in just his pants and shoes. He blinked, said, "Oh," and set to work undoing his belt to get his jeans down. The two had separated to address the clothing situation; Pete worked his briefs down his legs and kicked them off towards the stereo, and Borya had now stood up, cursing to himself about how tight his jeans seemed to fit just now. Pete lifted a leg over the back of the couch to really present himself to Borya, maybe make him have the same degree of reaction he was having. Then, he saw it.

With his back to Pete, the bear had finally worked himself out of his pants and bent over to push them past his ankles. Meanwhile, Pete took in the sight of the bear's ass: big, developed to help haul the rest of his bulk around, and soft without losing its roundness. Right beneath it, he could see Borya's heavy balls dangling, jostled between his thick thighs. When he lifted a leg out of his jeans, they got more space to breathe and to show off how big they really were. Pete's first thought was of every image he'd seen of such a man on top, butt flexing with every thrust, balls slapping against his bottom's if they were doing it doggystyle. Any of them could be Borya.

Borya turned around and Pete got to see the monster, as he now thought of it. Fully erect, it was a thick, black rod, the color of his lips, and more humanoid in shape with foreskin that extended partway over the head. Borya stroked it, pulling the foreskin all the way back, which coaxed out a fat drop of pre.

This made Pete sit up. His display was going to have to wait - this needed his immediate attention. He scooted to the edge of the couch and tugged on Borya's thigh to nudge him into place. The cat took the bear's dick out of his hands to direct it towards his mouth, and he licked the drop of pre on the head - no, he lapped at it, spread it all around the head of the bear's cock. He was much less shy about showing Borya all a male could offer, and he dove right onto that thick cock, swallowing about half in one go.

Borya moaned, "Fuck, Pete," as the new sensation overtook him. This wasn't Pete's first time in this position, either. Fingers drew the foreskin back from the head to allow his tongue to swirl around the sensitive flesh just beneath, something that drove his last boyfriend wild. There was a long, low growl from the bear while his thighs tensed and his toes curled - as expected. What Pete didn't expect was to feel those big bear paws grip his head, and for Borya to thrust his hips forward and start fucking his mouth.

Pete gagged but held steady - it was surprise, not difficulty that held him back. Even if it were the latter, he was too aroused, too lost to think about how sore his jaw was getting or how little he could breathe. He held onto Borya's thighs and let him keep using his mouth, closing his eyes and making a conscious effort to stay relaxed, take it all, don't gag, don-

He pulled away and coughed, a string of saliva falling onto the floor between them. Borya let go and bent down. "Are you okay?" he asked.

The cat nodded and raised a finger while he sniffled and caught his breath. "Fine, I'm good," he rasped out. "Out of practice...that was hot, though. Liked it. A lot."

Borya stroked his shaft, which was now slick with Pete's spit. The familiar touch of his own paws was a welcome sensation. "I did too," he said. "You're really, uh, good at this."

Pete sat up, breathing now under control. "Ah, thanks," he said, and he had another look at the bear's body. If he had gone a touch soft from pulling away, the sight of the burly bear stroking himself brought him back to full mast. "Let's do that again. A little slower. But, uh, let me..."

The cat slunk off the couch, shoved the coffee table away to make room, and sat on his knees before the bear. Borya let those smaller paws guide him by the hips in an offbeat waltz to just the right position: toes touching Pete's knees, close enough that Pete could keep his back straight and swallow that bear cock to the hilt, if he was ready. Before he could do that, though, he needed to lavish Borya with much more attention.

He started with wet licks and kisses all along that shaft, holding it to his mouth at all times. His other paw slid up the bear's thigh and cradled those big balls, gentle to avoid startling him. Drool ran down his lips as he looked up to the man he was servicing and saw his mouth hanging open with that same expression of dopey bliss that told him he was doing everything right. As a treat for himself, Pete pulled back, brushed the growing drop of precum at the head with his thumb, and rubbed it on his own manhood. A growling purr betrayed just how good that felt, both the slick sensation and having a mark of Borya's lust for him, on him. Patience faded, and the cat took that head back into his mouth.

The room was noisier now: the wet sucking sounds of Pete bobbing back and forth, the purrs he rumbled around the shaft, the growls and huffs Borya let out as he relished the sensations but tried to hold onto his senses. The bear almost didn't notice when Pete guided one of his paws to grip his head like before; it felt so natural to use him like this. The last bit of sense he had did remind him about the cat's limits, and he held back from the full primal response he'd had before. Instead, he focused on how the cat's tongue felt as it swirled around his cock, and how every bump against the back of his mouth made him swell with some perverse pride. Dominance, it had to be.

Pete could hear in Borya's growls a certain rise in pitch and a shakiness of breath. Could it really be coming now? He grabbed Borya's hips and pulled in time with the bear's thrusts. He focused on how much he had needed someone like Borya to remind him how a man felt, and how all that mattered right now was taking him to the edge, no what-ifs or stray thoughts about what happens after, just this moment. Those thrusts grew closer together, drilled deeper, scraped the back of his throat.

Soon, Borya snarled to the ceiling. His balls drew up as he released a thick first shot of semen that coated the inside of Pete's mouth. The second, after a hard thrust, went right down his throat. The cat swallowed what he had to, but Borya's seed had a pleasant taste that he wanted to savor as the bear's throbbing cock ground it against his tongue. He let the bear ride out his orgasm with only some slow, appreciative movements from his tongue to ensure he got all the bear had to give.

When Borya pulled out, Pete swallowed the rest of his seed and sighed a contented, raspy breath. The bear's knees shook, and his growls transformed into more-civilized grunts - yet, his expression didn't clear like it did when Pete needed a breather.

Still on his knees, the cat rubbed the tip of his penis between two fingerpads to keep himself just on the edge. "Hey, you wanna sit down?" he asked the bear. "I can come ov-"

"Lay down," Borya grunted. "Spread out like you did before."

That deep tone made Pete's eyes widen - more importantly, it made him do what the bear wanted. He lay on his back, arms up near his head, legs apart, all arranged in a certain disarray that he thought made him look desperate to be fucked. When he looked back at Borya, the bear already had his big tongue on the cat's pole, bent over on all fours just to taste it. Pete drew a shaky breath. "More," he moaned. "Fucking beast, more!"

Borya drooled as he worked over Pete's shaft, sloppy from inexperience and guided by a need beyond sating his own hunger. What he'd just given to Pete, he was determined to get in return. He played up the "beast" angle and showed his teeth, and growled like he'd just cornered his mewling quarry. His tongue curled under the cat's balls for a long, wet lick up his entire set, and at the top, his muzzle dove around the shaft.

Pete gripped the carpet and cried out. When Borya's tongue swirled around his cock, he knew he couldn't hold it back. With a skyward roll of his hips, he gave the bear the first torrent of male essence he'd ever earned, and as his eyes rolled back in pleasure, he enjoyed the additional, quieter satisfaction that Borya seemed to enjoy it. Whatever the bear didn't swallow, he lapped up off the cat's fur after it fell from his lips. He didn't stop cleaning his partner until he was sure the cat was spent.

At last, sense had returned to Borya's eyes. He examined Pete beneath him: a sprawled-out, blissed-out mess, slender chest rising and falling to re-oxygenate his systems. Himself, he knew fatigue was coming to take the place of adrenaline and turn his bones to jelly like it did to the poor cat.

"Hey, Pete," he said in a half-whisper. Pete made an "eh" sort of noise. "I don't wanna lay on the floor."

Pete rubbed his forehead. "Bedroom's there," he said, and he gestured to the door near the stereo. "Help me up?"

Even with their energy fading fast, the bear's big arms gave Pete enough leverage to rise to his feet. He stumbled against Borya's bare chest, which made the two of them chuckle.

They stumbled into Pete's room together and flopped onto the king-size bed without bothering to turn on the lights. The sheets were soft and silky, the pillows were fluffy, and that was about all Borya cared to process about the room at the moment. Next to him, the room's owner turned on his side towards him in the light that streamed in from the living room and cut off just between him and his guest.

"So," Pete said, "was it good?"

Borya, laying on his back, smiled. "Better than I've ever had," he said. "I don't think I can say I'm 'just curious' now."

Pete giggled and sidled right up to the big bear. "Not after going primal on my dick, no," he said, and he laid a paw on Borya's chest. "Which, by the way, felt great. I haven't cum that hard since...I don't know when."

The bear put an arm around Pete to pull him right against his body. "I've never done that before," he said. "The whole primal thing, I mean. Something about how you were, and how you sounded and moved, it just made something click. Almost like I was letting something out."

Pete purred and stroked Borya's chest fur. "You know, if it means another night like this, I'm down to make it come out again," he said. He could feel the bear's pulse quicken. "Yes, that's an invitation," he added.

Borya squeezed Pete against him and ran his claws through the cat's rex-short fur, listening to him purr, feeling their warmth and fur mesh together on his side. "This is an interesting side of you," he said. "Never would've guessed you'd be so seductive. And sweet."

Pete's purring calmed to a silent rumble, and then stopped. "Nice sidestep," he said, poking the bear's chest. "But really."

Borya turned his head towards Pete. "You want me to tell you if I'm interested?" Pete nodded, and Borya sighed through his nose with enough force to make Pete blink. He smiled. "Only if you'll still have lunch with me the next day."

"Deal," said Pete. He snuggled up to the polar bear and pecked the end of his muzzle, and the bear responded by cupping his cheek and going for a slow, deep kiss. Between breaks for little sighs, there were notes of berries, cum, and something he could only identify as Borya.

##

On schedule, the first week of November brought winter's earliest chills in a cold front that none of the students in shorts seemed to care about. The thicker-furred ones, sure, that made sense to Pete, but there was a rat with a half-inch coat going out for a jog in bike shorts and a sweater right past Fletcher Hall, running against the wind in the campus's most infamous building-formed wind tunnel. The cat watched him from a couch in one of the hall's lounge areas while he sipped a post-lecture coffee. All that energy, he thought, and he couldn't get his students to direct it towards art.

Well, that wasn't true. He was teaching history to a room full of creative minds who were - he saw it now - doodling in their notebooks and looking up work from contemporary artists they liked. He recognized some of their faces in the studio rooms outside of class. There were definitely a few Gauguin studies gracing the canvases, or maybe they were accidental homages, though there was one in his style that seemed to be about a concert at a local bar. Mel had been working on that one - yes, Pete thought he saw a few flecks of paint on the dalmatian's fur today. He smiled to himself.

The hot coffee made the frigid trip to the food court a little more bearable. The Cornish Rex was still shivering under his black overcoat when he got inside, and he joined the long line for the chili place, tightening the belt that held the coat to his frame. His order was simple: mild bowl of chili, cheese and sour cream please, and two cups of cocoa, one medium and one large. A few minutes and one balancing act with the cocoa cups later, he'd set the food down at his usual table and waited for his heart to settle after avoiding spilling everything. Steam rose from the chili and curled around his nose. They tried to hide it with spices, but the chili meat was questionable at best, and the smell didn't sit well with him.

Borya entered wearing a heavier coat than usual but otherwise seeming unbothered by the cold. Pete watched him make a beeline for the chili place. There was some hustle to his pace that made others dodge out of the way instead of taking their chances, losing, and receiving muttered apologies. The cat's tail curled around the back of his chair, and his mind left logic for a moment to suggest the girl at the chili counter was spreading vicious lies about him. If she was, Borya's expression didn't change at all. Pete was trying to get a read on what that meant when the bear spun around with the food and walked towards his table.

Relax, Pete, the cat thought to himself. He hoped his tail had relaxed in time.

Borya set his chili bowl - a size larger, much spicier, and with more cheese - by the tall cup that was at his place. He studied it for a second and sniffed at it. "Cocoa?" he asked Pete.

"Yeah, for you," Pete said with a smile. "Thought it'd be a nice surprise."

"Thanks," Borya said, though his expression didn't change. When he threw his coat over the chair and settled in, he looked at the cup again. "That was nice of you."

Pete sipped his own cocoa. "You're welcome," he said. There was a lump in his throat when he asked, "Something wrong?"

The bear sighed. "Just had a day," he said. "The department head's husband left him, and he's taking it out on us. He grilled me for progress on the 'free will' paper, cornered me in my office - in my own office! - until I gave him a few notes I scribbled last week to prove I was doing something. Unbelievable." He scowled at his bowl. "He called out Nancy the other day, too, something about..."

He trailed off and looked up at Pete. For a sliver of a second he showed teeth, then he shut his eyes and made an effort to relax his face. "Sorry, venting a little," he said. "We should get to your thing."

"My thing?" Pete asked behind his cup.

"Yeah, your thing," he clarified. "You've been tense since that night." He scooped a spoonful of chili. "It's in the tail."

The traitorous tail curled behind its owner to hide. Pete put down his cocoa and pushed his food to the side to make room for his elbows and to rest his forehead on interlocked paws as if in prayer. "Sorry, this is stupid," he said towards the table.

"Take your time," Borya said. He eyed his chili, then decided against sneaking a bite and just added, "It's not stupid."

Pete pushed himself back upright. "It's been a few nights," he said, "and I haven't heard anything from you about it. It's fine if you're not interested, I just, you know, I can't read you, and I hate not knowing." His lips flattened. "Not when we're still just meeting for lunch like nothing happened." On that last part, there was a little heat, a little volume.

Borya folded his big bear paws in front of him and sat up straight. In a gray suit, the polar bear resembled the sort of craggy, snow-capped mountain that beginners are discouraged from climbing. "Pete...I've thought about it," he said. "I'm open to seeing you again. But I don't think I can see you casually like that."

Pete's ear twitched. "I'm not sure what you mean," he said.

"I mean..." the mountain began, picking up in volume. "I mean, after that night, I thought about Milan. I thought about you going there to find yourself or whatever, sleeping on couches, being an artist." When it should have been strong, his voice wavered. "You didn't see it because you miss these things. I wouldn't have cared so much before that night." His fingerpads pressed together. "When I slept in my own bed, I wished you were there with me."

Someone tripped over themselves, yelped, and sent a take-out box holding a burrito to the ground with a hearty thump. A wave of quiet fell over the food court as everyone turned to see if anyone was maimed. Pete didn't look. His ears didn't even swivel away from Borya. For all his focus on the bear, though, he didn't have an answer. His jaw hung open, halfway to a word.

Borya studied his face. Something made him slap his own paw to his forehead. "God, Pete, then I'll be blunt: I'm falling for you," he said. "And we can go back to being friends if you want, I can't do the halfway thing. But if we're together, I can't watch you go across the world for some...ridiculous bohemian vision quest." He shook his head. "I'm sorry, it's not...I mean, you're not-"

The cat took his paw in both of his and squeezed. "Borya, it's okay," he said, smiling. "Really. I get it. I'm glad you told me."

Borya took his other paw and nearly enveloped one of Pete's between both of his. The knotted brow was familiar to Pete, the misty eyes and the firm grasp of his paws were not. Nothing they had shared in his apartment felt so sure as that grasp.

"I don't want you to worry about me hopping on a plane," Pete said. "It's not something I would actually do, for one, just leaving everything behind like that. But I never thought you or anyone would mind. Definitely not this much. It wouldn't be worth doing that to you."

Borya nodded. His lips curled inward a bit to suppress something.

Pete continued, with his tail waving behind him, "Besides, I'd rather go to a fancy coffeehouse or out to dinner with someone I really cared about - you know, like that cute polar bear who has lunch with me every day."

That cute polar bear grinned and let out something between a giggle and a sigh. "Dinner sounds nice," he said, "and if you don't have any plans tonight, say, around seven..."

The cat grinned. "It's a date," he said.

In Pete's next class, the walls remained the walls of the lecture hall while he gave the last class before the unit test. There were no disruptions from visions of Italian coffeehouses, though perhaps there were a few flashes of Borya from their night together, now stronger from the possibility that there could be more, many more. It gave him warmth on this winter's day instead of the yearning in his heart from before, and he felt at peace answering the most basic questions about the material he'd covered literally yesterday.

This wasn't Milan. So what?