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Ryan's Perspective

The accustomed roar of the engine filled my ears as I pushed the lawn mower off the driveway and into the grass. There's a momentary slow start as the mower breaks its teeth on the overgrown blades, but soon all resistance crumbles as a beachhead of cut grass forms behind me. Pushing forward, I begin the art of mowing the lawn.

Not that this is complicated craft. Push forward, keep your lines mostly even, and don't stop until the job is done. It's a lot of inertia control that doesn't require a lot of complex thinking, just an attention to detail. It probably doesn't help that I'm my own worst distraction.

“I know, I think I'd look pretty good out here with my shirt off..." Faux's voice chimed in from my left. I didn't bother looking in his direction. One, because it would encourage him, and two, because he wasn't really there. Oh, he existed all right, but he wasn't standing to my left. That was just my perception.

“I mention that every time I mow the lawn," False responded from my right, “or head out... or even put a shirt on in general. I'm almost starting to think there's an agenda going on."

“Yeah. The agenda is that I shouldn't work so hard to get his rocking bod only to cover it up all... the... time." Faux enunciated each word slowly for added inflection. “Seriously, I wear a shirt to the pool. Even most morbidly obese people don't wear shirts to the pool."

“Yes," I internally vocalize, finally joining in on the conversation as I backtrack to cover a small strip of grass I had missed. “And I'm certain that showing a little flesh is all it's going to take to bring all the girls to the yard. Is that what I want?"

“Come on, Bound," Faux responds to me by name, “Not everyone has the same desires that I do. 'You gotta show a little tail if you want a little love. Otherwise they just don't think you're interested.'"

I grunted as much from effort as exasperation as I pushed back over the driveway and onto the other half of the lawn. I've had this same conversation with myself at least twice a week since I was sixteen. Context changed, values evolved, but the same argument comes up over and over again. It's almost like I expected myself to eventually relent.

“I know," False mused as I hauled the machine about face, “It probably wouldn't hurt."

This brought the rest of me to a halt. I almost trip, but manage to get my feet in order before anything unfortunate happened around the heavy equipment. “Wh-what," Faux and I manage to stammer at the same time.

“Not wearing a shirt," False reiterates as I start up the process of mowing again. “It probably wouldn't hurt to try it. During socially acceptable times of course."

An elongated moment of silence follows as I tried to process this. And more importantly which part of me was saying it. “I have got to be kidding me," was my only response. Faux was a bit more exuberant.

“...OK. I would like to motion the board to put chocolate back on the table," Faux began, attempting to maintain the momentum of getting his way for once. “Ooh, and strawberries. Definitely need more strawberries and chocolate."

“Wouldn't that be counterintuitive to the agenda of shirt removal?" jested False.

“That's what the extra gym time is for," countered Faux as I hugged the perimeter of the neighbor's lawn, “Hit the free weights, build up these pecs and guns, maybe break my twenty minute iron cross limit. Ooh, and aerial silk. Let's take my two step to the ceiling!" There was a pause in the conversation, as if Faux expected me to chime in. I simply held my silence as I focused on the lawn in front of me. “Bound? Is something wrong?"

“...what if I don't want to," I finally respond.

“Don't want to dance," Faux balked, “But... Bound is the foxtrot of my triple threat. Why wouldn't I want to..."

“It's not the dance," I shout in interruption to my own thoughts. Silence reigns for a moment before I continue. “I don't want to take off my shirt in public."

“...Bound, I know I tend to be modest, but there isn't anything wrong with showing a little pride," False coaxed as my feet advanced on the last few sections of uncut front yard.

“I know..." I exasperated, “I just... never want to be one of those guys..."

“Well of course I don't," scoffed Faux, “They're just braggarts who shove their perceived perfection in everyone's faces. Doesn't mean I can't show off what I got just because they take it too far."

“What I mean," False rewords as the last inch of the front yard is finished and my hands release the ignition of the mower, “Is that it's not how I look but how I act that makes me one of those guys. Nothing's wrong with feeling the wind against my fur, Bound."

There's an elongated mental silence as I push the mower to the backyard gate. Then, when I lift my hands from the handlebar to unlock the gate, I instead reach for the trim of my shirt and pull it over my head. Pulling my head out of the collar, I tug on the rest of the shirt, getting first my left and then my right arm out of the white cotton sleeves.

“Seriously," Faux gripes monotonically, “I'm taking my shirt off right before heading into the back yard?"

“Baby steps," I respond. After which I hear the sound of something padded hitting the concrete. I turn around to see the red panda woman who lives next door unloading her groceries. At least one brown bag had been dropped on the pavement, and it was fairly obvious that her doe eyes were locked onto me.

Not wanting to extend an awkward moment longer than necessary, I gave a brief salute before pushing the lawn mower through the gate and closing it behind me. Then and only then do I freak out.

“I can not believe that just happened," I exasperate.

“Some double takes are to be expected," False calmly stated as I started up the lawn mower to finish the job at hand. “After all, I have never taken my shirt off anywhere in public. People are going to notice."

“I wonder if she had any chocolate in that bag..." mused Faux, which drew stares from me and False, which as mental facets occupying the same mind was quite an accomplishment on Faux's part.

It was going to be one of those days.

---

Raf's Perspective

I recognize the accustomed reverberations of lawn mower outside my window, signaling me to the fact that Ryan had reached the backyard as I step out of the shower. Finishing rustling the towel through my golden follicles, I glance at the tinted window where the blurred image of his form was passing by.

The thought to open the window and say good morning lingers in my mind longer than usual, but I push it aside for favor of getting dressed. Ryan's sense of decency aside, I wasn't in the mood to scent my washed fur with that fresh cut grass smell. Speaking of which, I quickly apply a mist of descenter before exiting the house's shared bathroom.

Entering my bedroom, I casually slip on the undergarments I had prearranged earlier. Decent for any unseen narrative outside my head, I turn around to my closet and briefly consider what else to wear. If the weekend was to go exactly the way I planned it, I knew what I would need, but to get there I was going to need some maneuvering.

I quickly discard the option of going out there with even less clothes than my boxers and undershirt, though the projected reactions from Ryan draws a smile to my lips. I settle instead on just a pair of casual around the house shorts and head out to the kitchen. I quickly scanned the sink to see if Ryan had eaten yet. Taking note that he hadn't, I open the refrigerator, let my thoughts wander off on the thoughts of breakfast...

...the cracking of the garage door pulls me out of my trance just as the last of the batter hits the grill. Glancing down at the stovetop, all I see are three small circles of batter in a frying pan. Pancakes. A little surprising given what normally happens when I let my brain enter freestyle mode.

“What in the world happened in here?" I hear Ryan say incredulously from the garage door. Not surprising. The border collie really liked to keep control of his body, and a body is what it eats.

Smiling as I turn around, I say, “Well I just thought I'd make you pan..." I stop in mid sentence, seeing the small disaster scene playing across the kitchen counter. There was a lot more there than what I would have needed to make pancakes; about twice as many eggs, tomatoes, dehydrated strawberries, and a packet of sugar free butterscotch pudding. “...cakes?" I finish uncertainly.

My non-genetic brother crosses his arms, glaring at me with a raised eyebrow. “...you let your mind wander in the kitchen again, didn't you?" He began tapping his foot impatiently, waiting for a confession.

Calculating how obvious my guilt already was, I decided to play it innocent to control the manner in which his guard was raised. Grabbing the plate with already prepared pancakes, I hand it over to him while grabbing a bottle of viscous liquid off the counter. “Shirt? I mean syrup!"

Lowering his gaze to the bottle in my hand, the canine tilts his head to the side before finally breaking his stern disapproval with a faint smile. “That's sesame seed oil, Raf." Leaving me to double-take at the bottle, Ryan takes the plate from my hand and heads towards the dinner table.

Head spinning with the all the misdirection I've been giving myself, the thought of Ryan dressing his bare chest with syrup lingers in my brain longer than it should before I realize what caused the faux pas. “So... hot outside?" I asked as I head back to the pan to flip the last of the cakes before they burned.

He takes a bit longer to respond that normal, a clear sign of internal dialog normally caused by inner conflict. I grew up with Ryan during his formative years when his unusual schizophrenia flourished into an untraditional form of sanity, but as a condition of that sanity we never talk about it. His inner minds disliked anyone other than themselves addressing them as individuals, insisting that they were all Ryan Galen. That didn't mean they were in perfect harmony, but they were determined to find their true feelings though dialog rather than dominance.

These discussions can take a while, and as such I have more than enough time to finish the last of the pancakes and join him at the table by the time he finally answers. “I just felt like a change. Feel the ground beneath my ivory tower. Doesn't mean I'm going to start stripping or anything."

I smirk, entertaining for a moment how much Ryan could make as a stripper if he put in the same determination that he puts into everything. Reaching for the hazelnut chocolate spread, I lavishly apply a layer to my first pancake as I respond, “Well, I've always told you to loosen up, so you won't catch me complaining." Maintaining my smile, I take large bite of my pancake, only to realize I would have to rescind my last comment, even if I was the chef this morning.

I didn't hide the grimace on my face, but Ryan only raised an eyebrow and took a bite of his own pancake. “Butterscotch and strawberry?"

“Eggs and tomato," I commented. Should have realized the last pancakes to come out of the pan would be Ryan's. I was treating him after all, so even in automatic I would have made sure that his was the freshest.

Shaking his head, Ryan went for the blunt solution by deftly switched our plates. Glancing at the partially eaten pancakes in either of our hands, he smirks as he makes the unexpected move of smearing the hazelnut spread off my pancake and onto his. I don't resist. I'm too shocked to. It's not the invasion of personal space; I'm pretty laid back on that regard. Ryan's the sensitive one in that regard.

“So, what's your day looking like?" Ryan asks before moving onto one of his tomato/egg pancakes. He pauses, giving me yet another raised eyebrow. “I won't feel insulted if you stuff a pancake in that gaping mouth before answering."

Realizing that my mouth literally was ajar, I quickly stuff the pancake in hand down my maw as I try and compose my thoughts. Slathering up the rest of my plate, assuming they're all the butterscotch/strawberry mix, I give my hastily composed answer. “Oh nothing much. Call Juliet, see if he's busy. Otherwise just freestyle in the lab for a bit." Course corrections made, I relax and allow myself to just stuff my face for a few bites. before I notice a weighted silence from Ryan's end of the table. Glancing up, I find my brother staring me down pointedly. “What?" I ask maybe a bit too guiltily through a mouthful of deliciousness.

“Raf," my brother begins as he sets down a pancake. “You never cook for me unless I'm either dying or you're about to ask for something. What's up?" I open my mouth to evade the question when I catch the firm clarity in his emerald green eyes. There's no disappointment in those eyes, no mischief at being more clever, and not even any concern. Just the expectation for direct truth.

“...Fennel called. He invited us to a game of discus with him and Steve," I start, letting words flow without thinking. “He wants to meet us in the park at eleven. I know how you're against displays of physical excellence, so I thought I'd butter you up just a bit." I stop there, hoping he'd wouldn't push further.

No such luck. “And then you claimed you had nothing planned today." He leaned back, crossed his arms over his still bare sculpted chest, and raised an eyebrow. “So... what? Was Fennel going to call any second now and offer the engagement spontaneously?"

“...no," I hang my head dejectedly. “I was kind of supposed to bring up the question casually right when you asked what was up for today." An elongated silence with a loaded silent question passes until I answer without further prompt. “When you walked in without your shirt... and then playfully swiped chocolate from me..." I raise my gaze to meet his again, “I realized it would have been too much."

He raises an eyebrow before getting one of his sudden distracted look that signals a rather intense internal monolog. Not wanting to lose momentum, I project what he's most likely telling himself and give him the confirmation the other parts of him need. “You don't need a push out of your shell when you're already making your own independent efforts. It would just push you too far and you'd just run back in deeper. You need to find on your own where your new comfort zone is..."

Ryan is silent, for an extended moment not making eye contact with me. Then, without speaking or looking at me at all he stands up and walks to the kitchen. Without looking, I recognize the sound of the kitchen phone being picked up. Sighing, I mentally reevaluate conversation protocols.

“Hey, Fennel," Ryan says on the phone behind me. “Yeah. He told me. We'll be there on time." I blink, halting my internal reconstructions to look back at my brother. Canine smile plastered on his face, he winks at me once before continuing his conversation. “Just wanted to call and let you know personally so I can say I'm proud of you. ...well for wanting Steve to get out and start living to live instead of just living to die. Didn't know you had it in you, man."

Finishing the conversation on that bombshell, Ryan hung up the phone. Realizing that he was still looking right at me, I spoke up, “So, not running back into the ivory tower?"

Smiling, he walked backed to the dinner table. “As I said, I want to feel the ground beneath my feet. My decision, my choice, my drive... " Sitting back down at his seat he picked up a pancake, shaking it at me for emphasis. “...and maybe a little help from my friends." Taking a bite from the pancake, he continues “Besides, Steve really does need to start living. Even more so because he can see his personally drop off on the horizon so much more definitively than the rest of us."

“Yeah," I say absentmindedly as I let myself relax and focus on breakfast, “Guess it looked like a chance to hit two birds with one stone." Picking up a fresh pancake in hand, I relish the variety of sweet flavors as I bite down.

Only to get dragged back to reality by my brother's aside comment. “I'm certain that's exactly what you thought when you suggested it to him." Stopping mid bite, I make eye contact again with Ryan only to find that he's not even looking directly at me as he talked. “Fennel knows Steve through you, and he knows you through me and Juliet. Fennel would do something like this for a friend, but Steve is still a few too many degrees removed for him to be the initiator just yet."

Clearing his plate, he gets up from the table and walks around towards the sink, pausing to put his hand on my shoulder as he walks by, “It's nice you're thinking about Steve, but you didn't need to go through Fennel just as an excuse for him and Steve to be there at the same time." With that continued on, deposited his dishes in the sink, and headed towards his room.

Head spinning a bit, I finally pull my attention back to the food in front of me and continue eating. I really shouldn't be so shocked. Just as I knew how to push Ryan's buttons most of the time, he knew when I was pushing them some of the time. It was a balancing act, but it paid off this time. Ryan was going to get out roughhouse, Steve was going to get out and play, and I...

I stop mid thought and faceplant into my last chocolate covered pancake. The resounding squish wasn't as satisfying as my faceplants normally are, but I dismiss the thought to repeat the action a few time and instead lift my face up and peel the pancake away. Smearing some chocolate off my face, I stare at the fudge on my fingers as the thought of how I'm going to be smelling of chocolate anyway now crosses my mind. It's only a distraction from my real problem, though.

Fennel was lusting over Ryan. Stevenson was pining over Ryan. Ryan now thinks I just arranged a game of discus in order to get Fen and Steve together. Maybe I should have just gone with Fennel's suggestion to invite Juliet and then privately took Steve out somewhere else after hours. It was certainly the safer option than the love triangle that was shaping up right now before me.

Sighing, I stuff the desecrated pancake down my throat and unceremoniously deposit my plate in the sink. What's done is done. Somewhere, out there, there might be a simple solution to all of this. Pity my brain rarely simplifies things.