FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

The Autumn We’ve Become

By Laz Briar

Santa Monica’s pier opened up with a spree of sound and lights. Once a smaller dock suitable only for long-line fishing and a few eateries, it was now a bustling expanse of delightful attractions. Side markets for various local cuisines appeared, often clustered with interested locals. The widened boardwalk also gave way to colorful chimera and human alike, dressed in beach appropriate fashion – often a dazzle of colors and jewelry.

Of course, early October was just around the corner, so numerous shops had already begun decorating their exteriors with appropriate themes. Skeletons of glowing colors hung from shop windows, pumpkins with wide smiles stood vigilant with artificial webs. Flowers of brilliant oranges and purples dotted the walkway, and local taverns had already dawned their signs of authentic pumpkin flavored craft beer.

It was a surreal sight to Anson. Southern California wasn’t exactly bristling with tall trees submitting to the changing season. The mystique of the essential Americana holiday felt “borrowed” here, like it belonged in the more forested regions of the States. It was hard to imagine wearing a sweater and sipping cider while staring out at an ocean of falling leaves on a cold fall day. Because here, there was an actual ocean.

Still, the delicate chill was a welcome change from the long, searing days. Granted it was certainly no deep southern autumn; missing were stacks of hay and dreary, rainy skies. But it was nice. And it was nicer because Ozzie was with him.

If only their visit to the pier were on more pleasant terms. Anson owed his ‘yena answers. Each time he reflected on it, pondered over the events in Slab City, he struggled to form the right words. Because it had grown into a beast of a thing. To hide the happening, to keep it from his boyfriend, well. This had morphed it from a simple explanation to a now seemingly untenable organism. Because to hide it was to imply deception.

It was worse because Ozzie trusted him so much.

As they had started walking near the beach edge, heading towards the pier, Anson would toss a glance to his boy. Ever present was the young, lithe figure, wrapped in a thin, black, form fitting sweater with matching long pants. His wrists were braced in silver, accenting his pierced ears. His tail wagged and he wore his prideful, masculine perfumes, muzzle dappled with sweet, pleasant smiles.

It was this image Anson wanted to protect so dearly. This motion, this silhouette, this person. To the point where he would keep things from Ozzie. Right or wrong, it didn’t matter, because Ozzie mattered and that was enough.

But who am I to make this kind of decision?

The words plagued Anson as they walked. Tremors of anxiety shook him. Memories from Slab City bubbled up, and each time, he was distraught. Ronnie was Ozzie’s brother. He was family. He was, also, a technically homeless, jobless, drug addict. Dating another drug addict. And Ozzie loved him, admired him. The way the yeendog’s eyes brightened, body coming to life seeing his rough-and-tumble brother live free and unmolested – Ozzie might as well have met a rock star.

This kind of admiration was influential, and every time Anson saw it in the Slabs, another thought coalesced: an image of a thin, broken Ozzie, decimated by drugs, swallowed up by his brother’s ways.

It was this unforeseen nightmare Anson wanted to prevent. And yet. . . Was he right to make this judgment for Ozzie? Right to assume his boyfriend was incapable of making his own decisions?

Whatever the reason, Ozzie would know soon enough. Still, the ‘yena maintained a positive attitude. Walking and talking as though this were just a date night, and not somewhere to discuss some unpleasant news.

He owed Ozzie for the idea, too. After their painful work shift, the couple had returned home to find themselves utterly exhausted. Wisely, the yeendog suggested they talk about Anson’s “secret” somewhere more positive. Away from where they shared their life together – perhaps to keep away any bitter reminders. Anson agreed.

Once the couple reached the pier, it was hard to hold back their amazement. The pier had grown to an impressive degree, while the splendor of all the October lights fell over them in a wash of surreal hues. Stands sold confections and party décor while some chimera dyed their feathers and fur in matching colors. Hallow’s Eve was still far off, but it was fascinating to Anson to see the hybrids embrace the holiday so enthusiastically.

It was noisy, though, and through subtle body cues Ozzie kept them going towards the pier’s end, where rails overlooked the ocean. Noises and conversation still touched the air like a gentle hum, though it was overpowered by the crack of the dark waters below.

Lights danced on the infinite sheet of black, tapering arms of orange reaching into the horizon. Ozzie and Anson perched themselves on the pier’s side, overlooking the endless dark.

“Think this is the first time I’ve seen lights on a palm tree,” Anson started. “Or coconuts painted orange.”

“Mm, we gotta’ get creative,” said Ozzie. He gestured to the sea. “When I was in my teens they would park dingies out on the piers, make em’ like, little haunted house boats. Some rich guys sometimes lent out their yachts too, charity work. Or a politician? I dunno.”

Anson nodded. “Not a bad idea at all.”

A chuckle. “Yeaaaah and then some kids went overboard once, or something. Nobody died but, well, you can bet that was the last time you saw something like it. Sucks too. I heard they threw wicked parties out there.”

“Exactly how ‘wicked’ does trick-or-treating get?”

Ozzie smirked, tail whipping against Anson. “Different kind of treats.”

That was enough for Anson to understand. Or at least imagine.

“Yeah, never saw that back home. Just the Anniston’s putting out plastic spiders and cobwebs.”

“Cute.”

“That’s what everyone kept saying,” said Anson, reflecting. “Never heard the end of it.”

Ozzie tossed an intrigued glance.

“I was a marshmallow when I was seven.”

Ozzie buckled with laughter, his hyena biology forcing a chirping giggle. Anson shook his head slowly in expected defeat.

“Please tell me you have pictures. Please.”

“Even if there were, I’d never tell you.”

Though it were a jest, Anson caught himself. The words – considering the circumstances – weren’t the best.

Ozzie’s giggling subsided, but he sniffed at the opportunity. “Guess that makes two things huh?” he said. He didn’t look at Anson when he did, rather turned his back to the railing, leaning.

“I didn’t mean it like. . .”

Anson trailed off. His hands came together, and he stared at the fist clump they made. Perhaps if he opened them, they might have an answer. They didn’t, of course.

“You’re gonna’ have to start meaning things soon, man.”

Anson slid a glance to Ozzie, but it wasn’t returned. The yeendog kept his gaze firmly elsewhere.

How to start? Where even to begin? Anson’s mind fumbled around for a way to lead into things. Ozzie was frustrated, but not mad. Well, not yet. So, he was listening. And perhaps there was a way to frame everything just right.

Anson didn’t consider himself religious, not anymore. But he remembered one of his old preachers, Father Senan. Senan was an ancient near-blind goat, but during sermons always lead with a story or anecdote. Granted, he was as old as the school pillars, so the accuracy of his memories was suspect. But it helped bind everyone together, remind the followers they were only human (or animal) and came from every walk of life. Sometimes they walked where you couldn’t follow.

Resolute, Anson took a page from the preacher.

“You know, I had an uncle I really liked,” started Anson. “When I was young he was just, well, the best thing ever. Paid attention to me, even though I was just a dumb kid. Yeah, I was a marshmallow when I was seven. Eight? He got me a Super Red Striker costume, because he knew it was my favorite thing.”

He remembered it well, how strange it felt. Big and gregarious uncle Kent. Balding but had a nice side beard; Anson running up to him with excitement while his parents just looked on with stiff disapproval.

“And he always had the best stories and just knew everything. He traveled a lot. Went from state to state almost every other year.”

Anson pointed out to the endless ocean, as though gesturing to the phantoms of his memory.

“Had stories about crazy roommates or weirdos he picked up while taking a long drive. There wasn’t a cooler person to me when I was a kid.”

Ozzie’s ears flicked, looking towards Anson, quiet.

“I think he even had some of the original Super Striker comics. Anyway, you get the idea. Great guy, or at least I thought so.”

Anson tapped against the rail, fishing through his memories.

“And then. . . he stopped coming around. Before I went from elementary to private charter, he at least showed up for a holiday. After I hit sixth, never saw him. I’d ask, over and over, ‘what happened to uncle K,’ but you know, the folks never told me anything. Said he was just out of the States, or something.”

Ozzie’s tail swayed from side to side, sometimes offering an anxious wiggle. But still, he said nothing.

“Then grandpa shows up,” Anson said. He wiggled a finger against the cold, October air.

“Old man Emmanuel. We had to offer up our guest room, because he’d been kicked out his old place. And why? Drugs, of course.”

Here, at least, Ozzie looked to Anson, if briefly.

“Drugs, you think? Why that’s crazy. An old man like that, using drugs? No way. And you’re right. Because he wasn’t evicted for drug use, it was drug production.”

Anson paused. The weight of the memory came tumbling back in. The late evening, the quiet kitchen, his mother’s harsh voice calling him over. Father there too, both their faces worn with a serious, resentful grit. He remembered how rough his father’s voice was, how he started to explain grandpa was going to stay with them for a good while. And when Anson asked why?

“As it turns out, my grandpa wasn’t a mastermind of selling narcotics. Uncle Kent was. He ‘took care’ of grandpa, got an apartment with him, held the lease and everything. Then started peddling drugs. Some cheap shit, I dunno. Bad shit.”

He’s been arrested. That was what his parents said.

“Right out of grandpa’s car too. Explained all the travel, I guess. And so, of course, two and two came together and before he knew it, Kent was sentenced for fifteen years. And it wasn’t just this. He had been doing shady shit like that all his life, I just didn’t know.”

Do you understand? His father framed it in such a cold way. Kent the criminal, Kent the drug peddler. Lives were ruined because of him, or so the folks wanted Anson to believe.

Ozzie only offered the smallest ‘hmm.’ A few people walked past them, and for the briefest of seconds the couple lost themselves in the sounds of the pier.

“This whole side of the world I didn’t know appeared. Thought I knew Kent, thought he was an amazing person. But I didn’t, not even remotely. God only knows the kind of shit he did.”

Another pause followed. Ozzie sighed, turning to lean over the pier with Anson.

“That sucks, Anson,” he said, tone stiff. “But, why are you telling me this?”

Anson felt his heart stumble, a queasy cold filling his guts. Just like the memory of Kent, thoughts of Ronnie haunted him. The deadbeat, powerless trailer caught in the rotten rocks of a place society forgot. The brother, the clothes, the empty syringes.

He struggled. “When we. . . your brother. I mean. At his. His trailer. Ozzie, you didn’t see it?”

Ozzie’s eyes narrowed. Those green spheres, delicate and piercing, stared into Anson. A silent burn, a quiet heat.

“See what?”

Everything, Anson wanted to scream. Every-fucking-thing. The hopeless relic of a person. The loser. The defunct, homeless refuse of a person. The drug addict. The drug addict who hung out with other drug addicts, criminals, and fuck knew what else.

But he didn’t. He took a long, heavy breath, the weight to the words catching in his throat. This wasn’t supposed to be hard. But it was now. The price of his own deception – motives aside – held him at judgment. Even if Anson was right, he still hid this. Like he did with Jasper. And that was enough.

“Okay, look. . .”

Anson stood up and looked his boyfriend straight in the muzzle. He told him everything he could. The syringes, the people, what he saw with Ronnie and the other disheveled mess of a wolf. His reasons for keeping this away. His concerns. His worries that Slab City, that Ronnie, were dangerous.

Watching a chimera express themselves is different. People – humans – signify what they feel through facial changes, shifts in tone. Chimera, though, it’s everything else. Every word Anson said caused Ozzie’s ears to flick, then flag. His muzzle parted, his nose wriggled, his tail stiffened, his hackles raised. And Anson so desperately wanted to stop, but if he did, he’d make things worse.

“Ronnie is the kind of person my uncle would sell to, Ozzie.”

The water cracked against the legs of the piers. Anson felt cold. And all at once, the Ozzie he knew for months, the yeendog he met when he started his job, departed. He had never, ever seen Ozzie’s entire frame shift the way it did. It hit him, harder than anything in his life: he made Ozzie mad. Really mad. His boyfriend, his best friend. Mad.

“Holy shit, Anson.”

Ozzie spoke. His tone was calm and reserved. It terrified Anson.

His muzzle drooped. “I want to be so fucking mad at you right now. I really do.” Eyes scanned the boardwalk, fingers clenched together.

“But I don’t know where to begin.”

Anson’s mind raced. What could he even say?

Nothing at all, as it turned out. So the lean silhouette, the shadow of the happy Ozzie did it for him.

“Why? Why do you keep hiding things from me? Why do you think it’s okay? Do you think I’m just stupid? That I can’t control myself?”

Ozzie’s tone cracked and rose, anger and sadness catching his words, breaking them.

“Fuck, Anson, fuck. He’s my brother. He is my family and you. . .”

A cynical chuckle escaped Ozzie. “You. . . just left him that way_._ I could’ve said something and you fucking hid that from me.”

Ozzie tossed his eyes elsewhere. He ran paw-hand through mane, his eyes welled, his tail whipped in quick, erratic sweeps.

Heat crept back into Anson’s throat. He dared to challenge this. “What were you gonna’ say, Ozzie? What? What we were supposed to do? What was I supposed to do? Pull him out of that trash and put him up for a night? Get him to rehab? We just can’t. . .”

Ozzie turned on him, ears flattening. “We!? No, YOU.”

A hard finger jabbed Anson’s chest.

“You just can’t. You made that decision, Anson. You kept this from me, when you had no right to! Who the fuck are you to do that!? To think it’s okay to push me away from my brother?”

Anson felt himself bristle.

“I’m someone who wants to protect you, Ozzie. That’s who.”

A few glances from distant couples and figures quieted the pair, but Ozzie’s ears were tall with teeth baring. Their voices lowered, but strained from the anger and frustration.

“You actually think I can’t talk to my own family?”

Anson grunted. “It doesn’t matter if you can or can’t. He’s not gonna’ listen to you because he was a fucking drug addict! That’s why! He was a stranger you hadn’t seen in years, somehow called you out of the blue and fuck knows how he found that out, and just wanted you to see him again?”

He shook his head, one of his hands diving into pockets to find an object to fiddle with. The sickness in him was turning to fire. How could Ozzie not see things his way?

Ozzie looked away. “You are actually so full of shit it hurts.”

Anson flinched. He’d heard that from people he didn’t like, but not from his Ozzie.

“You think you get to make those judgment calls? That it’s okay to decide this with someone you don’t even know? Fucking god, man. This shit isn’t new to me. Ronnie had these problems all the time when I was a kid.”

The yeendog tore his eyes elsewhere, out to the ocean, out to the endless dark and cold, bitter air.

Anson started to speak, but Ozzie rolled over his words.

“And the thing that never changed was his family. We always looked out for him, no matter how many god damn times he fell apart. You have no fucking clue what life was like for him, or me, or my family.”

Ozzie, again, forced a chuckle. “And to make it worse you actually think I’m a child. That I’ll see him, and what, fall into those habits? Are you out of your fucking mind?”

Anson tried to speak again, but Ozzie cut him off.

“That means you don’t trust me. Or my judgment. That you’re looking down on me, so much that you flat out are willing to cut off people I know when it’s convenient to you. God dammit, Anson. What was the plan then, huh?”

Ozzie splayed out his arms. “Just wait for him to die and then pretend he never existed?”

He shook his head. “I don’t get you. You’ll fly to another goddamn state to see an ex you knew once. But this was just too much for you? Too real? Too inconvenient to see someone that life took a massive shit on?”

Anson tried to speak, but couldn’t find the words. Because Ozzie, the Ozzie he knew, disappeared. He was a silhouette of black against the night, fading into the bleak ocean horizon. He didn’t know this Ozzie. This angry, hurt, Ozzie. What had he done? It didn’t matter to him about right and wrong anymore – it was enough to cause his boyfriend pain.

Boyfriend. Could he even think that now?

“I just didn’t want you to get hurt,” Anson offered. His throat felt sore. His eyes started to sting. Ozzie wiped at his own eyes.

“Good job.”

Reality, dreadful and heavy, fell upon Anson. Again and again he tried to justify himself in his own head. He was just looking out for Ozzie. He just wanted to keep him safe. He just wanted to protect him. But by doing so, he abdicated trust in the person he claimed to love. Viewing Ozzie like he was just an unstable, immature youth. What kind of love was that, if he couldn’t put enough faith in him to do the right thing, or make the right choice?

It wasn’t. It was possessive. He wanted Ozzie to himself, because this love was so rare and new, he feared to lose it.

It was so cold.

“Ozzie, look, I’m sorry,” Anson said feebly. “I am. I didn’t mean for it to be this way. Let me fix this. Please.”

“You’re right, I don’t know anything about him or your family, I just. . .”

Again, all he had to fall back on was protecting his boy. But now it rang so hollow, the reasons so stained and tarnished.

“You were willing to keep this from me, Anson,” said Ozzie, his tone steady now. “For how long?”

Anson didn’t know. Or, he did, but refused to admit it.

“I. . .”

Defeated, Anson nodded.

“Yeah, sure. The rest of our lives, Ozzie, is that what you want me to say?”

“I want you to be honest.”

Goddammit, Ozzie.

Anson couldn’t bring himself to meet his boyfriend’s eyes. He spoke into the dark, the only ally he had left.

“Well, I am. And I don’t know how else to put it. I’m sorry, Ozzie. I don’t know him, you’re right. Or what he means to you. I just know that people don’t think clearly when they are putting fuck knows into their body.”

He reflected on the trailer. “I don’t know what he was doing. But I was worried. I had to think about us getting mugged the whole time, for fuck’s sake.”

Ozzie scoffed. “And it never happened, did it?”

This frustrated Anson. No, maybe not then. But it could have, at any time. Why not? They were out so far. Desperation and drugs did terrible things to a person.

“All that happened is you were prepared to cut me off from my family. It was easy too, wasn’t it? Just let him rot out in the middle of fuck nowhere.”

Once more, Anson bristled, but he was already so tired of fighting. “He made that decision, Ozzie, not me.”

He turned to his Ozzie, features heavy. “What do you want me to say, Ozzie? I’m sorry, that’s all I can be. It was scary, all right? I didn’t know what to think. You’re the only thing that makes sense to me, and I’ll do anything to protect you. Anything. No matter what.”

Anson’s eyes hurt. “Even if it means losing everything.”

Ozzie sniffed, and he wiped at his face a few times.

“I’m furious with you,” he said, tone broken. “And that’s the way this is. I don’t want to be. But I am.”

For the briefest of seconds, his anger subsided. “I need some time.”

All of Anson’s nightmares and fears coalesced in front of him. Ozzie pulled out his phone and began thumbing through it, pushing away from the pier side.

“I’m gonna head home for now.”

This terrible image, more dreadful than anything Anson ever knew, was his boyfriend leaving without him. He was calling a Qwyk, a taxi home. To his home.

“Ozzie, come on, let’s just keep talking,” Anson said, pleading.

Broken, the yeendog shook his head. “I don’t want to. I need to think.”

And that was all. Words more frightening than any tome of horror. His Ozzie, away from him.

“Can I at least walk you to your cab?”

Ozzie looked at Anson and his eyes were shrouded with mist and red. He said nothing, confirming his ride, and walking away. Into the deep of the crowds and lights, leaving Anson by himself. His only company now the cold and the bitter chatter of the ocean below.

Ozzie left. Anson stood, surrounded by lights of playful hues. The mirth of laughter and cheerful conversations fell over him, with families getting their children a season themed snack or someone enjoying the fresh food cooked by the stands. He was engulfed by people and chimera, in the company of hundreds.

He was alone.

-*-

Anson never realized how broken he was without Ozzie.

The strange and sinister thing about love was its tendency to involve the other half. The subtle cues and rising thoughts emerging with every decision. If at the grocery, did the other half need something? When preparing a dish, did they like that? Some new movie’s in theaters, would they want to see it?

Anson’s routine had so deeply entwined itself with another person. His schedule changed, as did his thoughts. Everything – in some fashion – became the decision of two, and as a result, equaled one. A shared life of one. But now? It was all wrong. It didn’t add up. Morning coffee made no sense, because there wasn’t a caffeine safe tea to brew. Food lacked chimera specialty diet items. The air was cold and quiet, absent of conversation.

Dark. Everything was coated in dark. The autumn sun receded past the horizon earlier now, leading to shorter days. Anson didn’t bother turning on his apartment lights. He didn’t want to illuminate his place, to reveal the vacancy of Ozzie.

It was only a couple of days, and he was ruined, drowning in a nightmare of himself. He called of work, “sick,” and conspired with the couch to rob him of movement. The TV was on, but it produced muted, muddled sounds.

All of it was wrong. Nothing was right. He was, once again, a stranger in a strange land. This alien, bizarre world filled with anthropomorphic people. Far away from any of his family or friends (if they were even still that), a ship without a sail. He hadn’t heard from Ozzie since the pier, and each second he couldn’t even glance to his ‘yena, it devastated him.

His Ozzie. Could he still say that?

He. . . didn’t know. Self-pity was a deadly thing, whispering ideas of endless pain and solitude. Surely, this was it, despite everything they had been through. Surely this was the end. All I took to undo their perfect life together was one simple lie, it had to be.

And yet, this idea was an intoxicating liquor to Anson. So eager was he to drink from its endless waters. Each time he did, awful, horrifying visions flooded into him. Ozzie was leaving him. He found someone else. They were together, right now. Anson would be alone, again, and this time forever.

Then there were other moments, different thoughts. Angry ones. How did this happen? How did he lose out because of some homeless nobody out in a place that didn’t even respect the law? That creeping leech, that specter from Ozzie’s world. . . it was his fault. That fucking Ronnie, that living disease. Why was he paying the price for his terrible choices?

It was a convenient scapegoat; one Anson was desperate for. Anything. Something to give him an answer in all this.

He spent his third “sick” day shuffling around the apartment, attempting to resemble a living person. There was leftover alcohol, and it was Ozzie’s, so he didn’t drink it. He thought of ordering food, but he would have to open his door, and he despised the world right now.

He thought of texting Ozzie again. But he tried it once, tried to pour his life into every word, but Ozzie only offered “still need time, pls don’t txt me right now.”

Three days ago. So when!? How much time!? What else was there? He just wanted to apologize and make things all better. Maybe he was right, maybe wrong, but this price was too high. He didn’t know how he was going to survive! His entire body felt like it was dying in ways he couldn’t imagine. He’d been cracked on the side of the head by a wayward baseball, but the pain of that was nothing compared to this.

Fourth day. Through his agony and tears and emptiness, Anson attempted to go to work. He lasted an hour before having to leave early. His managers insisted he see a doctor since his “condition” wasn’t improving. He doubted they believed he was sick.

The afternoon was spent in a waiting room with sniffling patients, squawking coughs, and sleep medicine advertised over television. Then he saw his doctor.

A short, aged tiger with a deep eastern accented greeted him under chill of a patient’s room, Doctor Kacharya. His stripes were faded and his eyes pale. “So, Mr. Hillwick, how are we feeling?”

It took every ounce of strength for Anson not to buckle with tears. Every molecule of self-control not to just dump his entire world on this doctor, who likely had a laundry list of patients today. It was the first person he encountered that had to show him some sympathy, even if it was on a professional basis.

“Not great, a flu maybe,” Anson said. But his tone betrayed him, almost cracking.

“Flu not too good,” said Dr. Kacharya, taking a seat. “Having coughs? Fatigue and things? You’re a little pale.”

Anson did his best to answer “honestly.” He feigned exhaustion and his lack of motivation. Kacharya nodded attentively, taking his diagnosis, even emitting a warm, deep purr as he checked Anson’s breathing.

After a while, he murmured. “Flu of a different kind, I think.”

Absently, Anson spoke. “I don’t know how to fix this problem.”

Kacharya studied him a moment before seating himself again, typing a few things in a module. Without turning to Anson, he said in tones gentle:

“Problems are hard. We have to find the strength to face them.”

Anson frowned. It was too antiquated and simple.

“How will I do that?”

The doctor smiled. “You must decide. Sometimes, seeing doctor when sick, even when scary, because we fear what we learn. Sometimes, standing up for self against others.”

A pause. Anson still held his frown. Kacharya gestured, understanding. Knowing.

“Sometimes, strength to forgive others, even when hard. Needs time, like medicine, to work.”

Anson blinked. He nodded, offering a simple “I see.” Doctor Kacharya smiled, prescribed him lots of rest and fluids, and if he didn’t feel better, to come back.

On his way home, Anson mused bitterly over the “advice.” How useless. He couldn’t just find ‘strength.’ He couldn’t just decide to face the problem – that wasn’t the issue! Ozzie didn’t even want to talk to him. Persistence would just make things worse. Idiot. Too much of that nonsense spiritual influence.

He came home, and returned to sitting in the dark. A waste of time, all of it. Everything. He went to lie down.

Eyes opened, eyes shut. The words from his doctor filled him, causing him an endless wellspring of irritation.

Strength to forgive others. Nonsense. That wasn’t the issue! He hurt someone and Ozzie. . .

Needs time.

In the dark, the evening sun poured through his blinders, showering his bed with trails of light. For the first time in a while, he didn’t shun it.

-*-

Without any meaningful excuse, Anson had to return to work. The only thing helping him now was his frail, desperate hope Ozzie just needed time. Everything else was a blur. A near weeks’ worth of security reports required drafts – something he was far behind on, and the ambiance of his job swallowed him whole in a dull noise. He spent most of his time at desk, terrified he might even catch a glimpse of the yeendog.

It was a horrid feeling. Where once just a cursory glance at Ozzie was enough to get him through the day, now the idea was unsettling. Because he didn’t know what he was to Ozzie right now. And he couldn’t meet those eyes again, those green spheres so full of anger and sadness.

Despite things, he managed the day with a dreary imitation of what a working person looked like. He kept up appearances, made small talk, and lost himself in his work, sloppy as it was.

After work, the darkness of his apartment greeted him, empty and cold.

Deciding to try something other than self-pity tonight, Anson buried himself in local politics. It was something.

Very little of interest was going on – the latest hook was Emory Ladeck getting investigated for making comments about chimera. Another controversial topic was a missing $10k from a local town’s energy budget. At state, Governor Radsley caught fire for proposing a two percent tax increase on “specialized businesses,” garnering critical scorn from his conservative counterparts.

It was enough to force his attention into. He browsed a variety of political forums, catching the typical incendiary rhetoric from numerous perspectives. A good chunk came down to free market arguments, and accusations Radsley was just out to give bigger handouts to “entitled welfare dogs.”

Ladeck’s was plenty more one sided. Her commentary, as Anson found, related to chimera nurses serving in terminal cases for those diagnosed with Human’s Disease.

“I think it’s important for those dealing with this heartbreaking sickness to, really, be surrounded by what they know. Chimera can be strange and off putting, despite their best efforts to help. Not everyone has accustomed themselves to these societal developments.”

The discussions quickly broke down into accusations of speciesm.

“It’s incredibly depressing we still have these kinds of discussions,” one commenter said.

“Couldn’t have been phrased any worse.”

“my dad was treated by a shepherd mix and she was the nicest lady ever, ladeck is full of shit.”

It was certainly distracting enough that Anson almost found himself wanting to join the discussions. But instead, he kept reading. Each line he did, he swatted away thoughts of what this could mean for Ozzie, or how his boyfriend might interpret it. Chimera played such a large role in the world now, arguably more than their human counterparts. Without Ozzie, it was a foreign, bizarre concept.

Still, it provided him a healthy point of focus. So much that, he barely heard his phone buzz for the third time before realizing he was sent a few messages.

His world stopped. In a panicked motion, he set aside his laptop and grappled with his phone. His heart raced like a war drum. A whirlwind of ideas sieged his mind, wondering if it was who he hoped for.

One notification was an email about water. Something, something, true-hydration non-fluoride. Annoying. The other two. . .

7:22 PM Ozy: hey, can we talk sometime, like tomorrow

7:22 PM Ozy: I thought about things

Anson had no idea where to begin. His heart lifted, yet sank in the same beat. Gods above, it was like a dam breaking. He had a hundred questions, wanted to say a thousand things.

It was like talking to your crush all over again, except your crush hated you. He clung to every single syllable, as though it were a miracle, because right now, it was all he had. He dialed in his response with excited fury, having to correct his spelling because his digits fumbled with the screen.

7:24 PM AHill: Yeah, of course. Name the time and place. Tonight, if you want.

7:25 PM AHill: Are you okay?

Every minute Ozzie didn’t respond was a new, freshly discovered agony.

7:27 PM Ozy: im fine, very tired

7:27 PM Ozy: tonight is not good, so tomorrow, there is a deli in santa monica

Ozzie forwarded the directions. Some place called Hexley’s Deli, not too far from Santa Monica Blvd. It was something. After that, they settled on a time in the afternoon.

7:30 PM AHill: I’ll be there.

Anson wanted so desperately to type “I love you.” But he resisted.

7:32 PM Ozy: yeah, c u then

Anson offered a ‘goodnight’ but received no other response. For a while, he stared over the conversation, trying to infer some meaning behind the words. But there was nothing there, save for his own wild interpretations.

But at least it was something, and the tone didn’t feel hostile. But. . . they were only texts. Words could be interpreted or implied by the reader. There was little to go on here. All he had now was the chance to talk with Ozzie again.

He did his best to distract himself the rest of the night, but found it almost impossible. Thoughts of the yeendog plagued him. Memories of Ozzie’s smile, his laughter, the gentle ebb of his breathing when they slept. It was only five days and yet it felt like an eternity.

Eventually, Anson went to bed. Sleep did not come easily.

-*-

The deli was a contemporary combination of sports celebration and easy-going food service. Layered on the scarlet brick walls were teams dating as far back as the Sidewinders, one of the first chimera teams in the States. Some of the more prominent figures appeared there too – like Donam Minski, a prolific running back known for his career with the Knights. He was pictured with his team, his family, and in one small photo – husband.

Anson wasn’t sure what to make of it. Not the deli itself, or the theme. He got it: sports. He just wondered if Ozzie knew about the kind of heroes decorating the walls. Was that on purpose? Or maybe he was just overthinking it.

He had little else to do. In his eagerness, he showed up at Hexley’s about thirty minutes early before the agreed meet up time. He hoped, in some fashion, Ozzie might appear earlier too. But no such luck. Rather, Anson was forced to order a large side of fries and a bitter tea while he waited, assuring a probing waitress he was waiting on a friend.

He looked for ways to distract himself again, but none of it clicked. It was a bizarre world all over again. This restaurant, retrofitted with decorum sporting chimera, celebrating identify and food. A place you’d go with someone, not by yourself. If things didn’t go well, what was he going to do? The only thing he really knew anymore was Ozzie.

A few minutes after three, Anson grew anxious. They planned to meet at this time – and while he didn’t expect punctuality on the yeendog’s part, every second Ozzie wasn’t there filled Anson’s mind with paranoid thoughts. That he wasn’t coming, or Anson somehow he ended up at the wrong place, or Ozzie would just call the whole thing off because he was too angry.

Why couldn’t he just trust him? Wasn’t that Ozzie’s problem with all of this?

It wasn’t until eleven after three that Anson felt his phone buzz. He yanked it free to see a simple text:

Here now, r u?

Anson feverishly typed a response, uncertain if he should stay or stand. He maintained the former. He didn’t know how Ozzie felt right now, and the last thing Anson wanted was to make him uncomfortable.

Yeah, at the back window seat.

Anson picked it because he always liked an outside view, finding optimism in clear skies. But it was October now, so a chilly of serene, grey clouds cast a blanket on Santa Monica. He didn’t know what to make of that.

He kept his gaze alert, attentive, picking at all the figures going in and out of the deli. Then – just between an exiting family – appeared the slender silhouette of grey. A tight black leather jacket clung to his graceful form, but the rest of him looked. . . duller. It was Ozzie, but gone was the often exotic jewelry accenting him, missing was the playful, confident stride in his saunter. Even his mane looked a little frazzled.

Ozzie spotted Anson, giving a quick, obliging glance, before approaching. His hands were in pockets and his tail low. Anson did everything he could to look pleasant.

“Hey,” he said, as Ozzie came to the window seat. There was hesitation in the yeendog’s movement, before he slowly took place opposite of Anson.

“Hi.”

Anson started, fast. “I uh, don’t know if you’re hungry. I’ve been eating these fries for a while if you want them.”

Ozzie only looked at the fries, not to Anson. “It’s okay, I’m not. A drink is fine.”

Anson tapped his fingers. “Right.”

A hundred words were ready to spill from his tongue all at once. He had to phrase his apology perfectly, he knew that. His heart roared in his chest and the same, chilling anxiety gripped his guts. He almost spoke, but the same squirrel waitress appeared, squeaking in.

“Hi, can I get you anything?”

Ozzie nodded and ordered a lemon, chimera friendly soda. Anson clenched his teeth.

Another quiet formed between them. Anson looked outside, watching all the people pass by. The cars filled with couples and happy lives, wishing he could just transport himself into that, with Ozzie, and make this whole situation go away.

“It’s been a while since I’ve felt that mad.”

Ozzie snapped his attention back to reality. The yeendog was looking into the table, one finger fidgeting with paper sugar packets.

“I didn’t know what to do with it. I have bad days, yeah, like everyone else. But that?”

Here, Ozzie raised his eyes, staring at Anson. “That hurt.”

Anson’s throat caught. “Ozzie, please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry for everything.”

The squirrel waitress returned, setting down the drink. She seemed to sense the tension, leaving without a word. Ozzie hardly paid attention to the glass.

“I know, Anson. Everyone is sorry. They’re always sorry. Especially when they get caught with a lie. Oh, hell yeah, they’re in tears then.”

Ozzie crushed the sugar packet in his palm. “So do us both a favor and just drop the apologies.”

The words were harsh, cold, but Ozzie’s tone was. . . alarmingly gentle.

“I came to talk with you. Not see how creative you can get with ‘I did a bad thing.’”

Anson went quiet. He couldn’t blame Ozzie for feeling that way, tough as it was to hear. He nodded, then.

“Okay. Fair. Let’s talk.”

Ozzie sniffed. His stare travelled along the walls of the deli, over the pictures, to the other couples. His tail tapped the cushioned seats with long, troubled thumps, while he continued to fumble with more packets.

“It fucking sucks. All of it,” he said after a while. “You know why, Anson?”

Anson said nothing, only listened.

“Because I was angry and I’m still angry. At you. And the things you told me. And then. . .”

His ears flattened and his voice broke for a moment. He had to clear his throat, wiping at his eyes.

“And then at all of it. Myself. Myself for getting angry and then you again for making me angry. And that whole fucking place and Ronnie. Fucking fuck, Anson. And I’m angry I don’t even know how to put this. That I had to feel shitty for the past week. That every time I wanted to talk I just got bitter and resentful. I didn’t want to and I wanted to.”

He sniffed again. “Wanted to be furious, but got tired of it. Got tired of myself being such a shit. Got angry at how I was probably making you feel, and then remembering what you did. I hate it. It. Fucking. Sucks.”

Ozzie looked at Anson, his eyes watery and red.

“The worst part is? You were right, you fucking asshole. I knew you were.”

He forced a strained, dry laugh. “And that made everything so, so much worse. I hated that. I hate it now. Because guess what, Anson? Ronnie was a drug addict. He’s had so many problems with that shit, ever since we were growing up. And you picked right up on that. Fuck. God, fuck.”

He wiped at his eyes again. Anson could do nothing but hold himself, just be. Be there for Ozzie, hear it all out, to understand what couldn’t be understand. To be the thing Ozzie needed, even if it was a sandbag, even it hurt to hear.

“I felt stupid and betrayed and lied to. By you. . .”

His tone went gentle.

“And him. Especially him.”

Another sniff. His voice weakened. “So now I get to be the bitch, and you were the right one, all along. Because yeah, what the hell was I gonna do? Nothing. I haven’t seen him in years and I couldn’t do shit. And you had to remind me of that.”

He grunted, burying eyes into palm. “I just hate all of it.”

Anson, in that moment, discovered something far more terrifying than Ozzie walking away: it was Ozzie in pain. He’d seen it before as a result of stress, but nothing like this. And every single second he couldn’t hold his Ozzie and comfort him tore him apart.

The yeendog shuttered, but kept his voice muffled. Anson, daring, let his hand slide forward, placing it over Ozzie’s own. He didn’t react.

So, Anson squeezed, caressing in small, dainty motions. The soft, warm embrace of fur met his palm, and it was a bliss he missed so dearly.

“I can’t. . . fix that, I can’t fix this. I dunno’ what to do.”

Anson’s grasp went firm.

“You don’t have to fix anything. You’re allowed to feel this way. You have every right, Ozzie, you have a right to your feelings.”

Ozzie let his palm drift from muzzle, but his eyes were still closed and damp.

“I lied to you, when I shouldn’t have. I made a decision for us without thinking of us. I was thinking of myself. Don’t believe for a second you’re wrong for feeling angry about that.”

The yeendog’s form slumped.

“I don’t know the first thing about your brother, or what he’s been through. I don’t know that I’m right. Maybe I am.”

Anson shrugged.

“But he’s your family and. . . what I was willing to do is just crossing too many lines.”

Anson took Ozzie’s hand in both his own.

“All I’ve got now, Oz, is my honesty. And that I love you so much and I’ll do anything to protect you. To make you happy. If I have to lose everything for you, I will.”

Ozzie’s eyes parted and he forced a chuckle.

“Shut up, you melodramatic asshole.”

Anson gave a weak smile. “I’m sorry, it’s true.”

“I know it is. And that freaks me out a little, man. Because what if we get here again? What if you start keeping things from me because you think it’s ‘for the best?’”

At once, Anson shook his head.

“No, no. That’s not going to happen. No more secrets like that, not with me. Because I need to trust you.”

Ozzie took a napkin and wiped his nose. He pushed aside his drink, ice beginning to mix with the flavored contents.

“I wanna trust you,” he said.

Anson nodded. “Yeah. I know. But, it’s hard when you’re angry.”

Ozzie’s face lifted, looking at Anson. “I don’t want to be angry anymore.”

Anson smiled again, if briefly. He felt Ozzie’s fingers wrap with his own, and all at once, the cold dark evaporated. His heart sang.

“I still am though,” Ozzie said, voice low. “But maybe not at you.”

“That’s a good start,” said Anson.

Ozzie looked out the window, as though a solution might conjure itself beyond the glass. “I just don’t know where to go from here. Or what the fuck to do about Ronnie.”

Anson wasn’t sure either, and it showed through the pause that came after.

“We can always go back,” he said, though he desired anything but that. “You can talk with him.”

“I can, but I know Ronnie.”

Ozzie took his eyes from the window, to where his hand mingled with Anson’s own.

“And I’m afraid I’m gonna’ lose him out there.”

Anson shook his head. He had no answers, or solutions. He had no words which could change the brother’s mind, he was sure. No promise of a better life the older ‘yena would take up on. Freedom from everything – bills, law, yourself – was a hard thing to give up. He wagered it impossible.

“We’ll figure something out. I promise.” said Anson.

Ozzie didn’t respond. Maybe he didn’t believe it. But all Anson could give right now, beyond his resolute, determined love, was hope.

Time went on.

Here and there, sprouts of a conversation continued, sparse as they were. Ozzie asked how Anson’s week was, Anson glazing over the emotional misery. Ozzie talked about his own days, burying his nights in drink while sorting through everything else, figuring out what he wanted to say or do. It was hard to hear, but at least he was telling Anson.

After a while, their talk faded. There was still plenty of emotional weight to unpack, and it was difficult to do it in a public setting. So, Ozzie stood. His drink remain untouched, frothy with condensation.

“I’m gonna head back to my place,” he said. Anson stood with him.

“Can I walk you to your car this time?”

A smirk. Ozzie shook his head. “No, I’m fine.”

He turned, ready to leave. His tail flicked, brushing at Anson. For the first time in a while, those soft green eyes transitioned from somber to passionate. Soft, alluring, if not sensual.

“But maybe come by later tonight?”

Anson, understanding, offered a slow nod.

“I’ll be there.”

I’ll always be there, Anson thought, watching his boy saunter away. At the least, confidence returned. He could say it again. His boy.

His Ozzie.

-*-

It was surreal, driving back to Ozzie’s place. The last time Anson did this, a chilly rain swept the night and they visited Dogtown. In a way, it was like meeting his boyfriend all over again.

When he found Ozzie’s apartment again, he hesitated. It was strange, to go from barely touching someone to, well, this. He craved it, and yet it caused him anxiety. Their love was strong yet, so delicate. It needed tending, like a garden. It withered without attention. It drowned with too much.

Coming up the steps and to the door, he knocked. Distant city sounds created a muffled ambiance while he waited, until the door cracked open. Ozzie, wordlessly, pulled the frame open, at once hitting Anson with the ambrosia of “mate.”

Anson didn’t need to say anything. Ozzie pulled him in, his fur notably softer, his mane carrying a finer, cared-for sheen. He smelled incredible, a masculine perfume teasing Anson. Didn’t help that Ozzie wore loose fitting clothes, either.

“I missed you,” Anson said as he entered familiar territory. It was low lit, posters and plants greeting his sight.

Ozzie’s muzzle pursed with a smirk. “Come to bed.”

Everything else was a fever. Anson didn’t remember losing his clothes, or even walking into the bedroom. He only felt warm air, then the embrace of soft, silky fur. It was a wonderful thing about chimera, how their fur clung to flesh, how it guided and soothed, rewarding every touch or caress.

Anson found all the quirks he loved about Ozzie again. The whiskers on his muzzle, the way their lips pecked and parted, the way Ozzie’s hand always came to his neck to pull him forward. Anson rewarded this with his palm around the small of his boy’s back, stroking at the delicate sinew of muscle, ruffling base of tail.

They stood for a while, embraced, kissing. Eyes closing and opening, taking in sensation and sight. Their cocks began to harden, twitch, tremble from smoldering, denied lusts. Anson found his fingers travelling through his ‘yena, across the slope of perk rump, then back, then neck.

Somewhere, in all that beautiful chaos of touch, they were in sheets. A frantic search for lubricant had Ozzie preparing his mate, while Anson quivered at the toying digits which so gleefully wrapped around his inches. He could’ve taken that, he could’ve watched Ozzie work his shaft and everything would be heaven. But, they needed more.

Like a song practiced, a secret music only they knew, Ozzie was in the sheets, embraced by cotton and Anson. His human counterpart ran swift, smooth thrusts into the eager, warm pucker, the ring rewarding its partner with a tight suckle. Every strike was met with growing waves of tingling pleasure, accented by moans and kisses and yips.

Motions proceeded with furious thrusting, and soon Ozzie was clenched around his partner, hapless and at the mercy of his lover’s attentions. Just how he liked it.

They didn’t need words, not right now. Just each other. Only warmth and fulfillment, until their coupling merged and caused cocks to twitch, writhe, burst with seed. Because, as it was, this was its own conversation. A quiet admission of Ozzie, an acceptance, to let Anson back inside of him.

And there was the moment, the conclusion of their music, where they fell together in a desperate hold, where the desire to embrace and cling to your better half overwhelmed all other odds. This was the only thing that would ever matter. All the world could be ruin, but so long as Anson and Ozzie were one, they needed nothing else.

Eventually, they settled. Eventually, they cleaned, and found themselves holding the other, slipping away into the night.

After a while, Ozzie spoke.

“Maybe this is why,” he said, voice quiet.

Anson was fading in and out, but nursed his boyfriend with a kiss. “Mmm?”

“This is why he’s out there,” continued Ozzie. “He wasn’t alone. Remember?”

At first, Anson didn’t understand. But through foggy recollection, he realized, Ozzie was referring to Ronnie, and then the wolf, the lanky beau he was with.

“He found someone.”

Anson wasn’t sure. “You think?”

Ozzie chuckled. “He always wanted to fuck a rock star.”

Anson caressed his better half. “What are you thinking then?”

The yeendog yawned. He buried his muzzle into Anson’s neck, eyes closing.

“He gave up everything for him. I guess I understand.”

He smiled. “I’d do the same thing.”

Anson felt his heart skip as Ozzie slowly drifted to sleep in his arms. He held the world, and it wasn’t heavy.

Rest followed not long after, where Anson pondered about Ronnie again, wondering, if he held his man like this. If, in fact, he threw it all away, just to call someone else his own. He supposed, even with nothing, Ronnie had everything.