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The Summer That You Are

By Laz Briar

The company summer picnic. Ugh.

No three words inspired a greater sense of mundane dread in Anson. Obligatory corporate meet and greets? Try relaxing when the CEO was an arm's length away, making a joke you had to laugh at.

It didn't help that chimera work culture demanded an overwhelming impression of loyalty. Hybrids had a sense of community to each other - that was clear when he first started at Songbird. Sometimes it translated to a general “feeling," other times it meant staying well after dark when the workday concluded. Anson did his best to merge with this, but, being human, foreign, and kind of lazy, it was always difficult.

Trying to pretend he belonged with them at a get-together was just another hurdle he wasn't sure he could overcome.

Looking at the announcement board, he checked the time and place. Greenfeather Park, 4PM, Friday.

Ah, good. Nothing like topping off the weekend by leaving work early, only to go to a hangout that was essentially work.

With a defeated, internal groan, he mentally tucked the time away and tried to prepare himself. It was only Tuesday.

-*-

Work was a useful distraction, at least. Routine workflows, nothing insane. This week it was writing up a new cybersecurity report about Songbird's new customer software, something they called “Chirp." Sure, it required a lot of checking and rechecking for potential weak points. But, it made sense. It was everything he could understand.

“Anson!"

Because out here, nothing made sense.

He paused. To his right, a figure coalesced amongst the office space, next to his cubicle. Bright eyed and wide of smile. Gray fur with black spots dotting his cheeks. Up and down swore he was some kind of purebred spotted hyena, but was likely just a mix of other canine breeds.

“You see that thing on the post it? 4 o'clock? Are they bustin' us or what? We're not even gettin' paid for that!"

Anson glanced. Ozzie. And just like that, everything he thought he knew about himself twisted itself and broke.

But he played the painful part of casual office friend. “Well, you know what Mr. Zan would say: 'that's quitter talk, it's for the good of the company.'"

Ozzie rolled his eyes. “God, where did that guy grab his business philosophy? I got more important things to do."

Anson turned in rotating chair. “I don't think getting shitfaced drunk counts as important."

A small tail wag. Anson tried to ignore the gentle, attractive warmth that sprang up within him when he saw it.

“Says you. Get through a case of Longboats and tell me it ain't the best thing." There was such genuine pride sprawled over his muzzle – maybe from the name drop or maybe from how much liquor he could hold.

All it did was inject thoughts of a tipsy, blushing canine into Anson's head. Ugh.

“Yeah? Well unless you convince ol' Zenny to pay for binge drinking, we're stuck."

Ozzie rolled his head, like a displeased pup being told it couldn't go back to sleep.

“I got somethin' for him to get stuck on," he muttered.

Anson chuckled. But not for the same reason. “I kind of want to see that," he admitted. He kind of wanted to see a lot of things.

Ozzie rubbed fingers over his eyes, like he'd yanked himself awake. Even though it was past noon.

“Mm, speakin' a drink. We gotta' bring something too, you know that right?"

Wait, what.

“What?" Anson said. More mysteries?

The spotted dog gave a slow, matter-of-fact nod. “Yuuuup. They don't say it, but believe me, you're supposed to. Shit, last year, I forgot at the last second and was about to make up some excuse. Meryn from labor resources split her pretzel snacks with me and now I owe her a favor. Bleh."

He wagged his finger at Anson. “So you know, food for thought. Don't owe favors." He offered a big, doofy, toothy grin.

Anson felt that spring of warmth bloom in his chest again. Stop it, he thought. Stop confusing me.

“Damn," said Anson. In truth, the concept wasn't that offensive. It was more that, what exactly do you buy for chimera? Their customs were sometimes alarmingly different from human ones.

“I can't just buy everyone a gumball, can I?"

A jest, but, also, serious. Ozzie laughed, at least.

“I'd pay to see that," he said. “But naw. Try alcohol." He winked.

Anson couldn't tell if this was a prank or serious. Alcohol and business didn't usually mix well, especially among social events. Not in the sense that people loosened up, it was because people loosened up. Mike from accounting might have a drink or seven and promptly tell his boss to finally fuck off. Someone might get sick. Others might be honest.

I might be honest, thought Anson.

“Kinda pricey, isn't it?" He tried to phrase the question like an escape rope, but he could feel the pressure set in. What else would he get? He could make some social blunder and not even realize.

“Nnnaaaah. Cheap brands everywhere. Nobody's gonna' turn down the sauce. Guaranteed. Everyone is just too embarrassed to do it."

Anson leaned back in his chair. “What? That's a load." Really? Social dynamic was what prevented sharing booze at a company pow wow?

Ozzie through up a defensive hand. “No way. Everyone's prudish. They want it but they won't ask cause it's not 'professional'. Company culture or whatever you called it."

Anson was skeptical. Suppose there was some truth to that – though even after a year at Songbird it was hard to gauge how chimera were with the suits off. But fine. He'd play along.

“You're not just trying to get free beer, are you?"

Anson swore he saw Ozzie flush, if only in the subtlest of fashions. He rumbled with laughter.

“Ya' got me."

All right, fine. Maybe having a few drinks at a clumsy social wouldn't be a disaster. I'll have one to take the edge off, Anson thought. Yeah. Keep things cool. Get me comfortable.

“Yeah, okay."

Ozzie flashed a thumbs-up.

“You know there are after-hours bars, Oz. We can just go to one." Granted, Anson was tempted by a bit more than just fresh booze.

He shrugged. “Psh, most don't carry my brand, and it's always so overpriced. So I can't pass up an opportunity for a freebie, hehehe."

Anson chuckled. “You sly shit. That why you came over here?"

Ozzie poked his head forward, feigning interest in the screens lined on Anson desks.

“No way dude, I'm just here for a friendly chat. Talkin' about uh. Bulkchain? Badchain?" He sneered.

“Blockchain."

A shrug from the spotted yeendog. “Yeah, yeah, totally that."

Anson was tempted to start talking about his work in earnest. He knew Ozzie was faffing around, likely escaping his obligations in customer sales. Just here to make a joke or two. Yet. He wanted the 'yena to stay. Didn't matter what he was doing, just. . .

Stay, Anson thought. Why can't you stay a while longer?

Of course, it couldn't be that way, work was work. Eventually Anson had to return to his report and Ozzie left for the third floor. Once gone, Anson did everything to keep himself preoccupied. Focus on work, work, and more work. Because if he wasn't, he was thinking, and if he was thinking, that meant things didn't make sense. Because the only thing that did was. . .

“Dammit, Ozzie."

-*-

Friday was approaching with surprising haste. Perhaps because Anson was dreading it, yet, looking forward to it. He just didn't know.

In the meanwhile, he made it a point to head to the grocery after work, trying to figure out what to get.

He did, of course, do as Ozzie suggested, looking for cases of alcohol which might satisfy the tastebuds of everyone. Which was hard. There were numerous brands as it was, and some of them were brewed with specific chimera in mind. Some, in fact, came in warnings for multiple species, in that ingesting too much could cause serious sickness.

Well great, that didn't add an ounce of pressure at all.

He felt like a fool, staring at all the potential options. And how much was he supposed to get?

Walking up and down the aisle, he tried to settle on a decision. He wasn't familiar with any particular name. And he didn't drink much himself, so the difference between a hard cider or IPA meant little to him.

He almost wanted to give up until a box of scarlet caught his eye. Nothing fancy, it sported a black silhouette of a little ship on its front. Under that was the name: Longboat.

Certainly, Anson wasn't going to buy this just because Ozzie mentioned it, right? Certainly, it was because it was the only brand he had even the vaguest familiarity with, right? Right.

“Just settle down," he muttered to himself. Everything would be fine. He could make sense of this. He hoped.

He snagged several boxes of the stuff and paid his due, thinking about the picnic. It was tomorrow, and the weather reported clear skies and a warm, summer evening. Fireworks were expected and essentially everyone from Songbird would be there. A little too picturesque, too perfect.

At home, Anson spent the rest of the evening lying on the couch, thinking. How'd all this happen? It wasn't supposed to be like this.

It was just a nice, entry level position in his field with a growing customer relations firm. Yeah, it was definitely strange working with so many chimera, and often times he felt a bit alienated. But beyond that, Anson expected it to be just. . . routine. Life, job, nothing special. And yet. . .

There was that damned yeendog hybrid. Always hanging around, wearing smiles and making bad jokes.

“Goddammit, Oz."

The television did little to provide a good distraction. Every time Anson closed his eyes, his imagination sprang into action. Maybe it came from that one night where some folks from IT security and customer service got together for drinks. Maybe it was when Ozzie looked a bit too flustered, flushing through his gray fur, smiling and laughing at almost everything Anson said. Maybe it was because they were having so much fun.

Why did Anson feel this? Why was Oz doing this to him?

His chest fluttered and his blood was fire.

Why can't I be honest?

With an agonized groan, he planted himself into couch pillow and tried to calm himself down. But he couldn't. He just kept thinking and wanting.

Before he slept, he let his mind wander. He imagined coming home and hearing noise in the kitchen, Ozzie fixing something up for dinner. He'd be wearing his dumb, toothy grin, probably burn food in the skillet, and they'd settle for takeout and cheap beer.

And then, Anson would start unbuttoning his shirt and. . .

He felt his loins twitch. Swearing, he tried to ignore the thoughts, and went to sleep.

-*-

The office was alive with chatter next day. Everyone was prepping and gaffing about what to expect from the picnic. Some were genuinely excited, and others were probably putting on a good show for Mr. Zan. To Anson, it had the vaguest resemblance to visiting a zoo, what with the near endless chatter of animals.

Still, he had to admit it was nice seeing everyone so peppy. Suppose Mr. Zan wanted to enforce the idea that they were a community, and again, Anson could see that amongst all the muzzles, beaks, and scaly smiles.

Granted his mind was elsewhere. In fact, the whole of him was elsewhere. Even when trying to do work, he found himself distracted more than usual. Pains of excitement rang through him. Stress too. A nasty concoction supplanting his ability to work. Hell, an hour before noon and he'd barely gotten a paragraph done on one of his security reports.

But despite his lack of production, the workday moved on. Morning became lunch, lunch afternoon, and finally, quitting time. Granted, it was early because of the picnic, providing everyone some time to change or prepare if they needed to, but quitting time all the same.

Getting past traffic, Anson arrived at Greenfeather Park not long after. It was a pretty large place that sported an enormous field for outings, where roads winded off to allow visitors some space for camping - a new area, in fact, struck out between Thousand Oaks and Camarillo. That meant it took a while for Anson to get situated, especially when the entire company made finding a parking spot damn near impossible.

Eventually, he lucked out on a spot snuck under shade of tree. Parking his car, a gentle slope of green rolled out in front of him, inhabited by massive, old trees, little ponds, and decorative bridges.

Then, of course, the Songbird staff, all one-hundred plus of them. Some set up foldable chairs, others laid down towels, and others were setting up benches with food and drink. Anson even spied Mr. Zan through the crowds, the plump tabby cat no doubt boring others with his company parables.

For a moment, he watched them all. The window to his car was the last barrier between him and all 'that.' That confusing reality. And the only way to get through it was to be honest.

Could he be?

Resigned to his fate, Anson unloaded the cooler from his trunk. Lord knew he was going to need as much beer as he could for this.

Getting established wasn't particularly hard. Once some of his coworkers spied the cooler, they must have gotten the idea. Kathi, a russet furred mink, approached him with intrigue, explaining where he could set it down.

Word started to get out pretty quick. Before he knew it, everyone was coming around to snag a drink. Sensing 'danger,' Anson swiftly grabbed a couple. One for himself, and the other for. . .

Heart flutters.

“Oh, Anson, there you are man."

Anson probably stuck out like a sore thumb next to the tables. Everyone was casual, where he decided to toss on a bright blue polo.

He was approached by another familiar figure, another canine mixed dressed in pale cream fur. Jaxon.

“What's up!" said Anson, cheerful as he could. The dog smiled upon approach.

“Well you know," started the hound with a shrug. “Here like everyone. But it's not so bad. Gonna do tug of war with accounting, show those number crunchers who's on top, heh."

Anson looked past him. He could see some of his coworkers getting set up for something.

“You get a bonus for that right?"

Jaxon went to the table and snagged a plate, fishing himself a few of the food items. “Damn, better be a raise. But. Oh uh! Hey, that's right. Oz was lookin' for you. Said to catch you if I saw you first."

That same spring of warmth came back. Hot and searing, engulfing. What?

“What? Oh, really? Why?" Anson mentally winced. He was your coworker, that's why.

Jaxon started to laugh. “Oh dude, think he was hoping to score a beer. He said you were bringin'. Aaaand looks like you did. Hell yes."

Oh, oh. Of course, Anson thought. Just beer.

“I'll bet he did," said Anson, playing along. “Where is he?"

Jaxon started munching from his plate, leaning to also snag a can of Longboat. He pointed past Anson now, towards a collection of trees in the distance, a bit past the crowds.

“Mff, jush down tmf way," answered Jax with a muzzle full of food.

“Lazy bum doesn't want to get it himself."

Again, Jaxon rumbled in doggish laughter, swallowing. “I know right? But yeah. Anyway, we'll have to catch up tonight if we get a chance. I gotta' get ready. See ya!"

As the dog left, Anson felt everything condense. Like his world became focused. A compartment that only needed a single inhabitant, one that was only a walk's distance away. Nothing made sense. But seeing Ozzie, everything might.

Anson scarfed up several cans of beer. He marched past everyone, determined. He ignored the obligations of the picnic, no matter the cost. This was more important.

-*-

The heat of the summer. Never was there a more agonizing bliss. Cheerful voices and playful conversations washed over calm fields of lush grass, freckled with rising flowers. Even though night wasn't here, the quiet chirp of frogs and crickets could be heard in the background. Warm, inviting. The kind of ambiance you form memories from, where you hold things so dear and close.

Anson was suffocating on how sublime it was. It was almost too perfect. Was this really happening?

The bunch of trees Jaxon pointed him towards swam up like quiet sentries, and there, flipping through phone, was his silhouette.

Caught in the sun, like some kind of handsome vignette. He wasn't in office clothes, and for the first time, Anson realized he never really saw Ozzie in a casual setting like this. Now, he got a glimpse, a more complete 'sense' of the hybrid's figure. Grey, dog-hyena hybrid, those same black spots found along his arms, and his tail was tipped with a smoky hue.

He was in a casual shirt tagged with a bunch of symbols he didn't recognize – probably related to music – clad in jeans. Slim, non-taxing figure with a delicate hint of muscle though pampered by layers of soft fur, no doubt. Ugh.

Ugh, Anson thought. Fuck, Ozzie. Fuck. Why do you have to be so. . .

“Oh, perfect!"

His words caught Anson before he knew what was what. The hound hybrid spotted him waltzing up, tail giving brisk wags, spying the arsenal of beer.

“You got em'!" said Ozzie with a strange new chorus of enthusiasm. Anson hoped it wasn't just for alcohol.

But dutifully, he played the part of pally coworker. He raised them up. “Yeah, I did, you lazy bum. Couldn't even get em' yourself, could you? Made Jax do your dirty work."

Dumb, toothy grin. Ozzie pushed off the tree, shoving phone in pocket, shrugging his shoulders. “Aww psh, that guy needed the exercise. Besides I was afraid I'd get all caught up in one of those company games. You kiddin'? I'm bushed."

Anson feigned a sigh. “Yeah, yeah." He tossed one of the cans.

“Got your favorite." In truth, Anson wasn't even sure if this was Oz's favorite, just the one he knew.

But, Ozzie caught it all the same, and Anson swore he saw the tail wag a bit harder.

“Oh damn, no foolin'. You remembered? Wow, I just kinda' said that. Well good, now everyone knows I have superior taste."

Anson felt relief. Pangs of enjoyment even ran through him when the yeendog cracked open the can and took a deep, satisfying swig.

“Mmf," he growled. “Damn good. Cold one on a summer day, nothin' better. C'mon, drink with me! It's no fun doing it alone."

Anson didn't hesitate. It's no fun doing a lot of things alone, he thought.

“Yeah, sure." He cracked open his own Longboat and set the others aside on Ozzie's laid out blanket.

“So you're really just over here avoiding everyone, huh? It's a company picnic, the whole point is to socialize with the company."

Truthfully, he didn't mind. He preferred it. But he also wanted to know.

Ozzie glanced out over the crowds and scoffed. “Psh, come on, you really want to hang out with all that? Office politics man! Just one bad step away from one of Zanny's boring speeches."

Anson took a sip. The harsh, bitter flavor caused him to shudder a bit. “Yeah, fair point."

“Too much gossip and stuff. We'll hear all about it on Monday, I promise."

Anson nodded. Plenty of reasons to just be here, then. He was sure Oz only wanted to avoid 'office politics' but, another part hoped for something else. There was only one way to find out.

I have to be honest. Goddammit, Ozzie.

Anson was about to take another sip, before the yeendog stopped him. “Oh uh, hang on! I think we're 'sposed to drink to something."

“We are?"

Ozzie scratched behind his ear, as though uncertain. “Yeah! Ain't that like, a human tradition?"

Well he was sort of right. Anson never considered it, so far removed from the usual aspects of “normal" society. Heck, when was the last time he was with a group of just people?

“Well, you're not wrong, heh." Anson paused, mulling it over. Then, raising the can. “To new things."

Not quite poetry, but it was enough. And honest.

Ozzie didn't seem to care, cracking his can against the other. “Hell yeah! I love new things!" he said, before taking a long, long gulp – enough that he drained the damn thing.

“Holy shit man," Anson said, taking a meager gulp.

Ozzie wagged his tail, flushing. But not from the alcohol. “I like human tradition."

Anson was glad he brought multiple drinks. “It does have its perks." Not to be outdone, he tried sipping more. It was hard, as the bitter, harsh aftertaste didn't go down easy.

“But, goddamn Oz. You practice drinking or what?"

The hybrid eyed another can, licking his chops. Like a pup chasing a bone, he snagged another. He was clearly proud of his drinking ability.

“Ehehe, kinda. My last workplace was like, 'ya gotta drink with the higher ups.' Mandatory. Company culture, like all that shit!" he said, pointing to the picnic gathering.

“Except all that shit doesn't have any booze. But yeah, anyway, guess after a while I got really good at holding my sauce. And then I'd get piss drunk seein' The Kelvins."

His next beer snapped open, and just as quick, he started on that one too. As for Anson, pictures of a wild, drunk Ozzie rolled through his head. Flustered and slack mouthed, tripping over his words, tearing off his shirt in protest to some nonexistent enemy. Ugh.

Anson drank more. He was gonna' need it.

“The who?"

Ozzie almost spat. “Hmmf!? What? Oh man, never heard em'? Ansoooon, maaaan!"

Instantly, the yeendog yanked at his shirt, showing it off. An elaborate contortion of imagery mixed with THE KELVINS proudly splayed out, giving Anson an eyeful.

“Been my favorite since I was a pup! Agh, I can't believe ya' don't know em! I can't tell you how many times I got smashed listening to em'."

Anson shrugged helplessly. “I don't usually listen to the radio." A chuckle.

“Strange beer and obscure music? You're such a hipster, Oz."

The hybrid gave a playful roll of the eyes. “Pfft. I dunno' why everyone says that."

Here, he rolled up the corner of his shirt, shoving his shoulder into Anson's view. “Cuz would a hipster do this?"

On his furred arm, the same elaborate imagery coiled in strange, interesting patterns, mixed with animal skulls and chains – a tattoo.

Anson gave it a once over, his eyes lingering. But not because of the ink. He smirked.

“Get a tat of their favorite band? Yeah, I'm pretty sure hipsters do that, Oz."

Ozzie made a face. “Blugh, whatever." He went to down on the next can, halving the thing in a few moments. Anson wasn't even through his first.

“Jeeze man, you're gonna get trashed and it's not even four."

The yeendog didn't say anything, just grinned. He planted himself on haunches, gesturing for Anson to sit next to him.

“Nah, I'll be fine. Takes the edge off!"

Well, Anson wasn't going to turn down the invitation. He got to be. . . closer.

Resting next to the hybrid, Ozzie was now so painfully close. The yeendog busied himself with more sits, his soft autumn eyes watching coworkers chatter and run. But Anson? His own gaze flicked over to his 'friend.' His friend that he wanted to be more than a friend.

The gentle gray fur, the dips and dives of muscle, the cute black nose, the wagging tail. Dammit.

He tried to gulp down the rest of his beer. It would be a long night.

-*-

Evening approaching, bringing with it fireflies and timid warmth. At this point, Ozzie had gone through several beers, though slowed down after his fourth. Despite that, he was still quite sober, if not a bit 'looser.'

Anson started to feel liquid courage run through him as well. This brewed images, ideas, words.

He had to be honest.

They talked a while, shooting the shit about all the typical subjects. Office drama, what they might do on weekends. Ozzie talked at length about The Kelvins, going over their discography in great detail. Anson couldn't follow much, but he was keen to listen anyway.

It wasn't until they were told fireworks would be lit that they finally started to move. The dim sun transitioned to calm night, and everyone gathered in crowds.

“Hell yeah," said Ozzie, a bit slurred. “Gonna' watch stuff blow up!"

He looked at Anson with an intense enthuse that he had never seen before. Like the yeendog couldn't survive without him. Anson felt his heart twitter.

“Come on, let's get a good spot!"

He wasn't about to turn down Oz's excitement, so dutifully, he followed along. They found a position amidst the field of grass with everyone else, where Mr. Zan and some of his assistants were starting to set up crates of poppers and color-snakes.

“I don't think I've ever seen Mr. Zan smile so much," said Anson, watching the plump tabby struggle with some of the mortars.

“Hah! It's the booze, I bet!" said Oz.

When everything was finished, Mr. Zan announced things would begin and asked for volunteers. Jaxon, oddly, threw himself up first, maybe looking for a bonus, while others did too. soon, they were prepping lighters and matches, finding spots to launch from.

“Do it!" someone yelled from the crowd.

“Yeah, yeah! Come on! Let's see some explosions!" another shouted.

And just like that, tails of colors in every hue sprang into the air. They screeched in pleasant cries and burst like flowers in the night sky, sparkling with ravenous energy. Anson flinched from the harsh crack each made, but was quickly drawn in by the festive light show.

But even through all that, he could hear him.

“Man. . ." started Ozzie. “I'm so glad you came."

Distracted by applause, cheers, and more plumes of light, Anson wasn't sure he understood.

“Huh?"

Ozzie was staring at the sky, but he was smiling.

“It's no fun when you're not around. This would've sucked without you, man."

“Oh." Anson wasn't sure what to say. “I. . ."

An enormous BOOM caught his attention, one of the bigger fireworks going off in tendrils of scarlet and gold.

But his own chest was beating. His blood was fire. Was he hearing that right? That couldn't be. No. Ozzie was just a little drunk, right? After all this time, all these feelings. All this confusion, and now the yeendog was saying this?

Please, Ozzie. Don't do this to me. I don't know if I'm ready.

He couldn't handle anything but the truth.

Anson kept his stare locked in the sky. But something warm snuck around his fingers. Pleasant, coaxing. Ozzie's hand.

He stopped breathing. He didn't move. The sensation continued. Fingers curled around his own digits, squeezing, until the entirety of the yeendog's hand held his own.

What did he do? What was he supposed to do?

Be honest.

So long. God, it had been a year since he'd first known Ozzie. And from that point, the sapling of his affection bloomed into something greater, until every day it became clearer and clearer: he had fallen for his coworker.

His heart burst. He squeezed back.

He wasn't sure what to do. Not yet. But they stood in silence, watching the fireworks go off, their hands tightly wound, squeezing.

Ozzie pushed himself closer, until their shoulders touched. Anson shuddered. He was so weak yet so strong. Enraptured, consumed. Where was this coming from? Did Ozzie feel the same way about him too?

“Anson. . ." Ozzie's voice was a low, demanding growl. He was looking straight the human, tail wagging, face flushed with scarlet.

“I really need you."

Anson's glaze fixated on his chimera coworker. Those wide, green eyes consumed him. His nose flared, sipping his human scent. Anson's loins twitched.

“Yeah, yeah." Anson nodded. “I want this."

But where? How? As if sensing the question, Ozzie let his eyes flick over the enamored crowd, who were plenty distracted by the fireworks.

“C'mon."

At once, Ozzie tugged Anson along. They were back at the tree, hidden by night, the only illumination flickers of fireflies and the crackle of distant colored explosions.

Once at the tree, the yeendog immediately spun and caught Anson with his arms, lean, strong arms slipping around him and drawing the human close for a kiss. Anson didn't hesitate, at all, meeting muzzle with his own lips, feeling whiskers tickle at him. His own hands slipped beneath Ozzie's shirt, caressing that soft, warm body, hungry to find every rise and fall of supple muscle.

“Goddamit Ozzie," he said. Finally. “Where the fuck is this coming from? Fuck. Fuck. I've wanted you for so long."

The hybrid explored on his own, nosing and nuzzling, shoving their loins together. Beneath the tight grasp of jeans and Anson's pants, his crotch hardened, as did Anson's length.

“Nnnf, I dunno man," said Oz between kisses. “Guess I wanted to pick a good time."

That damn, dumb, toothy grin. Anson grunted, his palms rolling over the hybrid's back, scratching and feeling the luxurious framework of Oz's back muscles. He was lithe, so perfect.

Muzzle pressed into nose, Ozzie breathing hard. “I was scared ya' wouldn't like me back."

Anson chuckled, dry and hoarse. A mix of bliss and relief washed over him. He held the spotted dog by the cheeks, pressing lips into him, harsh, wanting.

“Idiot," he said. “I've liked you so long it hurts."

Their waists were smashed together, hardening cocks fighting for freedom, pillars of desire looking for relief. At the response, Ozzie's tail wagged even harder, and he licked in response, like a dutiful hound.

“Aggh," groaned the yeendog. “Not fair. Aggh! C'mon man, c'mon, stop playin with me. I want ya'. I want you inside of me."

All at once, every lustful image Anson's head ever conjured of his coworker burst into life. Every desire to see and be with Ozzy morphed into reality, and now, his own form was shaking, hungry, desperate.

He had to take a cautionary glance back at the crowds. “What about them?"

Ozzie let his hand slip into Anson's pants, palm massaging and coaxing the stiffening mast.

“Who cares man, just fuck me!"

Ozzie tugged at Anson now, pulling him to the ground. He splayed out, lean frame spread enough for Anson to see, to get a glimpse of all that hybrid hound. Gray fur flashed with strange colors as fireworks played on his body, and his jeans did a poor job hiding bulbous, growing erection.

Anson didn't need any other reason to hesitate. All his infatuation and wants and needs came pouring out. He wanted Ozzie. He wanted Ozzie to be his boy, forever.

He crawled over Oz and let his hand lift up shirt, revealing his cute tummy and chest. Patches of thicker fur nestled on his abdomen, hinting at a trail of pubic fur, while Anson let his hands play and touch.

“God dammit you're adorable," Anson said through heated breaths. “Handsome bastard."

Oz grinned a bit weakly, whimpering from the attention. “You're a looker yourself. . ."

Fingers pinched at nips, then dove to loins, unbuttoning the hybrid's jeans. From there, his briefs held a noticeable bulge, thick shaft struggling underneath the fabric.

“Ah fuck man, don't make me wait," whined Ozzy. “Touch me!"

Anson grit his teeth, his own erection challenging the confines of his pants. But he couldn't just strip off, even with everyone distracted. He settled for what bare nudity they could have, pulling down Ozzy's briefs.

“Nnf, look at you," said Anson, a renewed sense of hunger taking over. Indeed, Oz's plump, dark mast sprang free and twitched in the air, dribbling with copious pre. Nectar streamed from the tip onto his fat, plump testes, like forbidden black fruit.

“Y-yeah? Like what you're seein'?"

The yeendog gripped his companion on the shoulder, while other hand gripped blanket, moaning as Anson's palm started rubbing against the frustrated inches. A radiance of warmth filled Anson's hand as he gripped it gently, starting to stroke, the pre making each rise of hand nice and slippery. He could see Ozzie pant, tail wagging.

“Sure am. Damn, you're a big one."

Anson fumbled and played with the fat thing, forming a ring and stroking it from its base to its tip. Each motion made it pulse, wobble in his hands, pulling eager, wanting moans from the yeendog. Hell, Ozzie even bucked his hips a little, arching his head.

A gentle musk drifted from the hybrid as well, natural scent mixed with a pepper of cologne. It was intoxicating, a lovely ambrosia, no doubt made stronger by the yeendog's arousal.

Like a toy, Anson knelt so he could start playing with the rest of Ozzie's meat, beginning to massage and caress the supple, fat nuts in hand. His finger roamed over the soft testes, petting through a dance of pubic fur caught between the precious orbs, then opening hand to carefully squeeze and pull at them. He'd toss them in hand, exploring every bit of the cock and balls, fondling the dimensions of it, learning, exploring.

“A-ah fuck man, fuck. Anson. Don't keep messin' with me so much, nff, I still want you to fuck me!"

Anson grunted. “Damn you're needy." But so was he.

How could he not be? Another crack of fireworks exploded beyond them, coupled with cheers and happy yells, as if in encouragement. Summer heat fell over them, and all Anson knew is he wanted Ozzie to be his.

Quickly, he straddled out of pants, pulling them off as his own cock was able to spring free, tipped with dew of pre. The spotted dog noticeably writhed at the sight, excited.

Ozzie yanked down the rest of his pants, at least most of it, where underwear and jeans hugged his ankles. One of his paws reached out to nuzzle the tip of Anson's shaft with finger, panting.

“Nnnfuck, you've got a nice cock. Ggh. Hang on. Just. . . put it. . ."

Anson blushed. Hearing the eye of his affection compliment him made his heart sing. “It's all for you."

The yeendog started to shift, sitting up. “Stand up man, I wanna' suck it before you stick it in, heh. . ."

Without question, Anson stood, blood turning to liquid magma. The thought of this finally happening started to push his wants into overdrive.

“Ggh, Ozzie. Please do it," he said, his cock harder than it had ever been in his life. “Lick me, please. . ."

They hybrid had no desire to reject Anson's wishes, so with a nod and a tail wag, his muzzle nosed the crown, sniffing, before letting long flat tongue lap at the edge.

“Ahn!"

Quite briskly, the slobbery dog mouth did its work, draping pink rug along Anson's balls with slow, lapping motions, tasting the fruit of human male. He felt Anson's hand fall onto head, gripping tufts of fur while the hybrid dog nuzzled the nuts, bringing his nose to tip.

“Nnn, just wanna' get you ready. Like this? Like me lickin' that big dick, Anson? Heh."

Anson watched as his shaft disappeared into the awaiting maw. A lewd chorus of sloppy suckling noises quickly followed, emitted as canid lips snug around the inches with tight passion, drawing a sordid song of groans from Anson.

“Handsome little bastard," he muttered, falling apart to desire. “Goddammit Ozzie, you're so good to me!"

Ozzie's tail wagged even harder from the gentle comment, looking up with servile eyes as he utterly drenched the meat with his soft maw. Lips were tight, dragging across the inches, noses bumping into the threshold of Anson's cock, letting the inches dive deep into the yeendog's throat.

“Mmmfs." Eventually, he popped free, Ozzie's chin dribbling with little rivers of saliva and pre. “Nn, humans taste good. Must've been all that beer." He winked.

Remembering what he truly wanted, however, the spotted dog pulled back. “All right, I got ya' warmed up, now get the fuck inside me."

Anson wanted it too, more than he ever realized. But he also wanted Ozzie. Not just his body, him. His eyes, his smile, his laughter. He wanted to share himself with the yeendog, not just use him like a little hole.

“Yeah, just, I wanna. . ."

Anson, again, looked back to the distant crowds. Deciding they were still safe, he positioned himself so he sat on the blanket, taking Ozzie by the paw.

Blushing heavily, the dog nodded. “Oh. Nyeah, I get ya' man. You want a rough rider, heh?"

Anson scoffed. “I want you, idiot."

His partner gave him that dumb, toothy grin. At once, the yeendog hopped into his lap, the supple curve of his rump grinding against cock. The hound's own black shaft pressed against Anson's stomach, while arms wrapped around each other. Anson gripped the male's hips, feeling him start to rise and push that cute pucker against his crown.

Then, the black ring found itself pulled wide, snug around the tip, nice and hot. It easier, Anson's flank so slippery with saliva and pre. In seconds, Ozzie sank on the hot flesh, whimpering with a loud yelp as he took all of Anson into his hot boy tunnel.

“G-god, Ozzie," said Anson, burying his mouth into the hound's neck, kissing, biting.

Ozzie met this with a playful bounce, his ring diving on the human cock with slick, piston grinds, own cock trembling between the smooshed pairing.

“Yyyesssss!" the hound hissed, bounding his hips against the shaft. He threw his arms around his human, pucker massaging the inches down to the threshold, every motion causing balls to slap into his taint.

Anson had to respond, though not with words. He didn't know if he was even capable of that anymore. Instead, he substituted with forceful, hungry rutting. He'd toss his hips upward, pounding cock into that sweet little doghole, yanking a whole opera of loud moans and whimpers.

They'd kiss between motions, tasting each other, exploring, letting tongues dance and play. Anson let his palms roam to his boy's haunches, squeezing and tugging at the soft buttocks, his imagination wild with how it must look.

Heat and sordid desire had no room for patience. The sticky, summer ambrosia covered them both.

“Ohfuck, Anson, fuckfuck!"

Before the human knew it, he felt a searing trail of sticky heat pour into his stomach.

“Don't stop, don't stop!" whined Ozzie, practically howling as the human did his best to rut into tight black pucker.

I made him cum? Fuck, Ozzie, fuck, you beautiful, handsome bastard.

In a swift motion of dominance, Anson rolled his partner to his back, lifting his legs, and fucked with brutal efficiency. Ozzie gripped the blanket for dear life as Anson threw his hips in swift, bucking slams, hard enough to cause the hound's nuts to bounce.

“Nnnnnaggghh!"

But like the dog, Anson wasn't so resilient he could hold himself back. He poured himself into his partner. All that yearning, all that affection. All those months of confusion, of wanting. Finally. Now it made sense. Now he could share himself.

Now he could love.

Hot, silky streams of white flooded into the tight little pucker, Anson shoving himself as deep as he could into the male. He didn't have a knot to tie the dog with, so this would do. But unknown to him, Ozzie liked the difference in species.

Gently, Ozzie snagged the human and pulled him in for a kiss, holding him tight as Anson bucked through his peak.

Fireworks. Cheering. Groans. Hot as a summer midnight.

Heaving breaths followed. But the bodies did not leave. There was some laughter, chuckling. Relief.

Anson pulled out, Ozzie's hole pouring trails of cum. The two lied next to each other, watching nothing in particular. The stars, the fireworks, didn't matter. They were drunk on afterglow.

“Oz," Anson said. He was met with cheerful nuzzles, kisses, licks on his shoulder.

“Uh huh?"

“I think I'm falling in love with you."

The yeendog smiled. But it wasn't a silly, toothy grin. It was sweet.

“Yeah. Gettin' that vibe myself."

Anson didn't want to move, but noticed most of the fireworks had begun to fizzle out.

“We might want to clean up."

A chuckle. “We can at my place," said Ozzie.

There was a pregnant pause. Anson chanced an idea.

“Make us breakfast."

That drew a long, rumbling laugh. “I ain't much of a cook. But all right. Burnt hash browns it is."

Their hands clenched together.

Anson closed his eyes, in disbelief. All those knots and twists from before unraveled. Nothing felt wrong or out of place or alien. Now he had someone. Now he had Ozzie. Everything made sense.