You Get One
Story by The Brain of Lazarus on SoFurry
Anson and Ozzie's journey begins to shift. Life is good, but also fragile. Lessons are learned and plans are made.
Sorry for the long wait between 12 and this one, I've had to focus on work/commissions. Hope you enjoy.
You Get One
By Laz Briar
It's a rush. It happens fast. You don't even process it – you're walking one moment and the next a spike of pain erupts through your arm. You were vertical, now you're flat. Everything was fine – just a routine day, just a normal one, like any other, and now?
Anson's arm went a direction it wasn't quite supposed to. His footing lost, he tripped, and fell hard. An abrupt and startling reminder at how fragile one could be, even in their routine. Papers all over the floor now, surrounding the pitiful crumpled mass of yelping human. His coworkers, of course, were quick to rush over and see what all the screeching fuss was about.
"Ifuckingbrokemyarm," Anson hissed, answering a question not asked.
A hundred thoughts ran through him in the span of seconds. How'd this happen, who do I sue, this hurts, how do I make it stop, who can make it stop, where's Ozzie, someone tell Ozzie, someone get Ozzie, and so on.
He managed to open his eyes a few times, looking at the forest of worried silhouettes looming over him. His chimera coworkers – anthropoid animal hybrids – were concerned in their own kind of way. Tall ears, nervous tail wags, flared feathers, that sort of thing.
“Don't move, okay?" one said in gentle reassurance. No fucking shit, thought Anson.
“Someone call an ambulance, please!" another said.
For a broken arm? He wasn't a child. He didn't need to be doted on like this, he could take care of himself, he was a grown man. He was a human. He attempted to move, only to receive a stern reminder of the gnawing agony driving through his right side. Well, fine, so he needed help.
“It's fine," Anson managed through hot breaths and curses. “I just need a lift."
“Get my friend," he said. “Ozzie. Get Ozzie."
Did they know? About he and “Mr. Ryot?" That they were an item? Probably. Business formality, however, dictated that type of thing be kept. . . subtle. It was probably as plain as day though. Wasn't like Ozzie's scent didn't coat Anson's clothes.
“Who?" someone said.
“Uh, I think he means the guy in sales? Ryot?"
Just stop fucking talking and go get him, Anson thought. He didn't mean it that way, but pain had a habit of making someone a little angry. Yes, that guy in sales. Go get my fucking boyfriend.
Someone did, eventually. Or, so Anson assumed, hearing the shift of footsteps. It was hard to know through his own incessant groans. Goddammit. This wasn't supposed to happen, not to him. Why him?
-*-
“He what?"
Ozzie didn't understand. Someone got it wrong, all backwards. What? It was Tuesday – he had just gotten off call after a sale, what was it, some guy up northeast. It was routine, and usual, an hour from lunch. No, he wasn't hearing this right.
“I dunno' man, he said to get you. Broke his arm after a fall, didn't want us to call an ambulance."
Ozzie wanted to punch him, this fucker. This helpful fucker. This unfeeling mass of shapes, this plain tabby cat from Inventory Management delivering him bad news. How dare he deliver bad news. How dare he tell him this! And how dare he not be as upset! Didn't he understand!? His boyfriend was hurt!
His boyfriend was hurt?
Ozzie rubbed his head. His blood surged and every chimera instinct he had tore into overdrive. The hyena genes whipped him into an aggressive haze, the dog helix sent protective urges into his brain and his feelings were cranked to eleven. Because whatever the fallout, whatever the result, apparently, apparently, Anson was injured.
It couldn't be. But it was. Anson. Fell. Arm. Broke.
His ears were flat. Eyes dilated. With every bit of calm, he managed an “okay."
The rest went by in a blur. Ozzie processed nothing else. He got to the floor on reporting, saw his man on the ground and got everyone the fuck out of the way. Nothing mattered. He couldn't focus on anything else. Anson's groans of genuine pain were. . . unbearable. It was the most agonizing sound he ever heard and he'd do anything to make it fucking stop.
Next the car ride, and it was there Ozzie wished he had the ability to plow every through every fucking object in front of him. Every red light was another thirty seconds of hearing Anson buckled over. Every pedestrian was a footstep keeping his man from getting help. His car wasn't fast enough, the roads were too long, the world was in the way.
God. Hudson Medical swung into view a century later. He almost missed it, gaze going from road to Anson every other second, thinking his staring might somehow alleviate the pain. It didn't, but what else could he do? Fucking hell, part of him just wanted to start licking like that might help. He hated this. The lack of control, his inability to do anything meaningful aside from spare each other the cost of an ambulance ride.
Park. Just park. Shut up and park. Get him inside.
Spot. Found. Anson. Out. ER. In.
“Easy, okay, easy," he would say to Anson, right at his side, gazing at the fractured limb like it were a malignant growth. Anson could move fine, at least, though he still had to pause and take a breath. God only knew how it felt right now.
Through automatic doors. If there was one benefit to breaking your arm a Tuesday before noon, it's that the ER was relatively empty. Well, for an ER. There were still plenty waiting, but nothing like the chaos you'd expect to see. So, Ozzie checked Anson in, explained the condition, while a kindly Labrador nurse looked him over.
“Is the wait gonna' be long?" Ozzie asked while the practitioner took Anson's vitals.
A quick shake of the head. “Oh no, no sir. Human priority care."
Ozzie blinked. He never heard of that. As if sensing the misunderstanding, the nurse went on.
“Means we'll get him in x-ray in a few here, and a room, depending on the problem. Sir, you had your HD checkup for the year?"
Anson winced, and Ozzie didn't like that. Shut the fuck up and leave him alone. An irrational thought, but anything causing his man any level of discomfort was unwelcome.
A head shake. “No, not for this one," said Anson.
Ozzie didn't even know what that was. HD check?
A slow head nod. “Okay. Might as well get that too." The nurse took out a plastic board, scribbled in a few notes, and gave a polite smile.
“Give me a sec, all right? We'll set you in a temp room and see about the checkup. Painkillers comin' soon, champ. Just hang tight."
Ozzie nodded, watching the chimera vanish. He didn't understand, and it caused blossoms of anxiety to form in his chest. Checkup. For what? HD, he said? What the fuck was that? And, what if they found something else? And why couldn't they just load him full of painkillers now?
He chewed on his manicured nails, tail thumping against chair with feverish haste. They were behind the reception area, a temporary space where emergency patients had their vitals taken, condition assessed, and paperwork filled out. From there, if necessary, a patient would go to a treatment room and, beyond that, receive their own room. Sounded like it was the full deal for Anson. Ozzie hated it. How'd this fucking happen? How'd the day go from mundane normalcy to ending up in the goddamn hospital?
He put his hand on Anson's shoulder, supplying squeezes and rubs.
“How is it?" he asked. A dumb goddamn question, it probably hurt like all fucking hell.
Anson barely spoke, every word wracked by hard breaths. “Okay if I keep it still," he managed.
Ozzie wanted to say a million things, as if it might make this problem go away. But it wouldn't. And he knew a conversation couldn't help. So, he got to sit there, hearing his man groan in pain, powerless, at the mercy of mechanisms well outside his control.
A handful of minutes later, the lab returned. He held another clipboard and gestured to the couple.
“Okay, sir, we're gonna have you come with us."
He looked at Ozzie. “Can you fill in details for him?" A tap to the clipboard.
Ozzie bristled. “I'm coming with you."
The nurse nodded. “Yes sir. Though we figure your friend might have some trouble writing things down."
A cool chuckle. Ozzie relaxed. Suppose after you help a few thousand people screaming and crying you form a sense of humor.
The Labrador led them to a temp room and got Anson situated. It was tiny and uncomfortable with a shitty monitor hung in the corner, blaring out a low-quality feed of basic cable shows. Anson was told to lie back while a different nurse came by to 'attend' to him, which meant an IV feed going in one arm for the pain. Then came the x-rays, where Ozzie was left to scribble down Anson's various patient details. Most were in regards to the current visit, but it still had to be done.
Not long after, Anson was already in a cast with a room set up for the night. God. How much time had passed? It was agony – a simultaneous fissure of tedious slow-down and rapid pace. He hardly remembered handing the nurse Anson's details, or following along as Anson – in bed – was wheeled to his own hospital room. He didn't even remember sitting down.
6:44 PM. Fucking hell.
Ozzie was in another chair, gaze cast over his man who reclined in relative comfort, hospital bed propping him up with an indifferent wire snaking into his exposed arm. The chittering groan of the IV painkillers snickered at the air while the room was washed in dull ambient light. Every now and again the brief scuttling of another nurse or bed was heard, though things were oddly quiet. Anson – thank fuck – had stopped groaning, and it meant he wasn't hurting.
“Anson?" Ozzie chanced.
Anson glanced over. “Well. This happened."
Ozzie managed a smile. “Sure fucking did. How are you now? The drugs help?"
“They never fail to."
Ozzie had gotten high more times than he could count, but he didn't know what hospital drugs were like. Better, he hoped.
“Can't move this guy now, though," continued Anson, raising his left arm which was now encased in hard gauze-mold.
“Didn't get the jackoff hand though."
Ozzie snickered. Okay, well at least he still had his humor.
“You don't need that," said Ozzie, tossing a sultry look.
Now Anson smirked. “I didn't mean for me."
Snicker to chuckle. “Wow. Even with a fracture you're ready to go. What a trooper."
It had to be the drugs.
Ozzie took in a breath. Well, at least the worst part was over. Or, so he wondered. There was still the other matter – the uncertainty about 'HE.' Anson was supposed to get a checkup for this? Why didn't he mention it before?
He decided not to slam right into it for Anson's sake. Rather, offer an avenue to answer.
“So, they're stealing you from me for the night, huh?"
Anson gave a slow nod.
“Don't see why. You already got the cast on."
“I know. But it's worth getting my exams done, takes the hassle out of things," said Anson.
Ozzie's ears rose. “Exam? For what, now?"
Anson looked at the wall, back to another monitor which was showing a ballgame, muted. “Oh, HE. You know. Human's Disease."
Ozzie leaned. No, no he did not know. Human's Disease?
“What? What is that?"
Here, Anson shot him a surprised look. “You've never heard of that? Huh."
Was Ozzie dumb for missing something there? Was there a common denominator he never learned about?
Anson leaned back into his bed, as though this were of little significance.
“It's a chronic disease every human has to get checked for. Been around since the 60's, you know that."
Ozzie felt like a whole different world fell on his shoulders. “Uh, might have skipped that history lesson."
“Is this serious?" he added, heart sinking. This sounded serious. 'Chronic disease' and 'every human' was the last thing he wanted to hear regarding his boyfriend.
With an almost casual, efficient bluntness, Anson nodded. “I mean, yeah. Very. It's why we have chimera."
Was it the drugs? Maybe it was the drugs. This didn't sound real.
“What?" Ozzie said.
Anson gestured to the air. “Ozzie, honey, look it up. It's just basic history."
Ozzie flushed. Was he dumb for not knowing this? He wanted to press Anson more, but seeing as how most of him was hopped on chemical feel-good, he did a search with his phone. Human's Disease brought up a forest of results, including an overview of it. Every word was terrifying.
“Human's Disease is a chronic immunosuppressant disorder affecting humans from ages 10 and older. Its symptoms and severity vary based on different patient factors. Routine medical diagnosis is required to establish an effective treatment plan."
Ozzie wish he never read that. The rest, as Anson said, was 'just basic history.'
“In 1962, global medical leaders established an unprecedented, widespread collapse in human international populations with one concurrent theme: total loss of immune system functionality. Quickly referred to as HD, Human's Disease, or Human Extinction Disease, this breakdown of standard human biology developed rapidly and affected more than seventy-two percent of the world's populous.
Dr. Henerken of the Global Disease Research Facility proposed it was an unnatural failure of human biology that, if not properly addressed, threatened to cause mass death and infant mortality on an extinction level scale. He asserted humans would face total population loss in half-a-century without a cure."
Ozzie blinked. This. . . couldn't be real? He looked between his tiny screen and Anson. And then it all sort of clicked. How many humans did Ozzie know, aside from Anson? Less than ten, easily. Sometimes yes he saw scattered pockets of them around Dogtown or at grocery, the usual. But for the most part, it was chimera. And he always assumed – since he was a pup – that was just how it was.
But this only developed a foundation for a surge of fear.
“Anson," he said, voice cracking. “Are you. . . is this? Are you dying?"
Anson shrugged, like it was a casual question. “Mm? Oh, well, not that I know of. I mean, I don't have any of the extreme symptoms. Once you hit the 'magic thirty' you're considered to be in the clear."
That didn't exactly relieve Ozzie.
“So you could be dying."
“Dying yes. From HD, I doubt it."
Ozzie started to whine. “Well how can you be sure?"
Anson's eyes closed, drawing in a tired sigh. “That's why we get the checks."
Fucking fuck, thought Ozzie. A boulder of horrible reality fell on his shoulders. Good god. How was he here? How was this all happening?
Anson sensed the fear. “Ozzie. Ozzie. It's okay." He turned to the yeendog, gray fur looking a shade paler.
“It's not as bad as it used to be. Yes, it was absolutely devastating and yes, there are absolutely less humans around today. But treatment is pretty effective and most live normal lives. I don't even have patching."
Anson held up his IV-infested hand.
“Usually you start to see blotches of discolored skin if it's a severe onset. But honestly, it's more an aggravation these days than anything."
Ozzie held his phone with both hands, looking from it and Anson. He couldn't calm down.
“Why have you never told me about this?"
He saw Anson close his eyes. God, no, not back to this. Not back to the secrets thing. He was tired of surprises – tired of mysterious old flames and situations with family. They went to Gathering together. He wanted things to start right again. No more surprises.
“I had planned to when it was time to get an appointment. Just doesn't come up, I guess. Didn't think it serious."
Ozzie coughed. “It sounds pretty goddamn serious."
Anson looked at his boy again. “Don't be scared."
“Fuck you. Your arm is broken."
Anson laughed. “It's okay, really. Not my arm, but the other thing. I don't remember the last time I read about a serious problem with HE in years. It's not really scary anymore. Just. . . sad."
Ozzie wanted to throw up and scream and hug Anson and yell and kiss him and. . . goddamn, it was too much. But maybe it was just the dog in him, like he was chasing a ball, except the ball was life or death.
“I guess I didn't bring it up cause' I thought you knew. And it's a little depressing."
Now Ozzie sighed. This wasn't the time for his own antics. He couldn't be cross with Anson, not really. Just worried. Very, very worried.
“I guess," said Ozzie. “Sorry."
“It's okay."
Ozzie shook his head. “It's clearly not, from what I just read."
Anson managed a smile. “No, I think it is. Like I said, it's why we have chimera. We formed a solution, you know? I don't really think we're on the way back. Uh. Humans, I mean. But hey, it's been worse, right?"
Ozzie felt a fool. Everything about this was so new.
“I don't know what that means."
Anson frowned. “About what?"
“You said 'why we have chimera.'"
This, too, hit Anson with a jolt of surprise. “You weren't kidding about skipping class. Or maybe it doesn't come up?"
Anson yawned. The drugs and day were starting to take their toll.
“I've never heard anything on it," said Ozzie. “I guess I never thought about it."
“Oh. Well. How do you beat a disease affecting your species? You make a new one. That was the idea. And when every single person in the world is at stake, science kind of gets its ass in gear. Or so it goes. Can't kill humans if they're hybrids, you know?"
An existential reality clobbered Ozzie.
“What, so? I'm. . . some kind of weird tube child?"
Anson laughed. “Hah, honey, no. Of course not. You're a person, as real as me. As real as anyone else. Just came into the world a little differently."
“I'm really surprised this never came up in school or history or anything for you. Then again it's been eighty years, I guess it's not that big a deal anymore."
Ozzie sunk into his chair, nose to the air, rubbing his eyes. “Ugh, god, enough. That's too much shit for today."
“Sorry hon."
Ozzie grumbled. “You should be, you big jerk. Breaking your arm, making me worry. Who taught you how to walk?"
Anson snickered. “Bet it was the shoes you bought me."
“Don't blame my fashion sense for your goof."
Anson smiled, but went quiet, eyes closing. His breathing steadied and it was clear fatigue started to set it. Ozzie didn't blame him. The whole affair taxed them both; a brutal five hours of medical chaos. But, despite the evening drifting in, the yeendog didn't want to go anywhere. Despite the protest of his rumbling stomach or the lack of anything to do, leaving Anson this way seemed so wrong.
By the time another nurse arrived, though, he didn't have much choice. Visitation was almost up and they needed to start their procedure, whatever it entailed.
“Go home for now, okay?" Anson would say as the nurse re-checked his vitals. “Just call me in the morning."
Ozzie sighed. “All right." He pushed his muzzle into Anson for a quick kiss, traded a 'love you,' and left. It was hard though. His legs felt like hard cement and he couldn't stop himself from glancing behind him, like Anson might just appear as if things were all better. There was so much to process and the man who typically did it for him wasn't here right now. Fuck.
The checkout office gave him a rundown afterward, explained Anson was ready for pickup come the next day. When Ozzie inquired about the procedure, they said it was nothing serious and required bloodwork. Unless something showed up in the lab results a bit later, it was a formality.
But this didn't abate Ozzie. It didn't settle his nerves when he got in his car, didn't stop the quivering in his tail, nor halt the rambunctious thoughts rampaging through him. Formality. Normal. Usual. These phrases and expressions felt so off. So mundane and matter-of-fact regarding, apparently, was a global tragedy. He couldn't' get his head around it, not in the slightest.
Ozzie didn't look at Anson as anything other than his boyfriend. A person, just like him. And yet, now? The image of his man, that stern visage of control, thoughtfulness, and caution fractured. It was fragile. Mortality paid them both a visit and promptly reminded Ozzie how it could take what it wanted, whenever it wanted. A snapped arm today. Tomorrow? Who knows. Heart failure, lung cancer, brain tumor. Rare parasite? Anything.
Red light. Brakes. Honking car. Ozzie shivered again. Stop. He had to stop. He was getting ahead of himself. Conjuring dozens of “what if scenarios" wasn't doing him any favors – he knew nothing about this. Least of all this disease.
He got home, but he didn't leave his car when he parked. Just sat. God, was he really that stupid? He felt so ignorant. It never once dawned on him the lack of humans was more than just a coincidence. He knew it was there, but never thought about the why.
The implications were well beyond him. How would he feel, waking up one day, looking at his own species and knowing their extinction was around the corner? How does one accept the end so easily?
These were philosophical inquiries, one a rowdy yeendog like him was not ready for. That was Anson's thing. Ozzie preferred the fucking part, the style part, the vicious feeling of vitality and love part.
Eventually, he clicked off his car and went inside. He wasn't good at processing things without Anson, so he called his plug, got a bunch of Longboats and spent the evening getting high off his ass. But even this couldn't shield him from the miasma of reality.
Under the blanket of night, he lie in bed, thinking. About today, Anson, all of it. What he knew and what he – apparently – didn't know. He wanted to keep Anson forever, but in the face of all this, that concept shuddered. Brittle, like a leaf clinging onto a thin autumn branch. Hell, they didn't even live together. Ozzie didn't want that, because he wanted Anson, all the time.
One year together was a lifetime, for him, so how many more of those were left? Until his mane was black and his tail couldn't wag anymore, he hoped. No. He demanded. But even for all their commitment, even for all the hurdles and triumphs the couple experienced, something was missing. But what?
Ozzie closed his eyes. His thoughts shifted to his parents. Anson and he visited them last December, along with extended family and friends of the Ryots. Though Ozzie protested, his boyfriend was right – it was nice seeing everyone. Even with the absence of Ronnie. But why? Because it was home.
Home.
Ozzie turned to his side. The absence of his boyfriend's shape made him queasy. And so did his bedroom. No, not his bedroom. This place was alien now, a temporary space. It didn't belong to him, because it didn't belong to them. A slow blink, quieting the rage of the day. Tomorrow was uncertain, lacking permanence and clarity.
-*-
No sign of the morning, but Ozzie woke up regardless.
The sun had yet to break the dawn, and Ozzie found himself on the couch, phone in hand, cycling for any missed messages - nothing. He had to pick up Anson in a few hours, and despite the excess of time, he couldn't settle down. The anxiety of not knowing his boyfriend's condition ate at him. But it was something else, too.
For a while, he and Anson settled into a comfortable back and forth. Their lives together had gone from explosive, inventive, and uncertain to routine, steady, confident. Not in the sense Ozzie was bored of Anson, not ever, only in that, he felt Anson was a permanent fixture in his days. Anson was an expectation, not the exception. Anson was no longer “I'm not sure if this will work out after the third date," and more “what does my man want for dinner tonight?"
But all this cracked – quite literally – thanks to yesterday. When Ozzie looked around his apartment, it felt distant and strange, like it could vanish in the blink of an eye. And maybe it could. But worst of all, it was a shadow of the old Ozzie. This was a world he built on his own, when a boyfriend felt like a few weeks of flirting texts and lucid nights, where losing himself in the haze of substances was normal, where he wasn't thinking beyond the next few hours.
He sunk into his couch, checking the time. He had a while.
Stirring in the pot of himself, an idea clicked into place. A home. A place together. A new foundation. That was the missing piece. It wasn't too soon. How could it be? Who wrote the rules on that? Bullshit McGee? Ozzie certainly wanted this, more than he realized.
He could see it, a visceral reality bubbling into his mind. A nice quiet place, farther away downtown, maybe closer to the coast. They had a backyard, yeah? Yeah. Anson was making something – he was good with cooking. On a grill. And Ozzie, swimming. Swimming? Sure, fuck, why not, a pool. Maybe not as luxurious as the Sandersons down the way, but it would do. Not like he cared, not in this vision. He'd swim naked, be the neighborhood gossip. Ah, what would ol Miss Kenta think? She was a prude.
Ozzie blinked. What a strange vision. But a vision he lusted for, complete and fixed. Maybe their home wasn't quite as elaborate as his fantasy, but it was something, right?
Was Anson ready, though? It was hard to tell with his boyfriend, sometimes. Anson was a creature of reservations, careful in his approach to. . . anything. Maybe living together was too big a step. Or a step not far enough.
He didn't know. But he put the thought aside for now. Instead, he buried himself in his phone, a new hunger possessing him. New places. New complexes suitable for a couple.
-*-
“Are you okay with meeting a consultant, Mr. Hillwick?"
The Labrador nurse didn't glance at him as he pecked down a few notes into his module. Anson, fresh off some painkillers, didn't understand.
“Consultant? What for?"
The nursed turned. “Oh, well when we get human patients we have consultants drop by to check in. They have brochures for people, offer guidance counseling, that type of thing."
Anson shifted, uncertain.
“Why? I mean, I'm okay right?"
A reassuring smile. “Oh you're in the clear, Mr. Hillwick, no worries. But I'm told seeing a consultant is very. . . spiritual? They get you involved with support groups, communities, help forums."
Anson didn't know. But he wasn't opposed to it. Certainly, he couldn't remember the last time he was with a group of just humans. It was a rare occurrence, the more he reflected on it.
A shrug. “Sure."
With a nod, the nurse tapped in a few more details via module. Anson's HD testing went well, so far as he knew, with nothing out of the ordinary. The “magic 30" drew every closer and everything was looking good. Save for the broken arm.
Afterward, the nurse processed arrangements for Anson's pickup while fetching the advisor. Soon after, a small man entered the room, of fair skin complexion, perhaps eastern, with tiny glasses and a balding frame. He wore a kind expression and dressed well, various papers in hand.
He spoke calmly, asking Anson about himself and how things were.
“Good enough, aside from, you know." Anson wobbled his casted arm. A chuckle from the consultant.
Anson continued to discuss his life, at least in moderate detail. He mentioned his boyfriend, visiting the extended family, but nothing too invasive.
“And yours?" asked the consultant.
An indifferent shrug. “Not speaking, haven't been for years."
The consultant nodded, but didn't pursue.
After Anson finished discussing a few pleasantries, the old man tapped the profile of papers he held.
“It's good to know you're meeting goals. Fulfillment is important on this path. We only get one."
He picked through some of the brochures and pulled one free.
“It's also easy to forget ourselves in all 'this," he said, gesturing around him. “We don't think of our identity much, or who we are, where we're going. How can we? Some accept the end too soon. I think, then, it's important to see each other, to commune with our fellow man, to remember."
Anson took the brochure, only half-hearing the words. Most of it sounded like vague spiritual platitudes which didn't do a lot for him. Though, the consultant wasn't entirely wrong. Community was important.
“True," Anson offered lamely.
“If you'd like, you can see one of the groups there. You're not alone. It's easy to feel that way with the reality of our situation. Easy to get disconnected."
Anson looked at the brochure given, a yellow pamphlet with smiling people at the front. Inside, it gave a variety of details and addresses for groups, communities, and gatherings. Some were religious in nature, others just projects done with other humans. At first, Anson didn't think much of it. Why would he need something like this?
But a small thought crept into his head: before Ozzie, exactly how many people did Anson know? How many humans did Anson know?
He couldn't name any. Not beyond the partitions of his old life. People from private school, people in his family. But they hadn't existed in his world for a long, long time.
“I'm glad you'll be okay," continued the consultant. “But you know, if you're ever feeling out of place. If you just need someone to talk to, there are plenty of us out there. And, I can tell you, they love talking with new faces. We all do."
Anson nodded, flipping through more of the brochure. His cast, at least, allowed him use of his digits.
“Okay," he conceded. “I think I will."
And he meant it. He didn't know when. Or where, with who. Didn't know the details or plans – there was enough on his plate already. But the old man was right – speaking with his own kind was important. It would put a face to the reality some of his species faced.
They spoke for a while longer – Anson asked about what the consultant did. Karim, his name was, started as a spiritual guru and did talks with those facing fatal outcomes of Human's Disease. Then he joined various human based communities to foster a sense of kinship. It was – he admitted – about helping people along their path to death. A morbid, unfortunate road for some, even with all the advancements made against HD.
“Knowing they aren't alone in their final years, it helps them," Karim said. Anson agreed. He was lucky it was something he didn't have to wonder about.
Eventually, Karim thanked Anson for his time and left, leaving him to ponder. Something to consider for the future. Now, though, he was enthusiastic to get home. His boyfriend was coming to get him and that was the only comfort he needed.
He blinked. Oh god, Ozzie. It only now dawned on him the literal fuckload of things he'd said the previous day, about himself and his species and what it meant. And chimera. Which apparently, Ozzie didn't know about – their reason for existing. It wasn't exactly some dreadful secret, but it certainly was a lot to drop on his 'yena. There was enough stress and Anson felt twinges of guilt: he added to it. He was going to have to make it up to his boy.
He moved, sitting up. It was already hard getting used to the cast entombing his left arm. X-rays should it was a severe fracture, close to the wrist, so he'd have it on for a good while. Things were needlessly difficult now, and by proximity, it was a burden offloaded to Ozzie. Dammit. This wasn't supposed to happen to him. He was the responsible one, right?
A powerless agony started to roll through him. Not just from the arm, about a lot of things. In silence, waiting for his boyfriend, he started to contemplate how much was so far out of his control. With his arm, his kind, how things were spontaneous, unfair. Unreasonable. Goddammit. If he could break himself going to work, what else might happen?
He shuddered, pushing the ideas aside.
-*-
A gentle caress pulled him out of sleep.
Anson blinked, waking, a silhouette coalescing over him. A smiling muzzle, gray fur, frosted mane, green eyes, lithe frame. Was he dead? An angel was watching him.
“Hey baby," said the divine being, voice soft and soothing. “Sleepy?"
Anson yawned. No, not dead. The clicks to his IV indicated he was still in hospital, though rest took him again. And the angel? Ah, his Ozzie. Well, same thing.
“Hey," Anson said, groggy. “Time to go?"
Ozzie beamed. To the yeendog's side, a nurse appeared, beginning to unhook and disentangle the feed of IV. Soon after, they explained Anson would probably want a prescription as the hospital painkillers would wear off soon. Ozzie nodded.
Afterward, Ozzie went to fetch his car to the front while Anson – to his slight embarrassment – was wheeled to the front. He preferred to walk, but the nurse explained both IV and medicines could cause dizziness. And of course, they needed to cover themselves.
Outside, Ozzie was ready, black car rumbling in wait, his frame leaning on it. He was in form fitting attire, sunglasses flicked on, bright sun cast over the parking lot. To Anson, it was like stepping through a portal. Even though it had only been one night, it felt an eternity. With assistance from the nurse, Ozzie got Anson into car, driving off when Anson was properly situated.
Ozzie was calm, tail wiggling against seat with gentle, happy wags.
“Look at you," he said. “Looking better already. How you feeling? Any pain in the arm?"
Anson shook his head. “No, feels okay. Might just be the meds though."
“I'll get the prescriptions. Anything, whatever you need. I'll take care of it."
A pause. Then: “They told me about your results," said Ozzie. “It sounded good."
Anson remembered how things were left, and how frightening it all must have seemed. He didn't want that for Ozzie.
“It is," said Anson. “Nothing alarming, at any rate. Just have to deal with this bullshit for a couple of months."
He moved his casted arm up and down.
“My poor baby," said Ozzie. “I should sue the shit out of Songbird. Fuckheads."
Anson gave a dry laugh. “I don't think you can pin this one on them."
“Why not? Their fault for having unsafe carpets or some shit."
“Unsafe carpets? Is that a thing?"
Ozzie made a turn at a busy street. They were headed to Anson's place.
“I've seen people sued for less."
Anson sighed. “I don't doubt it. But, I'm pretty sure they already filed their workplace accident papers. At any rate, it's not that important to me."
Ozzie scoffed. “Yeah? Well what if it is to me? What if I wanna' drain fat Zanny's pockets?"
“Oh, puppy, come on now."
A shrug. “I'm just saying. My man got hurt and I wanna' cut a bitch. Is that wrong?"
“Assault is generally frowned upon, yes."
Anson knew Ozzie was joking. Or he hoped. But regardless, he wasn't interested in legal battles, even hypothetical ones. There was too much to digest.
When they finally got to his apartment, Ozzie insisted he do things for Anson. Open the car door, get the apartment with his spare key, get him inside okay, like a doting dog, despite Anson's protests. He didn't need that much care, he could walk fine. But his boy was relentless, so he conceded. And, it was adorable to see Ozzie so concerned.
“I know you're sick of being in bed, but they told me you should rest for the day after the exam," said Ozzie, leading Anson to bedroom.
“So. . ."
Anson blinked. It was his room, but polished. It had been completely cleaned. Clothes folded and put away, trash taken, shelves organized. The bed was stacked with several extra pillows and a glass of flowers sat in quaint resplendence on nightstand. A heart shaped balloon floated in hapless fashion with a “get well soon card" nestled on the table.
“Oh, Ozzie," Anson said. “Did you do this?" Little handsome bastard.
The yeendog shrugged, flushing. “Eh, you know."
“When? This must've taken hours."
Ozzie wriggled a bit, turning to Anson. “Oh, it wasn't that bad."
Anson smiled. He pushed forward, giving his boy a big kiss. It was returned with haste.
“Just wanted it nice for you, s'all," said Ozzie, going to the bed. He pat the covers.
“Come on now, come lie down."
Anson did as he was told. Though he wasn't keen on spending his hours idle, he figured it for the best. And, Ozzie put it in a lot of work, so he wasn't about to insult him. Soft fabric embraced him, the familiarity of sheets cushioning his back. Ozzie helped him take off his shoes until Anson was situated comfortably.
Content, Ozzie knelt at Anson's bedside, muzzle in arms.
“What a mess," he said, nosing at Anson's shoulder. “What am I gonna' do with you?"
“You're starting to sound like me now," said Anson.
“You comfortable?"
Anson nodded, reaching over to take the get-well card. “Of course."
“Don't keep that, I need to get everyone to sign it," said Ozze, while Anson read through it. It was a cheery message for him to get better, littered with tiny hearts and Ozzie's exaggerated signature with a big LOVE signed into it.
“Aww, Ozzie."
His boy flushed, offering a toothy grin. Here, Ozzie stood, stretching.
“I need to get your prescriptions," he said. “You gonna' be okay?"
Anson looked at him. There were a lot of things he wanted to say, to go over. About yesterday, his condition. What the consultant said. He didn't even know how Ozzie was 'processing' things. But also, he wanted something else.
“No," said Anson.
Ozzie's ears flicked. “No?"
Anson gestured next to the empty bed space.
“Wanted to do something for you."
Ozzie blinked, tail tossing to side. A part of him understood, but he wasn't entirely certain. He sauntered over, lying back with Anson, cuddling close.
“I can't stay forever, I need to make you dinner too, fucker."
Anson kissed Ozzie's neck. He took his unmolested arm and let it slip down to Ozzie's loins.
“Mm, you've been working very hard."
Ozzie's breath caught. “Ah. S-shit. Okay."
“Feels like something else is too," continued Anson, massaging the hardness beginning to form within his motions.
Ozzie groaned, heat seeping through his frame, heart fluttering, adrenalin spiking, cock hardening.
“You're gonna' make a mess," he said. “Ass. I'll have to change."
Anson chuckled, kissing again. “You're the messy one."
Ozzie returned with a playful growl but didn't protest. Instead, he yanked open his jeans, letting satin cock flop free, warm and pulsing with arousal. At once, Anson pursued it, wrapping his digits around the inches and supplying slow dives and rises, coaxing it with generous strokes. Each motion drew out a small moan of approval from Ozzie, while his ebon tip dribbled with sex.
Ozzie's cheeks flushed, wriggling against the attentions of his man, tail writhing underneath him. He started to pant, watching Anson fumble with his length, squeezing, making sure to apply generous massages along every bit of the slippery cock.
“Puppy likes it, huh?" Anson said, feeling his better half shiver in ecstasy.
“What do you fuckin' think," said Ozzie, groaning again, eyelids closing as his shaft was worked over.
Anson chuckled. “I told you it was my jackoff hand."
Ozzie hardly heard him, legs tightening while Anson proceeded to hasten his motions. He dove low, cupping Ozzie's plump testes, carefully rolling them in his palm before returning to slickened tip, the ebon inches glistening under room light.
Everyone needed a little stress relief, and apparently, Ozzie had a lot of it. Anson didn't blame him. Poor thing.
Didn't take long for Ozzie to reach his apex, either. He buckled, a violent spasm of shakes running through the yeendog's lithe frame, a surge of white ropes exploding from his crown onto the sheets, drenching both shaft and Anson's palm in sticky 'yena seed.
“Nnfcuk," said Ozzie through ecstatic moans, watching his cock surge with white essence. Anson blinked, looking up.
“God, Ozzie. Almost hit the ceiling."
Ozzie's tongue hung loose, the mess of himself pooling into the sheets and onto his pants.
“Goddammit," he said, wearing a smile. “Told you, fucker. I have to change. And the sheets."
Anson chuckled. “What's your rush?"
-*-
By the time the couple finished, Ozzie had to take a shower. His pants were gone, and his leg fur was matted with his seed, while a damp pool was stuck in the sheets. Anson, in the meanwhile, relocated to the couch while his boyfriend washed up.
Returning, Ozzie toweled off his hair, throwing Anson a suspicious glance.
“You settle down," he said, tail tossing. “Never gonna' get anything done you keep that up."
Anson smirked. “You're the horny one."
Ozzie didn't reply, instead grabbed his keys.
“You really have to go?" said Anson. Ozzie nodded.
“Not unless you enjoy pain. Why? You really want me to stay?"
“Of course I do," Anson conceded. “I'm not sore or anything."
Instinct kicked in. Ozzie could see his injured man calling for attention, and the dog side of him just had to oblige. So he did, waltzing over, snuggling into Anson again.
He sighed. “I guess I don't have to leave now."
Anson kissed his head. “Could stay right here. Don't even have to move. Can just order out you know?"
Ozzie laughed. “What? You don't want me to cook?"
“I want you all to myself."
Ozzie mumbled in approval, caressing Anson's free wrist. The TV wasn't on, so it was quiet. Peaceful. After a while, Ozzie spoke.
“Fuck, Anson," he muttered. “That really scared me."
Anson pulled Ozzie into him, tight as he could. “I know."
“All of it did. I couldn't sleep."
Anson took a breath. “I guess I was pretty scared too, even if I didn't look it. I thought I'd go to sleep and. . ."
He didn't want to finish the sentence. Instead, he chose another.
“I don't want you to go."
Ozzie looked at him. “It would just be for a few minutes." Still, he understood.
“And that's gonna' start hurting after a while," continued Ozzie, pointing at Anson's arm.
“I can handle it."
Ozzie rolled his eyes. “I don't need the tough guy routine."
And yet, he liked the caress of Anson's hand, the proximity of his frame, their closeness. The peace of the moment juxtaposed to the chaos of yesterday.
“I guess I can stick around."
Anson sighed in genuine relief. “Thank you."
It was hard to resist. Ozzie was used to Anson having control or staying a step ahead of things. For the first time in a long while, he was responsible for his man. And, despite Anson's reserved demeanor and calm temperament, he knew: deep down, Anson was scared. He could hear it in his heartbeat. Maybe not about his disease, maybe not about the arm, but yesterday demonstrated how fragile things were.
Ozzie's thoughts went back to his family, where they gathered. What he and Anson needed.
“Anson, I've been thinking about something. . ."
He pulled out his phone, showing his boyfriend an unassuming screen. There, a quaint house appeared, unassuming with a small backyard. It was farther out from the city, larger than their apartments, enough for two people, nestled in the snaking neighborhoods of Simi Valley.