"You think he's possessed?" Alex hunched over the edge of the Sigvard's sizable dining table, scratching at the back of his long swan neck. Fading sunlight washed in through the stained glass window and spattered the tabletop with a kaleidoscope of warm colors. "So in other words, Matt's not harboring the spirit of a wolf. He's harboring the spirit of Raven Neely?"

Matt stirred a cube of sugar into his black coffee, watching as across the table, Nadaline jabbed her monstrous claws into her well-cut chicken and sucked it off like a shish kabob. Her chubby face turned to Matt and the chewed chicken came rolling from her mouth and spattering to her high chair.

He prayed to God that Jess wasn't pregnant.

"Nadaline, no," Jay said beside her, wiping her greasy face with an open napkin. She squirmed and snarled until he was done, then she looked to Matt with a glare that turned his bones cold.

"Did you know Neely?" Alex asked Quentin.

"Met him once at Perigee. He seemed like a good guy."

Bailey rattled the beer in his bottle. "Maybe your intuitions aren't as good as you pitch them to be."

"Well, Raven saved you didn't he?" Alex asked.

"He didn't save shit. If I really wanted to, I could've turned. Wolves can swim."

Quentin rolled his fingers against the table, strong jaw in his palm. "Raven Neely..."

Matt still didn't know who he was, but the moment Bailey brought up the name Raven, everyone in the room seemed to recognize it—besides Jay, who was too indulged in homework to look up for more than half a second.

"It wouldn't be the first time something like this happened," Quentin said. "Stories of people receiving the spirit of a werewolf in lue of the spirit of a wolf date back hundreds of years."

"But that's folklore," said Alex.

Bailey tipped back his beer and grumbled against the neck, "We're folklore."

Matt couldn't take the bitter of his coffee anymore. He sat the mug down with a thud. "Can someone just tell me who the hell Raven Neely is?"

"He was a sentinel from Texas," Quentin said, an arm slung over the back of Jaylin's chair. "He resigned from his post and left to fight in Afghanistan." He must've been touching him—tracing the nape of his neck, cause Jay bristled and shook away a chill.

"He's kind of...notorious," Alex added.

When no one else went on to explain why, Bailey tossed back the last of his beer and slid the empty bottle towards the center of the table. It rolled on its base twice before steadying. "Murdered four of his own men in cold blood." He crossed his arms and tipped back in his chair. "The rest of his unit murdered him back."

Matt expected Raven's voice to come through then. He could sense him in the back of his skull, like someone watching—standing behind him, slouched against the back of his chair. His hair stood on end, but Raven never spoke.

"So I'm not a werewolf," Matt said. At first it was comforting—then a thought overcame him. "Wait a minute. This makes me a...wereguy?" Matt wiped his hands up his face with a groan. "That is the stupidest fucking thing I've ever heard."

Jaylin looked up from his homework only long enough to laugh.

"I didn't know it was possible," Alex said. "I mean, there are stories, but...Maybe something got screwed up, y'know. You died and you transitioned at the same time. Maybe along the way something wrong happened."

"But then why—" Matt shook his head. He swore to god someone was behind him. "Why am I in Quentin's pack?"

"There's still a wolf in you somewhere beyond the layers," Quentin said. The air around the table tensed after that—an unknown stirring in the silence. Alex chewed on the nail of his thumb, Jaylin scribbled something down on his math homework, Quentin turned his thought-worn middle gaze to a flickering candle at the center of the table. Bailey tipped back and forward in his chair.

"I'll ask Devi next I see her," Quentin said finally. "Just...be mindful for now. I have another job for you in the meantime."

"You sure this one's cleared out? Cause that last trip cost me 'bout a hundred bucks in gas."

"I'll compensate you for your travels," Quentin said. "I'll text you the address tonight. Now," he stood, pulling up the sleeves of his sweater. "Dessert anyone?"

"Take it to go." Bailey stood up and stuffed his hands in the pockets of his bomber jacket. "I wanna get out of here."

So Matt did, a fat slice of cheesecake and several of Quentin's famous nutmeg cookies.

Matt didn't park his wrangler on the farm. Instead, he left it on the soft grass at the edge of the street and walked with Bailey, swatting mosquitos from his skin. It was a painful walk back to the guest house, but at least Jess wouldn't know he was home and avoiding her. He veered into Bailey's path, knocking elbows with him. He still felt angry, rejected by the hound, but Matt wanted badly to kill the silence. "You were in a hurry to get out of there."

"Don't like candles," said Bailey.

"Is it the candles, or—" before he could say Quentin's name, Bailey stabbed into him with that heedful glare. "Alright, sorry. I'll stop asking."

"You got your own problems," Bailey said. They passed by the empty field, the cattle all gathered into the barn for the night. Moonlight drenched Bailey's hair—turned it blue-black like crow feathers. He looked to Matt and it poured back in a curl of wind. "You should say something to her so I don't have to keep walking half a mile back to the barn."

The cheesecake sat heavy in Matt's hands. Hungry as he was for it, the thought of confronting Jess made his stomach slip. No matter how that conversation was to go, it'd end their relationship. Matt knew it.

"Eventually," he said. Their shoes scuffed the gravel, cold air numbing his ears. "Tonight I was thinkin' I could stay on your couch again. Play video games. I've got more games, y'know. Dozens." Matt said.

Bailey looked to him for the briefest moment before he was collected and forward-facing again. It was long enough, though. Long enough for Matt to see the surprise—the screened heartbeat of excitement. For a beat—just a beat, Bailey looked like the boy in that photo.

Matt gathered his old games from the shed and carried his haul to the loft, and Bailey destroyed him. Again and again, Bailey sniped him from the highest tower in the most difficult shooter Matt had in his collection. Again and again, he snuck up with a knife, averted gunshots and disappeared like a wraith when his health dropped too low. He slaughtered Matt—smeared his mangled, physics-wriggling body across the map.

And Matt didn't mind all that much.

They ate cheesecake with one fork and danced between fighting modes, drank and smoked and sabotaged one another's controllers at the most opportune time. When Bailey laughed at the way Matt walked off a building and to his death, it was a strange kick. A shock to the heart.

When Matt had stopped trying to fight and instead began running away the moment the match started, Bailey laughed louder. This time, it hurt. It hurt and it frightened Matt that it hurt. It frightened him that twice now he'd been killed and not known it because he was so distracted by that laugh.

It hurt 'cause whatever this was, he wasn't pretending.

"Alright, enough," Matt said, popping out the disk. "Playing shooters with you sucks."

"Hand-eye coordination," said Bailey. "Nothing I can help."

"I don't remember Jay bein' this good last we played." Matt crouched on the floor and sorted through his games, selecting a zombie survival from the pile. "Here. I'm good at this one. I could put us on a team but you'd murder all the NPCs. It'd be a boring game."

"Sure we aren't already?" Bailey asked, the Xbox swallowing the disk into its glowing tray.

Matt took the seat beside him, navigating through the game options. "What you mean? I'm giving you a pistol or this campaign's gonna be over in ten minutes."

Bailey didn't argue the pistol. He sat back and waited for the loading screen to pass. "What I mean is you got a lot of problems with wifey. And she doesn't seem that terrible. Sure you're as straight as you say?"

The screen loaded to a dark, shadow mottled forest. Matt let a laugh through his nose and scraped the landscape through the scope of his gun. With no sight of Bailey, he crept between trees, toward a red glow on the horizon. "I'm not gay. It has nothin' to do with that."

"How do you know?" There was a rapid-fire blast, the sound of bullets pelting flesh. Matt's avatar fell bloody to the dark earth.

"The fuck—where are you?"

Bailey ignored the question. "How do you know you're not gay?

"I like...boobs," Matt said. "Girls. The shape of 'em. They're soft, y'know—I like that."

"I like soft," Bailey said. "Doesn't mean I want to fuck it."

"Don't you know?" Matt asked as his character respawned beside a thicket of berry bushes. The pixelated stars speckled the dark skies. He moved quickly through the shadows in search of Bailey's avatar. "You know from the start, right? I'd know."

"Not always," Bailey said. Matt heard the click of a reload and spun to the dark silhouette, weapon pointed right at him. One tiny pop and he was keeled over.

"Y'know this ain't as fun as I thought it'd be," Matt said. His screen shuttered and his character was brought to life anew—this time behind the safety of a crumbling shed.

"I didn't know until I met Danny," Bailey said. For some reason the name made Matt look at him. He was haloed in the blue-light of the TV screen, silk hair curled beneath the ear. It'd grown longer since he first arrived on the farm—maybe half an inch, but still Matt noticed it. He turned his eyes back to the screen.

"I've always liked girls," Matt said. He moved slowly from behind the shed to peek around the corner. In a wash of moonlight, he found Bailey's character, aiming in the entirely wrong direction. He pointed his crosshairs to the back of his skull and crept closer, slowly easing on the joystick. "Just not lately. Not after...whatever in me broke."

"Ever kissed a guy?" Bailey asked. Matt watched with amusement as his avatar pointed his pistol to the sky. Just a bit closer and he'd be in headshot range.

"Never kissed a guy," Matt said. Then he pulled the trigger. Pop. Pop pop pop. Bailey's avatar fell dead to the dirt, the words headshot blinking over Matt's screen. He threw his head back and laughed his vengeance out into the quiet of the barn loft. "Finally! Jesus Christ, that was all I wanted." But when he looked to Bailey, the hound was hardly holding the controller, the plastic grips sliding through his fingers. He was staring at Matt, dark eyes fixed lowly on his face. Matt knew what that look was, but it stayed on the surface of him. Didn't sink in until Bailey leaned closer, hand on the cushions between them, sinking the fabric.

It was with a slow, confident approach that Bailey closed the distance. Like he didn't care if what came from this was a push or a punch or shattered...not-friendship. He smelled sweetly of pot—faintly of the strawberries from Quentin's cheesecake. His breath hit Matt's chin and he could've pulled away. At any moment, Matt could've pushed him back. He didn't though, because he wondered too. If maybe there was something about himself that he didn't know. If maybe he wasn't broken. Just different.

He tracked Bailey's lips until they were too close to see, then Matt shut his eyes and felt them. One soft kiss, grazing naked, wired nerves. Slow and warm, not greased with gloss or tasting of the lipstick he was used to. Bailey's lips tasted of nothing, but felt like feathers—a light, bone-chilling touch that trilled down Matt's spine. Then another kiss—this time with the slick brush of tongue, the sharp graze of teeth. It curled something inside of him—a hot tingle in his breastbone. A sudden, sparking palpitation in his heart.

So this was what it felt like...to feel things.

Bailey started to pull back. Matt grabbed the back of his neck, met his mouth with a fierce resolve, hot breath melted against his lips. The controller fell from Matt's hand to the floorboards below. Gunfire rang out from the television speakers, but he heard only Bailey's breath—sudden and rugged, mouth against mouth, tongue tracing teeth. The force of his requite pressed Matt back against the couch, head propped against the arm. Bailey tore his hand from the back of his neck and shoved it into the cushion by his shoulder. They moved against one another in a tangle, his kiss destructive—a sensation that wrecked Matt down to the bone. When finally it left him, Matt took in air, face hot and head light—only to gasp in again when that rough, burning kiss scraped the side of his neck.

His stomach shuttered and Matt curled his head back against the arm, another kiss peeling him apart at the seams. Bailey's knee pressed into the couch between his legs, hand curled hard around the wrist he still choked in a vise, pinned into the warm leather. Bailey kissed his skin in a way that tore the breath from his chest. Tongue, then teeth, then lips. Moths batted their fuzzy wings in Matt's stomach, desperate to escape the fire burning at the core of him.

He was almost grateful when the kisses stopped. They were too much—every scrape of Bailey's teeth pulling him apart at the threads. Matt felt him close to his face before he ever opened his eyes—the breath on his lips, the heat of him. The hand that pinned Matt's wrist released, slid down his chest, the bare of his stomach where his shirt had ruffled up. Over the tented fly of his jeans.

"You don't feel broken, Cowboy," Bailey whispered—every word a hot beat against Matt's teeth.

He lifted his head to meet Bailey's lips, kissing the hound as he worked open the buttons on Matt's shirt. Kissing him as he ran a burning hand up the bare flesh. Kissing him until Bailey shifted to straddle his hips, until he was too high to kiss anymore.

Bailey sat up atop his waist, sliding something from his front pocket—a foil packet, shining in the glow of the television. He held it between his teeth as he worked open the buckle of Matt's belt and Matt—though with a fierce fire in his chest—felt his heart buck. "Wait, Bailey. I've never—I dunno what I'm doing."

Bailey ripped the belt from its loops. It hit the floor with a jangle. He took the packet from his mouth. "I do."

Matt's hips rose to their own accord as Bailey undid his fly. He couldn't tell what exactly was in the packet, but he knew wolves didn't need condoms. Lube then? Jesus. Lube. "I—" but before he could say another word, that kiss was on his chest, over the hammering beat of his heart, down his hollow sternum. The couch shifted as Bailey moved lower, tongue, then teeth, then lips. Matt gripped the edge of the cushion and shivered a breath. "Wait," he said as those teeth were on his hip bone. "Wait."

The hound peered up, breath heavy, tv light glinting from his dark eyes. "What?"

"I don't have to...? I mean, I dunno if I can—"

Bailey moved up to look him in the eye, hand splayed on Matt's chest—burnin' a hole right through him. "Relax, Cowboy," he said, grin sharp. "I'm a verse."

"Okay..." Matt said. "I'm a Sagittarius."

For the third time tonight, Bailey laughed, hair curtained down the side of his face, hand sliding up Matt's chest to take him by the side of the neck, thumb pressing him up at the jaw. With that grin bared, Bailey leaned in until their lips touched, and Matt pined to feel them again. But Bailey didn't kiss him. Instead, he whispered, "Close your eyes, Cowboy."

So Matt did. He shut his eyes to a kiss on his throat. Between his collar bones. Deeper and further down, every touch in that distinct, cataclysmic pattern. Felt himself burn and ache, felt every pump of searing blood twist in his blistering veins.

For the first time in a long time, Matt wanted something.

____________

an;  There is um...more of this coming. In the meantime...

Swinging in the backyard, pull up in your fast car whistling my name. Open up a beer and you say get over here and play a video game ♪

https://youtu.be/MwYtheMGdPQ