fic: The Wolf Prince (Pete/Patrick, AU, 3/3)
*
Everything hurt.
They'd stopped beating him, once or twice, to catch their breath; Patrick took the time to suck in lungfuls of air and try not to black out. He was mostly seeing the world in swaths of greys and black, now, but so what? He could still see. He took a wet, heavy breath and tried to stand.
A boot caught him in the ribs. "Gene! He's gettin' up!"
Slow, heavy footfalls. Patrick screamed when one of them stepped on his fingers. They made sharp noises, like kindling breaking.
Please, he thought wildly, don't let Pete come back right now. They'll kill him, prince or garou or what have you, and I could not bear it.
The boot came down again, this time on his nose, and Patrick didn't have time to think anything else.
*
When he opened his eyes again, Pete was looking at him. From a great distance, it seemed; then Patrick realized that no, Pete's face was next to his own, but his eyes weren't working that well.
"Hurts," Patrick managed. Even saying so little made him cough. He tried to sit up, but nothing was listening - not his legs, not his back, certainly not his arms. He turned his head and spat, not at all surprised to see how red it was.
Pete pushed his hair out of his face. "Your outside wounds have slowed or stopped bleeding," he said, "but you're still bleeding inside. I can s-smell it." His face was pale and grave.
Patrick made a quiet noise and stared up at the ceiling. "They. Saw. You." He spat again. "They will." Cough. "Be. Back. You. Sh-" A long, rattling cough, this one ending with a mouthful of blood. "Should. Go."
"Not without you." Pete frowned, sitting up straight, head angled. "Sssh."
He's smelling them, Patrick realized. Even as hurt as he was, he made himself pay attention. He'd never really let himself notice the small things: how Pete angled his head or pointed his whole body towards a conversation; the long, deep breaths designed to draw in scents. It was strangely lovely. He wished he'd paid attention to it before now, when it was almost too late.
"Rough cotton," Pete finally said. His expression was thunderous. "Hay, tobacco, dung, woodsmoke, cheap rotgut - farmers." Another breath. "Three of them?"
It hurt too much to nod. "Yes."
"Two of them were brothers," Pete said. "And - candles? Poor wine, wet wool, that damned smell of pens - a scribe? No, you have none, and no colleges eith--" He cut off and stared at Patrick, gobsmacked. "The priest."
Patrick wanted to tell him, he really did, but speaking was agony that just lead to blood being spit up. He took short, shallow breaths and let Pete hold his hand.
"'m sorry," he said faintly. Any more force and he'd start coughing, but speaking so quietly was almost - not all right, but close.
Pete's voice was sharp. "Don't ever say that again. This was not your fault, not any of it. Might as well call it my fault; I should have stolen you out of here as soon as I was fit to travel--"
"Stop." Patrick took a breath, waited to see if it would rattle in his chest. When it didn't, he continued. "'s my fault for running so long. I was scared. Still am, but that's-" wet cough "-less important now."
He could see it now but distantly, like a dream. A line of wolves peering over the edges of a mountain pass, looking to see who was coming. Who would walk their streets and help corral a child when one broke free of her lessons, or listen to their stories? Taste their wine and take too much, then fall lazily asleep on top of the sheets?
Pete, of course; he'd be going home. But he would do it alone.
"Love," he said softly, and started to close his eyes.
"No," Pete said, tugging on his arm. As much as Patrick wanted to be distant and dreaming, the pain of it shocked him awake. "Patrick. Patrick, listen to me."
It would be hard not to; Pete's eyes almost gleamed, this close. He was full of some purpose, suddenly, where a moment ago he'd been ready to start mourning.
"I did not mean," Pete whispered, and stopped. He brushed something away from Patrick's face -- blood, most likely; his fingers were red when he drew them back. "I wanted you to have a choice. Do you understand?"
Patrick watched him. Even to his own ears, his breath sounded wetter by the second.
"Now the only choice is no choice at all." His eyes were calm. "Patrick. Do you want to live?"
Patrick started to close his eyes.
"No!" Pete shook him. "It's at least partly a matter of will, magic alone cannot -- Patrick. Do you want to live?"
He tried nodding again; this time, it took.
Pete let out a breath. "It will hurt," he said softly. "Even if you were not near death, it would hurt. But you will live, I swear it." He took a deep breath, and another, and buried his face against Patrick's shoulder.
Patrick was dimly aware that suddenly Pete felt fuzzy -- not warm and fuzzy, but furry, like a child's toy; and that he was growling, very faintly. It was really very sweet, if absurd. Why would--
--and then there was a ripping, like someone -- say, a garou, or a prince of the garou -- shredding his flesh, cutting into him with two dozen or more tiny knives, and Patrick was screaming and screaming; and when something in him tore free, it felt sweetly, blessedly like death.
Part IV
Except it wasn't, Patrick realized when he opened his eyes.
Or maybe it was, because nothing hurt. He almost felt lighter, more compact. The whole house smelled terrible, like death and beatings; he was glad they'd be leaving it soon. His tail wagged at the thou--
--wait a moment.
Patrick looked down at himself and yelped, or tried to. It came out more as a yip.
It's all right, someone said next to him. Patrick looked. It was Pete -- or rather, the brown-black wolf Pete had been when they'd first met. He was maybe a quarter of a head taller in this form, not to mention more muscular.
Of course I am, Pete said, irritated. You're still new. You might as well be a puppy. He nudged Patrick with his head. Is it very strange?
Patrick -- didn't frown, really. Wolves didn't have facial expressions. Hmmm. Yes. No. It's sort of. Both?
Pete whuffled. You'll get used to it, he said -- only they weren't exactly talking. He was thinking, for the most part, with the occasional whine or snuffle or growl thrown in. It's not scary, I promise.
Patrick butted Pete's shoulder with his head. Can I change back? I don't -- I want to be human again. Eventually. Maybe.
Pete whuffled his head. Patrick was starting to think that was the wolf version of laughing. You can change back. You can do whatever you want, now.
Nudge. Then I want to be with you.
Pete made a low noise and started licking Patrick 's muzzle. We'll leave in the morning. I'll get the carriage. We can be gone before--
Patrick's ears perked up as his spine straightened. He could hear something that sounded like thunder rolling towards them incredibly fast. Pete! There's a storm, I can hear it--
That's not a storm. Pete was low on his belly, claws dug into the wood, ears flattened against his skull. It's people. Coming in a hurry.
Patrick was astonished. That's what people sound like? he said. How did I manage t--
And then he smelled them. Hard not to; their scents were all over the house, under the blood and the painragefear smell. Only now they were sour with drink and sweat and piss, and one -- Gene, who'd broken his fingers -- had the sex smell on him too. They all carried weapons, and they were laughing when they came in.
Laughing.
They'd beaten him near to death (much later and he would've been dead, that Patrick knew in his bones) with hands and feet, teeth and boots. They'd broken his mother's furniture and pissed on it, laughing. They'd called him horrible names, lies and exaggerated truths, and the priest had prayed while they did it. He hadn't been able to focus one eye, he'd breathed blood, and his testicles were so swollen the pain had made him vomit.
He'd grown up with these men, or near them, and now they were laughing. One had a club; one had a skinning knife. The third was unzipping his trousers as he walked in, reeking of piss.
Patrick darted forward and bit the man's prick off.
The whole thing was odd. He could taste blood and meat, two things the wolf in him called good, but other smells, too: sex, piss, something gamey his mind labeled as "human" and shied away from. Patrick spat it out.
The man was on the ground, screaming. "Holy god," the skinny man whispered. To Patrick's new ears, it sounded more like a shout. He was the one with a club. "Holy god, there's two of 'em--"
You, Pete said, his voice like doom in Patrick's mind. He reared forward and bit at the man's ankle. It gave way with a noise Patrick heard as part-squelch, part-snap. The man screamed and tried to kick Pete away, but his teeth were too firmly planted.
One of the other men -- Knife, Patrick called him, because he had one in his hand and stank of metalwork -- reached for Pete and yanked his ear, hard. Pete howled but didn't let go.
"Let go, you fuckin' animal," Knife said, spitting, and brought the knife down, sawing at the tender place where ear joined to head. Pete howled and let go, shaking his head frantically. Stop it! Patrick heard. Pete sounded young and terrified.
He didn't think. He couldn't think. His mate was in pain, was suffering, and he could do something about it.
He bolted from Wounded's side and didn't bother to growl, just reared up and bit off a good chunk of Knife's leg. Knife fell, screaming.
"My leg! My fuckin' leg--"
His ear, Patrick thought, his fucking ear, and bit him again, digging into the wound, biting at stringy things. He wasn't sure what they were, but every time he clamped his jaws down Knife screamed more loudly.
Pete banged his head against Patrick's side. Patrick. Patrick, I'm fine.
No you're not! Patrick yelled. Your ear--
--is already healing. Pete nudged him again and showed off his ear. It still looked terrible, but Patrick's eyes -- his new eyes, his wolf eyes -- could see the skin and muscle reknitting. We're very hard to kill, love.
He hurt you! Patrick dug his teeth in, savoring the noises Knife made. He wants to kill us!
Yes, he probably does. Pete snarled at Club, who was trying to get up. But you can make a choice, Patrick.
Patrick whimpered, digging his claws into the floor. He didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to do anything but sleep and learn to hunt, shift back to human at some point and see if he'd begun to heal. Things were so much simpler before.
"Fuckers," Knife gasped. "Gene, get 'em--" He still had his knife in his hand, though his grip was far more loose. could smell his hate from here.
Kill them, he thought, and burrowed his face into the curve of Knife's neck just long enough to close his teeth in Knife's throat and tear. It gave with surprising ease.
Knife's feet drummed against the floor for a few moments, then stopped.
Patrick looked at the body for a long time. The human in him, the man who lived by himself and didn't eat meat, was horrified; the wolf was in turns bored, hungry, and ready to do it again. He heard a distant snapping sound, and another, like kindling breaking. Or his fingers.
It's done, Pete said. He sounded tired. I snapped their necks.
Patrick turned on him, barking. Why? Why did you -- they were mine to hurt! Mine to kill! You had no right--
Pete darted forward and seized the scruff of Patrick's neck in his jaws. Patrick yelped.
We are a pack, Pete said. In this pack, I am the alpha. I decide who to kill, I punish those who deserve it. Not you.
Patrick ripped himself away, howling at the feel of his new skin giving way under Pete's teeth. Leave me alone! he snarled, and darted through the open door and into the woods.
*
Patrick hunkered down and shivered in the snow. He could feel the cold through his fur, but he wasn't so uncomfortable he wanted to head inside just yet. He wiped Knife's blood from his muzzle, feeling the snow bite into his skin. Shivered again.
He'd killed someone. He'd killed, with no thought in his mind but pain and anger, and made Pete complicit in it -- made him kill two others, though he'd been ambivalent about it at best. He was a killer, now, a murderer; the same things he'd tried to name Pete, weeks ago. Any sensible man would crawl off to die.
"Oh, stop," Pete said. He was still a ways off, but Patrick could hear him as if he was right there. "It was self-defense. Any right-thinking Ombudsman would take that into account and make you do service for the community -- a few weeks' toil at their farms, perhaps."
Patrick lifted his head a little. I don't know what that is, he admitted, feeling -- as he usually did, with Pete -- very provincial. Our judge was sent from two towns over. He set the Philpott boy to lose a hand for letting weasels free in Goodman Warmington's garden.
Pete stopped a few yards away and looked at him. "And for that, he lost a hand?"
Oh, yes, when I was a boy. Patrick shook snow off his muzzle. Now Tim Philpott has a rake where his hand should be. He says he doesn't mind.
"They sever limbs for pranks and tried to murder you for kissing another man," Pete muttered. "We cannot leave this place fast enough." He walked over and knelt beside Patrick in the snow, stroking his fur.
Patrick shook more snow off. I killed them, he said. If I leave, I can't ever come back.
Pete scratched behind Patrick's ears. "And I hope you won't hate me for too long if that makes me happy, in some small way."
Patrick looked at him and let out a quiet howl. It was no different than he'd planned that morning -- that morning? It seemed years ago, now -- except what he'd planned left him the option of returning later, if he wanted; now, he could not. He'd surely be hanged if he ever came back, hanged or worse.
He would miss his mother, but he'd missed her for years. There was no real chance of his father returning to meet the son he'd abandoned before his birth. And while he was friendly and polite enough with some of the townspeople, he did not truly count any of them as a friend. His bags were already packed; if they hadn't been too terribly damaged in the brawl, it would be nothing at all to load them onto a carriage.
When will it be here? he asked. The carriage, I mean.
"At first light," Pete said. His eyes were bright, but his voice was carefully even. "Do you think their families will miss them before then? If they will, I can go back and bring it now."
Patrick whuffled. Morning should be fine. Their families will doubtless think they're lying somewhere, asleep with too much drink.
"Then come back to the cabin," Pete said softly. "Or at least closer to it. I can rig a lean-to, enough to keep the snow off, and we can build a fire." He buried his face in Patrick's soft fur.
All right, Patrick said. And though he was very new to both being a wolf and having someone comfort him, he decided it would be all right if just this once he let Pete lead him in both.
*
The carriage was beautiful, the finest in the village, but Pete presented it with actual nerves in his voice, like he was afraid Patrick would be disappointed. "It's not what I'd like," he said, "and you deserve better, but. It's what's available."
Patrick whuffled and looked at him, then leapt inside. It was good, solid wood, overlaid with silks and satins. There was room inside for seven or eight people comfortably, nine or ten if they actually had to bump knees. The edges had finely worked carvings in them, like someone was telling a story. It was the finest thing he'd ever seen.
--and Pete was apologizing because they deserved better.
This will do, Patrick said meekly, and rested his head on his front paws. He closed his eyes.
*
When he opened them again, they were crossing the Swift River.
Patrick's village was bordered to the north and the west by two rivers; both of them were simply called the River. The proper name of the one to the west was Deep River (because it was slow and placid as a cow, but if you tried to walk across it'd swallow you up; and if you weren't a good swimmer, forget it), while the one to the north was called Swift River (because if you tossed a rope across and if you were an excellent swimmer, with strong arms and legs, and if luck was with you, maybe you could pull yourself across before the current swept you away). There were bridges over both; it just seemed sensible. And safer.
Patrick ran to one of the windows and stared out, rapt.
"You act like you've never seen a river before." Pete's voice was scratchy.
Not this one, Patrick said. You can't even fish this river; it's too fast. Little spits and spurts of white foam kept breaking the surface. My mother told me once that a long time ago, in lean years, the older villagers would walk into the river when a child was born. So there'd be enough food to go around.
"It's possible," Pete said after a minute. "It's not unheard of, anyway." Patrick heard the sound of rolling thunder -- footsteps, he now knew -- and didn't start when Pete sat next to him.
"It's been two days," he said, "and you haven't changed back."
Patrick watched the river. Don't want to.
"You really should," Pete said. "Please. Let me at least see how you're healing."
Patrick whuffled. If I must, he finally said. How--
"Changing shapes? Easiest thing in the world." Pete scratched behind his ears. "Just...think about being a man again. How it felt. How you were taller, and your senses were blunt, and you had two legs."
Patrick whuffled and shook his head, then moved to the back of the carriage. He concentrated on what Pete said: being two-legged again. Having longer limbs and no fur, and weak eyes, and he couldn't smell or hear anything -- and just that fast, he was changing, shifting, curled up and panting on the floor of the carriage.
It felt very cold, suddenly. Patrick remembered he'd only had trousers on when he changed the first time and shivered, looking up at Pete.
"A b-blanket--" he started, but Pete was already wrapping one around his shoulders, drawing it tight.
"I'll get you another when I'm done looking," he said, and peeled the blanket away. His fingers were brisk, poking and prodding Patrick until he made noises, staring critically at bruises and gashes in his skin. It could have been worse, Patrick decided; he was almost painfully cold, but it was easier to breathe -- it sounded easier, anyway -- and his vision was back to normal. Maybe even a tiny bit better, though his mind was probably just playing a trick on him.
"You'll live," Pete announced after a few minutes, pulling the blanket close around his shoulders. Patrick clutched at it gratefully. "There'll be very faint scars on your chest - they got you good, there - but that's all. If you'd still been human and managed to survive, you'd look like a soldier home from the wars."
Patrick stared at him blankly. "We've never sent anyone to war."
Pete's expression softened. "Then it was good for one thing, at least." He smiled a little. "Do you notice the differences yet?"
Patrick concentrated for a moment. His senses were stronger; it was just different enough to be obvious. His manskin (or so he translated it) couldn't pick up scents and sounds as well as his wolfskin could, but things seemed - brighter. Textures were richer. He could smell faint traces of game on Pete's breath from a few hours ago, as well as Pete's own smell: soap and something almost like game, only more pungent.
The smell grew sharply when Patrick took the blanket off and resettled it around his shoulders. Which was strange, because all that did was expose his belly and his chest--
Patrick flushed red. "Oh," he said, squeezing the blanket tight.
Pete nodded. "It's obvious when you know how I smell, isn't it?"
"It i--" Patrick stared at him, horrified. "Oh my God. All those months in my house--"
"I told you I knew when you were aroused." Pete smiled. "Though we don't smell exactly alike; no two people do, not even a parent and a child." He reached out and clasped his hand over Patrick's. "I missed you," he said softly. "Please don't go back just yet, Patrick. Please."
"It's cold," Patrick said, just as softly. But he didn't shift forms, just curled closer to Pete and buried his face against his throat. "I wish I'd been able to say goodbye."
"To your friends?" Pete said. "Strange, I don't remember you having people come calling. Though there was that sly boy with all the wool--"
"Mr. Warren's son?" Patrick was incredulous. "Not hardly. There's no local boy foolish enough to give me the eye."
"He was eyeing your backside," Pete muttered darkly. He peeled the blanket back enough to put it around his own shoulders, pressed himself tight against Patrick's side. "Though I suppose I should brace myself for it. You won't just be mine anymore."
"You saved my life," Patrick said. "I will always be yours." He shook his head when Pete started to speak. "And not just because you changed me. Living alone in that cabin, thinking I was wrong...that wasn't any different than not being alive at all. I will always be grateful to you for that."
"Not grateful," Pete said. "That implies obligation." He snuggled closer. "You're mine, but not for any reason other than because you want to be."
Patrick bit at the sharp line of Pete's jaw. "I am," he said simply, and took another breath of his scent.
*
Patrick slept for most of the carriage ride. The wolf in him was extraordinarily bored by the lush countryside, unless they stopped for a while and he could run around; then it was exciting. He could hunt down fresh game and bring it so Pete could have his share. (Cooked, sadly; humans did themselves an injury by burning their meat. Of course, the human in him was horrified that he was actually eating meat, so. Tradeoff.)
They made good time. Before lunch the first time, they'd passed the furthest point Patrick had ever gone by himself; before sunset, they were past where anyone had gone, even the village elders -- excluding merchants, of course. It was terrifying and exciting all at once, enough to make Patrick shiver sometimes.
The best times, though, were when Pete would take wolf-shape and go with him. He was an excellent teacher; Patrick grasped basic things as soon as he changed, but not details or nuance. He knew about hunting, but not about how to tell which areas of brush near a lake provided the best place to wait for deer or small animals.
And there were other benefits, too, like when Patrick was napping in a patch of sunlight and Pete found him and -- mounted him, the person in him supposed he'd say. What are you, he started, and let out a low whine.
Mine, Pete panted, in his mind. Mine, my boy, my mate, my pack, mine. They tried to touch you, and we killed them for it. You were right to do it. The press and thrust of his hips seemed more -- urgent, somehow. Patrick whined and bore his hips back against him.
It was brief, especially when compared to what they'd done in the cabin, but no less satisfying. Patrick pawed the ground for a moment when Pete pulled out, but then Pete said and now you, his backside already presented, and Patrick went gladly.
Afterwards, they took down a pair of rabbits and feasted happily, tails brushing against one another.
*
The trip took far longer than Patrick would've thought. They stopped rarely, to get provisions or let the horses rest, and stayed to themselves when they did stop. Patrick caught himself peering out the window at strangers, townsfolk of whatever village or trading post they'd stopped at, and growling. He didn't know how they could stand it - how he'd stood it for so long. They smelled like sheep after a fierce storm: weak meat.
"Not too much longer now," Pete said the third night out. They were in a private room for the night, the remains of their meal - a few small bones, from their game birds - neatly stacked on top of the table. Patrick was sprawled in front of the fire, back legs splayed against old wood; Pete was wrapped in a blanket, stroking the fur along his back. If he found a burr or tangle, he picked it out. "Another day, perhaps two. No more than that."
So long? Patrick butted his head against Pete's hand. Can we go now? This village stinks of men and riverwater. It's all filth.
"It is not." Pete started digging out a burr. "It's just how people smell. Believe me, regular wolves aren't rosebuds themselves."
I hate them. Patrick bared his teeth in a snarl. I don't ever want to be a weak, whining, puling two-legged thing again, not if I live a hundred years.
Pete's voice, when he spoke, was quiet. "You'd deny me the man I came for?"
Patrick looked at him.
"I love you in all your forms. But it was the man who took in a stray wolf, and darned his own socks. And it was a man who said I owed him a boon and kissed me, though it terrified him." Pete tossed the burr into the fire. "And it was the man I asked to come home with me, though the wolf in him will always be welcome."
There was a long pause.
I'm scared, Patrick finally said, hating the words.
Pete just nodded. "Of course you are. It's only sensible. But you are going home now, where you will be free to do whatsoever you wish, as I promised." He leaned over and kissed Patrick's head, mouth warm against his fur. "There's nothing to fear, love."
Patrick whuffled and butted his head against Pete's hand. When I meet them, he swore, I'll do it on two legs, not four. I promise.
Pete just smiled. "Then you will," he said, and started brushing out another tangle.
*
They talked, once or twice, about their families.
All of Patrick's stories were old, and he'd told them more than once back at the cottage: brother dead before he was born, mother dead, father vanished before he was born.
"He left after my mother died," Patrick said matter-of-factly. "My mother told him she was pregnant again, and he told her to get rid of it - me, that he wouldn't love another child just to see it dead again. She refused. He packed his things up, even the gifts she gave as dowry, and left. I've never met him, or even seen a sketch or drawing." He shivered and stole some more of the blankets. "She said I have his eyes, though, and his hairline." Self-conscious, he touched his scalp. The hair was already starting to grow thin.
Pete pressed himself closer, one arm stealing around Patrick's waist. "I am the oldest of three children," he said. He'd said it before, but Patrick liked hearing his stories, so it was all right. "My mother was born of our people, but my father is like you. The way I've always heard the story, she had the dreams, too. So she rode out alone into the world of men and found my father, who was the son of a landowner - and a minor noble - and swore to marry him. My father fell in love with her, and she with him, but he was betrothed to the miller's daughter."
Engrossed, Patrick made a noise. This story was new. "What did she do? I mean, obviously they were married."
"Eventually, yes. But my father was not so terribly brave when he was younger, and part of him wanted to do as his parents wished and marry the girl." He tightened his arms around Patrick. "So the night before his wedding, my mother called to my father from outside his window; and he went to her, and she was lovely, and they mated in the heart of the forest. My father was content, but my mother shoved him aside and began to dress.
"'Where are you going?' my father asked. He was young, and thought he could bed a foreign girl the night before his marriage with no effect. Perhaps he even thought he'd keep her in a cottage, as his - I don't know what you'd call it. His side-wife?"
"Mistress," Patrick said thoughtfully. "Maybe doxy."
"Whatever it was, it was wrong. My mother finished dressing and turned to him. 'Silly man, I am the eldest daughter of a king of the garou, and next in line for my father's throne. You thought you were bedding one of the wild folk, and that I am, but not in the way you meant. I am a princess in my homelands, and I return with a son in my belly. But unless you come to me and prove yourself a man and not a boy with an eager - and admittedly talented - prick, you will have neither of us.' And she climbed on her horse, and nestled in her father's castle, to grow her son and nurse her wounded heart."
"Your mother," Patrick said after a pause, "has a very salty tongue."
Pete nodded. "She had a sailor's wife as one of her nursemaids, for a bit." He buried his face in Patrick's hair. "Where was I?"
"Your mother returned home pregnant with you."
Pete nodded again. "The night before she gave birth, the guardsmen spotted a man riding for the front gates. He was filthy, bedraggled, and demanded to see her and his child--"
"Your father?"
"My father," Pete nodded. "He'd returned home the night my mother left him and lain awake all night. When it came time for the ceremony, he'd refused to do it. He packed two bags and fled after her. Sadly, as a human my father was a terrible tracker; it took him months to find her trail. He hunted her down and swore he would love only her; and if she thought he was lying, she could take his dagger - which he thrust in the earth in front of her - and slit his throat.
"She walked behind him and held the blade to his throat for a few minutes. Then she threw it aside hard enough to bury it in the ground and kissed him, and told him their first child would be a bastard - and I am, strictly speaking - because if he thought that was all it took to get back into her good graces enough to marry her, he'd clearly suffered a head wound, and someone should take a look at that."
Patrick burst out laughing. "She did?"
"She did," Pete said, smiling. Patrick could feel the curve of his mouth where it was pressed against Patrick's cheek. "I was born in the middle of a very heated argument about whether or not my mother was going to provide a dowry." He shrugged. "I'm distant human nobility, though I doubt they'd have me." He grinned. "Apparently I bite."
"You do," Patrick said, schooling his face to look serious. "You should show me."
Pete closed his teeth rather gently around Patrick's finger.
Patrick shivered. "Yes," he murmured, "just like that."
*
When Patrick woke the next morning, Pete was packing their meager things up and seemed visibly nervous for the first time in - ever, actually. "How did you sleep?"
In a lump, Patrick said, yawning. What's wrong? What's going on?
"We're home." Pete tied his rucksack - one of Patrick's, technically - up and stacked it by the window, along with Patrick's other two bags. "We arrived a few minutes ago. I just wanted everything packed up before we left."
I'm scared, Patrick whined, burying his face between his paws. He could hear town noises outside, maybe even city noises, all of them louder than anything he'd ever heard. They made his head hurt.
"It'll help if you change back to human form," Pete said. He slid his boots on, reached for a shirt. "Then it just sounds like a town." He paused. "Mostly. Louder than you're used to, I think."
Patrick stood up very slowly and thought taller, weaker, vulnerable, bare, shivering as he changed back to human skin. He stripped out of what was left of his trousers, tossing them into the corner, and reached for some of the clothes he'd brought with him. They were his second-finest trousers and shirt -- Pete was wearing his best -- and suitable for winter, though he could still feel a chill in them now, in the carriage. Oh, yes, he'd need new, warmer clothes before too long.
Still nervous, Patrick peeked out the window.
There was a group of people standing there: a man and woman, clearly Pete's parents - his mother had the same bone structure to her face, his father the same eyes - wearing clothes better suited to riding than ruling, and a young boy and girl. The boy could have been Pete as a child, but the girl's features were even more fine-boned. She looked a bit like the fae folk, come to think of it, though that could have been anything; Patrick wouldn't have been at all surprised to find there were fae in the family somewhere far back.
The boy caught sight of Patrick peeking and waved at him frantically. Patrick, who had always found children mystifying at best, smiled and waved back.
"He likes you." Pete's voice carried over as he tightened his boot laces. "That's hard to do. My brother's very choosy about his friends."
Patrick reddened. "He was just being polite, I'm sure."
A breath of movement - one he could hear now, even - and Pete was flush against his back, arms winding around Patrick's waist. "Didn't I tell you? We have no word for 'polite'."
"Then how do you know what it means?"
"I read," Pete said loftily. He kissed Patrick's mouth - with more than a little tooth, which made Patrick want to loll on his back and bare his belly - then stepped back, lacing their fingers together. "I spent a lot of time in this funny little cabin in the woods, trying to convince a beautiful boy to stop being an idiot."
"Oh?" Patrick looked at him. "And how did that work out?"
Pete touched the crown of his head. "He has a fine coat of red-gold fur," he said softly. "And I will not be without him again."
"No," Patrick said, "you won't."
And then, holding onto Pete’s hand, he opened the door and went to start the rest of his life.
*
so maybe a year, year-and-a-half ago, i started this story. i do not honestly remember what the inspiration was, except that maybe i wanted to write my own fairy tale. i kind of hate the idea that traditional fairy tales always involve a man and a woman, so why not do it with two dudes? and i like the rhythm of the language in fairy tales, that weird sense of imparting a lot of minor details in the base of an overarching story, which you can get twigged for doing in a more contemporary setting.
...also, maybe i wanted to see pete as a werewolf. DON'T JUDGE ME.
one day, there may be a sequel to this story, in which we find out about pete's ex-boyfriend, mikey the vampire prince. and how mikey's brother gerard has a thing for their human servant. that one would be more of a class examination and probably contain less porn.
Everything hurt.
They'd stopped beating him, once or twice, to catch their breath; Patrick took the time to suck in lungfuls of air and try not to black out. He was mostly seeing the world in swaths of greys and black, now, but so what? He could still see. He took a wet, heavy breath and tried to stand.
A boot caught him in the ribs. "Gene! He's gettin' up!"
Slow, heavy footfalls. Patrick screamed when one of them stepped on his fingers. They made sharp noises, like kindling breaking.
Please, he thought wildly, don't let Pete come back right now. They'll kill him, prince or garou or what have you, and I could not bear it.
The boot came down again, this time on his nose, and Patrick didn't have time to think anything else.
*
When he opened his eyes again, Pete was looking at him. From a great distance, it seemed; then Patrick realized that no, Pete's face was next to his own, but his eyes weren't working that well.
"Hurts," Patrick managed. Even saying so little made him cough. He tried to sit up, but nothing was listening - not his legs, not his back, certainly not his arms. He turned his head and spat, not at all surprised to see how red it was.
Pete pushed his hair out of his face. "Your outside wounds have slowed or stopped bleeding," he said, "but you're still bleeding inside. I can s-smell it." His face was pale and grave.
Patrick made a quiet noise and stared up at the ceiling. "They. Saw. You." He spat again. "They will." Cough. "Be. Back. You. Sh-" A long, rattling cough, this one ending with a mouthful of blood. "Should. Go."
"Not without you." Pete frowned, sitting up straight, head angled. "Sssh."
He's smelling them, Patrick realized. Even as hurt as he was, he made himself pay attention. He'd never really let himself notice the small things: how Pete angled his head or pointed his whole body towards a conversation; the long, deep breaths designed to draw in scents. It was strangely lovely. He wished he'd paid attention to it before now, when it was almost too late.
"Rough cotton," Pete finally said. His expression was thunderous. "Hay, tobacco, dung, woodsmoke, cheap rotgut - farmers." Another breath. "Three of them?"
It hurt too much to nod. "Yes."
"Two of them were brothers," Pete said. "And - candles? Poor wine, wet wool, that damned smell of pens - a scribe? No, you have none, and no colleges eith--" He cut off and stared at Patrick, gobsmacked. "The priest."
Patrick wanted to tell him, he really did, but speaking was agony that just lead to blood being spit up. He took short, shallow breaths and let Pete hold his hand.
"'m sorry," he said faintly. Any more force and he'd start coughing, but speaking so quietly was almost - not all right, but close.
Pete's voice was sharp. "Don't ever say that again. This was not your fault, not any of it. Might as well call it my fault; I should have stolen you out of here as soon as I was fit to travel--"
"Stop." Patrick took a breath, waited to see if it would rattle in his chest. When it didn't, he continued. "'s my fault for running so long. I was scared. Still am, but that's-" wet cough "-less important now."
He could see it now but distantly, like a dream. A line of wolves peering over the edges of a mountain pass, looking to see who was coming. Who would walk their streets and help corral a child when one broke free of her lessons, or listen to their stories? Taste their wine and take too much, then fall lazily asleep on top of the sheets?
Pete, of course; he'd be going home. But he would do it alone.
"Love," he said softly, and started to close his eyes.
"No," Pete said, tugging on his arm. As much as Patrick wanted to be distant and dreaming, the pain of it shocked him awake. "Patrick. Patrick, listen to me."
It would be hard not to; Pete's eyes almost gleamed, this close. He was full of some purpose, suddenly, where a moment ago he'd been ready to start mourning.
"I did not mean," Pete whispered, and stopped. He brushed something away from Patrick's face -- blood, most likely; his fingers were red when he drew them back. "I wanted you to have a choice. Do you understand?"
Patrick watched him. Even to his own ears, his breath sounded wetter by the second.
"Now the only choice is no choice at all." His eyes were calm. "Patrick. Do you want to live?"
Patrick started to close his eyes.
"No!" Pete shook him. "It's at least partly a matter of will, magic alone cannot -- Patrick. Do you want to live?"
He tried nodding again; this time, it took.
Pete let out a breath. "It will hurt," he said softly. "Even if you were not near death, it would hurt. But you will live, I swear it." He took a deep breath, and another, and buried his face against Patrick's shoulder.
Patrick was dimly aware that suddenly Pete felt fuzzy -- not warm and fuzzy, but furry, like a child's toy; and that he was growling, very faintly. It was really very sweet, if absurd. Why would--
--and then there was a ripping, like someone -- say, a garou, or a prince of the garou -- shredding his flesh, cutting into him with two dozen or more tiny knives, and Patrick was screaming and screaming; and when something in him tore free, it felt sweetly, blessedly like death.
Part IV
Except it wasn't, Patrick realized when he opened his eyes.
Or maybe it was, because nothing hurt. He almost felt lighter, more compact. The whole house smelled terrible, like death and beatings; he was glad they'd be leaving it soon. His tail wagged at the thou--
--wait a moment.
Patrick looked down at himself and yelped, or tried to. It came out more as a yip.
It's all right, someone said next to him. Patrick looked. It was Pete -- or rather, the brown-black wolf Pete had been when they'd first met. He was maybe a quarter of a head taller in this form, not to mention more muscular.
Of course I am, Pete said, irritated. You're still new. You might as well be a puppy. He nudged Patrick with his head. Is it very strange?
Patrick -- didn't frown, really. Wolves didn't have facial expressions. Hmmm. Yes. No. It's sort of. Both?
Pete whuffled. You'll get used to it, he said -- only they weren't exactly talking. He was thinking, for the most part, with the occasional whine or snuffle or growl thrown in. It's not scary, I promise.
Patrick butted Pete's shoulder with his head. Can I change back? I don't -- I want to be human again. Eventually. Maybe.
Pete whuffled his head. Patrick was starting to think that was the wolf version of laughing. You can change back. You can do whatever you want, now.
Nudge. Then I want to be with you.
Pete made a low noise and started licking Patrick 's muzzle. We'll leave in the morning. I'll get the carriage. We can be gone before--
Patrick's ears perked up as his spine straightened. He could hear something that sounded like thunder rolling towards them incredibly fast. Pete! There's a storm, I can hear it--
That's not a storm. Pete was low on his belly, claws dug into the wood, ears flattened against his skull. It's people. Coming in a hurry.
Patrick was astonished. That's what people sound like? he said. How did I manage t--
And then he smelled them. Hard not to; their scents were all over the house, under the blood and the painragefear smell. Only now they were sour with drink and sweat and piss, and one -- Gene, who'd broken his fingers -- had the sex smell on him too. They all carried weapons, and they were laughing when they came in.
Laughing.
They'd beaten him near to death (much later and he would've been dead, that Patrick knew in his bones) with hands and feet, teeth and boots. They'd broken his mother's furniture and pissed on it, laughing. They'd called him horrible names, lies and exaggerated truths, and the priest had prayed while they did it. He hadn't been able to focus one eye, he'd breathed blood, and his testicles were so swollen the pain had made him vomit.
He'd grown up with these men, or near them, and now they were laughing. One had a club; one had a skinning knife. The third was unzipping his trousers as he walked in, reeking of piss.
Patrick darted forward and bit the man's prick off.
The whole thing was odd. He could taste blood and meat, two things the wolf in him called good, but other smells, too: sex, piss, something gamey his mind labeled as "human" and shied away from. Patrick spat it out.
The man was on the ground, screaming. "Holy god," the skinny man whispered. To Patrick's new ears, it sounded more like a shout. He was the one with a club. "Holy god, there's two of 'em--"
You, Pete said, his voice like doom in Patrick's mind. He reared forward and bit at the man's ankle. It gave way with a noise Patrick heard as part-squelch, part-snap. The man screamed and tried to kick Pete away, but his teeth were too firmly planted.
One of the other men -- Knife, Patrick called him, because he had one in his hand and stank of metalwork -- reached for Pete and yanked his ear, hard. Pete howled but didn't let go.
"Let go, you fuckin' animal," Knife said, spitting, and brought the knife down, sawing at the tender place where ear joined to head. Pete howled and let go, shaking his head frantically. Stop it! Patrick heard. Pete sounded young and terrified.
He didn't think. He couldn't think. His mate was in pain, was suffering, and he could do something about it.
He bolted from Wounded's side and didn't bother to growl, just reared up and bit off a good chunk of Knife's leg. Knife fell, screaming.
"My leg! My fuckin' leg--"
His ear, Patrick thought, his fucking ear, and bit him again, digging into the wound, biting at stringy things. He wasn't sure what they were, but every time he clamped his jaws down Knife screamed more loudly.
Pete banged his head against Patrick's side. Patrick. Patrick, I'm fine.
No you're not! Patrick yelled. Your ear--
--is already healing. Pete nudged him again and showed off his ear. It still looked terrible, but Patrick's eyes -- his new eyes, his wolf eyes -- could see the skin and muscle reknitting. We're very hard to kill, love.
He hurt you! Patrick dug his teeth in, savoring the noises Knife made. He wants to kill us!
Yes, he probably does. Pete snarled at Club, who was trying to get up. But you can make a choice, Patrick.
Patrick whimpered, digging his claws into the floor. He didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to do anything but sleep and learn to hunt, shift back to human at some point and see if he'd begun to heal. Things were so much simpler before.
"Fuckers," Knife gasped. "Gene, get 'em--" He still had his knife in his hand, though his grip was far more loose. could smell his hate from here.
Kill them, he thought, and burrowed his face into the curve of Knife's neck just long enough to close his teeth in Knife's throat and tear. It gave with surprising ease.
Knife's feet drummed against the floor for a few moments, then stopped.
Patrick looked at the body for a long time. The human in him, the man who lived by himself and didn't eat meat, was horrified; the wolf was in turns bored, hungry, and ready to do it again. He heard a distant snapping sound, and another, like kindling breaking. Or his fingers.
It's done, Pete said. He sounded tired. I snapped their necks.
Patrick turned on him, barking. Why? Why did you -- they were mine to hurt! Mine to kill! You had no right--
Pete darted forward and seized the scruff of Patrick's neck in his jaws. Patrick yelped.
We are a pack, Pete said. In this pack, I am the alpha. I decide who to kill, I punish those who deserve it. Not you.
Patrick ripped himself away, howling at the feel of his new skin giving way under Pete's teeth. Leave me alone! he snarled, and darted through the open door and into the woods.
*
Patrick hunkered down and shivered in the snow. He could feel the cold through his fur, but he wasn't so uncomfortable he wanted to head inside just yet. He wiped Knife's blood from his muzzle, feeling the snow bite into his skin. Shivered again.
He'd killed someone. He'd killed, with no thought in his mind but pain and anger, and made Pete complicit in it -- made him kill two others, though he'd been ambivalent about it at best. He was a killer, now, a murderer; the same things he'd tried to name Pete, weeks ago. Any sensible man would crawl off to die.
"Oh, stop," Pete said. He was still a ways off, but Patrick could hear him as if he was right there. "It was self-defense. Any right-thinking Ombudsman would take that into account and make you do service for the community -- a few weeks' toil at their farms, perhaps."
Patrick lifted his head a little. I don't know what that is, he admitted, feeling -- as he usually did, with Pete -- very provincial. Our judge was sent from two towns over. He set the Philpott boy to lose a hand for letting weasels free in Goodman Warmington's garden.
Pete stopped a few yards away and looked at him. "And for that, he lost a hand?"
Oh, yes, when I was a boy. Patrick shook snow off his muzzle. Now Tim Philpott has a rake where his hand should be. He says he doesn't mind.
"They sever limbs for pranks and tried to murder you for kissing another man," Pete muttered. "We cannot leave this place fast enough." He walked over and knelt beside Patrick in the snow, stroking his fur.
Patrick shook more snow off. I killed them, he said. If I leave, I can't ever come back.
Pete scratched behind Patrick's ears. "And I hope you won't hate me for too long if that makes me happy, in some small way."
Patrick looked at him and let out a quiet howl. It was no different than he'd planned that morning -- that morning? It seemed years ago, now -- except what he'd planned left him the option of returning later, if he wanted; now, he could not. He'd surely be hanged if he ever came back, hanged or worse.
He would miss his mother, but he'd missed her for years. There was no real chance of his father returning to meet the son he'd abandoned before his birth. And while he was friendly and polite enough with some of the townspeople, he did not truly count any of them as a friend. His bags were already packed; if they hadn't been too terribly damaged in the brawl, it would be nothing at all to load them onto a carriage.
When will it be here? he asked. The carriage, I mean.
"At first light," Pete said. His eyes were bright, but his voice was carefully even. "Do you think their families will miss them before then? If they will, I can go back and bring it now."
Patrick whuffled. Morning should be fine. Their families will doubtless think they're lying somewhere, asleep with too much drink.
"Then come back to the cabin," Pete said softly. "Or at least closer to it. I can rig a lean-to, enough to keep the snow off, and we can build a fire." He buried his face in Patrick's soft fur.
All right, Patrick said. And though he was very new to both being a wolf and having someone comfort him, he decided it would be all right if just this once he let Pete lead him in both.
*
The carriage was beautiful, the finest in the village, but Pete presented it with actual nerves in his voice, like he was afraid Patrick would be disappointed. "It's not what I'd like," he said, "and you deserve better, but. It's what's available."
Patrick whuffled and looked at him, then leapt inside. It was good, solid wood, overlaid with silks and satins. There was room inside for seven or eight people comfortably, nine or ten if they actually had to bump knees. The edges had finely worked carvings in them, like someone was telling a story. It was the finest thing he'd ever seen.
--and Pete was apologizing because they deserved better.
This will do, Patrick said meekly, and rested his head on his front paws. He closed his eyes.
*
When he opened them again, they were crossing the Swift River.
Patrick's village was bordered to the north and the west by two rivers; both of them were simply called the River. The proper name of the one to the west was Deep River (because it was slow and placid as a cow, but if you tried to walk across it'd swallow you up; and if you weren't a good swimmer, forget it), while the one to the north was called Swift River (because if you tossed a rope across and if you were an excellent swimmer, with strong arms and legs, and if luck was with you, maybe you could pull yourself across before the current swept you away). There were bridges over both; it just seemed sensible. And safer.
Patrick ran to one of the windows and stared out, rapt.
"You act like you've never seen a river before." Pete's voice was scratchy.
Not this one, Patrick said. You can't even fish this river; it's too fast. Little spits and spurts of white foam kept breaking the surface. My mother told me once that a long time ago, in lean years, the older villagers would walk into the river when a child was born. So there'd be enough food to go around.
"It's possible," Pete said after a minute. "It's not unheard of, anyway." Patrick heard the sound of rolling thunder -- footsteps, he now knew -- and didn't start when Pete sat next to him.
"It's been two days," he said, "and you haven't changed back."
Patrick watched the river. Don't want to.
"You really should," Pete said. "Please. Let me at least see how you're healing."
Patrick whuffled. If I must, he finally said. How--
"Changing shapes? Easiest thing in the world." Pete scratched behind his ears. "Just...think about being a man again. How it felt. How you were taller, and your senses were blunt, and you had two legs."
Patrick whuffled and shook his head, then moved to the back of the carriage. He concentrated on what Pete said: being two-legged again. Having longer limbs and no fur, and weak eyes, and he couldn't smell or hear anything -- and just that fast, he was changing, shifting, curled up and panting on the floor of the carriage.
It felt very cold, suddenly. Patrick remembered he'd only had trousers on when he changed the first time and shivered, looking up at Pete.
"A b-blanket--" he started, but Pete was already wrapping one around his shoulders, drawing it tight.
"I'll get you another when I'm done looking," he said, and peeled the blanket away. His fingers were brisk, poking and prodding Patrick until he made noises, staring critically at bruises and gashes in his skin. It could have been worse, Patrick decided; he was almost painfully cold, but it was easier to breathe -- it sounded easier, anyway -- and his vision was back to normal. Maybe even a tiny bit better, though his mind was probably just playing a trick on him.
"You'll live," Pete announced after a few minutes, pulling the blanket close around his shoulders. Patrick clutched at it gratefully. "There'll be very faint scars on your chest - they got you good, there - but that's all. If you'd still been human and managed to survive, you'd look like a soldier home from the wars."
Patrick stared at him blankly. "We've never sent anyone to war."
Pete's expression softened. "Then it was good for one thing, at least." He smiled a little. "Do you notice the differences yet?"
Patrick concentrated for a moment. His senses were stronger; it was just different enough to be obvious. His manskin (or so he translated it) couldn't pick up scents and sounds as well as his wolfskin could, but things seemed - brighter. Textures were richer. He could smell faint traces of game on Pete's breath from a few hours ago, as well as Pete's own smell: soap and something almost like game, only more pungent.
The smell grew sharply when Patrick took the blanket off and resettled it around his shoulders. Which was strange, because all that did was expose his belly and his chest--
Patrick flushed red. "Oh," he said, squeezing the blanket tight.
Pete nodded. "It's obvious when you know how I smell, isn't it?"
"It i--" Patrick stared at him, horrified. "Oh my God. All those months in my house--"
"I told you I knew when you were aroused." Pete smiled. "Though we don't smell exactly alike; no two people do, not even a parent and a child." He reached out and clasped his hand over Patrick's. "I missed you," he said softly. "Please don't go back just yet, Patrick. Please."
"It's cold," Patrick said, just as softly. But he didn't shift forms, just curled closer to Pete and buried his face against his throat. "I wish I'd been able to say goodbye."
"To your friends?" Pete said. "Strange, I don't remember you having people come calling. Though there was that sly boy with all the wool--"
"Mr. Warren's son?" Patrick was incredulous. "Not hardly. There's no local boy foolish enough to give me the eye."
"He was eyeing your backside," Pete muttered darkly. He peeled the blanket back enough to put it around his own shoulders, pressed himself tight against Patrick's side. "Though I suppose I should brace myself for it. You won't just be mine anymore."
"You saved my life," Patrick said. "I will always be yours." He shook his head when Pete started to speak. "And not just because you changed me. Living alone in that cabin, thinking I was wrong...that wasn't any different than not being alive at all. I will always be grateful to you for that."
"Not grateful," Pete said. "That implies obligation." He snuggled closer. "You're mine, but not for any reason other than because you want to be."
Patrick bit at the sharp line of Pete's jaw. "I am," he said simply, and took another breath of his scent.
*
Patrick slept for most of the carriage ride. The wolf in him was extraordinarily bored by the lush countryside, unless they stopped for a while and he could run around; then it was exciting. He could hunt down fresh game and bring it so Pete could have his share. (Cooked, sadly; humans did themselves an injury by burning their meat. Of course, the human in him was horrified that he was actually eating meat, so. Tradeoff.)
They made good time. Before lunch the first time, they'd passed the furthest point Patrick had ever gone by himself; before sunset, they were past where anyone had gone, even the village elders -- excluding merchants, of course. It was terrifying and exciting all at once, enough to make Patrick shiver sometimes.
The best times, though, were when Pete would take wolf-shape and go with him. He was an excellent teacher; Patrick grasped basic things as soon as he changed, but not details or nuance. He knew about hunting, but not about how to tell which areas of brush near a lake provided the best place to wait for deer or small animals.
And there were other benefits, too, like when Patrick was napping in a patch of sunlight and Pete found him and -- mounted him, the person in him supposed he'd say. What are you, he started, and let out a low whine.
Mine, Pete panted, in his mind. Mine, my boy, my mate, my pack, mine. They tried to touch you, and we killed them for it. You were right to do it. The press and thrust of his hips seemed more -- urgent, somehow. Patrick whined and bore his hips back against him.
It was brief, especially when compared to what they'd done in the cabin, but no less satisfying. Patrick pawed the ground for a moment when Pete pulled out, but then Pete said and now you, his backside already presented, and Patrick went gladly.
Afterwards, they took down a pair of rabbits and feasted happily, tails brushing against one another.
*
The trip took far longer than Patrick would've thought. They stopped rarely, to get provisions or let the horses rest, and stayed to themselves when they did stop. Patrick caught himself peering out the window at strangers, townsfolk of whatever village or trading post they'd stopped at, and growling. He didn't know how they could stand it - how he'd stood it for so long. They smelled like sheep after a fierce storm: weak meat.
"Not too much longer now," Pete said the third night out. They were in a private room for the night, the remains of their meal - a few small bones, from their game birds - neatly stacked on top of the table. Patrick was sprawled in front of the fire, back legs splayed against old wood; Pete was wrapped in a blanket, stroking the fur along his back. If he found a burr or tangle, he picked it out. "Another day, perhaps two. No more than that."
So long? Patrick butted his head against Pete's hand. Can we go now? This village stinks of men and riverwater. It's all filth.
"It is not." Pete started digging out a burr. "It's just how people smell. Believe me, regular wolves aren't rosebuds themselves."
I hate them. Patrick bared his teeth in a snarl. I don't ever want to be a weak, whining, puling two-legged thing again, not if I live a hundred years.
Pete's voice, when he spoke, was quiet. "You'd deny me the man I came for?"
Patrick looked at him.
"I love you in all your forms. But it was the man who took in a stray wolf, and darned his own socks. And it was a man who said I owed him a boon and kissed me, though it terrified him." Pete tossed the burr into the fire. "And it was the man I asked to come home with me, though the wolf in him will always be welcome."
There was a long pause.
I'm scared, Patrick finally said, hating the words.
Pete just nodded. "Of course you are. It's only sensible. But you are going home now, where you will be free to do whatsoever you wish, as I promised." He leaned over and kissed Patrick's head, mouth warm against his fur. "There's nothing to fear, love."
Patrick whuffled and butted his head against Pete's hand. When I meet them, he swore, I'll do it on two legs, not four. I promise.
Pete just smiled. "Then you will," he said, and started brushing out another tangle.
*
They talked, once or twice, about their families.
All of Patrick's stories were old, and he'd told them more than once back at the cottage: brother dead before he was born, mother dead, father vanished before he was born.
"He left after my mother died," Patrick said matter-of-factly. "My mother told him she was pregnant again, and he told her to get rid of it - me, that he wouldn't love another child just to see it dead again. She refused. He packed his things up, even the gifts she gave as dowry, and left. I've never met him, or even seen a sketch or drawing." He shivered and stole some more of the blankets. "She said I have his eyes, though, and his hairline." Self-conscious, he touched his scalp. The hair was already starting to grow thin.
Pete pressed himself closer, one arm stealing around Patrick's waist. "I am the oldest of three children," he said. He'd said it before, but Patrick liked hearing his stories, so it was all right. "My mother was born of our people, but my father is like you. The way I've always heard the story, she had the dreams, too. So she rode out alone into the world of men and found my father, who was the son of a landowner - and a minor noble - and swore to marry him. My father fell in love with her, and she with him, but he was betrothed to the miller's daughter."
Engrossed, Patrick made a noise. This story was new. "What did she do? I mean, obviously they were married."
"Eventually, yes. But my father was not so terribly brave when he was younger, and part of him wanted to do as his parents wished and marry the girl." He tightened his arms around Patrick. "So the night before his wedding, my mother called to my father from outside his window; and he went to her, and she was lovely, and they mated in the heart of the forest. My father was content, but my mother shoved him aside and began to dress.
"'Where are you going?' my father asked. He was young, and thought he could bed a foreign girl the night before his marriage with no effect. Perhaps he even thought he'd keep her in a cottage, as his - I don't know what you'd call it. His side-wife?"
"Mistress," Patrick said thoughtfully. "Maybe doxy."
"Whatever it was, it was wrong. My mother finished dressing and turned to him. 'Silly man, I am the eldest daughter of a king of the garou, and next in line for my father's throne. You thought you were bedding one of the wild folk, and that I am, but not in the way you meant. I am a princess in my homelands, and I return with a son in my belly. But unless you come to me and prove yourself a man and not a boy with an eager - and admittedly talented - prick, you will have neither of us.' And she climbed on her horse, and nestled in her father's castle, to grow her son and nurse her wounded heart."
"Your mother," Patrick said after a pause, "has a very salty tongue."
Pete nodded. "She had a sailor's wife as one of her nursemaids, for a bit." He buried his face in Patrick's hair. "Where was I?"
"Your mother returned home pregnant with you."
Pete nodded again. "The night before she gave birth, the guardsmen spotted a man riding for the front gates. He was filthy, bedraggled, and demanded to see her and his child--"
"Your father?"
"My father," Pete nodded. "He'd returned home the night my mother left him and lain awake all night. When it came time for the ceremony, he'd refused to do it. He packed two bags and fled after her. Sadly, as a human my father was a terrible tracker; it took him months to find her trail. He hunted her down and swore he would love only her; and if she thought he was lying, she could take his dagger - which he thrust in the earth in front of her - and slit his throat.
"She walked behind him and held the blade to his throat for a few minutes. Then she threw it aside hard enough to bury it in the ground and kissed him, and told him their first child would be a bastard - and I am, strictly speaking - because if he thought that was all it took to get back into her good graces enough to marry her, he'd clearly suffered a head wound, and someone should take a look at that."
Patrick burst out laughing. "She did?"
"She did," Pete said, smiling. Patrick could feel the curve of his mouth where it was pressed against Patrick's cheek. "I was born in the middle of a very heated argument about whether or not my mother was going to provide a dowry." He shrugged. "I'm distant human nobility, though I doubt they'd have me." He grinned. "Apparently I bite."
"You do," Patrick said, schooling his face to look serious. "You should show me."
Pete closed his teeth rather gently around Patrick's finger.
Patrick shivered. "Yes," he murmured, "just like that."
*
When Patrick woke the next morning, Pete was packing their meager things up and seemed visibly nervous for the first time in - ever, actually. "How did you sleep?"
In a lump, Patrick said, yawning. What's wrong? What's going on?
"We're home." Pete tied his rucksack - one of Patrick's, technically - up and stacked it by the window, along with Patrick's other two bags. "We arrived a few minutes ago. I just wanted everything packed up before we left."
I'm scared, Patrick whined, burying his face between his paws. He could hear town noises outside, maybe even city noises, all of them louder than anything he'd ever heard. They made his head hurt.
"It'll help if you change back to human form," Pete said. He slid his boots on, reached for a shirt. "Then it just sounds like a town." He paused. "Mostly. Louder than you're used to, I think."
Patrick stood up very slowly and thought taller, weaker, vulnerable, bare, shivering as he changed back to human skin. He stripped out of what was left of his trousers, tossing them into the corner, and reached for some of the clothes he'd brought with him. They were his second-finest trousers and shirt -- Pete was wearing his best -- and suitable for winter, though he could still feel a chill in them now, in the carriage. Oh, yes, he'd need new, warmer clothes before too long.
Still nervous, Patrick peeked out the window.
There was a group of people standing there: a man and woman, clearly Pete's parents - his mother had the same bone structure to her face, his father the same eyes - wearing clothes better suited to riding than ruling, and a young boy and girl. The boy could have been Pete as a child, but the girl's features were even more fine-boned. She looked a bit like the fae folk, come to think of it, though that could have been anything; Patrick wouldn't have been at all surprised to find there were fae in the family somewhere far back.
The boy caught sight of Patrick peeking and waved at him frantically. Patrick, who had always found children mystifying at best, smiled and waved back.
"He likes you." Pete's voice carried over as he tightened his boot laces. "That's hard to do. My brother's very choosy about his friends."
Patrick reddened. "He was just being polite, I'm sure."
A breath of movement - one he could hear now, even - and Pete was flush against his back, arms winding around Patrick's waist. "Didn't I tell you? We have no word for 'polite'."
"Then how do you know what it means?"
"I read," Pete said loftily. He kissed Patrick's mouth - with more than a little tooth, which made Patrick want to loll on his back and bare his belly - then stepped back, lacing their fingers together. "I spent a lot of time in this funny little cabin in the woods, trying to convince a beautiful boy to stop being an idiot."
"Oh?" Patrick looked at him. "And how did that work out?"
Pete touched the crown of his head. "He has a fine coat of red-gold fur," he said softly. "And I will not be without him again."
"No," Patrick said, "you won't."
And then, holding onto Pete’s hand, he opened the door and went to start the rest of his life.
*
so maybe a year, year-and-a-half ago, i started this story. i do not honestly remember what the inspiration was, except that maybe i wanted to write my own fairy tale. i kind of hate the idea that traditional fairy tales always involve a man and a woman, so why not do it with two dudes? and i like the rhythm of the language in fairy tales, that weird sense of imparting a lot of minor details in the base of an overarching story, which you can get twigged for doing in a more contemporary setting.
...also, maybe i wanted to see pete as a werewolf. DON'T JUDGE ME.
one day, there may be a sequel to this story, in which we find out about pete's ex-boyfriend, mikey the vampire prince. and how mikey's brother gerard has a thing for their human servant. that one would be more of a class examination and probably contain less porn.