Scents
by No Rain Today
Tommy didn't need the Wolf to be able to tell you what Merton Dingle smelt like. It was a scent he could recognize anywhere– one he'd come to know and revel in. At the end of any given day Merton had a faint trace of sweat about him and a stronger, smoky aroma acquired from various incenses and scented candles and those cloves that Merton liked to think that Tommy didn't know he smoked. His scent was pleasingly spicy, like hot cider. Tommy could also tell you what Merton smelled like right out of the shower. It was a mixture of citrus, lavender, and blueberries and, to Tommy, there was no sweeter scent. There would never be any sweeter scent, Tommy reasoned, as he held Merton close in the comforting dark of the night.
As he shifted ever-so-slightly in Tommy's embrace, Merton reasoned that he didn't need any Wolf-like senses to tell you what Tommy Dawkins smelt like. No other scent– no cologne, herb nor spice– could evoke in him the feelings and memories that Tommy's scent did. He had a rich, earthy scent that would envelope you like a blanket. It reminded Merton of burnt wood and the glowing embers of a fire fading out on a cold night. He had a sort of wild, unexplainable scent about him too, one that was indicative of the animal in him. That too was comforting, though, Merton thought. It always had been.
They complimented each other well, they did. Their scents– all of them: the strong and the light, the faintly sweet and the earthly rich– mingled, intertwined perfectly. They wrapped themselves together tightly, breathing deepening and peaceful slumber overtaking them.