DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya
SNOW WHITE, BLOOD RED
TEN
GILBERT
Matthew smells delicious today. He feels delicious.
He's standing at the iron cooker, stirring something with a wooden spoon that bubbles as it boils. It smells like sugar and strawberries—a syrupy jam made for Alfred, because it's his favourite treat. I peer over Matthew's shoulder as he adds more strawberry preservatives into the copper pot, watching the alchemy of cookery as the flavours melt and blend. It smells good, but not nearly as good as Matthew does. I lean in closer, my hands resting on his hips and my fingers pressing into the indented curve of his waist. I inhale deeply, wishing that I could taste the mouth-watering scent, but before I can; before my tongue can dart out to lick the boy's warm, rosy skin, Francis seizes the back of my shirt-collar and jerks me away.
"No," he says firmly, stabbing forth a warning finger.
A little later, while awaiting for the jam to simmer, Matthew goes outside to collect the freshly falling snow. I follow, amused and aroused by the boy holding a basket of clean, virgin snow the way others hold spring flowers. It's needed to make ice-cream, he tells me.
"What does ice-cream taste like?" I ask, intrigued. I lean against the cottage, my arms crossed comfortably.
"It's delicious," he replies, eyes sparkling. "It's sweet and milky, but frozen. And especially good with fruit."
"Jam?" I tease.
He nods, smiling. "Or maple syrup."
Maple syrup, I've had. I've eaten the frozen sap of maple trees, but Matthew shakes his head and tells me it's not quite the same as syrup. The alchemy of boiling the sap is the missing key component, allegedly.
"I'll make you a special treat tonight," he promises, "so you can try it."
"I'd rather try you," I start to say—gods, I want to lick the snow off his face!—but Arthur interrupts.
"Sorry?" Matthew looks expectantly at me. "I didn't hear you, Gilbert. What did you say?"
"Never-mind," Arthur waves his hand dismissively at me as he ushers Matthew back inside. "I need a hand with something, pet. Gilbert," he says to me, green eyes glaring, "go fetch some firewood." Then he closes the door in my face.
Rather rude of the person I'm supposed to be learning good-manners from. Francis and Antonio keep telling me to express myself, to share my feelings with Matthew, which is exactly what I was trying to do before Arthur rudely interrupted. I was going to tell him how good he smells, how lovely he is. I was going to tell him how much I want to taste him and touch him and mate him, because it's precisely how I feel. Now, I can't help but feel this system of good-manners is flawed.
I go into the woods to grudgingly collect firewood, but being alone with my thoughts only fuels my yearning desire. The pull of the wolf has been strong lately, but today it's maddening. I desperately want to shed these human rags and human-skin and become a wolf. I feel it in my bones as they stretch and crack. I feel it in my heart, pounding like a fast, steady drumbeat. I feel it in my throat as I bite back a howl. I feel it everywhere, in everything I do, except in the lust I feel for Matthew. I want him with an animal passion, but as a human-man. It's the first time during a full moon that I've wanted my human-form more than my wolf-form, but it's a powerful, impatient want that makes me hunger for my human-boy.
"I want my Matthew."
FRANCIS
I look from left-to-right to be sure no one is watching, then vault over a fence of sharp-topped wooden stakes, landing in the grocers' back-garden. The backdoor is closed, but the window shudders are open a crack, and through it I can see Lovino standing at the harvest table. He's tossing potatoes over his shoulder at random as he peels them, aiming for trajectories he doesn't think Antonio can reach in time, but the playful wolf's agility far surpasses his, leaping and catching deftly, making the boy laugh openly, his pretty face as delighted as Antonio's is. Antonio's green eyes twinkle, loving the game of fetch, and proving that he's still a pup at heart.
(I was present at the discovery of Antonio's shameless love for chase. Lovino had been handling something—I don't remember what; a small, rounded object of no importance—when a sudden noise had startled him and flung it accidentally from his hand. Antonio, who had been standing nearby, reacted on impulse. He burst from his human-skin and took off after the flying projectile in elated, four-legged pursuit, his tail wagging furiously when he caught it.
Lovino and I had both scolded him for it afterward: "What if you had been seen?" Lovino had raged, but his fear was irrelevant in the face of Antonio's big, apologetic green eyes. He had bowed his head and held out the object meekly, and said: "I... I retrieved it for you, Lovi."
Lovino had been utterly helpless to those puppy-dog eyes ever since. And it seemed he still was, if the indoor game of fetch was any indication of his indulgence.)
I rap my knuckles lightly on the doorframe to get their attention.
"Hi, Fran," Antonio greets brightly, holding a peeled potato in each hand.
I smile in return, but it's tight. "Tonight is the full moon," I say, without pretense.
The laugh-lines in Antonio's face smooth as his lips curl down in understanding. His jaw squares and tenses, and his jugular bobs as he swallows. I know exactly what he's thinking, what he's feeling, because I'm feeling it inside, too, even after a decade. I can see virility and eagerness in his bright, hungry eyes and the blush of vigor in his cheeks. He glances surreptitiously back at Lovino, then wordlessly invites me to talk outside.
"Do you think it'll be a problem?" he asks when we're alone, keeping his voice low. "Do you think he'll..." He doesn't say the white wolf's name; he leaves the threat unsaid.
I nod regrettably.
"But he's passed a full moon already by the pup's side," Antonio argues weakly. "Maybe he can resist it?"
"Mathieu was deathly ill the last time. He's healthy now," I say simply, with an unwelcome twist of relief and lament.
Antonio pouts reflectively. He's the only wolf I know who pouts when he thinks deeply, when he remembers.
Finally, I reveal the purpose of my visit. "Will you help me?" I ask him.
"Of course," he says resolutely, a sigh in his voice. He knows as well as I do that tonight is going to be a very long, very memorable night.
GILBERT
By the time I return to the cottage, it's dark. The wild hours are drawing close, and not even faerie fire can fend off the convergence of night. I can feel it in my blood, growing hot, warming my skin. It makes me strong. I enter the cottage and can smell the sweetness of strawberries and cream, but, even more, I can smell the musky mating-lust in myself, proof of my desire and intent; proof of my value as an alpha. I wonder if the humans can smell it, too? But no, human noses are dull. I wish my scent was enough to communicate to Matthew what I want, but he's annoyingly—adorably—dense, so I resign myself to human communication, with its easily misinterpreted actions and clumsy words.
Matthew and Alfred are standing together at the cooker, and Arthur sits in his chair by the fire, but Francis is nowhere in sight.
A mind-numbing sweet aroma fills the cottage, but Matthew's scent is still more intoxicating. I can smell him tonight like I never have before, and it's the parched hunger of the greedy wolf in me that carries me across the room to him. I wrap my arms around his middle without permission, hugging him against me, and put my lips, and then my tongue to his jaw. He flinches, startled by the unexpected press of my body. His brother directs a rude comment at me and glares viciously, abandoning the cook-pot and raising the wooden spoon in attack, but Matthew defuses him. His laugh trembles with nerves as he peels himself away from me.
"Um, Gilbert?" he says, putting distance between us.
I lick my lips, my mouth wet for wanting him.
"Yes?" I ask, huskier than intended. I clear my throat and try again. "Yes?"
"Could you..." He blushes. "Could you maybe not lick my face?" he asks politely, a bit timid.
I can't help it, my mouth falls into a pout. I don't want to, but I can feel sulky disappointment rearrange my face. I can feel rejection and a stab of anger, too. "You don't want me to lick you—?" I ask, embarrassed by the pitch of my query; the yearning in my voice.
Matthew purses his lips, and it's then I see him trying to hold back the laughter his violet eyes reveal. "Well," he muses teasingly, sneaking a look at me, "not my face."
Oh, it's a joke! Francis and Antonio have explained jokes to me—games, that's what they are—and my heart swells happily to hear one from Matthew now. He's playing with me, he's flirting with me. (Alfred had explained what flirting was after an incident in town that left me growling jealously at a villager who bragged to Matthew.) Flirting is a human courtship ritual alike claiming, yielding to another's advance. I like it very much.
My mouth curls again into a grin and my fingers stretch, grabbing for him, but before I make contact, Arthur is beside us.
"Matthew, a word," he orders, taking a hold of Matthew's arm.
"I-I-I—okay," Matthew says, confused and helpless as Arthur tugs him into the back-garden, kicking the door shut behind them.
I'm left alone with Alfred, whose demeanor is blatantly unfriendly. His body is closed, arms crossed, and his eyes glare.
Annoyed, all I can think is: What in the world have I done wrong now?
MATTHEW
What are you doing?" asks Arthur accusingly.
I stare at him, at a loss. "I-I—I'm sorry?" I offer half-heartedly.
His expression is stiff with parental disapproval, eyes narrowed with suspicion. "I thought you weren't ready to accept Gilbert," he says; a statement, not a question. "I thought you were going to wait."
"Oh my gods, Art," I exhale a breathless, embarrassed laugh. "It was just a joke—"
"That's not how he interpreted it," Arthur cuts in, "and you know that. So," he repeats invasively, "what are you doing? Do you want to mate with Gilbert?"
"What? No! Of course not, I just... I mean, I don't know...
"Maybe," I admit, speaking quietly to the ground. It's the first time I've admitted it out loud and I can feel my face and palms getting hot. "Is that... so bad?"
I chance a glance at him and see reticence on his face.
"If it's only once—" I hurry to clarify, but again he interrupts, firmer this time.
"It won't be once, Matthew. Sex might mean little to you," he jabs, "but it means quite a lot to him, I promise. Not the act itself, but the meaning of it. If you consent to mate him, he'll understand it as you accepting his claim, his proposal. You'll be giving your consent to a union with him forever," he emphasizes. "Consider it marriage."
"But you said I don't have to decide!" I argue, feigning innocence and accusing him in a grasping attempt to reassign blame. "And you've mated with Francis, haven't you? Does that mean you're married?"
He surprises me with an immediate: "Yes.
"Not legally," he adds, noting my doubt. "He and I are simply betrothed by village law, but by the laws of the wild," he shrugs, "we've been married for years. In fact, the only reason we bothered to make it official by human law was to end all of the judging questions about us living together unmarried." He rolls his eyes in scathing resentment. "As if it makes any bloody difference," he mutters.
"Urgh!" I push my hands through my hair in frustration. "Why didn't you tell us any of this?" I demand. "It would've made everything so much easier!"
"No, it wouldn't," he dismisses my theatrics.
"You said that I have a choice," I say seriously, straightening. "You said I could be with him without choosing to love him."
"Yes," he says again, annoyingly calm, "I said it, because it's true. I'm sorry, pet, but I think you're confusing marriage with love. They're not mutually-exclusive, not in human culture and certainly not in the wild."
"Neither is marriage and sex!" I counter.
Arthur cocks an eyebrow at my fervent outburst, my desperation. I think he knows what I'm feeling inside—oh gods, how embarrassing—but he's kind enough not to point it out. He doesn't want to be having this conversation with me any more than I do, I realize.
Instead, he says: "You're young," as if that excuses—or, at least explains—my behaviour. He says it like being young is concurrently a blessing and a curse, but also with a whisper of regret. Arthur is not old, but somehow I don't think he's ever been as young as me.
"I'm sorry I've left you unprepared for all of this," he says. "I never wanted this for you. It's complicated, and you are not a complex person, Matthew."
I frown, because I think he's insulted me, but I can't be sure, because his tone is gentle.
"I'm not a child," I say defensively. "I'm sixteen."
He laughs at that—actually laughs! A small, chuckled exhale escapes him and his eyes crinkle at the corners, habitually condescending.
"Sixteen," he repeats nostalgically, "yes, of course."
"Don't mock me—"
"I'm not. I'm trying to help you."
"Well—don't!" I snap, and instantly regret it. Oh gods, I sound like Al. Why do I feel so short-tempered?
Arthur merely stares at me, a little surprised but hardly intimidated.
"I'm sorry," I say softly, ashamed of myself. I shrink back into myself, wrapping my arms around my middle. "I didn't mean to yell, I just... I don't know why, but I feel so... so..."
"Wild?" Arthur supplies.
I grab tightly at my sleeves. My heart is racing. "I don't know why," I repeat.
"Yes, you do.
"But, " he says, closing the distance between us, "it's not entirely your fault."
I feel his hand on my head, brushing back my curls. He hooks one behind my ear, provoking me to look up. He smiles.
"Gilbert—?" I guess.
"You're connected to him, Matthew, for better or worse. This—" gently, he touches the claiming-mark on my neck, "—is proof of that. It's not an inherently physical connection, but there are certain... feelings," he says delicately, "that tend to pull more strongly."
I swallow and divert my gaze. "Lust."
"Lust, anger, loss," he confirms, "you'll feel all of these things as he does, to a degree. But you'll also feel joy and comfort and contentment and all of the good things, too. I told you magic wasn't involved in it, and it's not, not in the tangible way you're thinking. It's not a spell or charm that's making you feel things for Gilbert, nor is it any kind of intoxication from his bite. But there is an element of nature, because you are connected; not unlike the way human partners react to each other's emotions by proximity. It's just that with wolves it's more... it's more," he concludes, lost for a better description.
I frown as I digest his words. The stubborn flyaway curl falls back into my face, but neither of us moves to fix it.
"It's the full moon," he continues. "It effects the natural world in quite a forceful way, and wolves are much closer to the natural world than we are. It'll make him hungry tonight," he says, a warning in his tone.
My heartbeat skips in excitement and fear. I'm certain I know the answer, but I want his verbal confirmation, so I ask: "What does that mean?"
Arthur takes a moment to lick his lips, buying time. He doesn't want to tell me. He wants to protect me from the knowledge, wants to keep me ignorant to preserve my innocence, but his fear is moot. It has been for a while. Al and I are not children anymore and he knows this, as much as it worries him; worried, because he can feel the control of us slipping from his grasp and it scares him. But after a lamented moment, he surrenders to the reality of what I've become, of the situation itself, and he speaks.
"The full moon will make the wolf in Gilbert more potent tonight—not physically, but the desires of the wild will become stronger, maddeningly so. It's dangerous. Francis used to leave us on nights of the full moon to protect us from himself, because he knew what might happen if he stayed. He knew that he couldn't control himself."
"He became—violent?" I'm bewildered. I don't believe it. I can't. I can't imagine Francis ever losing control of himself and hurting us. But Arthur's face is uncommonly transparent.
"It's not a violence they understand," he says diplomatically. "A wolf who doesn't understand humans, how a human thinks and feels won't consider it a negative experience. They don't do it to hurt us, or dominate us. They just don't..."
"Understand," I finish soberly. "Did Francis ever—?"
"No, no," Arthur shakes his head vehemently. Then he deflates a little, and reveals: "But Antonio did."
"Lovino?" My hand flies to my mouth in shock.
"Antonio is not like Francis," Arthur says carefully. "I don't think he'll ever be able to completely control the wolf inside of himself. I don't think he'll ever truly become a human, because it's not what his heart wants. As much as he loves Lovino, he loves the wild too, and that's not something he can just surrender. It's who he is; it's what makes him who he is. And I think Gilbert is the same.
"Which is why I'm worried for you," he admits. He runs both hands up my biceps to my shoulders and settles there, squeezing. "I know what it is you're feeling for him tonight. I know how thrilling and tempting it is, but I really, really caution restraint, pet, because the night of the full moon isn't when you want to make that kind of commitment. Trust me."
I feel choked by what he's shared. Fear mingles with the other, wilder feelings burning inside of me, and now I'm conflicted.
"Was Lovino okay?" I manage to ask.
"Yes," Arthur affirms confidently. "It wasn't an attack, he gave Antonio consent. But it was confused consent, and it was a mistake."
"Was it their first time—?"
"Unfortunately, yes. Lovino and Antonio didn't know each other for very long before they mated, not nearly as long as you and Gilbert have. It happened very fast for them, and, while I'm glad it worked out, I can't help feeling sad about the process. It was a reckless and violent courtship full of force and passion and screams and tears and not something I want for you."
I nod meekly. What else can I do?
"Are you alright?" Arthur probes, looking more parental now in his tenderness than in his stern reprimands.
I take a moment to consider, and I'm about to say: yes, I think so, when the cottage door crashes open.
Gilbert stalks out with a feral look in his eyes and teeth in his smile. Inside, Al is sprawled on the floor of the room, wide-eyed and rubbing his cheek, which is red. His stunned state doesn't last long, though. He scrambles to his feet with a flood of filthy vulgarities and a growl big enough to rival the wolves', but Gilbert ignores him. He grabs the door and thrusts it back, slamming it closed on Al's anger. It's a short, hapless diversion, but it locks Al inside long enough for Gilbert to reach Arthur and I. He's breathing hard, his snow-white skin flushed pink and warm with sweat. If he was a human, I'd describe him as hot and bothered, but he's not a human right now; he's a wolf in human-skin, more than I've ever seen. Heat rolls off his tall body, and as he flexes his muscles, tense and wiry, I can practically see the strength coursing through his veins. He licks his wet lips, eyes focused intently on me—only me; nobody has ever looked at me like this before—and just like that I'm caught by him, completely transfixed.
"Stop!" Arthur says, and his hand is on my chest.
His hand is pressed firmly to my chest, pushing back, because I've taken a step toward Gilbert without even realizing it.
"Gilbert," he warns, standing between us, but the wolf doesn't slow. Maybe he can hear the fear in Arthur's voice; maybe he can smell weakness in his scent. Maybe he knows that the silver whistle was left inside.
Arthur faces the wolf—twice my cousin's size, and looking even bigger tonight—and opens his mouth again to speak, to spell-cast, but a powerful blow to the head sends him flying.
It snaps me back to myself and I shriek.
I clap both hands to my mouth and stumble back in bewilderment, frightened of the white wolf like I haven't been since the night he bit me.
"Mattie!" Al yells.
Gilbert's blood-red eyes are bright and unblinking. A rumbling growl spills past his teeth, along with a single, possessive word:
"Mine."
I shake my head, tears gathering in my eyes, but my voice gets stuck in my throat. No, no—please. This isn't my wolf. This selfish, violent beast isn't my wolf!
"My Matthew," he growls, and reaches for me.
GILBERT
Mine."
The single word reverberates inside of me like a song. It purrs like a carnal pleasure, the way I want to make Matthew purr for me. In my mind, I hear his soft, breathless voice gasping in my ears. I feel his smooth, yielding skin under my groping hands, quivering beneath the weight of my body. I smell his sweet, pure scent, which I'll soon rob of its purity and it makes me groan. It makes me mad with want for him. He's there, standing in the snowy garden, so, so beautiful, so gods damned delicious. I want to taste him, drag my tongue all over him. I want to hold him and kiss him and mount him. I won't hurt him. I'd never hurt him. I just want him to be my mate—my precious mate—because I've been waiting for him for such a long time.
I can't wait any longer. My heart is already beating so hard, it'll burst if I can't make him mine.
Mine. My human-boy. I want my human-boy now!
I'm seething and salivating as I cross the garden, because I'm sick of people preventing me from taking what is mine. How dare they presume to match my strength! How dare they question my devotion! I do not belong to them. I am not their pet, not their project. I am an alpha, and I will have what is mine!
"Gilbert," trembles the fey-child, placing himself between me and what's mine.
He's scared—finally he's frightened of me. I love his fear; it makes me powerful. And gods! I hate his ethereal scent the most, this fey-witch!
Get out of my way.
The thought briefly crosses my mind before the back of my hand connects with his head, sending him flying. Ha! He weights nothing at all! He is no alpha! He is nothing compared to me!
But Matthew is everything. He is everything my heart howls for.
He's in front of me now, soft and quiet, meek and yielding, and I can see my reflection in the violet of his big, beautiful eyes. Like me, he smells like lust and it fuels me.
A growl presses past my lips; a rumble of desire.
Do not be afraid, my songbird. I will not hurt you. I will never hurt you again. You are my precious, chosen mate and I love you.
I will love you and you will be mine forever.
"My Matthew," I say happily, and reach for him.
ANTONIO
I can smell the mating-lust before we reach the garden. It's offensive and unapologetically potent. It wrinkles my nose and doubles my pace.
I fight the urge to transform—four legs are faster than two—but Francis is racing as a human, and so must I. I followed his lead back to the cottage, walking, until we heard Gilbert's growl, Matthew's outcry; until we smelled the lust and violence and fear.
I leap the evergreen hedge and reach Gilbert first.
I grab him by the shoulders and yank him back, taking him by surprise. A moment later, Francis is between his pack-members and the vicious white wolf, both hands planted on Gilbert's chest to force him back, away from Matthew and Arthur. Gilbert rages. He jerks and growls, but I lock my arms around him, under his, and half-drag him backwards. It's not easy—he's not light; his body is fit, muscles corded like a rope—but I'm in a more advantageous position. He kicks his legs and whips his arms, slashing the air with hands curled like claws. But his growls are worse, loud and long and deep, yet piercing. They shatter the silence of night. He'll alert the village if we don't quiet him; he'll endanger us all. But his teeth snap and gnash, wet with saliva, and I can't get my footing. Francis can't make him stop. And his eyes—gods! Those red, red eyes bulge like a creature possessed.
"Let go!" he snarls, fighting Francis and I as we drag him away. "Let me go! He's mine—my Matthew! Let go of me, I'll kill you both!
"HE'S MINE!"
Matthew is crying, now. I can see the tears—smell the salty tears—on his face in the full, shining moonlight.
The moon has given Gilbert brutal strength tonight. But it's given Francis and I strength, too.
"Shut up!" I yell at him, losing my temper. "Just shut the hell up you selfish, arrogant, ex-alpha reject!"
Gilbert is momentarily taken aback, but then he howls in outrage and his whole body shivers. I can feel him start to change and I tighten my grasp, digging my fingers into his shifting skin, trying to prevent what I know I can't.
I meet Francis' eyes and we agree. We need to take Gilbert away from here—far, far away. And we need to do it as wolves.
"Alfred!" he shouts urgently. "Get inside and barricade the doors!"
Alfred is helping a dazed-looking Arthur to his feet, an arm securely around his waist as the fey-child sways, but he pauses long enough to confirm Francis' order with a determined nod. Matthew is standing beside him, frozen, it seems. But he flinches when Alfred grabs his forearm and instinctively tries to get free. In a panic, he pulls—pulls toward Gilbert for one confused second, but Alfred's strength jerks him back, breaking the spell. He herds Arthur and Matthew into the cottage and slams the door.
"You're going to regret this!" Gilbert is growling as the last of his human-voice falls away.
Seconds later, Francis and I are trying to restrain a snapping, snarling wolf the size of a mountain pony. I try to hold him, but he lashes out and seizes Francis' arm in his maw. It wrenches me violently, and Francis' yell echoes. I lose my hold on Gilbert's thick, lupine body and crash to the ground.
I rise again on four sturdy legs as a dense, brown-furred wolf. I, too, become a snapping, snarling thing that launches itself at Gilbert with renewed vigor. I seize his ruff between my teeth and tug viciously, digging my claws into the ice and hunching my shoulders. I sink low to the ground, holding the white wolf as he lashes like a whip. I ground myself and drag him with the brute strength and anger of a bull. The white wolf is bigger than me, faster than me, but he is not stronger. I take a step backwards, then two, three, four—then his growls are saturated with yelps and yips as his claws slide across the ice and my teeth sink ever deeper. Francis pushes him, too, butting and blocking Gilbert, avoiding his powerful jaws and meeting every vicious snap with the determination of an infuriated parent.
Together, he and I bully the thrashing white wolf—my poor new friend, helpless to the moon's thrall—across the garden, away from the cottage and fragile human-beings, and into the trees.
GILBERT
Get off—get off of me!" I snarl as the wolf falls away. As a man, I shove at them, the pets who have forced me deep into the forest, far away from the cottage. I can't smell Matthew from this distance, and the fervor of mating-lust has ebbed within me, leaving me surly and frustrated, and I blame them for it. I hate them for it!
"Gil," says Antonio, shifting. His browned skin, flush and glistening with sweat, is stark against the snow that surrounds us, his hands outstretched in a placating manner. "You've got to calm down, okay? Take a deep breath."
I glare at him, at them both.
"Gilbert," Francis warns, standing a little behind Antonio's vanguard, rich as a marigold, fair and blue-eyed as cornflowers. His long blonde curls billow and float on the breeze, circling his head like a halo. His voice is calm—on the outside, at least—but those blue eyes bear into me with a shallow, spiteful fury that implies an impressive deal of self-control to contain.
Oh, right, I struck his mate, I recall vaguely. And I struck Alfred, his adopted pup. I attacked Francis' pack-members, even though I promised not to.
The beast-part of me still thinks they deserved it for standing between Matthew and I, but the louder human-part regrets it.
Slowly, I take the advised deep breath and hold it for a moment in my lungs, cold and sobering. I do it again, after exhaling. I do it several times, and it clears my head.
Antonio nods his approval. "Good," he affirms, but his words don't reflect his tone, which is firm. There's still a growl in his lyrical voice. He doesn't move toward me, because he doesn't trust me yet. He keeps a distance between us, staying out of striking-range and in front of Francis. The three of us are standing in a skeletal glade in the forest, where we're unlikely to encounter any human or animal, but the chocolate wolf's body is tensed, ready to spring into action at the slightest provocation. He looks physically bigger tonight, everything from his reflective eyes to his husky growl to the way he stands, his broad, flat muscles flexed and his toes curling into the snow. He's stronger and wilder, more wolfish than I've ever seen him. We all are. Even the pretty, pampered tawny wolf looks volatile tonight.
"I know you're upset," Antonio says after a long, testy pause.
I don't reply. I consider re-taking my wolf-form as a sign of protest to their patronizing, but I don't. I want to hear what they have to say. I want to know why they stopped me mating Matthew.
It's they who permitted me to pursue him, after all. It's they who have been helping me court him. So—why?
"I know how you're feeling, how frustrated you are," Antonio acknowledges, the aggression falling off of him like snowfall. His green eyes beseech me, now. "I know, because I feel it too. I should be with my mate tonight, my Lovi. And Fran should be with Arthur, but instead we're here with you."
"Why?" I demand. "Why did you both intervene? Why did you bring me here? I wanted to be with my mate tonight, like you do, but you—"
"Mathieu is not your mate," Francis snaps. "He's my pack-member, my pup. It's my mate who's the alpha of our pack, Gilbert, or have you forgotten?"
"I do not need his permission," I growl between my teeth.
Francis doesn't verbally reply, but nor does he recoil. His blue eyes glare at me, challenging me, like Alfred's did in the cottage. It's that glare that made me lash-out.
"Gil," Antonio ventures again, "it's not just for Matt's safety that we stepped in. It's for you, too. It's for your benefit that we brought you here. Right, Fran?"
Francis shoots Antonio a betrayed look, but Antonio chooses not to see it.
"None of us want to see Matt get hurt," he soldiers on, "but we—I," he amends, "don't want you to get hurt, either. I don't want you to carry the guilt and regret of recklessness... like I do. I mated my Lovi for the first time on a night of the full moon, and... I shouldn't have," he admits, "because I hurt him, and I didn't even realize I was doing it. That's the worst part: I didn't even realize it until it was too late. I made him hurt and I made him cry," he chokes out with difficulty, "and for a long, long time, I didn't know what I had done wrong. I didn't know why he wouldn't look at me, or let me touch him. It made me angry and confused and..." He grimaces, like he doesn't want to say it aloud. "It made me resent Lovi's humanity. I wanted him to be a wolf, because a wolf wouldn't have cared so much, so deeply. A wolf wouldn't have hated me for mating him."
"Lovino has never hated you," Francis gently intervenes, looking tenderly at Antonio like he's never looked at me.
Antonio covers his face for a minute, and takes a deep, wet breath through his mouth. When he emerges, his expression is resolute.
"Mating Lovi that night is the single biggest regret of my life," he tells me truthfully. "I wish I'd had someone there to stop me."
"So, what?" I grunt after a pause. "This is a favour you're doing me, then? Keeping me from Matthew?"
Antonio nods.
Francis says: "Humans are delicate, Gilbert—"
"Yes, yes, I know!" I snap, but it's the bite of impatience, not anger, because the fight has fled my body. As much as I detest their meddling, I can't look at the chocolate wolf's sad green eyes now without pity. His wounds are too honest.
With a frustrated huff, I scrub my hands through my hair (it feels a lot better when Matthew does it, I note). "Gods," I mutter, "humans are the only species who think coupling is something to be ashamed of."
"It's not shame," Francis corrects firmly, "it's carefulness. There's no shame in wanting to protect yourself, physically and emotionally."
I frown. "Emotion-ally?"
"Yes, feelings," he emphasizes. "It's, like... how do you feel when forced to yield to someone else? You don't like it, do you?" he asks rhetorically. "It's difficult, it feels wrong, doesn't it? Well, that's how we make our mates feel when we don't consider their well-beings. It's they who submit to us while mating. If they don't feel comfortable—if they don't feel safe," he rephrases, "they don't like it. It's not good for them, and, frankly, not as good for us either. It's not something to scoff at, Gilbert," he scolds, reading suspicion in my wrinkled nose.
I shake my head defiantly. "Coupling is just coupling," I say logically. "It's claiming ownership of a mate. It's an act, not a feeling."
"Between wolves, yes," he admits. "But mating a human is different. It's more. I... I really can't explain it," he says, glancing helplessly at Antonio, who shrugs meekly. "It's just something you have to experience for yourself, then you'll understand."
"And how exactly am I supposed to experience it if you won't ever let me near Matthew?" I argue, crossing my arms. "You're both hypocrites," I say, proud to know this human word, which describes the very human concept of saying one thing but doing another.
It's Francis' turn to sigh, though his sounds weary. "It's complicated," he says unhelpfully.
"It's... Matt's happiness," Antonio says hesitantly. Francis and I both regard him with curiosity. He shrinks a little in embarrassment, but continues: "Matt's happiness is something you want, right, Gil? It's something that you're conscious of, something you understand—?'
I think of Matthew's smile, his laugh, the glow in his eyes when he looks at me with affection. It's the scent of him when he's warm and content, a sweetness that can't be reproduced by bakery or witchery. It's the way he touches me without fear; the feel of him pressed against me, his heart beating in rhythm with mine.
I swallow and nod. "I think so," I say, softer than intended.
"Well," says Antonio thoughtfully. He licks his lips, speaking to the snow. "If you force Matt into mating with you—or, into anything he doesn't want—you're going to kill that happiness, maybe forever."
"That's not what I want."
"We know," Francis says, and, finally, he approaches me. He stops right in front of me and places a hand on my shoulder. "That's why we brought you here."
I understand, now. Or—I think I do. I'm trying to, but it's hard to think like a human with human emotions. It's hard to think of something as basic as mating as something intangible, with lasting feelings and effects. But I want to understand, and I think—I hope—that makes a difference.
"I need to run," I say, brushing off Francis' hand.
The tawny wolf nods in approval. As grateful as I am for their advice—I think—I'm not going to thank them for it, and he knows that.
The chocolate wolf gives me a coy, jittery smile, full of repressed energy, and asks: "Can we join you?"
I regard them for a moment, looking from cornflower-blue eyes to spring-green and, slowly, let a competitive grin curl my lips.
"If you can keep up," I challenge.
MATTHEW
I'm alone in my bedroom, sitting alone on my bed. It feels too big without Gilbert beside me, even though it's not. It's a single-bed, and when Gilbert is in it I sleep between he and the wall, squished against his chest, curled into his body. I sit on the bed with my legs pulled to my chest, making myself small even though the wolf isn't here. He's gone. He's out in the wilderness somewhere, running the woods far beyond my reach. And I'm jealous. A part of me is grateful to Arthur and Al for closing me inside, preventing me from making the same mistake Lovino allegedly did, but a bigger part is jealous of Gilbert's freedom tonight, because I want out.
I want him.
I sigh, shake my head. I shrug off the blanket Al draped over my shoulders, a sign of his concern, because I'm too hot for it tonight. I look down at the book braced against my thighs and try to concentrate. It's a book of folklore, one I love, but I've read the same sentence five times when a soft knock sounds at the door.
"Yes?" I call distractedly, expecting Al or Arthur.
Lovino steps tentatively inside. "Hello," he says, uncharacteristically formal. He's swimming in Antonio's old coat, the sleeves bunched at his forearms, his fingertips peeking out the cuffs. It falls to his knees, a drab olive-green garment intended for garden work, but he wears it like a hug from his wolf.
I sit up, cross-legged. "Oh, hello." Pause. "Um, Art's in his bedroom if—"
"Actually, I want to talk to you," he says, walking to my bed and perching on the edge. He doesn't wait for me to accept his company, or invite him to speak. "Al came into the village for tea, for Arthur. He told me what happened. I just wanted to make sure you're alright."
It's a question, but he doesn't phrase it as one. He's not looking at me, but at his hands, picking at the fraying strings of Antonio's coat sleeves.
"O-0h," I say, unable to hide my surprise.
Lovino and I have never had a heart-to-heart conversation before. Lovino and I rarely talked together at all before Gilbert came into my life. I suppose it's a shared experience that draws us together now, the way he and Arthur must have been drawn together by Antonio's arrival four years ago. Why else would the wealthy, high-born associate with the village outcasts? I wonder what he and Arthur must have suffered together to result in the trust and familial loyalty—pack-mentality—they share now. Lovino is someone I've always associated with privilege and self-confidence, but maybe I'm wrong? Maybe he was once just as scared and uncertain as I am? Looking at him, I can't not remember what Arthur confided to me about Lovino and Antonio's courtship, and I suddenly see a boy only five years my senior, tormented and fragile and lost.
A flood of guilt washes through me then, because Lovino has suffered so much more than I did; more than I probably ever will, and yet he's here, in my bedroom, asking if I'm okay.
"Yes," I say meekly, looking down as well. "Arthur explained it all to me. I understand that tonight was just... just an accident."
He nods, relieved that he's dodged the need to lecture me on full moons and mating-lust—not quite the talk most youths get from their parents, I expect—but his gold-ringed eyes are pointed when they finally lift.
"It wasn't an accident, Matt, it was an impulse. A primal, urgent impulse that lives inside of them always."
"Well, yes," I acknowledge, "but Gilbert didn't intend to scare us. It was just a lapse in judgement, a brief loss of self-control. I think he'll be okay now."
Lovino scowls. "I'm not worried about Gilbert, Matt. He's a wolf, it's his fault, intentional or not. I'm worried about you. Are you okay with what happened?"
"Yes," I repeat for the umpteenth time, defense creeping int0 my tone. Yes, I'm fine with what happened. The truth is, if my family hadn't been there to prevent it, I would have done a whole lot more.
And I probably would have regretted it.
I deflate a little, and say in a softer, more grateful tone: "I'm perfectly fine, Lovino. Gilbert didn't hurt me, he just startled me. I just wasn't expecting it."
"Well, start expecting it," Lovino says, standing again, "because it happens every month."
I assumed this for myself, but I must look unsettled by it, because his scowl melts into his relaxed, trademark smirk, and he adds:
"Oh, don't fret, you'll learn to read the signs soon enough. It's pretty obvious when a wolf's feeling randy," he teases, and sticks out his tongue. "They make no attempts to hide it. You'll learn to recognize the little things he does leading up to a full moon, and you'll know if it's safe for him to stay with you or not. If it's not, he'll have to go away for the night. You'll have to be firm about that—make him swear it," he suggests. "Wolves take oaths very seriously.
"If it is safe for him to stay..." His lips curl deviously as he eyes me, eyebrows arched. "Mating during the full moon is quite an experience. Not the first time. Or second, or third. But sometimes, when it feels right," he says with a twinkle in his eye, "it can be really amazing."
I smile a little and blush a lot. "How will I know when it's right?" I risk asking.
Lovino just grins. "You'll know," he confides, and, on that note, he takes his leave.
GILBERT
A day passes, then two. The pale, waning moon is rising again when I emerge from the trees and see the thatched little cottage, its windows aglow with candlelight. Francis and Antonio returned to their mates early yesterday morning, but I elected to stay in the woods of my own volition. In truth, I had scared myself a little the night before, losing my self-control like a thoughtless beast, and I didn't trust myself to see Matthew again so soon. I needed time to process what I would do and say to him upon my return; to determine how to say it; to put my emotions into words that I might try to explain. It took me a long, long time to fabricate a speech that didn't begin with a begging, please don't hate me! It took me even longer to practice it, because the words felt heavy on my tongue.
It's been forty-eight hours since I was forcibly dragged off, but I can't keep myself away any longer, so what I do have, rude and unpolished, will have to be enough.
Gods, I hope it's enough.
Alfred is outside, fetching water from the well. It never freezes and tastes of faerie magic. When he sees me, he stops and stands stiffly, his shotgun slung over his shoulder.
I stop, too. "I—I'm sorry," I say, testing the words on Alfred. "I struck you, and I'm sorry—"
He makes a wet, toothy noise: "Tch."
He puts the water bucket down and crosses his arms over his chest, closing himself, protecting himself. "Just so you know," he says, tone unfriendly. His blue eyes are hard, like the steel of his tools. He's a pup with the heart of a brawler, and if he were a wolf I would be wary of challenging him. (He would make a good wolf; a hunter I would be proud to claim as my pack-member.) "Even if everyone else forgives you for what you did—for everything you've done to us—it doesn't mean I do, because I don't. I don't like you," he snarls, getting louder. "And you're going to have to do a lot more than say I'm sorry to earn my approval."
I stare at the impassioned, blue-eyed pup, my mate's stalwart brother. The brother Matthew loves more than anyone else. The brother I've been jealous of without realizing it.
"What must I do then?" I ask him seriously, never taking my eyes off of his.
All creatures reveal their intents in their eyes, and Alfred is no exception. He's surprised by my question; his boyish face reveals it. Honestly, I'm surprised too, because—suddenly—I want Alfred to like me. I want his approval. And I'm willing to do almost anything to get it.
He's silent for a minute, then his arms fall limply to his sides. He's cagey, but his blue eyes have softened.
"Just be good to my brother," he says.
I leave Alfred to his task at the well and go inside.
I realize, too late, that I should have knocked—I always forget that particular social grace—because Francis is on his feet and baring his teeth the moment I step inside. He stands in front of Arthur, disrupting my view of the fey-child, who sits at his place by the fireside. It's a domestic scene I've interrupted; tea-cakes with strawberry jam beckon from a trey, and embroidery needles go still at my entrance.
I waste no time. If I stop to think about what I need to do, I won't do it.
I swallow my pride and sink to my knees. I press my fists to the floor, bow my head, and pray for their mercy.
"Francis," says Arthur calmly. I don't hear the command in his quiet voice, but evidently the tawny wolf does, because he hesitantly steps aside.
The fey-child's face is bruised. He could heal it if he wanted to—I know he could, I've seen his skills—but he doesn't, and I wonder why. I wonder why he looks so pale.
Instinctively, my gaze flicks to Francis.
If someone struck Matthew, I would serve them much, much worse in return. I would lose myself to fury. But Francis merely stares at me, reticently studying my vulnerable figure stooped on the floor. His restraint is unnerving and, at the same time, amazing. It secretly impresses me more than anything else he is or does. But it's not nearly as unsettling as the puzzle of the fey-child's expression.
"I'm sorry... alpha." It's a growl forced out between my teeth. "I shouldn't have struck you. I was not myself, I was angry... but that's no excuse."
I glance uncertainly at Francis, who nods.
Arthur's reply is short. "I understand, and I forgive you, Gilbert."
Then he says: "Come here."
I hesitate, looking again to Francis for guidance. Again he nods and watches silently as I approach his mate. I kneel in front of Arthur, keeping my gaze downcast. My hands are fisted, a detail Francis notes with suspicion. I know this, because he comes to stand behind me, looming over me in a way that makes me very uncomfortable, but I resist the urge to move away.
"I want you to know," Arthur says, ignoring the tension between his mate and I, "we're not unsympathetic to your struggles, Gilbert. We all know how difficult it's been for you, but, you're right," he scolds, "that's no excuse for violence. And if you ever strike a member of our pack again..." He smiles and places a hand on my head, stroking me gently. It feels nice. It makes my eyelids droop a little, drawing me into false comfort for a brief moment before he completes his icy threat: "I will fucking neuter you."
I swallow and duck my head. "Uh, y-yes... alpha."
"Good." The fey-child is still smiling. "Francis, love—?"
"Yes," Francis says, ambiguously accepting the terms of his mate's forgiveness.
Arthur gives my head a final, condescending pat. (I hate how good it feels.) "There's one more apology you need to make," he says.
MATTHEW
May I come in?" Gilbert asks, lingering in the bedroom doorway. His eyes look soft around the edges and don't meet mine; instead, they seize upon my hands.
"Yes, of course," I say, sitting straighter, hoping I don't look or sound too eager. "How are you feeling?"
"I don't know," he admits, slipping inside and closing the door behind him. He looks lost in the middle of the room, too big for the small, close space. He's wearing soft, weathered cotton, but it hangs off his long body lopsidedly, like the garments were a hurried afterthought for my comfort. And he's clean, too. His hair gleams like mercury, and his scent is sharp and fresh and masculine.
"Matthew," he asks in a halting, shy voice unlike his own, "do you—hate me?"
"Hate you?" I repeat, flabbergasted. "No, of course not. Why would you think such a thing?"
"Because I hurt you," he says honestly. "I hurt your feelings, I think. I scared you and I attacked your family, and I wish I hadn't, and I'm really, really sorry. I didn't understand why it was wrong before, but I do now, and I won't do it again, I promise," he says in a jumble.
"It's okay," I tell him gently, honestly. "Really, Gilbert. Francis explained it—the pull of the full moon. I know that wasn't really you."
"But it is me," he corrects, a note of urgency in his voice. "It's a part of me that I can't fully control, a part that probably won't ever go away. But I promise I won't let it hurt you ever again. I just want you to be happy."
This last is said softly, a near whisper.
"Thank-you, Gilbert.
"I forgive you," I add, because that seems to be what he wants.
He relaxes a fraction and finally looks me in the face. "I keep making mistakes," he confesses, "but I really do love you, Matthew. More than anything."
I'm smiling, now. I can't stop it. My heart is fluttering happily. "I know," I say, and shift sideways in the bed.
He understands my wordless invitation and smiles a little, too, as he slides onto the mattress beside me. He's careful not to make contact at first, but at my touch the tension goes out of him and he settles comfortably against me. It's a good feeling for us both, and though my heart is racing in my chest, I feel peaceful for the first time in two days.
"What are you reading?" he asks, peering down at the book in my lap.
"Oh, just folktales," I tell him. I love the way his voice rumbles over my skin. "Arthur used to read them to us when we were younger. I guess I never grew out of them."
"Stories?"
"Yes," I nod, then prattle off a list of titles: "The Frog Prince, Troll Bridge, Little Red, The Changelings, The Snow Queen..." I stop, because he's looking blankly at me, not a lick of recognition in his sleepy red eyes. "You've not read them?" I ask.
"I can't read." He taps the half-open page, shrugging. "This is a human language, human words. I don't know what the symbols mean."
"Oh," I say, stupidly, because why had I expected otherwise? Gilbert's voice is flavoured with a thick accent. He can barely speak our language properly; why would I think he could read it? Francis can't, and he's been playing at human-life for over a decade.
I'm feeling embarrassed by my blunder, when he says: "Why do you need to write them down, the stories? Can't you remember them?"
I'm charmed by the curiosity in his raspy voice, the easy, shameless innocence of the query, logic wrapped in doubt.
I laugh, and say: "Not in such detail." I tap the open page. "Recording the story means it can be told forever without changing."
"Is that important?" He seems puzzled, too used to the fluidity of oral traditions, I expect.
"I don't know. I suppose—? Why the sudden interest?"
"Because," he says, squaring his posture, lifting his sharp chin, "I'm trying to understand your culture, and I know that these symbols—these words—are important to you. And... I want to know about everything that's important to you, Matthew."
A long, bashful pause stretches and neither of us knows what to say or where to look. He breaks it by asking:
"Will you read them to me?"
His cautious gaze flicks from the illustrated page to my face and he smiles; a little sheepish, but determined.
I return his smile, lean closer into him, and lift the book.
"Once upon a time..." I read.
FRANCIS
The cottage is bathed in soft, yellow candlelight. It falls across Arthur's slumbering face and makes his fine, short hair look like spun-gold. It softens, somehow rounds his face and makes his eyelashes shine. He's always been beautiful when he sleeps, and tonight is no exception. His intention had been to await Alfred's safe return from the village, but sleep soon overtook him, and now he sits slumped in his chair by the fireside with his forgotten needlework in his lap. It's been a very long day, a long week, a long couple of months for him and he's tired. He's sacrificed a lot of himself to keep us all safe over the years and it's finally taking a permanent toll. Nothing too noticeable: a line in his face, a catch in his breath, a stiffness to the way he moves despite his relative youth. He's aging faster than the average human and I wish I could tell him to stop. I wish I could say: Enough with the faerie magic! Just let it go, Arthur, it's killing you! but we've had that unhappy discussion so many times before, it's become as exhausted as he is. I pity my mate, but I don't love him any less because of it.
Human love, I think, tucking a wool blanket around him. A wolf would never think the way I do, now. A wolf would consider a weakening, aging mate a liability. Human love is entirely illogical.
Will Antonio resent his mate's humanity someday? I wonder. Will Gilbert?
I hope not, but they're both a lot more wolfish than I. Maybe in time they'll come to understand humans as I do. Maybe if they have pups—babies—of their own someday, they'll be able to learn and grow with them, as I've learnt and grown with Alfred and Mathieu. Maybe they'll begin to see themselves reflected in their mates, and—
I stop, my hands hovering over Arthur. It's quiet in the cottage, and without the familial bickering of Arthur and Alfred, I can actually hear Mathieu's soft, unobtrusive voice drifting between the cracks in the bedroom door. It's continuous and unhurried, like a lullaby.
Slowly, I creep to the door and silently turn the knob, then peek through. Alfred would call it intrusive, but I don't care. I'm enthralled by my pup's voice, and dead-curious to know why Mathieu suddenly has so much to say. He doesn't use his voice as much as other humans do, and I'm ashamed to admit that I've never noticed it's beauty before. But as I take in the quiet scene, I realize that Mathieu is not talking or singing: he's reading to Gilbert, who lies beside him on the narrow bed. The white wolf's long, limp figure is stretched out, his feet dangling off the end, and his head is resting on a pillow, his forehead pressed to Mathieu's arm. His eyes are closed and his lips curled in contentment as he lets my pup read him a story that sounds like a song.
It's—sweet, I think in surprise. I can hear affection in Mathieu's voice and it quiets my concern.
Gilbert's nose twitches then, and he opens his eyes. I haven't made a sound, but he knows I'm here and looks right at me. He's very aware of his surroundings and is always prepared for danger. This morning, it still worried me—his aggression; his fast reflexes; how quick he leaps to decisions—but now, seeing them together like claimed mates, it comforts me to know that Mathieu is so well guarded. Gilbert has made a lot of mistakes, but he's here now, lying next to Mathieu in his human-form, listening to a foreign tale spoken in a language that he barely understands, and it's all for the pup—the boy—that he loves.
A human love, I think, and know then that I've always been hoping for this very picture: my Mathieu, happy.
Gilbert's sleepy red gaze meets mine and, slowly, I nod my head in approval. Then I retreat, bidding them a silent goodnight.
