Up. Back. Forward. Down. Squeeze—the air quaked as the bullet left the muzzle. With a ding, the target rang. He flinched all the same. The noise wasn't severe, not in the way Louis had expected it, but still, it bought the same reaction from his body.
"You startle too easily," her voice was even and flat, calm—almost uncannily so. Louis had scoffed when Oguma had brought her to handle this task, but Lucile knew—if nothing else—this weapon. It had been her son's. Not that he had been a soldier or anything of the sort. Oguma had the other—a pair of matched .22s. They were not beautiful—a pair of low-caliber weapons they had purchased sometime in their twenties, a thing they had wanted to try. Based on the state they had been abandoned for perhaps that many years—maybe only a decade really, Louis wasn't certain.
They had sat in opposite ends of the home, in safes, locked away for so long Louis had never known they existed. The bullets had fouled, and it had taken the better part of a week for new ammo to clear customs—a veritable instant in the time scale of bureaucracy. It had given Oguma time to have a range constructed at the most remote parts of the estate. Firearms were gauche—even in the hands of herbivores—perhaps especially so in the hands of herbivores.
His antlers made it difficult, the weight on his head and neck as he aligned the front and back of the sights, "Where did you learn to shoot?" Louis prodded, finding a frown.
"My father, after the war," flatly, Lucile offered, "Close your other eye." He didn't need to be reminded of that, "In. Let half of it out. Hold. It will stabilize your chest, squeeze, don't tug."
"Saying it again won't make me not flinch," Louis grunted—breathing out, and then in. Half-exhaling he followed the instructions once more. The trigger pull was smooth, light, and it barked once more. With a ping, the target swayed.
Louis shivered, his hands trembling—this was nothing. The weapons Oguma's armed security carried were heavier than this. How was he supposed to protect himself, let along Legoshi, if he couldn't stop shaking every time he pulled the fucking trigger! Grinding his teeth, Louis laid the rifle on its side before promptly smashing his hand on the wood of the picnic table, "God damn it!"
The doe said nothing, staring down the range—they were close, maybe fifty yards—a pittance for a rifle, even one as light as this. Why was this so damn hard? Why did his body reject this—of all things? Wasn't this the equalizer? Weren't these the weapons that had made carnivore and herbivore equal? Then why the fuck couldn't he do this!
"Move," Lucille demanded, a flat command that Louis swiveled toward with a growl on his lips, "Your problem is the noise. You'll never adjust to that at this rate."
Louis rebuffed, "I can do this."
"Yes. You can, but we can do this quicker. Move," the doe sighed, and Louis reluctantly obeyed. She was technically in charge—even if just as many of the guards were certainly just as capable of instructing him, "Close your eyes. Don't try to avoid flinching. You'll just raise your anxiety."
With a snort, Louis complied, and the weapon cracked—and again, and again, and again. The buck's eyes flashed open, his hands sweaty. There at the end of the range each of the four metal targets, painted bright orange, swung, "Your father always did shoot low." With a snort the doe ejected the magazine, laying it flat on the table.
Louis stared, watching them sway, "You're a good shot."
"And you have your eyes open, Master Louis," she chastised, loading the weapon once more, "Less gawking and more focus, please. It's hot out today and standing in the sun is hardly my favorite activity. Focus on listening for the targets each time I hit."
"If you hit?" Louis questioned even as his eyes swiveled closed.
There was a snort from the doe—unladylike and entirely too amused, "Do not taunt a woman wielding a weapon, Master Louis, even if you think yourself clever." It must have been easier without antlers, certainly.
The air cracked and Louis felt his body shake once more. Yet with the second, and third in sudden staccato, he hardly completed his first tremble. There, at the periphery, he could hear the swaying of the metal, a faint song with every impact. Again and again, she fired—and hardly was the space between them that he could pick out the successes. Yet they were all there, he almost certain of it, even with this tired rifle.
The bolt locked as the magazine cleared and the doe sighed, "I will do another two or three—and you'll sit to finish the rest of the box. You're hardly terrible, but there is no way through this but practice—whether that is practicing dealing with sudden shocks and loud noises, or actually striking your target."
Louis' eyes opened, "Why did you agree to teach me?"
"You're a boy—you shouldn't need something like this." Her voice was heavy and irritable, "Adults are supposed to protect you—that is what my father went to war for. That was what I believed when your father and my son were your age. There would never be a need for the things my father taught me. That wasn't the world we lived in any longer." With a scoff the doe laid the weapon down, "Then my husband was taken. My son murdered by people who thought they knew what was best for us. You wish to learn to protect yourself—by which not a soul believes you do not actually mean: 'to protect Legoshi'—then there is only one thing for it. For you to learn just that."
Louis' face contorted, "That—wasn't even an answer."
Standing, the doe rolled her eyes, "Wasn't it? Anyone else would have taught you half as well as blown smoke up your ass—there, is that better? You like being crass for the sake of it."
Louis paused, glancing towards the firearm, "This one is Oguma's?"
There was something to her voice, an edge—a hint of not frustration, but longing and loneliness, "Was. It is yours now. Just as my son's belongs to your father now."
"Does Oguma ever shoot it?"
"Since the range has been built, yes—once, last night—based on the bullets missing from this box. I wouldn't be surprised if he started making a habit of it, however. It seems something a proud and powerful buck might do—doesn't it? A way to impress others—maybe he'll even invite a carnivore over some time and make a total fool of them. I wouldn't be surprised. Your father has a way of turning everything he does into a business venture of some sort. For weal or woe." Lucille sighed, "Sit—you have half a box and you weren't twitching; let's see if distracting your nerves was all you really needed."
Taking the seat in turn, Louis the loaded the weapon once more—releasing the bolt and pulling it taut to his shoulder. A breath, then half out—he paused and squeezed. Still, he shivered, though not in the same way—there was something different about it now. "Tell me about—" Louis paused, "My father." Up. Back. Forward. Down. The bolt rolled effortlessly.
"If you insist."
They had driven for hours in almost total silence. The lines of the highway blended together, and the sun rose against the faces of the mountains, even as they slipped beyond the golden hills—into the valleys, and on their way. Legoshi had found it strangely comforting—the silence as much the scenery. It was different than taking a train—which of course had been an option, yet not one the stallion had seemed interested in pursuing.
Yafya had brooked no argument, and Legoshi hadn't fought the stallion when the command had come: They were going to surprise his grandfather. Yafya hadn't said why—but Legoshi could guess. The stallion probably wanted to convince his grandpa of something. This just happened to be the best way to do it, in his mind. Not that the Sublime Beastar was always correct. Of course, Legoshi would never say that to Yafya either. The stallion probably knew that, he just had to appear like he was always correct—that was what the rest of the world had expected of him.
Appearances. Legoshi hadn't ever thought he put much stock in those sorts of things. But, then, the more he thought about it the more he realized that wasn't true. He thought about them all the time. He hid his fangs—he clipped his claws, he dressed nicely—all to make herbivores more comfortable in his presence. That he was a respectable young man. That he wasn't going to devour them, or hurt them. Those same appearances governed a lot of things. How his grandpa wasn't allowed to eat in the front of restaurants, to how even the Sublime Beastar presented himself to the world.
Everyone was worried about what everyone else thought of them. Maybe it was such a simple thing—but now it settled into Legoshi's mind: Of course he cared what others thought of him. Was that such a bad thing? Flat, Legoshi's ears folded—maybe. His mother had been worried, hadn't she? About how people would think of her. She was scared—of what they would say, of how they would say mean things if they knew. Those things had taken her away from him.
They were the first words to pass between them in hours, "Do you ever worry about what people think of you?" sparing the stallion a glance, Legoshi frowned.
With a tap of a button, the window rolled down beside Yafya. From the center console, the stallion recovered a pack of cigarettes, thumbing one between his lips, "No."
Legoshi squirmed, slinking lower in his seat as the stallion found his lighter and lit the end. With a mighty snort, smoke poured from Yafya's nostrils. He was like a beast of legend—like a nightmare. Powerful, imposing—it seemed as if he could fight the whole world with one hand behind his back. There was a flicker of fear in Legoshi—that the stallion tolerated him not for his sake, but for the sake of his grandfather instead. "Oh," Legoshi whispered, turning his eyes out once more towards the horizon, "How?"
The stallion needed not to glance sideways—he would see Legoshi well enough, and there it came. A laugh, of all things, "Why."
"Why?" Legoshi's ears fluttered.
The laugh paused, interspersed with a long, lazy drag of the cigarette. "No. Ask yourself why you give a shit about what they have to say about you. What it matters. Do you check social media?"
He hadn't—not since what had happened—the less he knew the better, "No?"
Laying hand on the gear shift Yafya gave a snort, "Good. People say nasty shit about me all the time. But I've got you one better. Why should I give a shit about people who don't know a fucking thing about me? You think some random mare knows something about me? What about a lion? Do they know the shit I've been through, or what I've seen? No. They don't. Positive. Negative. It doesn't matter." Down, the pedal went and the engine roared to life.
"How do you do that?" about the seat, Legoshi's fingers tightened.
"Find someone whose opinion of you that you actually give a shit about. Then figure out why you do—make sure they're damn good, the very best, and their opinion of you isn't just playing puff the magic dragon with your ass. One is a start. If you have two or three then congratulations, you're better consulted than I am." The tack plummeted as the stallion shifted.
With a frown, Legoshi nodded, "Grandpa means a lot to you."
Yafya drawled, swapping his hand from the stick to the cigarette between his teeth, "It's almost like I'm driving four hours to surprise him for a reason, huh?" With a flick the cigarette exited the window, bouncing away behind them, "Gosha isn't someone I can replace. Even if I can't stand the sight of his scaly ass."
That was what the stallion said, but, then it hardly made sense—he didn't have to see him. Yafya wanted to. He had dragged Legoshi along for that very reason, hadn't he? To make sure Gosha would talk to him. In that way, Legoshi was something of a willing hostage—even if that hadn't occurred to him until this moment, "Why did you two fight?"
"Are you serious?" There was a scoff as Yafya rolled the window up once more, "Imagine for a minute you and Oguma's brat, Lenny—"
"—Louis—" Legoshi retorted.
"—Gesundheit—were planning to make the world a better place. You have spent years side by side, to achieve that goal; nearing that goal he decides he's done. He walks off—finds a nice young lady, and you don't hear from him for two decades. Now, you've become the Sublime Beastar. More people than ever want to slit your throat, and you don't have the one person you would trust to cover your back because he went and decided to play house. Now, do I sound bitter?" With a whinny, the stallion flashed his signal for their exit.
"Yes," on reflex, Legoshi answered, and winced immediately.
The heat drained away from Yafya's voice, the stallion almost shrinking in his seat, "That's right. I am. I'm bitter and jealous. Like an old mare. There you go. Now you know." Heavily, the stallion's fingers drummed atop the wheel of the vehicle, his eyes alight with some memory, far away. "I can't believe the old dragon never told you that."
"Just that you were his best friend," and that time they had fought off twenty angry cats, and that time they had driven a burning truck into a building, and that time they nearly froze to death after their car blew a tire in the dead of winter—though in retrospect Legoshi was beginning to suspect the tire was blown by someone trying to kill them. Actually, most of his grandfather's stories involved bad guys.
Truthfully, Legoshi had just figured those were the kind of stories everyone's grandpas' had.
Too quickly, the stallion took the turn, and Legoshi strained against his seat belt as the car drifted about the turn—rear wheels skipping. Irritation boiled in Yafya's throat, "I think that's what pisses me off the most sometimes. I've gotten older and more bitter. All while Gosha has gotten older and more content. I've been fighting for a better world. The old dragon stumbled right into his."
Stomach in his throat, Legoshi struggled to swallow the awful feeling, "Do you hate me?"
Peeling out, rubber smoldering behind them, the car lurched to merge with the traffic about them. For a long minute, the stallion seemed to consider the thought, "No. You and Lenny have given me a chance at what I want. I only need to seize it."
"It's Louis." Legoshi blinked, and the stallion simply smirked.
With a flick, the stallion's tail bopped Legoshi, "Kid. I know."
Folding his arms, Legoshi snorted towards the Sublime Beastar, "Then why get it wrong?"
"Because it riles you up," a crack of a smile rolled into place atop the stallion's lips. Another memory?
"It doesn't," Legoshi shook as his stomach settled once more.
The stallion baited, "I piss on your territory and you get upset."
"He's not my territory!" Legoshi couldn't help himself.
"What is he then?"
Out, Legoshi lashed, fangs flashing, "He's my best friend! Something you don't know anything about!"
The air turned cold between them and the stallion's smile slipped away, "You have a hell of a lot of nerve."
His hands trembled, and still, Legoshi leaned into it, "If you two are friends you'd stop hurting each other so much!" That was what he had wanted to say, "Louis and I at least care about one anoth—" about his muzzle a hand wrapped, cinching it shut with barely controlled fury.
The stallion's head turned, his eyes focused solely on Legoshi for a single frightening moment, "Let me ask you. Do you think there's another carnivore alive I would let talk to me like that?"
His head was shaken for him, the stallion's grip a vice about Legoshi's muzzle.
"Then you will not dare." To the road, Yafya's eyes returned, his fingers relenting.
"I'm telling grandpa," meekly, Legoshi whined, wrapping his hands about his muzzle. It burned—threatening to bruise beneath his fur. The stallion's hands were like chiseled stone, with all the same softness.
The stallion grunted in pained acknowledgment. Not an apology. Just mere resigned acceptance, intertwined with frustration. A step too far, but Yafya seem incapable of admitting that. Why was he like this? Why did he treat people like this? Was it really just that he was angry? Was this really what it was like to be a Beastar? He and Alessandra both—they seemed so hateful, so empty. Was this what always happened? Legoshi's eyes fixated instead on the familiar streets, forcing the already dulling pain away.
With a soft mutter, Legoshi impugned the stallion once more, "I don't think you're a very good person."
Mirthless, there was a noise—not a laugh, but something more hollow, "I don't think I am either."
Gosha didn't hate parties. He rather liked them, actually. Parties for Leano, for Legoshi—anniversaries. Truthfully, many of his best memories were those. However, few of those parties were directed at Gosha himself.
And so when the entirety of the construction company promptly decided to throw a party, Gosha hadn't thought much of it. After all, he had just come back from vacation. They certainly weren't celebrating him. Why would they be? He had only been gone for two weeks.
Thus his confusion had only grown as they wished him well. Even more so when the cake had been rolled out—a retirement cake, of all things! Worst of all, it sported his name! He wasn't even that old! He sure as hell wasn't retiring!
But apparently he was. Or someone had so. Gosha certainly didn't remember putting in such a request, and he sure as hell wasn't that old either! Which meant this was someone's idea of a joke. The sort of thing that would go down in company history as a massive goof. The sort of clever witticism that saw some jackass fired, out of a cannon, into the sea.
Or it would have been. The honk of the horn outside the office told Gosha something was amiss, and as Legoshi raced through the open door to give embrace him, Gosha knew precisely who the jackass responsible was. Standing tall, opposite the doors, the black stallion himself stood, a cigarette between his teeth.
If that bastard had just come inside, well, how could one do anything but offer the Sublime Beastar a piece of cake? Even if he just happened to slip and cram the whole plate into that smug mug. Worse, Yafya knew. That was why he stood outside, even as Gosha's coworkers gawked in fear and reverence of the magnificent bastard himself.
That was fine though. There were more important things. Down, Gosha dipped, and with all his might he hauled Legoshi from the ground—tucking the pup against his chest with a rumble of contentment, "How did he talk you into this, huh?"
"He wanted to surprise you," Legoshi mumbled, favoring his face—refusing to nuzzle against Gosha's chest. A toothache, maybe?
The old dragon conjured a smile, touching the tips of his nose to Legoshi's, "Well, he managed that."
"Is that Yafya?"
"Holy shit."
"Naw, gotta be a look-alike, right?"
"Gosha's leaving us for the Devil himself."
"You knew Yafya?"
"I can't believe you never mentioned that."
Gosha chuckled, running a finger across the tip of Legoshi's ears. They were more amazed by Yafya than upset about the truth of Legoshi. Maybe for all the trouble, the stallion brought there were some good things to what he did. That didn't mean he wasn't going to punch the bastard though. Just that he'd wait a little longer.
"Grandpa?" Legoshi's words seemed strained, almost worried, "Is everything okay?"
"Well!" Gosha gripped the boy closer still, cradling him as he had the boy's mother all those years ago, "There's nothing we can't face together, Legoshi," with a wink he strode forward, towards the doors and the stallion beyond.
Dipping his lips close to Legoshi's ears, Gosha grew a wicked grin, "Want to see grandpa make the evening news?"
Legoshi whispered back, "Are you gonna punch him?"
The old dragon gave no response as he shouldered the door open, "I used to like parties."
"That is what I told them," with a flick of his lighter the stallion ignited his cigarette, "You're pissed."
"No," with a shake of his head Gosha lowered Legoshi to the ground beside the vehicle, "I'm fucking livid!" all at once, Gosha exploded—a wicked right hook aimed at the stallion's stomach.
Still, something was wrong. Something terrible. Yafya did not dodge. He didn't roll back across the hood of the car. Yes. They were older—but they weren't so old that he could not step aside. Instead, the stallion grit his teeth, accepting the blow as Gosha stood in abject shock.
Down, the Beastar crumpled, doubling over—the cigarette splitting in two between his teeth as he wavered. Yafya sank, not quite to his knees, before returning to stand. And Gosha found his words of anger stolen—replaced with sudden worry, "What the fuck is wrong with you! You're supposed to dodge!"
Spitting nicotine, Yafya managed a simple snort—his breathing tightly controlled even still, "I needed to know you still have it."
It? What the fuck sort of lazy excuse was that? What was actually going on? The stallion hated being hit. He couldn't take it like Gosha could—that was part of the damn problem—that was part of the reason he was starting to limp! "What the hell is wrong with you?"
The stallion's eyes flicked to Legoshi, and back to Gosha, "I'm not a good person."
Something had happened? Something he didn't understand—and now something Yafya was making certain Legoshi wouldn't speak on. Had Yafya said something? Or worse, done something? There would be no way of knowing unless he simply pressed it, "Did you lay a hand on my grandson?"
The accusation earned a snort, "Would I?"
That wasn't an answer, but then he hadn't really expected one, "You know what I would do if you did," cold—deadly serious—the dragon forced a threadbare smile.
"I do," lazily, the stallion circled the car, "Show me where you live?"
"If you've driven four hours to critique my choice in knick-knacks I'm going to—" Gosha paused, what would he do, actually? What was the point of threatening Yafya—did he ever really learn like that? Would he ever learn? "Why the hell did you tell them I was retiring?" This same song and dance, these traded insults and barbs—they were getting them nowhere. Even if it did feel so good sometimes.
"You've got a new job," pulling open his door, the stallion slipped into the car, revving the engine, "Come on."
With a reluctant sigh, Gosha opened the door, flipping the seat forward for Legoshi to slip into the backseat. "You lied to these people. They think I'm ancient. I saw a 'happy eightieth' balloon in there and I'm not even sure if it was a joke at this point." With a click, the seat returned to its position and Gosha slid in beside the stallion, "Why do you think I want to work for you?"
The wheels peeled, smoke blistering behind them before Gosha had even wrangled his seat belt, "Because I need someone who gives a shit like you do." Yafya's words were all but lost under the squeal of the tires, a tacit admission that turned into a frown on the stallion's lips, "So do what no one else can—be my conscience."
The home was almost precisely as Yafya had imagined it. Almost. There was a single detail—one thing he had not been prepared for, one that by all accounts he certainly should have been. Along every wall, on every surface, from one end of the narrow home to the other, pictures hung or sat. Dozens of them. Of a beautiful female wolf and her bright-eyed dragon, of an ever-smiling Legoshi wrapped in the arms of his grandfather, of a stately and elegant woman that could only be the boy's mother.
Why, of all things, had this surprised him so? Why had he expected anything different? At the threshold of the home, the Sublime Beastar lingered. He was ruining this. All of this. He was taking something from Gosha. And for a moment the stallion weighed the path forward.
But there had only ever been one path forward. Over any number of dreams it tread, and he walked it still. This—this was the past. Even Gosha could not live in the past. This was what the old dragon needed—it was what Yafya needed as well. That, in truth, was probably more important to him. Even if he wished it wasn't so.
On unsteady footing, Yafya transgressed the space. No invitation would ever make him a welcome visitor, even as Gosha called from the kitchen, "Tea?"
"Coffee," it took cream better. The boards of the floor squeaked beneath him. The whole home was warm—welcoming, even for someone as unwelcome as he. If spirits existed then surely they knew why he was here—to bear the occupants of this place away, forever. Even if they themselves did not know the machination.
Gosha always was too trusting, "Cream?"
Yafya grunted in ascent, "Yes. No sugar."
The komodo's head lurked around the edge of the kitchen, peering back towards him, "Even if it comes in sugar cubes?"
That was a horrible stereotype, "One, on the side," but he could humor Gosha for the joke—he had made enough mistakes today. And there were still more to make, after all. It wouldn't take too long—people would start to notice his presence. The paparazzi would begin to gather. Just as planned, really.
"Restroom?" the stallion snorted. He could hazard a guess, but it was better Gosha knew, lest he thought Yafya intended to snoop.
He would have been right with that assumption, but he wasn't going to let the old dragon make that guess unassisted.
"Upstairs, end of the hallway!" The heat of their car ride had withered away, and in his element, Gosha seemed almost happy, "When you're out, we need to talk."
It wasn't even an almost, really. Almost was the lie he told himself, the lie that made what he intended to do bearable—that he was a beast of dignity, not merely some damned monster lurking in the darkness. What lies he told himself—what wonderful delusions. How much he hated himself. Even if it was for the best.
Three doors sprouted along the hallway with a fourth at the utter end. One stood out. With strange holes and accompanied coverings therein, he needed no guess to who it once belonged. It was gauche to look into the autopsy records but between them and the statements given to the police, Yafya had been able to puzzle out much of what was wrong. An illness—depression—suicide. Or an imagined illness perhaps, for there was little wrong physically with her body. Just patches of scales—a hybrid's curse.
In the end, it didn't matter why it happened. Only that it had—and she had given him a lever upon which to act, a means of ensuring what he wanted. Hesitantly, Yafya grasped the knob, giving it an experimental turn. To his surprise, it was not locked. As it did another door opened, and from it, the boy's eyes peeked.
"That's not the bathroom." Half-hidden, Legoshi stared, and Yafya snorted—he was scared. Not that Yafya could blame him for that.
"It's your mother's room," he rejoined—acknowledging it full well, "Does she have any pictures of you?" Or was that 'did she'? Perhaps it was better to speak of the dead as if they were still present? He never knew.
At the threshold of his den, the little wolf pondered the question—but more the reason behind it, "Why?"
"Because I want to bring something special for your grandfather," at last, something he needed not to lie about—he needed no more machination for this than pure affection. That Gosha was his sworn companion, and that the old dragon's feelings were themselves valuable—even if no other's were.
"She does," still the boy stood, unmoving—unwilling to come out, and it was a wise instinct. He did not trust Yafya—and it was for the best. Why should he? Had he not been betrayed enough? No—Yafya was not a person to trust. Not even to himself. Hell, not even with the grandson of the only man he considered his equal. How much he hated himself for that.
"I'll grab it then," inward, the door swung, and still he watched the boy shift uncomfortably. He wanted to stop Yafya—or else do it himself, but he was scared now.
"I'll do it," out, from behind the door, Legoshi stepped, and with it, a smirk found its way to Yafya's lips. He was Gosha's grandson. Even in the face of utter terror, the things he held most important, Legoshi would chase. That was good—that was the best sort of male. A better sort of male than he was.
"Alright, I need a piss anyway," with a shrug the stallion soldiered on, slipping his way into the bathroom with a knowing smile.
From his pocket the stallion fished his phone, a single text was all he needed, '7 pm' was all it said. That was good enough. Two hours, he would need only ninety minutes; and unless Gosha had become a mare in his old age it wouldn't take them even that long. In the mirror he witnessed a scowling face—his own, staring back hatefully at its owner, "Add it to my list of sins," the words felt weaker on his lips now, but still, there was no way back. Even if the road ahead was paved with Gosha's broken dreams.
The stallion knew the way here, and Legoshi understood why he asked for the photo now. She, his mother—she wasn't buried here. But it was the place they had held the ceremony all the same. And as the car coasted quietly into place Legoshi knew the surprise wasn't simply for his grandfather, but he as well.
With a grunt the stallion pulled the parking brake, cranking the air as the vehicle idled, "I'll sit here." That—that was for the best, really. It was one of the few things about the stallion Legoshi appreciated, his willingness to step aside. He could have demanded to walk with them, but he knew better. This—this was for Legoshi and Gosha to do.
"You could have at least stopped; I would have grabbed flowers," his grandfather's voice was far away—this wasn't what he had expected either.
There was an awkwardness to the stallion, "I didn't think about that," and Legoshi found himself believing it. Yafya was close to no one—what did he know about funerals? Maybe just how to cause them, really? "Should we?"
Gosha's head shook, and Legoshi thumbed the photo—there was no way he would give it to Yafya, and now there was no point to, "No. We're here."
"Grandpa," from the backseat Legoshi demurred, "I—here," stumbling over the words he offered the photo.
For a moment the old komodo stared and then smiled—a smile that held with it all the tears that Legoshi himself wished to shed, "Thanks Legoshi. I guess you knew, huh?"
Offering a shrug, Legoshi shifted—he hadn't, but then it didn't matter, "I'm sorry," on reflex alone he offered it and his grandfather's reply was simple, a hand atop his ears.
With a tear-filled wink, the dragon nodded, "It's okay. This is better than flowers." Still, the stallion said nothing as a blush ran to the tops of Legoshi's ears. It was thoughtful if nothing else.
The stallion's eyes drifted closed as his grandfather removed his seat belt, "When you two finish, we'll talk about the job, Gosha."
"What if I say no?"
Yafya shrugged, "Then I explain the terrible mix-up to your supervisor and we move on with our lives."
With a snort, Gosha pushed the door open, stepping into the crisp evening air. Without another word he flipped the seat forward and out, Legoshi sprung. Did his grandpa want a different job? Did it matter? His grandfather never seemed to care about what he did precisely, only that he did it well. It was something Legoshi tried to mimic, if not in his classes than the rest of life. He would never be Jack, or Voss, but could apply himself. He had proved that, with the guitar. Even if he never played it again—even if it hurt to imagine seeing another one, he had proved something. Though, to whom Legoshi could not say.
Together they walked the narrow pathways. This was where they had scattered her ashes. It seemed almost irreverent. They had not picked a special place. No place seemed to hold a special value in her heart. One place seemed all the same to another, and the thought of that haunted Legoshi. That they could do no better.
Still, the graveyard was all but empty. Little more than a caretaker tending the fields. Most would choose to be cremated, after all, who would want their loved one's body snatched in the middle of the night? Others were braver, and they paid a yearly price—both for security and memorial for those who had departed them. Perhaps a better compromise were the memorials—plaques with names engraved in them, stands of granite for incense to be burned. But, still, there places for what they needed—spaces set aside to remember those who had no proper grave. Like a shrine, of sorts, for their personal effects, their pictures, and for ceremonies to be held in their memory.
His grandfather selected the space, a shady spot, and laid the photo of his daughter in place against the monument. Then, before he could even step away, the tears came—a river of choked back emotions bursting forth. It was the second time Legoshi could recall seeing it—his grandfather crying.
Yet there were no tears in Legoshi's eyes. They wouldn't come. Not because he did not miss her, but, rather, it just seemed so strange that she was gone. There were nights when the door creaked, when the dorm or Louis' room shifted that Legoshi found himself suddenly awake, expecting her. The warmth of her arms, a soft little song—something, anything.
It was worse in his grandfather's home. Every shift, every door, ever squeaky step—he waited with bated breath. Some defiant part of his mind expected her to return as if she had simply departed on a trip. Yet she never reappeared. No matter how many hours he waited. No matter how many sleepless nights. When the stallion had tested her door Legoshi's heart had leaped—maybe she was there. Maybe, now, she would step out of her room and hold him.
She never did. She never would. Never again. And no matter how much he wished it otherwise he could not turn back time and feel her. But he still couldn't cry.
Instead, he knelt, closing his eyes, and hoping something would change—that maybe she could hear him. Was there a place where the dead went? Some people believed so—and others believed otherwise, but what answers could he glean? Was it better to imagine she was somewhere better—or simply that she was gone?
Beside him, his grandfather knelt. Warm, bright. He was here. Even if no one else was. But, would he be gone too someday? Would Louis? Alessandra had come and gone—like a storm, there for days before fading once more into the blue. Her words haunted him still, lingering in the nooks and crannies of his mind even weeks past her departure. That she loved him. That question: Was there a place for people like her? For all the anger, for all the pain, that she was as uncertain as he was now.
It was easier to cry for her. It was easier to know she would not come back—that he would be terrified if she did. That what she had done, who she truly had been, was a torment on his life. That she was not merely a monster, but a beast as twisted and broken as so many others.
Faintly, Legoshi found his tears—not for the departed swan, but for his mother—and what she meant to him. What, in truth, both of them had meant to him. God—he didn't want to be alone. He didn't want anyone to leave him. Not again. Not like they had—not without saying goodbye. Not at all, not if he could help it.
Wretched, the sob ripped from his lips. Did they really love him at all? If they left how could they? Was he not good enough? What had he done? Was it all his fault? It must have been—he had made a mistake—that he wasn't good enough, that he never would be. To the ground, Legoshi's face slunk. The words escaped his lips, "I don't wanna be alone," a tacit and desperate prayer that some part of him longed to be heard, if such things ever were.
An arm grasped him, clutching him close to the familiar warmth, "Shh, s'okay—I—I've got you, Legoshi," his grandfather's words cut clarion and for a moment Legoshi stilled. His grandpa was still there. Frantically his fingers fought, grasping the komodo's leg with all his might. He didn't want to be alone, anything but that.
Side to side the old dragon rocked him, humming a familiar song Legoshi knew only by melody, the song his mother had sung to him for so many years. In the shadow of the trees, they wept and longed for those long lost to them until the sun, ever onwards, marched low upon the horizon.
Bright and warm, Gosha's phone chirped and rumbled—a poor portent for the source of the call, Yafya. He hardly had a chance to say hello as the stallion interjected, "We have a problem." The tone of Yafya's voice sent ice along Gosha's spine.
Laying a hand on Legoshi's back, Gosha tugged the boy to a stop, "What kind?" Was this the sort of trouble they needed to climb a fence to get out of, or the kind that was solved with fang and claw?
"Someone followed me," the stallion drawled, a car door slamming in the distance.
It was always about him, wasn't it? "Are you going to need help?" Down, Gosha's eyes darted, falling atop Legoshi as the boy wiped his eyes dry.
"No. I mean," the stallion paused, a sense of something—anger, frustration, pain—crept into his voice, "Gosha. Someone firebombed your home."
Gosha's heart skipped, "What?"
"Do me a favor and stay put, I'm going to drive there." Terse, angry—the stallion would brook no argument.
"You pull out of that parking space and I'll feed you the steering wheel, Yafya!" This. This couldn't be real. Not on top of everything else. Not like this.
To Gosha's surprise Yafya did not hang up, there was no great peel of burning rubber, only a grunt filled with no small amount of desperate frustration, "Hurry up."
"We're gonna have to run," sparing Legoshi a smile, Gosha stroked the boy, "There's been an accident." Yet Legoshi's eyes said all that the boy could not—that he had heard Yafya, "Come on!" An even keel—he had to keep an even keel.
In the face of his life burning down.
Who had he offended to suffer so many tragedies?
Legoshi ran, and Gosha trod beside him—not quite a full run, but close enough.
What could they even do?
Soon enough the stallion's car was visible, the engine rumbling and growling—beside Yafya's door a litter of spent cigarette butts. He had been nervous, even before this. Had he suspected something was amiss? Or was it just all this—all these changes—that had filled his companion with such dread? The passenger seat was already put down, the door thrown open, and Legoshi darted in without a word. Throwing the chair back Gosha hurtled himself inside, slamming the door behind him, "Drive."
He hardly needed to give the command, the vehicle was already in reverse, and out they ripped—like a bat out of hell. Slamming the car into gear, Yafya spun them about, and with all too much practice, exploded from the parking lot. It was just like the old days—with all too much more at risk now.
"Who?" Gosha growled, yanking his seat belt into place.
"According to your neighbors? A lion." The Shishigumi? Here. Of all places? Had they really thought this would kill Yafya? Or was this their way of sending a message—that they knew.
An even keel—he had to keep control. Trembling, Gosha clicked his teeth, swallowing the venom that filled his mouth, "We're going to find them."
"I'm sorry." Those words—they came from the stallion's mouth, and Gosha nearly choked. Had he ever heard them come from Yafya? No. Not really. Certainly not with any amount sincerity behind them, "If I hadn't come here."
Gosha rebuked him, "Shut up and drive." Maybe Yafya was right. It didn't matter now. The deed was done. He hadn't done it on purpose. This—this was the life they had lived, the life Yafya still lived. The life that sought to drag him back in, after so many years.
Maybe they patch up the walls with lion hide?
Through traffic, they raced, until—at last—the fire climbed into the sky. Three trucks obscured the road, a veritable horde of brave souls battling the flames. Or else attempting to. The gathering crowds only heard the blare of Yafya's horn as the stallion threatened to run them down, spinning the car to a stop mere feet in front of a pair of shaken police officers and their barricade.
Gosha didn't wait, tearing the seat belt away like the impediment it was, the dragon dove from the car before it even stopped. Rolling and springing, Gosha absorbed the momentum, using it to mount the police cruisers and clear them before the startled officers even registered his appearance.
There was one thing he needed—something still inside. Something worth his life. With all his might, Gosha dove before the great hoses that sought to spare his home its doom. The shouts of the firefighters meant nothing as the sodden dragon charged the front door. There were some memories worth dying for—especially for hers.
About him the fire licked, roiling as the smoke billowed about in a hellish furnace. No, he would have mere seconds, but he knew where it was—where he had left it. The same place he had always left it. Past the burning remnant of his sofa, Gosha roared his way into the kitchen. There, upon the small table, it rested—his most prized possession. An album.
The flames, for their part, had started above him—he could see that clearly now. Into the windows where he and his family might have slept. It was a message indeed, one that drew a snarl from Gosha's lips. But no—it didn't matter. Not now. Things—he could replace almost anything eventually.
Seizing the album, Gosha turned, the water boiling away about him. Out the door he dove, singed and smoking, past the rushing forms of firefighters who sought nothing more than to deliver him from his recklessness. On the thin strip of pavement Gosha might have once described as the front of his home, the dragon slumped, his memories tucked close to his chest. Toki. This was why it was important to keep the things most valuable so close.
A half-dozen hands hauled him back from the inferno, even as it gouted and sputtered, a hole burning through the very roof of the home. This—this was a pretty awful day, wasn't it? In the distance, more sirens sounded. Ambulances, officers, more teams to fight the flames and save the homes of the people around them. There wasn't going to be much to save of his own home, Gosha guessed. Then again, he had all the treasure the home still contained.
A wry smile lit Gosha's face as he forced himself to stand—stumbling instead towards Legoshi and Yafya as the later foisted their way past the police line. The boy's eyes seemed enamored, or perhaps terrified, by the flames. Another thing snatched away from him. It had become a harder life than Gosha had ever hoped it would be, but, they could make it so long as they had one another.
With a ping, the shot landed true. At two-hundred yards, the tiny bullet had long since lost any real force—falling simply under the weight of gravity. That made it no less gratifying. There were better shots, far more impressive, but it was as good as they had ever been. He hardly had even needed to spend the countless hours they once had at perfecting such a tick—it had returned to him as naturally as breathing.
The grass rustled, and Oguma paid it no mind. Louis was no master assassin, and he moved with none of the quiet. A natural grace, perhaps, but none of the quiet. "Legoshi's house burned down."
Oguma didn't blink, "He and Gosha are welcome to stay here."
"I know. I told him that," closer, Louis shifted, creeping up to the edge of the picnic table Oguma had installed.
Sitting, the younger buck faced the range—it was as close to Oguma as he could remember Louis being. Louis had never been an affectionate child. He rarely wanted to be touched, and rarer still held. When he was ill, profoundly so, that changed—and it was the only time such a thing did occur. Or, had been the only time.
Now, sat side by side, Louis stared into the distance—the light fading into an evening's twilight. Lucile seemed convinced he would be a decent enough shot. Which was perhaps higher praise than she had ever heaped upon Oguma or her son. The elder buck might have mistaken it for affection had she not had a hundred irritable words for Louis' ever misadventure and deed.
Louis reminded her too much of him—Rhys, her son. More so now than ever, as the boy crept out of his shell of anger and frustration into a determined and reckless young male. Oguma could see the parallels, even if they were just shadows of things. If anything, he suspected any young buck would distress the matron similarly. There were somethings that time did not mend.
A truth Oguma had learned far too many times.
"Was anyone harmed?" Oguma tilted his head towards his son, lifting a curious brow. Probably not—Louis would have led with that.
The younger buck shook his head, "No. He doesn't really know what happened. Yafya said something about the Shishigumi."
That was worrying, and dangerous, "Coming after Legoshi and Gosha?" But that hardly made any sense, did it? What was the point in that? A botched attempt at well—it sounded sloppy.
Oguma had never considered lions particularly sloppy creatures.
"They came for Yafya?" Louis offered, tilting his head upwards, "At least, that's what it sounded like."
That was a more clear motivation, though if they thought that was going to kill the Black Devil they clearly failed to account for the sheer anger that propelled the stallion through the string of corpses he left behind. Oguma merely nodded, "I see. I'm glad they're safe."
Louis concurred, "Me too," there was something else—something the boy wanted to say, a topic he was weighing in the twilight, "Oguma?"
Said buck blinked, "Mm?"
Stumbling across his words, Louis struggled to express himself, "Thank you. For picking me. I—I realize you didn't have to."
Didn't have to? What nonsense. He had chosen Louis precisely because he was the right choice. The boy had made it clear, "There was no other choice." Everything else had led to that moment—there was only one thing to do.
"There were other children," Louis' voice cracked, "And I know why you came in that day."
Did he? Lucille had been talking. About very private things. Then again, she had been at the depositions. And it was a matter of public record, "You should thank her," his then soon to be ex-wife; it was the final day of their marriage, formally.
There was a snort from the boy, "Maybe. I'm still—I just." Louis' shoulders slumped, "Why is this so hard?"
Admitting you were alive only because someone had torn out the heart of another person was always a hard thing. Even more so to admit it was an impulsive decision—not some well-considered plan. Yes. To admit Oguma too was merely mortal—that he could be driven reckless passion and anger, into and up to taking a child as his own on emotion alone.
Oguma hadn't regretted that—though there were times he wondered if Louis would ever truly grow into the role.
"Life is not what we think it is," the elder buck lowered his head, sighting the rifle once more, "It is the moments between what we show others that so often matter," the evening wind blew and he held the shot, watching the trees dance and wobble.
"Do you ever think about who else you might have grabbed?" Was that it then? Guilt? Of all things that the boy could second guess—that he thought he didn't matter, or else wasn't good enough? What nonsense that was. If anything Oguma had found more trouble in convincing Louis that failure was acceptable.
Oguma snorted, "No," the rifle cracked—the shot whizzing across the distance, then it landed, a soft impact as the target twitched upon impact. "You were not a mistake."
The boy's face screwed together, "They weren't either."
"No. They weren't. Which is why I paid Gouhin a large sum of money to put them promptly out of business," Oguma spared the boy a sidelong glance even as his head whipped so quickly the elder buck fear it might pop free.
Incredulous, Louis stammered it out, "The—the panda?"
"He doesn't know—and it did not matter." The block rolled smoothly, perfectly oiled as his fingers graced the bolt—Oguma shivered. The action was almost narcotic. Rhys' weapon had always felt different than his own, despite the lack of physical differences.
Imagined or real, it simply was brilliant—just like the fool of a buck had been.
Was it sad he missed Rhys more than his wife? Maybe not. There some secrets that they both would carry to the grave. No one needed to know those things. Lucille might have caught fire, had she only known. In the end, they were not meant for one another—but no one needed to know they had ever even asked such a question.
Louis starred, his eyes alight, "Are they okay?"
"The city has a mechanism for herbivores who come into the system without official records of their existence—I assume so. I never thought to look," Louis had proved enough of a handful—and that was with the plenty of resources Oguma himself could bring to bear.
Arms leaped, winding their way about Oguma frantically. An embrace. Of all things. Louis' arms pulled his closer, and for a long moment, Oguma's mind wondered how to respond to such a thing. It was the first hug he could recall Louis offering him of his own volition. A warmth burned beneath his cheeks as his hands unwound themselves from about the weapon.
Firmly, Oguma pulled Louis closer, squeezing him close. Surprise flashed across the younger's face, until at last, he understood it for what it was. No threat. Simply something he had not known, "Thank you. Twice."
"Hush. You're too old to cry about such things," there was a hint of mirth on Oguma's lips—the words his own father had used so often, turned now in such a way as to be boon rather than bane, "You're welcome, Louis."
"I don't—I can't stop," with a sputter, Louis pulled back, dabbing his eyes, "I'm sorry."
Oguma simply snorted, tossing his head, "If you really want to apologize, you can start picking up brass." They had run nearly five-hundred rounds between them, and the spent casings were beginning to choke the ground.
"Apology rescinded," a smile rose across Louis' lips, and Oguma snorted. Of course it was.
The elder buck turned once more towards the range, sighting the weapon with a snort, "What other ideas did Lucille fill your head with?"
"Just that you and Rhys were like Legoshi and I," they had been—with 'less carnivore and herbivore' and more 'reckless young males crashing through life'.
"She is not wrong," the shot cracked and Oguma waited for the sound—another soft ping of success. The bolt rolled in his fingers, and Oguma smirked.
"And that you both slept together." The next shot faltered, slamming into the ground twenty feet in front of them as Oguma leaped from the table.
"What!"
Louis' snort turned into a laugh as Oguma tripped across the seat of the bench, staggered.
What. How. Why.
With a thump the elder buck landed, his antlers digging into the soft ground.
That damn old doe.