IV
It's already evening orange by the time they're stepping foot back in the bayou. For Husk, it's a familiar ground for all the wrong reasons. But it's easier to feel like himself out here. Tipping his head back, he lets the soft breeze wash over his face and sighs in what's close to bliss. The consistent chatter from next to him isn't enough to shatter that bliss either. Although, the subject matter forms a pit low in Husk's stomach, and has him biting his tongue a little more than usual in comparison. He glances at Alastor, who is writing as he walks again, and decides to keep an eye on his footing just in case.
"I saw the loup-garou over this way when I was looking for you. Actually—were you ever here at all? I could have sworn I heard you scream."
"Yeah... wasn't me... Maybe it got someone out here."
"In which case... wouldn't we find a body? I saw that thing's mouth up close. It's jaw was way too small to devour in just one bite. It also watched me all night long. So it only had a small window of time in the evening and in the morning. It definitely would have left remains."
"Yeah, you'd know a lot about that."
"Don't be a tease~" Alastor looks up from his notebook to shoot a coy smirk at him when he says it. He should know that it just makes Husk want to keep teasing. But in this unique situation, he keeps quiet with a small smirk of his own to match. Unlike the last hike into the bayou, there is actual evidence laying around this time. Husk finds himself sweating in the humid Louisiana swamp air. There are large paw prints in the mud, of an animal that was obviously moving very quickly. A lot of the prints are incomplete, or only capture part of the foot and claws. The set of human shoe prints going the opposite direction makes it easy to guess what happened just by looking at the dirt.
They're headed for Alastor's little shack again, or more appropriately dubbed hiding place now that he's spent the full moon there. He's already cleaned out his "werewolf research" notes and evidence. The only thing left in the shack now are the various toxic plants and leaves that helped ward off the creature. Alastor can't be sure if the plants actually worked as intended, or if they simply bothered it enough to make it give up on the hunt for it's human prey. While thinking it over, Alastor keeps his eyes on the brush around them.
"The wolfsbane seemed to be effective..." Alastor continues as he steps over a large tree root, "...at least, enough that the dog shied away from it."
"And you stabbed it?"
"..." Alastor spins to look at him with a curious look in his eye, still walking backwards as he does, "How did you know that?"
"Tch... Lucky guess... You always got a knife on you."
"Oh... Well yes, I did. The loup-garou was unbelievably fast. But after I damaged it with the silver, it seemed to slow down some. That's how I managed to escape."
Husk hums in agreement. Even if his eyes unintentionally narrowed at the whole concept, and the vicious sting in his own shoulder. Alastor seems to write it off as his usual poker-face and turns back around to make sure he doesn't trip over the forest path. He directs them towards the area where he first saw the beast. From where the moon reached over the hillside, it would have created enough shadow for it to sneak around almost anywhere. But one tree draws his reddish-brown gaze when it glints off the sunlight coming through the canopy. There's a thick length of chain laying all around the base of the tree. But some of the gray links in the middle have shifted to a broken rusty brown, and snapped the metallic tension altogether.
"Wait a second..." Alastor fishes the strange clue he'd found yesterday from his satchel. Kneeling down to compare the foot-long piece of chain he'd discovered to this new one. There was almost no doubt in his mind that they would match up perfectly, but seeing it right before his eyes makes him feel as if he's playing the part of a private investigator.
Husk swallows thickly behind him. He can see the gears spinning in the brunette's head. And either his secret is the best kept in history, or Alastor is really just that dense. While not the most flattering characteristic, he's thankful for it all the same. It's saved him a great deal of drama up until now. But he knows that once his friend has taken interest in something like this, it's bound to explode into obsession sooner or later. He could say it was all for his radio show, but Husk knew better. Alastor thrived on what could keep him entertained the longest. A mystery like this was just the kind of thrill he most enjoyed chasing. The supernatural element of it forever being an unknown variable to him was nothing short of infuriating, and he'd fight to learn more as long as it didn't kill him. Even then, he'd get damn close before he'd ever consider giving up.
"The loup-garou is a man that turns into a beast on the full moon..." Alastor begins, detective work to rival a Holmes or Poirot backing his observations, "What if he chained himself up here before he transformed? But it wasn't strong enough to hold him... Thus... the chain broke, and this smaller piece was dragged a ways..."
Husk doesn't say anything about his theory, but Alastor is sure he's hit the nail on the head. The bigger man might be worried about this discovery, but his shoulders are set with tension. The hair on the back of his neck is standing on end. He senses someone nearby...
Less then a mile away... there are three men trekking through the bayou towards their direction. Husk jerks his head towards them as soon as he notices. The tunnel vision makes them appear as red heat signatures across a sea of foggy gray. They all have guns on them. He can just tell. It's hard to make out any visual details, but he can hear and smell Husk's hearing is second to none, and he goes quiet as he puts all of his focus into the distant mumbles of voices speaking in hushed whispers...
"There's a man with a bite mark on his neck, an injured arm, and reddish color eyes... Yeah, skinny brunette or something."
"Madam Delphi said he has to live nearby. It shouldn't be too hard to find him with descriptions like that."
"There might still be traces around here, so keep an eye out."
They're looking for Alastor?
Who else matches those exact descriptions? Husk turns his gold gaze on his friend, and the very obvious white bandages covering the wounds on his neck and forearm. A protective urge sweeps over his entire body like a lightning strike.
Alastor barely has time to register that Husk moved at all. It happens in an instant. One moment he's standing there casually, and the next, Alastor's back is pressed flush against the tree right beside them. Husk pins him to it with the full front of his own body, nearly pressed chest to chest. His big hands are pushed up against the tree on both sides of Alastor's head, so taut that Husk's knuckles are turning white with pressure. Alastor can't fight the creeping red blush blossoming on his cheeks. Husk was rarely ever forceful with him, unless he was shoving off one of his impromptu side hugs. Even then, it was never so abrupt. It's a strange feeling that gets him all weak in the knees and gripping the bark of the tree in his own gloved hands as much as he can.
"H-Husk...?"
"Shh... keep quiet... there's hunters over there..."
"Why do we have to hide from—"
He can't even finish the thought, because Husk is growling. It's a low bass deep in his throat. Alastor almost thinks he must be imagining it, but from this close up, it would be difficult to miss. Husk mushes himself even closer, until his chin is practically resting on his friend's shoulder. His eyes may be glowing a faint yellow, but it's hard to make out in the evening light. Those eyes are securely locked on the silhouettes of figures with guns marching through the bayou. They're a great distance away, but Husk can hear their conversation as if it's happening right in front of him.
Alastor stays frozen still as it unfolds. His heart is drumming within it's confines quicker than any bluegrass song could manage. The sudden internal heat constricting him is unfamiliar and stifling. He can't help but feel like he's choking and getting too much air all at the same time. So he timidly looks down to clear his head. But instead he has to be reminded how close Husk is, almost touching him but not quite doing it anywhere. Even where one of his legs is slotted between his own. There's an irritating sense of anxiety cooling his blood right beneath his skin at that. He wants it closer and he wants it gone simultaneously—even if it's impossible to do both...
"Stop smelling like that. You're making it hard to think..." Husk mumbles above him. And Alastor can only shoot him a puzzled glance until he notices that Husk's face is dusted with red blush too.
"S-smelling...? What in the world do you mean...?"
"Nothing... Fucking... Just stay still and calm down. Stop being so fidgety."
"That's rich. Y-you're the one holding onto me..." he starts, but can't finish. Now that Husk is looking at him, the strange new feelings are intensified tenfold. There's a pining look to his golden gaze that feels like a barely contained fire in a ring of stones. Alastor swallows. He doesn't know what to do about the sudden picture of twisting his hands into Husk's shirt and forcing him closer to... well what would he do? Kiss him? ...The thought isn't actually as repellent as he thought it should be. It's never appealed to him before, but now the image is willingly conjuring itself in his brain to the added collective of confusion.
"You're blushing, Alastor... did you know that?" Husk asks, somehow just a hairs width away from his own face now. It's flustering him. If this was what he meant before—then yes—it sure does make it hard to think straight. Alastor doesn't miss the slight hint of mockery in his friend's tone either. Although... Why does it excite him even more? Banter with Husk has always been a highlight of their relationship, he's easily able to confess. It was normally a game he could never lose, but he could never truly win either. It never grew old. Never before has it seemed so searing. Never so difficult to say anything at all to match. Suddenly... its too much.
Alastor doesn't look at him as he thrusts both hands out to Husk's chest with the goal of shoving him away. Somehow, it's like hitting a brick wall though. As soon as both his palms are there, and trying his best to push—Husk doesn't actually move backwards. It's almost like Alastor is not putting any force behind it when he knows for a fact he is. He can see himself shaking with it. Isn't it more awkward now just leaving his hands on Husk's chest? Should he move them?
"The... 'hunters' are gone?" he asks, to distract himself from the over thinking.
"Gone," Husk affirms without even looking. His stare makes it hard to breathe. There's a low droning hum coming from the bigger man's throat. It's hard to tell if it's a sultry purr or the deep rumble of a growl. Alastor peeks up to see if his friend is still staring, even though he can feel the tension of the stare right through to his bloodstream. He's probably blushing even more now. He can feel the heat bleeding out into his cheeks and the tips of his ears. He doesn't know what to do with the warmth circling between them...
"Alastor..." Husk barely whispers. The smaller man's eyes are closed, but he can still feel Husk tilting his face up with one gentle hand under his chin. The touch on his face sends a shiver clear down his back so fiercely that it rattles his rib cage. It's slow and hesitant, as if to give him time to call out a rejection. He doesn't though. It's never been so difficult to say so much as one word. And even though that word should probably be no...
"Harry..."
He doesn't recognize the whimper that comes out of his own throat when Husk slots his mouth over his. It's never even occurred to him before this exact instant that he wants this. It's an electric shock zapping across his entire chilled bloodstream. He doesn't really know what to do. How to reciprocate the action or fight against it. He instinctively parts his lips enough that Husk hums softly in encouragement. And for the few seconds that it lasts, it seems like this is enough. It could have been minutes, and he wouldn't realize it. Husk lets him go. But as soon as he does, Alastor slumps back against the tree like that was his only tether to action. He can't explain why he feels this dizzy. His ironclad will to push down strange emotions like this is completely smashed.
"Al... are you okay?" Husk asks, low and careful.
"I'm... I'm fine. I'm just... confused..." He admits, tentatively lifting a hand to grip at the fabric of his own shirt in a nervous gesture.
"I'm sorry... I shouldn't have—"
He can't explain any of his own movements anymore. He can't understand them either. In the very next second, he's grabbing onto Husk by his white collared shirt and mashing them together again. He wants the feeling back. The electricity that comes from it isn't dulled in the slightest and it sends pleasant tingles across every patch of skin showing. He isn't any more skilled at this than before, but the difference is that Harry is kissing him back like he's found an ocean right in the middle of a desert and never wants to leave it. The passion behind it is scary. The hands now holding onto him by the waist are tight and trapping. The combination of elements is making his head spin.
He has to stop to breathe again. But his unspoken consent seems to have given Harry a second wind of desire. Alastor is pushed into the tree again, with one of Husk's hands in the back of his hair and the other at his hip. His mouth is pressed against his neck, kissing at the tender wounded skin enough to force an unexpected whine from his vocal chords.
"Ahhh~"
He swears he can hear Husk purring now. It's a quiet rumbling at the very least, like a steady hum set to a cello's lowest strings. Having his neck so exposed like this makes him feel like prey... especially since it's already covered in a canine bite. Teeth graze delicately over the scorching skin and it draws a whimper out of him. One that skilled performer has never even heard himself make. Suddenly Husk bites down into his throat. He doesn't expect it to trigger a violent reaction, but before Alastor can stop himself— he's shoving at the man's shoulders to get him away.
"AAGGHH—!"
As soon as his hands bash over Husk's right side, the taller man shoots away from him like he's been burned. Husk's outcry is followed by a tense hiss of barely withheld pain. He raises a hand over his injury, trembling and unable to soothe the blast of pain shooting through his body. Alastor stares in near shock. He's hesitant to approach, but moving away from the tree enough to watch his friend curiously.
"I'm sorry, Harry. I didn't mean—to..." He studies the blood seeping through Husk's shirt and stalls as his eyes widen, "You're hurt! You're... You're injured in the right shoulder. Just like the..."
"Say it. Say it, asshole," Husk suddenly growls at him. His eyes burn with a golden hue that makes them look like they're lit up. He wonders if it will provoke Alastor. To draw out that same look of fear that keeps haunting him. It's not that he wants to see it there, just the opposite. But every instinct of his animal nature can't help but feel kicked and cornered. Especially the longer that his friend just stands there staring at him. And then the oblivious radio star speaks, one hand raised like he's got the perfect solution.
"I think I got it! Those weren't hunters. They were bootleggers who shot you, right? That's why you're hurt? And they would have recognized you if they spotted us!"
Husk stares at Alastor after hearing those words and considers how easy it would be to snap his scrawny neck in half. He slaps a hand over his face and drags it down slow. Feeling every bit of the wide-eyed look he's getting as he plays up his disappointment in that answer.
"Yeah, you guessed it," Husk says with every ounce of sarcasm he's got.
"You seem nonplussed, Husker."
"Let's just... Let's just go. I got a shift at the drum later..."
Husk lumbers onward, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck as his skin heats with blush. He's going to have to tell Alastor point blank. He knows that now. He can't stand the pulsing pressure inside his chest. Alastor skips a little, jogging ahead of him just to stay one step ahead of the game. He's already acting like normal again. Husk draws in a breath of fresh air to calm his nerves. He rakes a hand through his already messy raven locks and clears his throat to catch his friend's attention.
"H-hey, Al..." he begins, cautious and hopeful bubble forming in his throat, "Are we gonna talk about that kiss...?"
The radio host freezes up to a stiffened statue mid-walk. His cheeks flare up red, and he avoids turning to look at Husk to keep that detail hidden away. He trains his eyes on the murky water off to the side and keeps them there despite the magnetic pull trying to force him back to Husk's face. The bigger man is standing right behind him now. The shadow completely envelops his thinner frame this way. It would almost be intimidating if it was someone else. The reason for Alastor's blushing and flustered behavior must be side effects of the trauma he faced with last night. Why else would he have such a reaction to a man he sees every day? A man he pesters every day, sometimes for no reason other than to see him...
"What is there to talk about?" He says, taken over by a forcibly cheerful tone.
"You can't just pretend it didn't happen, Alastor... You kissed me back."
"I..." He has no counter for those words. Nothing comes to mind either... Distractedly, Husk reaches forward and takes Alastor's hand into his own. Even through his dark gloves, the warmth coming through his fingertips is suffocating and comforting all at the same time.
"Alastor, I... I have feelings for yo—"
"Don't say that!" Alastor scolds, without looking back, "D-don't... We're both men, don't you get that? This isn't something we're supposed to do. You know what would happen if someone heard you say that? If they saw what we were doing just now..."
"I don't care," Husk says it so firmly, refusing to let go of the smaller hand intertwined with his own, "I had to tell you... I don't care if we have to keep... whatever this is... a secret. I just want to be with you."
Husk knows he should be focusing on other things right now. Those men were looking for his friend for some reason. He could be in danger. Alastor has a knack for making as many enemies as he has admirers. Husk can't always be around him either. But maybe this time he'll accept the company. Or at least, the bigger man hopes that he will... The soft summer breeze picks up around them. The pretty way it hits Alastor's hair sends an alluring wash of petrichor in Husk's direction. It makes him half-lid his eyes in contentment. It's that peace that keeps him grounded as Alastor finally looks at him. The theatrical little nerd is probably unaware that he's mirroring that same serene look on his own face. There might even be longing hidden in the chaste dark pools of his eyes.
"I... I need time to think. I don't know why I feel like this... I don't know what I feel... I've never... Never even... That was my first..." Alastor turns his gaze to the ground. Pearls of opaque tears peeking from the corners of his eyes. He lifts one hand up to his mouth, and Husk can't help but stare at the delicate way his fingertips push at his lips.
"Your first kiss, Al?" He asks quietly. His friend merely nods, shy and turning red all the way down his neck despite the injury covering over half of it.
"Did you... hate it?" Husk says, with much more caution. He's tensed up as he awaits an answer. Those big doe eyes peering over to meet his again.
"I liked it... " Alastor whispers, "I'm not... against the idea of a romantic relationship... with you... I just need time to sort myself out before I can..." It's almost so quiet that it would be missed under any normal circumstance. Husk catches it loud and clear though. It warms his chest straight through to his core. The heat may as well be blue fire set right against his heart. He can feel himself smiling harder than he has in weeks or months. And it must be contagious, because Alastor can't help but meet it with a quirky grin of his own.
"Then I'll wait for you, Al... No matter how long it takes."
.
...
.
It's only three days after the full moon when Ricardo cuts into Cyrano Arnaud's office like a bat out of Hell. It's six at night, and almost time for the speakeasy to start letting in people bearing the mark of the tiger. Cyrano's office is nothing special, for a man of his stature. The right hand man of the owner himself lives humble. Though he did go for those purple carpets—the color of royalty. That was always his favorite. He's smoking a cigar as his underling enters the door. The ginger haired man has his hands in his suit pockets, shirt half unbuttoned like he's done working for the day.
"I think I found a way to catch our thief," he says, slow curl of a smirk already creasing his mouth.
"Great. Gimme the details."
Cyrano lays his big hands on the desk, locking his brown fingers together with a small smile of his own. Their hunt for the Rougarou has taken up a lot of time thus far. Searching every speakeasy in Louisiana is no easy feat after all. He's sure he's onto something with the Scarlet Room though. He's keeping his eye on Mimzy and that place. And soon he discovers that gut feeling of his turned out to be right. Ricardo tosses a brand new set of documents in front of him. Cyrano flips open the cover and takes in the black and white photo of a man in front of him. The photo depicts a handsome stooge wearing glasses and a friendly smile pressed from ear to ear. There's nothing immediately remarkable about this man. He's likely just another cog caught up in the wheels of another person's game.
"Alastor Dapremont..." Ricardo explains, "He works at the WWL radio station. Last night, he read out a story about the 'legendary loup-garou said to stroll the Louisiana bayou'..."
"No shit? That's a pretty big coincidence."
"It's not just coincidence," Ricardo lolls his head and clicks his tongue to say, "He also reported on our guys going missing."
"Fuck!"
"Right. He didn't name off the Blind Tiger, but it was heavily implied. The cops might even try to investigate us after this. Point is, Dapremont had inside information somehow. Whoever stole our files must have sold them to the radio station."
Cyrano rubs one hand over his forehead as he takes this in. It's a heavy blow. Mr. Galletti is not going to like all the clean up detail involved in hiding this mistake. They might even have to ice Dapremont if he looked at those documents personally. Just one more unnecessary cog in the wheels of society.
"Alright..." Cyrano eventually says, "Go pay this guy a visit. WWL station—"
"Actually—" Ricardo interrupts him to say, "I got Intel that he frequents the Scarlet Room, if you wanna catch him tonight. I think he's got a girlfriend there."
"Even better... You know what, I'll take this one myself."
The Scarlet Room is alive with jazz music when Cyrano arrives at the top of the stairwell. He's got a couple of Galletti's guys with him, just in case. With a subtle wave of his hand, they spread out around the bar and act casual so as not to be noticed. Even in the stark color of the real world, he only has to take one glance to know Dapremont when he sees him. But as soon as he does, everything clicks in his head in a way he never thought possible.
Alastor Dapremont is a tall, skinny brunette. There may be glasses on his face, but even those don't hide the flash of a red-eyed glare. He's well dressed, in a white shirt covered by a striped red vest and a bow tie at his neck. However, the white sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. And over his slightly pale creole skin is a large white bandage. Curious by the detail, Arnaud steps around to his other side. Alastor is sitting at the bar, twirling a short glass of whiskey on the rocks. His attention is elsewhere, straight ahead of him and making small talk with the tall bartender. But Cyrano's eyes are drawn instead to his thin neck. There's a bandage there too. And a slowly healing bruise hiding beneath it. Cyrano recalls his meeting with Madam Delphi such a short time ago, and only now does he realize that Dapremont checks all the boxes of their missing Rougarou...
Cyrano smirks, removing the dark shaded glasses from over his eyes to stare pointedly at the radio host. He can't help but notice that the bartender is staring back at him now. A startlingly golden stare is directed right at Cyrano, like a flashing warning sign. The gangster spins on his heel and watches the stage instead to avoid drawing too much attention. He takes a few careful steps to stand beside one of his guys. They're both watching the pretty blonde in the red dress dancing up above them. But Cyrano offers a signal with his voice pitched low and discrete.
"Change of plans... Get set up in the alley outside."
There's a small nod from the man in the suit to confirm the plan. Cyrano trusts that he will relay the message to everyone else. Now his own errands just got a little more complicated. His first order of business is to sit down at a table, facing Dapremont's direction but never looking at him fully. He waits for a pretty flapper to come around and sit on his lap. She's a looker with a thin frame and stark raven hair curled around her ears. A green glittering dress reveals much of her pale skin to the hazy lighting all around them.
"How you doin, Sugar? I got a little task for ya... if you wanna make some easy cash~ Just don't ask any questions, got it?"
Cyrano knows he's got her attention already. So he explains what he wants from her and watches her slide the five dollars right into her bra. The lady stands up, making her rounds as casual as she'd been working before. But when she gets back to the bar, she "accidentally" pitches an entire glass of beer onto Alastor's chest and collar. Cyrano watches the event unfold from the corner of his eye. The girl apologizes to him profusely, and Alastor stands up to ease her fears by telling her it's no big deal. Then, as luck would have it, the radio host starts walking to the bathroom located at the back of the club. Through the dark hallway, he vanishes into the door. Cyrano waits the respectable length of a full minute. Then he stands up and adjusts his collar before following the man into the bathroom...