Most of the wolves he knows were bitten as children – defenseless, blameless. Children could not be expected to defend themselves, or to know the same fear and contempt that any respectable adult held in the face of a snarling werecreature.
Any sensible adult would never put themselves in a position to be bitten – most would rather die.
If Anatoly hadn't been exceptionally drunk, he probably would have as well.
It's incredibly ironic that he ends up being bitten on the only night in years that he's had more than a glass of wine with his dinner. Anatoly was never much of a drinker. In fact, he can recall at least a dozen separate instances in which his brother had taken the piss out of him for being such a lightweight.
Still, it's his own fault.
He should never have gone out on a full moon.
He knew better.
Now, though, lying miserably in the cot Svetlana had set up for him in the shed and staring at the steadily rising moon through the crack of the door, he felt spectacularly sorry for himself.
She had been furious. Completely, utterly disgusted with him – and could he blame her? She was pregnant, they had only just been married a year ago. He had already ruined it, and all for a goddamn drink with his obnoxious, cynical brother.
All of their plans. All of their dreams.
(He probably won't be allowed to play on the international circuit now, at least not without a suffocating degree of government supervision.)
Shifting uncomfortably onto his side, he hunches and turns away from the bright moon searing his retinas, but it's no use. The light of it makes him tremble and sweat; it's been like this for the past week, dizzy spells, tremors. He doesn't think he could string a proper sentence together these past few days even if Svetlana hadn't been giving him the cold shoulder and forcing him to sleep out in the yard like a dog.
He reminds himself, again, hopelessly, that he really shouldn't blame her. She's only doing what's best for the baby.
Privately, though, he wonders if this is what his entire life will be, now that he's tainted.
Anatoly closes his eyes and grits his teeth as another tremor knocks through him, stronger than the last. The moon will be at it's height soon, and that's the part he's not looking forward to – not that he knows much about it. For all that people were scared of wolves, there wasn't a whole lot of public knowledge about them. Not detailed, anyway, and besides that, most of it seemed more legend and fearmongering than real facts.
He supposes he'll just have to learn firsthand.
The shed is old and creaky, unused for the past several years – it wasn't as though either of them had much time or patience for gardening. Now, it's dusty and Anatoly resents it all the more. He tells himself firmly that he deserves it. But it's cold, and his bite – wrapping around the side of his neck like the pair of jaws that put it there – is burning as if in compensation. He reaches a hand up to itch it again and finds that he can't steady it.
A pang of real panic sets in when he realizes that he doesn't have control of his fingers. Fuck. What's happening? How long is this going to last? Is he even going to remember it?
His imagination runs wild, and he can see with feverish clarity Svetlana's terrified eyes as he lunges at her, jaws snapping at her throat. She holds her belly protectively, screaming –
No!
With a whimper, he rolls out of the cot and onto the floor, scrambling for purchase – for something – deliriously, he thinks that if he finds a rope he might tie himself up, make it so that he can't move much less shove his way out of the shed and into their yard, into their house. For all he knows, he's going to turn into a bloodthirsty monster, and he can't bear the thought of waking up with her blood heavy on his tongue.
I won't do it. I won't.
His hands won't unclench. He whines again, a distinctly canine sound that makes him freeze. He shudders, and turns slowly to face the crack in the door again.
The moon drifts higher, higher…
"I'm not ready!" he sobs, but it's far too late for that – his spine ripples and sickening heat fills his body, a choked sob morphing mid-sound to a pathetic howl. He can feel his face elongating. What color there was left drains from the world, and he lies panting on the floor of the shed, fur sprouting coarsely all over him until it's done, and everything is silent.
As the pain ebbs away, he blinks groggily up at the moon.
… What is this?
He's not human. He knows that, can tell from the way his tail swishes behind him to the way his ears prick, catching the faint sounds of Svetlana's breathing from the bedroom only a hundred yards away.
He is not overcome with rage, or hunger, or…
I'm not going to hurt her.
The realization hits him so hard he can't breathe, and then all at once he's springing to his feet, howling with joy. I'm not going to hurt her! I'm still human!
I'm still me!
Fuck the circuit! Fuck chess, he'd never liked it that much. Fuck Molokov and fuck his brother, fuck them all, he was still him, he was still wonderfully, beautifully human, and he prances around the tight space giddily, his paws skittering on the concrete.
Then, he stops. Listens.
Svetlana is still breathing, but… He takes a breath and huffs, eyes narrowing. He can smell it. Fear. It's got a faint, sour tang to it, like gasoline. Fear. She could hear him – was watching, through the window, wondering as he had what was going to happen – whether she would live through the night, whether they both would.
He glances at the lock on the door. Fuck it.
Without a second thought (which was, again, exactly how he found himself in this mess to begin with), he backed up and went barreling through the old wood, bursting out into the yard with another triumphant call.
His howl was answered, faintly and jovially, from the woods, and if not for Svetlana's fearful scent he might have gone sprinting off to join them – his people, his brothers, the others who had found that life wasn't so bad, so horrible, as a wolf as they'd been told.
He wanted to, he could do it – run away, lope through the woods the whole night long. Stretch his legs by the silvery moonlight.
But Svetlana, watching fearfully from the window, came first.
In what was probably the most ridiculous, responsible decision he'd ever made in his life, Anatoly stands up on his hind legs – it takes a moment and some keen balancing, but he manages it – and waves a paw, grinning lopsidedly, in an imitation of a wave.
The curtains part slightly more. She's looking at him, confused. He can practically read her mind, although he can't yet see her eyes to try. (He wonders, now, what other special perks this condition must come with – ones that no one talked about, too blindly afraid to care about the facts.)
Sveta! He tries, but it comes out as a garbled bark. He falls back onto all four paws, his tail wagging furiously, tearing at the dirt beneath his paws excitedly. She was a perfectly smart woman, she would understand. Eventually. He would make her understand.
We can still be a family.
There were a lot of things wrong with their life, their marriage, but this didn't have to be one of them.
He longed desperately to charge into the house, to run through it sniffing everything, to test his senses, but he restrained himself. He would wait for her, or else risk terrifying her, and their unborn child.
He sat down and stared at the part in the curtains, cocking his head, allowing his tongue to loll out the side of his mouth. It felt only mildly ridiculous. Now, transformed, the night is warm and beautiful and charged with potential, better than anything he's ever known. He tries to convey the overwhelming joy of the moment, finds he can't really sit still, unable to stop his ears from pricking and his tail from swishing and his paws from dancing in the dirt.
Sveta, he barks again, impatient now. I am not going to hurt you.
The curtains pull back, suddenly, and she stands there, glowing in the pale light of the moon, staring at him with some expression that in this form he can't readily interpret – disbelief, possibly, and hope against hope.
He picks up a paw again and attempts to wave. Her hand flies up to her mouth, and between her fingers, he thinks that he can see her smile.
He rolls over onto his back, all four paws in the air, and looks at her upside down. Presenting his belly, surrendering. This is all he can do for her; it's up to Svetlana, whether or not he's allowed inside, back into her life – for good. No more fear, no more distrust, no more silent resentment. This could be their new beginning.
He waits for a long moment, watching her. Pleading. He wonders if he has puppy eyes, now, and if they'll work on his wife.
She laughs, muffled through the glass, and unhooks the latch at last.