by Zakarrie C
Jake found himself flat out a few seconds later, clutching his guts, wracked with pain. Clawed by phantom paws with a glee so rabid he should be quarantined.
You and whose army this time?
They appeared to be moorward bound whether Jake liked it or not…and unless he fancied spending the rest of his life four-footed and furry, he had no choice whatsoever. Thus, Jake headed home and had a quick cuppa before stripping down to his boxers and heading to the shed. After stashing some clean sweatpants and T-shirts in there, he leaped barefoot over the garden fence and sprinted off into the night. Once safely in the woods, Jake let go, indulging the jackal in some pant-shredding humanity-shedding en route. The night air was calm, clear after the early evening downpour. It was a bit chilly, but not too cold to while away an hour or so amidst the ruins of a tumbledown engine house…
Would Phin even be there, or was the campervan long gone? He may have packed up his shattered pride and fled the memory of the bastard who’d stolen his innocence. Jack was convinced this was cobblers. Jake just knew that’s exactly what he would have done, had their roles been reversed.
Jack’s instincts were, as ever, faultless. The campervan sat serenely on the verge, the soft glow of a night light seeping through its drawn curtains. Not a sound came from within, so Jake allowed himself to hope that Phin had, indeed, headed off to his favoured spot.
If Jack could grin with glee? There was no doubt he’d be doing just that. His tongue was lolling from his open mouth, looking dafter than seemed feasible, as he stood scenting the air with eager anticipation. Off he set at a sudden run, skimming sure-footed over stone, rock and clumps of scrubby grass. Phin’s scent, a sparkling thread of promise, luring them with magnetic force. Stronger, richer, now; more mulled wine than cinnamon sugar. More…insistent.
When Jack reached his spying spot behind a crumble-down wall, he hunkered down on the moss with a happy huff of contentment. Phin was sitting exactly where he belonged, facing the engine house ruins with a notebook on his lap. They watched as he scribbled a few words, sometimes a few lines, between bouts of chewing the end of his pen and gazing around as if he were waiting for a tardy friend.
This made them both a bit fretful; no one had joined Phin before, nor had it seemed they might. Jack craned his head around, scanning the horizon in every direction, but there wasn’t a soul to be seen or scented. The skittish twitches of his skin and ears refused to relent; there was too much at stake. Jack would not, could not, share Phin. He was theirs.
With an unhappy huff of unease, he let his head flop onto his front paws. The small whine that sounded in his throat was involuntary; impossible to quash even if he’d known it was about to exhibit itself. Phin snapped his head up with an alertness that suggested he’d heard a rifle crack. The pen fell unheeded from his fingers.
“Foxy…?” was a soft expulsion of breath.
Foxy?
Did Phin mean Jake, or the friendly ‘fox’ he’d ‘dreamed’ last night? Rosebud lips pursed around a low whistle and then—in warm, coaxing tones—Phin called, “Here, boy…”
‘Here, boy?’ Strewth. Now there was an invitation Jake had never thought to hear this lifetime. Jack’s butt was twitching, his fur quivering in anticipation. Nooooo!
How the jackal managed to suppress a spring so imminent, Jake knew not, but he sure as hell knew they were fucked, seconds later. This, when Phin’s shoulders drooped with a disappointment almost as dreadful as the wilted scent of sorrow that spoiled his own.
Jack was off like a shot, bounding over the rubble.
As bidden… he pointed out before Jake could muster a limp protest. He summoned us; he wants us, we want him, simple.
Summoned? F’chrissakes. Does he have a death wish, or is he just so certain you mean him no harm?
There was no trace of uncertainty on Phin’s face, nor fearful souring of his scent. He didn’t even flinch when a furry missile came flying through the air, aimed his way. Instead? A huge beam of joy put the starlight to shame when Jack skittered to a stop a few feet from Phin’s right thigh. Tongue lolling out in a goofy grin.
A most undignified one. Indecent, in fact.
Jack didn’t give a stuff. Particularly when Phin extend his fingers towards him, stilling them several inches from his nose. When Jack stretched forwards to snuffle them, Phin’s chuckle was so charming, he could scarce restrain from swiping the hand a lick.
“Good boy…hello…” His endearment was a melted chocolate murmur…Jack wanted to lick that too.
Good boy!? For chrissakes. He’ll be off to buy you a collar and lead tomorrow.
Soft limit, or hard? Suit yourself, I’m in.
Jack couldn’t resist tasting those fingertips for a second longer. They were being wafted under his nose like the tastiest of treats. It would be rude to rebuff them. Very rude. And Jack was a Gent.
A whaaat-the-fuck?
Oh, do pipe down at the back.
Which is exactly how it feels, dogbreath. Stuck in the backseat of a car, watching a mate cop off with your not-so secret crush.
Mate, huh? I’m touched. Well, buckle up and sit tight, buddy, it’s my turn. You’ve had yours. Then—if I recall rightly—gave him the brush off and buggered off without so much as a word of farewell. Thus, it seems a leetle bit likely that you’re in the doghouse, remember? You’ll probably find it parked at one of the Poles, I reckon. Laters…
17. Phin
Phin nibbled on the end of his pen, staring at the spidery scrawl strewn across the page. Fractured phrases scattered without forethought, and far less sense… Plush-lipped, lush-hipped grace…that incomparable face, a toffee tumble of hair, lusty-lidded stare… Paraiba tourmaline…aquamarine dream…topaz azure…nonpareil allure…Too Much at stake… JackJa/keJake.
Wasted wafflings of what might-have-been, had Phin not wanted too much. Or—at leastest of all leasts—not admitted it aloud. Lips like a leaky portaloo. It had felt as if the scratchy might do flaying the flesh off his bones when Jack fled. How Phin wished it would finally be done with him…but he was more likely to be suffocated by the solitude that kept him safe. If only there was a way to do syphoning off some too muchness, without turning him into a zombie. Before Phin wound up too dead to be classified a corpse: Immodice mortem.
When he’d woken, bleary and beleaguered after his fitful nap, Phin felt as if Jake’s touch was imprinted on his flesh and he was an over-tuned string instrument. Strung too tight, sticky with sweat. Smeared in dried blood, his shrink-wrapped skin feverish with sense memory. Phin had even pressed wondering fingertips to his lips, where the imprint of Jake’s mouth still lingered. A sensation that whisked away the floodgates and unleashed a torrent of stuff Phin had nowhere safe to stash; no tried and tested ‘coping strategies’ in place. And even if he had any, there was just too much to sort and Phin felt too messy to make sense of himself. Let alone the tangle of tongues, trickling across skin…the moist heat of Jake’s magical mouth, engulfed in unimaginable bliss…and oh, the taste of him. The husky musk of Jake’s scent, his lush tumble of hair when he’d thrown his head back. The gravel-strewn growl of Phin’s very own name, thrilling through his veins.
Jake had gone. For good. It felt as far from good as Phin could do imagining.
Left…without a word. Left Phin with? The echo of his own worth ringing in his ears. So whywhywhy come here?
Here, where it began? It was a tad twisted, like staring into a murky puddle that mirrored Phin’s shame back at him. That was one way of looking at it, he supposed, but he hadn’t come to stare at himself. Phin just…couldn’t help but hope to see his foxy friend. Even if he had hallucinated those eyes of jet blue flame; a flicker of light in the darkness Phin loved. Warming him through as he sat there, shivering his nuts off.
The memory of Foxy’s face emerging from the shadows was so vivid, Phin actually heard the same soft whimper from the night before. A sound so true it had triggered the fall he hadn’t forgotten to do remembering, Phin
just couldn’t. At all. The only recallable moment was the briefest blaze of blue. Not that it mattered, when he could recollect every scintillating second of the consequences that ensued, after waking in his van.
His only remembrance of the fall itself was hearing a whine so unexpected, it had distracted him too much to do concentrating. As clumsy as ever, he’d lost his footing on the tumble of rocks and done smacking his head on a stone. He must have conked-out for a bit—that much Phin knew—because he’d briefly come around and seen his foxy friend. But then, nothing, until he’d woken in his van. He must have scraped himself up, at some point, then done staggering about ’til Jack found him and brought him back. That was the only chain of events that made any sense; Jake’s only option other than leaving Phin where he found him. Phin hadn’t got his phone and Jake hadn’t even got pockets; neither of them could’ve called a cab that couldn’t collect them from the middle of the moor.
“Foxy…?” It was a bit daft calling him that, Phin had to confess. ‘Fox’ meant nothing to him—even if he was one—which he wasn’t. The image of Foxy in his mind’s eye was not a jot orange enough. Phin sure as carrot sick colours hadn’t misremembered that. He’d been shades of creamy caramel and grey, with black flecky bits. P’raps Phin should do whistling and say something warm and welcoming instead, that might work.
“Here, boy…” He kept his voice as low, soft, unthreatening as he could, but heard nary a whimper—nor even a low growl of warning—in response. Typical…he’d now segued from rustling up hallucinations to imagining noises to torment himself with, too. Phin huffed a sigh so heartfelt it did ruffling the pages of his journal. Abruptly done with suffering the consequences of his hapless hopes for the second time in swift succession, Phin— snapped his head up when a scrabbly scuffle shattered the silence. Foxy?
A furry flurry came hurtling from the shadows and took a flying leap over the rocky rubble. A sight too spectacular to wonder if he was about to find himself with a faceful of teeth and claws. As it turned out, that would have been a waste of wondering. Phin was glad he hadn’t bothered when Foxy skittered to a stone ’n’ spittle spraying halt, a few feet away. Phin almost split his kiss-chapped lips, so wide was his grin—but it wasn’t a patch on Foxy’s—which came complete with a dangling tongue so long, he won, paws down. He stood, panting puffy clouds of breath, his eyes so blue and glinty-bright they seemed spot lit from within.
Phin should consider telling Mr. Neil that he might need his meds upping. Unless he forgot. The urge to do stroking Foxy was so strong, it would have been wise to sit on his hands, which was perhaps why Phin didn’t bother.
Maybe if he just held out a hand, then Foxy could do choosing? He might not want a stinky human to touch him and Phin could scarce blame him for that. Fearful of frightening him away, Phin raised his arm until his fingers hovered a few inches beneath the tip of Foxy’s tongue. Much to his inner happy dance of delight, Foxy started snuffing them, making small huffy noises when his cool, wet nose smudged Phin’s skin.
“Good boy…hello…” he crooned, hoping it sounded friendly to Foxy, who snuffled a smidge more, then flicked Phin a little lick that skimmed his fingertips. Perhaps it was to test Phin’s reaction, because that first, tentative touch of tongue was succeeded by a full-on slosh of Foxy slobber across the back of his hand.
It was warm and wet and meant the world to Phin, who was honoured that Foxy even trusted him enough to come close, let alone gift him with a lick. A nudge of nose seemed to suggest that his newfound friend wanted access to Phin’s palm, so he turned the hand over. It was the left one, not his mangled right, so Foxy wouldn’t have to do suffering the scabs, which would feel disgusting. After slurping a swipe across his upturned palm, Foxy abruptly lost interest in it and did shoving his nose into the cuff of Phin’s trench coat instead. It was barely a huff of hot breath later that Foxy yanked his head back to (this bit may have been hallucinating) narrow his eyes at Phin. It sure looked that way when the space between his tufty eyebrows scrunched up and he did peering down his snoot. After a staring Phin out ’til he seemed satisfied, Foxy shoved his nose back into the cuff and…did pushing, as if he wanted to bare the wrist. There didn’t seem any reason to disoblige him, so Phin hitched the sleeve up a tad. One sniff later, he found himself levelled with an expression so considering it was akin to his mum’s when weighing up whether he’d had a proper mishap or been up to mischief.
The sleeve was a direct tunnel to Phin’s armpit, which possibly didn’t smell very fresh in a week-old sweaty sock sort of way, so he didn’t blame Foxy one bit. His sense of smell possibly thought it had been clobbered by a niff more noxious than the carcasses he might just litter the moors with. Someone sure did, Phin had seen one for himself. The stinky pits theory stopped making sense when Foxy stalked behind Phin and did snagging the elbow of his coat with sharp teeth and tugged on the sleeve.
“What is it, Foxy?” he wondered, a bit bemused. In response, Foxy shot him a knowing look, then returned to Phin’s cuff and did cramming his nose into it again. One snuff later, off he went, to repeat his tug-o-war with the elbow of the trench.
Phin had no idea why he had such a bee in his bonnet—that was an idiom, Foxy was not wearing one of those—which did suggest that Phin’s sanity was still salvageable. An excellent thing indeed, when the very existence of the bonnet might be deemed a tad too much…even before Phin started wondering whether Foxy had come as Granny from Little Red Riding Hood.
The upshot of all this was that Foxy seemed to want access to Phin’s arm, which was the part that mattered, his reasons were his own business. Oouch…Phin had forgotten about the gash his jumper did grazing with wire wool aplomb when he shoved the sleeve to the crook of his elbow.
Uh oh. Foxy snorted a sound uncannily akin to a horse’s harrumph. Had this not been accompanied by an imperious squint, Phin might have suspected the wound was a stench too far after suffering the stinky armpit. Said squint ’n’ stare made Foxy’s next move all the more oddsome. Rather than back off in disgust, he did swiping a stinging sluice across the ugly slash. Moonlight was not its best look, it must be admitted; blood blackened and scabby on blanched-to-bone skin.
The sting was fleeting, it had scarce sparked to life than faded to a silken warmth when Foxy swept it another lingering lick. It was the strangest sensation; as soothing as the stroke of velvet, as comforting as fleece (the only fabrics Phin could do wearing without being besieged by scratchy). He watched, fascinated, as Foxy kept lapping, as if convinced it could be erased…or washed away with saliva.
When he seemed satisfied with a job well done, Foxy snuffed a huff, then switched his focus to Phin’s face. A gaze every bit as amazing as it was beautiful; Phin had remembered right. It was a bright, blazing blue—deeper, darker than they’d seemed yesterday—pupils blown so huge they engulfed most of his iris. Phin scrunched his eyes tight shut in a bid to do blotting out another blue; every bit as crystal clear as Foxy’s. Dark with a desire Phin found it hard to believe he’d inspired, even for a second in a man so…unsurpassable.
Foxy—quite why Phin was still calling him this when he was clearly not a fox—was a mystery. It seemed that everyone he met required at least two names of late, which was playing havoc with Phin’s head. He’d lost his thread of thought again…it was all going to hell in a hurricane jet. Ah, Foxy…that was it. He was too wolfish to be a fox. Too lean, slinky looking for a wolf. He was honey-hued, dappled with grey that darkened to black along his back. His face was not rusty coloured at all, it was creamy gold, white and speckled silver. Some sort of wild dog? Coyote? Jackal? Whichever of these his foxy friend might be, he now seemed…sad. Staring up at Phin with sorrow-laden pools of baleful blue.
“Don’t be upset…” Phin told him, pulling his sleeve back down over the wound, which had started a strange tingle in the wind. “I’m okay…”
With a snuff that would have sounded like a snort of disbelief, had Foxy been human, he did resting the underside of
his jaw on Phin’s bent knee. The warm weight was comforting in itself; more so, if it meant Foxy was not…miffed. Okay…that did sound nuts, bolts and barking bonkers. It still felt that way though.
“May I stroke you?” Phin dared to ask.
His foxy friend’s lids drifted down, shrouding the blue…in a sinking into a bubble bath sort of way. Or… The flash of memory was brilliance itself—blinding—of Jack’s eyelids; gliding shut when Phin did trailing tentative fingertips down his chest. It hadn’t meant no, then.
Phin raised his right hand to Foxy’s head and started a smooth stroke. He didn’t seem to mind, and it was impossible to resist, so Phin did fondling his tufty ears. A deep rumble sounded in Foxy’s throat, like a cat’s purr but much, much darker.
One moment he seemed serenity itself, the next, in a too-swift-to-stop-him dart forwards, Foxy shoved his nose into Phin’s crotch. Then did snuffing out a scalding breath that scorched straight through his pants. Strewth.