Alec stood. “Well, I was going to rip into you, but you look worse than he does.”
Max stopped, stared up at the night sky, and willed the man to go away. But he remained there, in the flesh, angry but with eyes like Bryan’s – kind and concerned.
“Biff has us, I suppose. You don’t have anyone.”
Max blinked at him. Couldn’t argue with truth.
Alec scooted over and gestured magnanimously. “Go on, then, let me in.”
Max couldn’t decide whether he was happy or disappointed that Alec apparently wasn’t there to kill him. Keeping his face impassive and his breathing steady, Max marched past the werewolf, up the stairs, and unlocked his door. He waved the Alpha inside with an exaggerated hand. Then went, found a robe, and threw it at him.
Max had left the windows all open despite a cold night and the risk of burglary. Sausalito wasn’t exactly a hotbed of crime, and he’d grown to loathe the smell of his own despair.
Alec made a beeline for the kitchen. There he began to brew a pot of coffee. Max contemplated elevating him to sainthood.
“Well, someone cleaned.”
Max closed the door but stayed standing. It felt safer. “That a criticism?”
The Alpha shrugged. “Might as well start small. I’m going to criticize what you do with your whole life next.”
“Can I have some coffee first?”
Alec puttered about, manning Max’s percolator with dexterity.
Max was impressed. Coffee machines, in his experience, were designed to make delicious smells and appealing bubbly noises, and frustrate you first thing in the morning to the point of murder. Someone else’s quirky coffee machine? That could inspire genocide.
Yet Alec handled Max’s with aplomb. It was both annoying and insightful. Alec is as good with my coffee machine as his brother is with my cock. I shouldn’t go there. Quite apart from being mildly incestuous, I just compared my dick to a percolator. Christ, I’m messed up.
Alec, blessedly ignorant of Max’s inner monologue, eventually ended up with two cups of very black coffee, one of which he drank in apparent pleasure – the other he handed to Max.
Max sipped and flinched. “Have you no taste buds?”
“I work in a lab. That’s one step removed from a hospital. Adding anything to coffee just slows down the process of getting it inside me.”
“Dude, I hope you don’t approach sex the way you approach coffee, or poor Marvin.” Max doctored his with plenty of sugar, milk, and a dash of cinnamon. “Does coffee even work on wolves?”
“No idea. But I like to pretend it does and no one has told me otherwise. The placebo effect is a wonderful thing.”
“Fucking scientists.” Max went and sat on his couch. He didn’t offer the chair to Alec, but the Alpha sat in it anyway.
He stared at Max.
“What?”
“You’re hard to make out.” His eyes were too familiar.
Max forced a grin and willfully misinterpreted. “You’re thinking Indonesian or something? I’m a mix. Japanese, black, Korean, varying shades of European.”
Alec rolled his eyes. “Thank you for thinking I’m a superficial skid, but I was referring to your attitude, not your appearance.”
“I won’t change my mind.”
“I didn’t think you would.”
“So, why are you here?”
“He protected you, you know? We would have come hunting you. I would have come after you. But he wouldn’t let us.”
Max felt as if a trapdoor closed in his throat, cold and hard. He whispered around it. “That sounds like him.”
“He’s miserable without you. Barely says anything.”
“To be fair, he didn’t say much before.”
“Exactly. Not a whole lot to lose. But noticeable.”
Silence while they sipped their coffee. Max worked on opening the trapdoor on sounding normal. On acting normal. Like he could remember what normal was.
Alec cocked his head. “Your eye bags have eye bags. And your clothes are hanging off you.”
Max shrugged.
“Do you know why we moved here? Why I brought the pack across the country.”
“Your boyfriend? The merman?”
“In part. And acceptance. A part of the world where we could figure out what we are as a pack, since there is no handy role model for nerdy gay Alphas, big muscled Betas, or cross-species dating. Not to mention Judd and Colin and whatever the heck Tank is.”
“And Kevin and Lovejoy.”
“Those weirdos could pass for normal werewolf if they tried hard enough. Well, maybe not Lovejoy. The point I’m trying to make is, this is the part of the world where we’re allowed to do that. Be weird.”
“Yeah.”
“So, if you wanted to rewrite what it means to be Magistar, that’s an option too.”
Max grimaced. He didn’t even like hearing the word.
“Are you scared of what you could do, or what you could become, or something else?” Alec was Alpha enough to press his advantage.
Max examined himself. “I don’t think I am scared.”
“Then what is it?”
“Bryan said it best – I’m not whole. There’s not enough of me to give to him or to it.”
“Oh?” said Alec, and then, sadly, “Oh. I understand. It’s the responsibility that gets to you.”
Max gave a funny huff of a sigh. Sharp, like he’d had the air punched out of him. Of course Alec would understand. “How long did you resist being Alpha?”
“Years.” Alec twisted the mug in his hand. “Too many years. Years while Biff protected me, and Colin suffered that bastard, and Kevin tried to protect him, and Lovejoy downplayed his light, and Tank hid in the background, and Judd was horribly, utterly alone. Years, while the pack I didn’t even know was my responsibility waited for me and buckled under the pain of it.”
“Will it take me years to come around?” Max was desperate for insight. What he was really asking, of course, was if Bryan would wait for him. Will Bryan want me back? If I figure this out. If I accept myself. If I accept power. If I change my mind. Even as his own brain sang a litany of a reply to each: I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.
Alec evaluated him. “If ever.”
Max was raw with denial. Smart enough to see his own spiraling, but not smart enough to fix it. “I was never taught how. No one gave me the tools.”
Alec grimaced and put down his mug with precise care on the tiny coffee table. “Our father was a Beta wolf – did Biff tell you?”
Max tried to remember if he had. Was it important?
Alec sighed. “No one gives us the tools, Max. That’s the point. At least, I always thought it was. We’re supposed to figure out power on our own. I’m Alpha because the world needs my kind of Alpha, now, in this moment. You’re Magistar – whether you accept it or not, you are – because the world needs you to be that. You and my brother, together.”
“How ennobling. Doesn’t that make me the most special fucking snowflake? You telling me that you believe in fate?”
“Don’t you?” Alec didn’t flinch.
“No. I believe in prostate wands.”
“Those are good too.” Alec rolled with it and then grinned. “Preparation and planning? Is that what you’re saying? Is that the real reason you won’t accept this change? You weren’t ready for it? You’re…how old, Max? Thirty? And you spent most of your life resigned to the fact that you weren’t even the mage your father wanted you to be, let alone the Magistar he groomed you to become.”
“You got all that from prostate wand?”
Alec smiled stiffly, no canines. “It’s like a tarot deck. You can tell a lot about a man from his toy collection.”
“You’re one strange, screwed-up kind of Alpha werewolf.”
“My point exactly.”
“Look, dude, I wasn’t even the man my father wanted me to be.”
“And you can’t let that go? Just stop caring about it?”
Max frowned. “I’m neither good enough nor strong enough.”
“Oh, I see.” Alec stood, nodding. “Now, that’s a voice I do know. My father’s voice sounded exactly the same coming out of my mouth.”
He took the two empty coffee cups to Max’s tiny sink and washed them, placing them carefully on the sideboard.
He paused before letting himself out. “My brother loves you, which means you’re worth it.” His eyes glossed over, looking inward, pensive. “Sometimes, someone else’s faith is good enough.” It wasn’t clear if he was thinking about his slim blond mate with the sea blue eyes, or his brother, or his pack, or all of them. Max felt a spike of sympathy for this Alpha, younger than himself, burdened with the responsibility for so many.
“But then you run the risk of letting him down. Letting them all down.” Max spoke to the man’s introspection.
Alec’s hazel eyes focused on him once more. “Better than not trying. Better than not having them at all. Aren’t you tired of being alone?”
* * *
Alec left.
Max stayed awake long into the night. Probably the coffee. Although not. All his previous lethargic despondency seemed to have turned into nervous restlessness.
He stared out his kitchen window until the dawn began to break, gray and slow. His father’s house wavered into being, crouched in the overgrowth. Always there.
Max decided to go for a run.
Some small remaining intelligent part of his brain told him that exercise might help. So, he pulled on his gear and grabbed his phone – which he’d finally decided to charge – and headed out into the new day, only to find that his feet took him not away from his property, but back onto it, toward that house.
It didn’t look any different without the enchantment. The barren earth around it was slightly less barren, a few brave bugs and fallen leaves scattered across the ground now. But the house…
It was just a massive sad old thing, held up by the broken remnants of some other man’s ambition. The paint was peeling, the windows grimy, the gutter falling off one side. In the insipid light of dawn, it was all dust motes and desolation.
Max followed his nervousness inside. The door creaked. He wandered, touching things, trying to pick at his pain as if it were a scab. But it wasn’t there. It had somehow healed over, flesh made new again. While he wasn’t looking. While he was bathing in the spit and fur of a man who was perfect for him.
There were other memories now – of Bryan beside him, of Bryan’s profile in the dim light, of Bryan leaping to protect him, of his hand holding Max’s – big and sure.
In his father’s old sitting room, the pillar that once supported a leaded box was scorched. The marble top singed black and smoky, a crack splitting it down the center.
Ms Trickle had slapped some kind of official-looking pink notice to the wingback chair in front of it:
INSPECTED
it said at the top, and below that a bunch of fine print, dates and such, and the at the bottom in big red letters:
PASSED
Max grabbed the awful chair, dragged it through the house, and out the front door. He threw it, with all his might, at the barrenness. It didn’t go far, but it made a satisfying crash, and fell over when it landed.
Which was wonderful.
So Max went back inside and dragged the old side table through. A drifting rage made him strong. Then he tried to muscle the couch out. The one with the vomit stain on it.
But that was too much for one person. Even a really angry one.
So, he stopped, panting, and leaned against the awful couch’s back, and took out his phone, and texted Bryan.
Max: Cleaning house. Wanna help?
Twenty minutes later, the purr of a motorcycle engine was in his driveway, and a large gruff form with tired hazel eyes came in through the front door of his father’s house.
“Help me move this couch?” said Max, voice croaking.
“Okay.” Bryan lifted the other side. Easy for him with all those muscles and shifter strength.
Together, in silence, they cleaned out the study and the living room, moving objects and furniture outside, piece by piece. When they started on the hallway, Bryan paused, pulled out his phone, and sent of a series of texts.
Max, realizing it was Sunday, sent off a few his own.
One by one, rumble by rumble, the rest of Bryan’s pack showed up and got to work. Efficiently. Quietly. Without question. Except Lovejoy and Kevin, who were never quiet, so Alec sent them to sort stuff outside.
“Burn it all,” said Max.
But the very idea horrified Alec, who was thrifty. He insisted most of it could be donated, if not sold. So, Colin worked some kind of technological magic with his phone and a white bed sheet. He took pictures of the things Lovejoy thought were worth something. They made piles of the rest, some for dumping and some for donation.
“Fine,” said Max, “But I get to burn the couch.”
Alec would have protested further, but Bryan came up quietly, put a hand on his brother’s arm, and shook his head.
Colin said he’d found an LBGTQ community center in San Francisco who’d take the valuable pieces for an upcoming charity auction.
Max grinned. “My father would spin in his grave. If I hadn’t ensured he didn’t get one.”
“Does that mean Max likes the idea?” Lovejoy asked Bryan.
“He loves it.” Bryan’s voice was warm and his presence comforting.
Then Ms Trickle showed up, with her wife, who turned out to be a chef of some tattooed variety. They’d stopped at the farmer’s market for pastries and snacks. Which were very welcome. Max realized he was hungry. Lovejoy made a big pot of coffee and some tea in Max’s apartment, and they took a break to eat. The werewolves talked quietly. Ms Trickle introduced herself and her wife, Pepper, said they’d brought a pickup so they could do the dump runs.
Max still didn’t feel like he’d much to say. So he said a lot of thank-yous and nothing else. He stayed close to Bryan and basked in his silence. Bryan stayed close to him and stayed silent. For now, it was enough.
Then Gladdy arrived. Max wasn’t quite certain why he’d bothered to text her, except that he knew she wouldn’t want to be left out. She brought her boyfriend and a handful of other lovers, who all began puttering about, collecting books and trinkets and sorting through them. They were bubbly, teasing, and chatty. The mood of somber efficiency lifted.
Together, they all worked to empty the house. To rid it of everything, all parts of Max’s past.
It was exactly right.
Max and Bryan barely said two words to each other, but they always ended up cleaning the same room. Sometimes, Max would touch the back of his werewolf’s neck. Mine. My man. My mate. My familiar.
He tried to like the words and not fear them.
Once, Bryan caressed his cheek, above the bandage on his neck, with a question in his eyes.
Max shook his head and said, “Later,” but in a nice way.
Max let himself be okay with the companionable silence. Bathed in it. Let himself notice things – the play of Bryan’s shoulder blades under his tight T-shirt. The way the dust caught in his lashes and reflected the light. The slow glances he snuck in Max’s direction, not needy but savoring, as if Max’s presence were some exotic fruit out of which Bryan sampled visual bites, the flavor bursting over him. It was odd to bring someone so much joy with his mere presence.
By the end of the day, the house was empty. Ms Trickle returned from the last dump run and loaded up the expensive stuff for the youth center in the city.
They’d had pizza for lunch, and burgers for dinner, and Max was still hungry. He took that as a good sign. And Bryan was still with him, close and comforting, which he took as an even better sign.
Everyone was dusty and satisfied with themselves in that way that comes from having tackled a monumental cleaning project successfully. One by one, the werewolves roared off, even Alec, who gave Max a nod.
Max felt oddly humbled by his trust.
Ms Trickle stopped before she left, looked at Bryan, who stood in the doorway, taking up most of it with his bulk.
“He your mate?”
Max nodded to the tattooed cook, who was leaning out the window of the truck. “She yours?”
“Still an asshole.”
“Yep.”
“You coming back to work?”
“Nope.”
“Got something better to do with your life?”
“Yep.”
“Good.” She nodded, satisfied. “Don’t be a stranger.”
“Got a feeling I’ll be visiting the Civic Center more often then I wish.”
“Like that, is it?”
“I think there might be paperwork.”
“You always were trouble.”
“You’ve no idea. Thanks for today.”
She nodded, turned, and walked away. She paused to look back and give him the finger before climbing into the passenger side of the battered pickup. Max grinned – he’d never have thought Ms Trickle the type to let anyone else drive.
Gladdy and her crew piled into what incongruously appeared to be a 1990s minivan. They tooted happily and puttered off.
Max said to Bryan, “She invited us to a barbecue in a few weeks.”
“Wanna go?”
“Fuck, no, but it might be fun.”
“Might be.” Bryan came to stand next to him.
They were alone now, with an empty house and a few piles of stuff that Colin had labeled with the names of people coming by to collect. Max had told him to handle it himself and keep the money for his trouble. To which Colin stuck his nose in the air and said he would take a commission and donate the rest to the LBGTQ center. He’d promised to return at ten tomorrow morning because he didn’t have classes, and money was money.
Also left behind: one old blue couch.
It was one of those antique ones, with more wood than upholstery. Unfamiliar in that way furniture gets when it’s moved out of the place it always lived. It looked worn and pathetic and more stained than Max remembered. So stained, in fact, that he no longer knew which stain was that stain and which one was the ice cream soda from his seventh birthday.
Sumage Solution GL Carriger Page 27