above ground: gratitude

The ceiling above his head was flaking, the paint peeling back to expose dull white plaster underneath. Fang stared up at it in confusion. It took another few moments to realize what was wrong: he was lying on a small bed, inside a room he didn’t recognize.

The last thing he remembered was stumbling through the forest, dying, his hands red with the blood of other wolves. He’d been so far gone he barely remembered the fight, could only recall the feral lust for destruction. Something—the pain?—had brought him out of the mad haze, had warned him to turn and run before the other Ravenhowl pack members arrived.

The memories of what came afterwards were clearer: walking through the forest on the border of going feral, worrying that if he slipped under one more time, he’d lose his sanity forever. He’d struggled to staunch the wound on his stomach, had felt his breath weaken with every step. He remembered falling, remembered deciding to stay on the ground and never move again. Then green eyes; eyes the colour of pine needles—had he imagined that?—and then nothing but darkness.

Fang lifted up his head, couldn’t help the quiet groan when his body protested the movement. He was naked; his only covering a thin sheet bunched around his waist. A thick set of bandages wound around his stomach, the knots a little clumsy, but sturdy enough. What he could see of the room was sparsely decorated, but he didn’t look hard.

He let his head flop back onto the pillow, exhausted, then couldn’t help but mumble, “Being dead is less peaceful than I thought it would be.”

“You’re pretty far from dead, actually.”

Fang’s head jerked up so fast, he felt his stomach tear with the movement. He leaned on his elbow, propping up his upper body, and stared at the source of the voice: a man, leaning against the wall, right by the doorframe. No, not a man; a werewolf. Another werewolf in the room, and here he was in a pitiful state, his arms trembling with the effort to keep himself upright. Fang lowered himself on to the bed, and let his muscles go limp. There was little point in struggling.

The werewolf stalked closer, his hands loose by his sides, his body language open and unthreatening. He had short, dark hair, and a face caught halfway between pretty and handsome, his cheeks smooth but the quirk of his lips decidedly masculine. He was barefoot, wearing only a pair of scruffy tight jeans and a sleeveless white t-shirt which set off his arms and shoulders. Fang could feel the part of his mind that was still feral lick its chops at the sight. He had to close his eyes and take three deep breaths to keep under control.

He had to focus on the more important questions. What did this wolf want? Had Fang even made it out of Ravenhowl territory, or—more likely—was this one of Spyre’s cronies, fixing him up, only to torture him?

“I’m Jake.”

Fang opened his eyes, and blinked at the hand in his face. He brought his arm up slowly, shook hands with the wolf. Jake’s eyes were an intense green, a sharp, fresh colour.

Jake raised an eyebrow. “Now’s about the time you tell me your name.”

“Oh.” It was easy to fall back into the habitual politeness, although he couldn’t quite bring himself to force a smile. “I apologize. My name is Fang.”

“Well, Fang, you’re lucky I came along when I did, instead of playing one more round of poker like I wanted to. What happened to you, anyway?”

“I would prefer not to talk about it.” Fang kept his breathing even, hoping not to give himself away, hoping his eyes had lost the trademark tinge of feral yellow. He had to figure out what this wolf wanted, and fast. Jake seemed honest, but you could never really tell. Besides, even an otherwise friendly wolf could turn against a suspected feral.

“You were almost gone when I found you,” Jake finally replied, one hand still on Fang’s stomach. “Had to nearly put my hand through your stomach just to stop all the bleeding.”

Fang looked away, stared at the wall. “You should have left me there to die.”

“Cut out the bullshit and be thankful.” The mattress sank a little as Jake perched himself on the edge of the bed. He began to check the bandages on Fang’s stomach, his movements gentle, disarming. “Be extra thankful actually. I don’t let just any guy sleep in my bed, you know.”

Fang forced a smile. “Thank you for your kindness.”

Jake shrugged. “Don’t mention it.” It was only when he bowed his head back down to the task that he added, with a smirk, “But next time, you better try sound like you mean it.”