FML.

Erich

What the hell was he thinking?

That's the first truly coherent thought Erich has the morning after. And not after mindblowing sex or anything of the sort: after a night of awkward and awkwardly-tender -- let's just call it what it is -- cuddling. Even the readying for bed was awkward. She started to put her tank top back on as he was unzipping his hoodie, his hands hesitating at the hem of his shirt. Leave it, he said, something aching and wanting in his eyes,

which made her look at him with that damnable wrinkle between her eyebrows.

She put it on anyway. He huffed a little laugh, and then disappeared into the bathroom briefly. If there were hotel toiletries in there, he borrowed a toothbrush and attacks his teeth. He debated whether or not to shower. He wasn't sure when the last time had been; at least a day and a half. Maybe more. He didn't want to stink. He didn't want to draw this out, either, make it even more awkward and strange, make it so awkward and strange that when he got out he'd just want to go, and she'd just want him gone.

He took a shower after all, in the end. A quick one, five minutes or so, during which time the water blasts and fainted scented steam curls out of the bathroom. He toweled off, came out still a little damp, droplets of water rolling down his stomach to dissipate into the waistband of his pants. Which were, in fact, pajama bottoms.

She might have been asleep by then. Or at least in bed. He stood at the side of the bed, uncertain. Then he got in, the mattress dipping under his mass. The light clicked off. He was stiff and still for a few moments. She might've been thinking to herself, exasperated, that he was going to be like that all night and neither of them was going to sleep well --

and then he rolled over toward, put his arms around her, and scooted in behind her. Glomped her, to put it plainly. A minute or two later his breathing was even.

Erich wasn't a snorer. He did growl a few times in his sleep though, softly and low in his throat. Once he put his nose against the bend of her neck and whuffed loudly.

He doesn't remember any of that in the morning. He doesn't move, either, until she wakes and begins to extricate herself from the koalaing. The first few tries makes him grumble discontentedly, makes him try to pull her back. Then his consciousness stirs to life; he lets her go and rolls over, bats at the nightstand until he finds the clock, or his cell phone, or something -- checks the time. He starts to remember where he is. He starts to recall the events of the previous night, and that

is when he thinks: what the hell was I thinking?

Except, there's the fact that he doesn't actually regret it. It was nice. He liked it. He lets his phone thump back onto the nightstand and rolls onto his back again, closing his eyes, sprawling his arms out. His wingspan goes from the far edge of the nightstand to the far edge of the bed; his arm flops across her back if she's still in the way.

Muffled: "Do you have to go somewhere?"

Celia de Luca

Celia frowns at him when he tells her to leave her tank top off. The guy who seemed all weird because she wasn't one hundred percent sure she wanted him, the guy who she later basically threw herself at, the guy who got all emo and then wouldn't have sex with her, the guy who just wants to stay and cuddle... he tells her to leave her top off. Her eyebrows push together, creating that wrinkle that made a vet run away from her in Best Buy and has made Jack buy her a special dessert later, and Erich lets it go.

He's up and gone, which sort of surprises her. He runs the shower, which also surprises her, but she just huffs and turns out the light and curls up in that enormous bed by herself, determined to kick him in the shin with her heel when he comes to bed.

She doesn't. Because in that five or ten minutes that he brushes his teeth and showers, Celia falls asleep. The room is dark and her breathing is regulated when he comes out, and she isn't thinking one damn thing about him. He wakes her up when he scoots over and wiggles his arms all around her, crosses his leg over her ankles, wraps around her like he's a koala and she's a eucalyptus tree, and she exhales a sharp huff of ...well, tolerance.

In the middle of the night, Erich gets elbowed in the ribs. "Stoppit," Celia mutters, drowsy and barely conscious, not indicating what he's doing that he's supposed to stop. At least her elbow doesn't hit him very hard. She goes back to sleep.

Later on she extricates herself. It's because of her pajama pants, which she doesn't usually wear to bed, and it's because of the heavy covers, which are usually fine, and it's mostly because of Erich himself, who is about ten degrees hotter than she thinks he should be. She wiggles away, pushes him to roll over, and then throws off the topmost blanket, hugging a pillow and going back to sleep.

Come morning, or sometime after morning, Erich wakes up to find Celia already sprawled. When he flops his arms out he bumps his arm into her torso, which makes her jerk awake, groggy as hell. Her hair is still in its braid but horribly askew, and she shoves his arm off her. Pulls the covers up. Grumps back to dozing, or at least pretending to.

Erich

"Guess not."

For such a self-professed creature of solitude, such an obvious lone wolf, Erich has the curious quality of being able and willing to hold a conversation whether or not the other party was actively joining in. His arm gets dislodged. His ... what? Friend? Bed-partner? Celia, it's easiest to just call her Celia: Celia rolls over and pretends to sleep some more.

He laughs quietly. Then he flops back over and,

yes,

attempts to koala her again. Worse, he doesn't even let her keep sleeping. He notes: "This is like the first time I've slept in a bed in weeks. And I can't remember the last time I've slept in such a nice bed."

Celia de Luca

As Erich glomps onto Celia again, she groans aloud. "You're the worst," she tells him, but she doesn't start kicking him, hitting him with a pillow, or jabbing him in the ribs. Even though he starts talking.

About how he's sort of homeless. Her eyes open. She's quiet, pondering that. Her hair smells nice. He doesn't smell bad, at least. "I thought you liked your car," she says after a while.

Erich

"No," he argues, "you're just eminently cuddle-able. That's not my fault."

A moment later his eyes open too. She can feel his glomping ease off a little. Then his arms loosen, and he's not so much glomping as he's just ... there. Behind her, close to her, his arm a heavy, relaxed weight across her side.

"I do," he says. "I didn't mean to sound all poor-me about it. At all. I could probably scrape together enough to rent a little place somewhere, and that was sort of the plan when I first came to town. But I wasn't sure if I was going to stick around, or if I was going to stay here in the city or out in the boonies, and... it just never really happened. And I'm pretty used to sleeping in my car. I like it. If you don't like where you're at, you can just up and go."

He talks with his hands, a bit. His forearm shifts on her hip as he gestures; the covers move sometimes as his fingers hit the underside. "And honestly," he finishes, his hand resettling around her midriff, "it's not hard to find a place to stretch out if I really need to. There are cheap motels everywhere. And this Silver Fang I met, who lives in this fairy-tale Victorian, offered to let me crash in her one of her guest rooms if I needed to.

Celia de Luca

Now that makes Celia groan. "God, you're so weird," she complains, because he's telling her she's just so cuddle-able. But he eases off, and she just drowses against those pillows. A person could sleep forever in that bed.

For a few moments, her breathing relaxes. She is like she was with him last night in sleep, at least for part of the night: warm and supple, quiet and at peace. They aren't arguing or glaring. They aren't even awkward.

Erich talks, though. Celia can talk a blue streak when she gets going, but otherwise she is comfortable with silence. Erich is steadier. He talks easily about what's on his mind, stream-of-consciousness style. Sometimes he just babbles.

After a while, she reaches down and holds his hand to keep it still. "I didn't think you were being oh-poor-me," she mentions, after all of that.

Celia rolls over onto her back. His arm is over her midriff. Her pajama pants are rucked up her calves, but she doesn't kick them down or anything. She looks at him, her hand still on his hand, his hand on her stomach, and says: "I think... maybe it's a good idea if we don't have sex. I mean, I..."

Her hand lifts, aimless, then falls again. "I have enough sex. I just don't really have any friends. And... I'd like it if you and I were friends."

Erich

Last night, she was the one that all but handed him an invitation into her bed. He was the one that turned her down. Rather rudely at one point too: dropping her on her bed.

Night's gone. Morning's come. She's changed her mind again, and he finds

that he's suddenly, absurdly, stabbingly disappointed. There's a stitch between his eyebrows, not unlike the ones he tried to rub off her forehead last night. Then he draws away, flopping on his back with a sigh that sounds a bit like a groan.

"I think that's a good idea," he says, sounding unconvinced, "but right now I'm also sorta like why the fuck was I such an idiot last night."

Celia de Luca

They are cuddling. His arm over her, and her hands on his arm and her shoulder scrunched up against his chest and they slept together only actually slept, and as soon as she tells him that she thinks they should be friends instead of ...lovers, she supposes,

he rolls away and sighs.

Celia scowls, not just that little wrinkle but the multiple lines on her brow that turn her expression stormy. He thinks it's a good idea. She is silent a moment, and her forehead slowly smooths out. She watches him, their heads on separate pillows now, and thinks again about just... y'know... fucking him. Touching him behind his ear, flicking her tongue across that spot under his jaw, wetting her fingertip before stroking his nipple to a hard little nub.

Her eyes flick back up from his chest to his profile.

"What do you mean?"

Erich

He cants her a wry look. It's on the tip of his tongue to ask her again if she really needs him to spell this out. Then he remembers the way she slapped him last night, and the genuine fury -- and hurt, and pleading -- in the way she asked him to stop it, just stop laughing at her.

He didn't get a chance to explain it then: he wasn't really laughing at her. The only time he ever laughed at her, meanly and cruelly, was when he first met her and thought she was silly and weak, the sort of girl who unwittingly or willingly made herself prey.

Not that it made him want to save her any less. He was just bitter about it: how dare she make herself a victim, when she had the blood of queens and wolves in her.

Anyway. That was then. This is now. He slants that look her way, and then it changes; he huffs another breath as he folds a hand behind his head.

"I mean: the grass is apparently always greener on the other side. Last night you wanted to fuck me, and I had a mini-meltdown like oh no, what if we can't be friends anymore! Not that it's not a valid concern. It is. I do want to be friends -- I'd want that way more than a one-night-stand with you, if I had to pick between the two -- but," he turns his head in the cradle of his hands; looks at her, "well, now you're like 'yup, you're right, let's just be friends', and I just can't help being like fuck my life."

He thinks a moment. Then, as though to better illustrate his point:

"Today, the hottest girl I've ever met told me she wanted to fuck me. She's also the most infuriating, interesting friend I've ever had, so I panicked and told her I didn't want to mess up our friendship. She agreed. Sex is now off the table forever. Eff. Em. Ell."

Celia de Luca

Celia just looks at him. He always seems stunned that she doesn't know what he's thinking, doesn't understand what he means all the time. The truth is, she just wants clarity. They fight so often, and it's almost always because one or both of the started jumping to conclusions after misunderstanding something the other said. She listens, pressing her lips together, looking down her own chest at her fingertips, resting on her lowermost ribs.

Which is what she's doing when he turns to look at her. The corner of her mouth cants outward and up at his FML, but not shyly or in a flattered way. Hottest girl he's ever met -- she's heard that before. She doesn't even seem to register it. Infuriating, interesting friend, though; that makes her happy to hear. She turns to look at him.

"Maybe not like... forever," she says, quiet. "It's just sort of what you were saying last night, about how it might make you more crazy and fucked-up about what I do, and that really will just get in my way. And I don't have any friends here, and I haven't had male friends at all since I was a kid and my brothers died, and... you saw how I was with you last night," she adds, even softer. She looks at her hands again. "I don't really know how to... not do it like that."

Erich

She misses how his forehead wrinkles at that. It's harder for her to miss his hand coming over hers, though, spreading to grasp her fingers in a gentle, warm clasp.

"It wasn't ... bad, what you were doing last night. I was just being weird. I think everyone starts out just having sex their own way. What feels right to them." A pause. "Or what you were taught was right, maybe. But I think if you're lucky, and you find someone you like and trust, you can eventually learn ... other ways. Stuff that works for both of you.

"I wouldn't really know either," he adds, just as quiet. "Despite all the bawdy tales, Ahrouns don't exactly have booming social lives."

He looks at her, then. His eyes are quite blue in the light of morning. What a picture of the sons of Fenris he is: tall and fair and strong of body, straight of limb. He's not a Fenrir, though. Nothing like a Fenrir. Maybe not much like a Shadow Lord, either. He's solitary; distinct.

"It's not just the whole ... who else you're sleeping with thing," he says after a while. "I think maybe, maybe I could slowly get used to that. But the whole purebred, tribal lines thing -- I know you think your tribe would be pretty chill about it, but I've never met a tribe that didn't have its share of rabid, possessive traditionalists. They don't even really care about their cubs and their kin; they only care that they're theirs. The raging traditionalists in my tribe would have almost rather killed me rather than see me go to another tribe. You can't tell me there aren't Garou like that in your tribe. God knows what they'd do if you decided to take a no-name Shadow Lord Cliath who'd already betrayed the tribe of his forefathers into your bed. At the least, we'd never, ever see each other again. End of friendship, period."

Celia de Luca

It wasn't bad. He was just being weird. Celia feels him holding her hand and the skin on her upper arms and her cheeks feels strangely hot. She sighs, and glances away, but that's incomprehensible. Erich admits to the back of her ear that he wouldn't really know, either. That he is lonely. Has been, perhaps, for a long time. She turns back to him, blue eyes to blue eyes, and slowly sits up. She pulls her braid over one shoulder while he talks to her about tribes and traditionalists and so forth. Celia toys with the end, then begins to unwind it. The elastic rolls onto her wrist. The strands begin to unwrap, falling in marching waves down her back.

"You don't know my tribe," she says when he's done. "So don't tell me what I can or can't tell you about them or how it would 'really' be. I was raised by them. Not just our kin, but the wolf-sisters. And I was raised by some of the more militant traditionalists you can think of. But even their traditions and their hard lines are different than the ones you're used to."

Her hair loose now, she looks over her shoulder at him. "They are like that. With their male kin. A she-wolf of another tribe who so much as lays a lingering eye on a Black Fury kinsman might get her throat opened before she can even think of challenging for him. But it's different for female kin of our tribe, Erich. I know exactly what they'd do, because I've watched it happen."

She shrugs. "I know who my guardians are, with my mother dead. I know who stands for me in gatherings of Garou. And I would like you to stop telling me to worry about what other Black Furies might or might not think or feel about what I do with my body, because it's like... really fucking degrading and counter to everything I believe in. It's also dumb because you really... just like... have no idea what you're talking about. "

She's frowning again, looking away again.

Erich

At least he doesn't try to scrub the frown away again. He sits up too, though: slowly, his knees drawing up under the covers. He looks at her, or what he can see of her. The waves in her hair, put there by the braid it was bound into all night. The curve of her ear and the slope of her shoulder.

And he leans over. Bumps his brow to her shoulder, then his temple. It's a gentle, gently imploring gesture, and unmistakably canine. Lupine. "Don't be angry," he says softly. "You're right. I don't know anything about your tribe. I can only base my assumptions off my experience, and my experience, when it comes to tribal drama, hasn't been great.

"Not three months ago I lost a good friend because we turned into friends-with-benefits and her tribe got pissed. Just about every Fenrir I've met has hated me on principle as soon as they figured out who I am or what I did. And I'm pretty sure my uncle wasn't just making empty threats when he told me to never go home again. So... that's why I jump to the conclusions I do. Not because I think you're chattel to be growled at and fought over."

Celia de Luca

That bump and nuzzle is imploring, and gentle, and animal. It's also intimate, just like holding her and growling and whuffing at her neck was intimate. His plea at her to not be angry is, too. It sends a ripple of tension through her, awaiting his hand moving up under her shirt and his lips opening up on her earlobe.

don't be mad, baby

just let me

that's it

Celia shifts slightly to one side, til his chin and his eyes both lift to look at her again. It isn't an angry, rejection motion, but she does slip away from him a bit, choosing eye contact with him over this other, more physical intimacy. Something happened about three months ago, which wasn't long before she met him. They didn't even see each other for basically all of February. And then he shows up at a restaurant, and then she calls him to her hotel room, and now they're in bed. It's a weird friendship already.

"The thing is," she begins, her voice soft, "there are no males in my tribe. Not male Garou. Not male Garou who are allowed to have mates, I mean. For most of our history, the whole mating-and-breeding thing has been a special problem. The Garou of our tribe mate with the male kin of our tribe or with mortal wolves. Human men are generally... not chosen."

Not never. Just not generally.

"That's why the female kin of our tribe have so much... agency and freedom. We're out there doing shit for the tribe instead of just spreading our legs. And just about every kinswoman of every tribe who isn't reduced to a brood mare owe at least some of that to hundreds of years of work and influence by Black Fury kin. Even you saying you don't think I'm chattel -- that's because what we've been doing has literally been changing the world." She sounds proud. It's because she is. She also sounds as earnest as a missionary.

Celia glances away from him. "We're still... drawn to Garou, though. The way all kinfolk are. And some of that need is satisfied by loyalty to the sisters and the kind of closeness and intimacy you just can't have when there's a lot of men around, but not all of it. If you try to keep everything within the tribe, then your best bet for a mate is a kinsman, but... then you're sort of stealing the opportunity from the sisters, not to mention lowering the chances of more Garou children to be born. It's better for the Garou of my tribe to mate and breed with the male kin of my tribe, so Black Fury kinswomen like me have to sort of... think more creatively. And the Garou that adopt us have to keep a more open mind."

There's a deep inhale and a rushed exhale. Her head snaps up, suddenly, to pin him with another gaze. "What I'm saying is, there are a lot of arrangements that end up being made. But my point is that I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that if I want to, I can fuck whoever I want, I can have whatever babies I want or not have any babies at all, and if any Black Furies or otherwise get all pissed off about it, the one Black Fury who matters can tell them to shut the fuck up and leave me alone. That's all I'm saying."

Erich

Erich can't decide which moon Celia was born under. A large one, though. The pride; the temper. He's listening to her, intently, almost raptly: it's the most she's ever said about her tribe, her ideology. She's told him more about her upbringing before, but that was history. This feels more immediate. The impact is deeper.

So he's startled when she suddenly stares him in the eye. What I'm saying is, she says, fiercely, as though he were about to misunderstand again. And then she tells him what she's saying. The word babies startles him all over again, but thankfully she doesn't dwell on it; she moves on to shut the fuck up and leave me alone. That's all.

He's quiet a moment. Perhaps a little taken aback. Then there's a sort of spark in his eyes, like a connection has been made. "You know," he says, "I didn't tell you why I think the way I do to convince you to come around to my way of thinking. I told you because ... that's why I thought the way I did. But I'm not so stubborn that I won't change my views in the face of compelling evidence.

"What I'm saying is, I hear you. That makes sense. I believe you. And I'll try to keep that in mind. But in a pinch, don't be ... mad at me if I slip back into my old ways of thinking. Okay?"

Celia de Luca

Celia reaches over and shoves him in the side, her palm flat on his arm and the impact barely enough to nudge him. "I'll get mad at you if I wanna get mad at you," she informs him, and flops backward, reclinging on her elbows.

Erich

That surprises a blurt of laughter out of him. He rocks with the impact, agreeably; it's better than getting smacked again. The seriousness of the moment breaks. She flops; he watches her go, something oddly fond about his half-smile.

"Well, yeah. I suppose you would."

Celia de Luca

Her eyebrows hop up. She gives him an emphatic nod, lips together. Yup.

And then, quite suddenly, it's sort of awkward again. They're just lying in bed together, still half under the covers. Her hair is down, loose, and it looks good like that, in those braided waves. She looks good in red, too. And he's topless.

And the truth is, they want to fuck. But not yet, and maybe not ever. She smiles at him thinly, achingly, and then decides not to recline anymore, not to stay in bed anymore. She sits up, puts her arms around him from one side, and gives him a hug. It's firm and warm and, frankly, friendly, but it doesn't last very long. She pulls back, swings her legs off the side of the bed, and says: "I'm going to order some food. On a scale from one to five, how hungry are you?"

Standing, Celia shakes the hems of her pajama pants down to her ankles again, glancing back at him. "And I mean like: could you eat one cow or five cows?"

Erich

It's not the first time she's hugged him like this and he's responded with a one-handed, up-and-under, weird little pat-hug. Then she's getting up and he's throwing back the covers, too, because

the truth is, when she sprawled like that, it was hard for him not to look at her breasts pressing against the tanktop. It was hard for him not to sprawl over her and find out just what her skin tastes like. Some stubborn streak or innate courage or plain stupidity always keeps him from looking away, red-faced, though. He'd watched her until she sat up.

Now she's shaking her pajamas down from where they'd rucked up in the night. He's tying the drawstring on his a little tighter and looking for his t-shirt and hoodie. They're in the bathroom, he remembers, and he's heading his way as she asks about breakfast.

And he laughs. "Two and a half cows," he replies. "Maybe three. Are you getting room service, or what?" He brightens. "Oh man, do you want me to hide in the closet? Or are you gonna let him think you let your annoying stepbrother sleep in your room?"

Celia de Luca

If he doesn't look away, then his face is red and right there for her to see it. Just like it was in the car, though at that point it was shadowed. Just like it was last night when she was making the blood rush to the surface of his skin. This morning Celia finds it hard to remember that all of that was real: their trade of blunt, sudden kisses, her straddling him and rubbing against him the way she was, the way he shuddered when she breathed across that spot he didn't know was an erogenous zone until she was teasing it.

Their arguments always seem very real. And movie-watching, and talking, and the way he sort of good-naturedly lets him shove him around because it's a more tolerable form of intimacy than hugging or nuzzling or... glomping her while she sleeps.

"Yeah, room service," she says, and then smirks at him as he passes by. "I'll unfold the couch, it has a hide-a-bed. Make it look all rumpled, too." She pauses there, and the smirk fades. "You know... you can actually like, sleep there if you want sometimes. I mean, I liked sleeping next to you last night and all, that was fine, but there was also this like... weirdness to it? And besides," she goes on, looking away, tossing her hair off her shoulder as she flips through the menu, "I don't want to wakeup with your morning wood poking into my back or something."

Erich

He'd choke if he was drinking something. Fortunately, he's not, so he just gets a little redder.

Her comment isn't laughed off, though. He knows why she made it: so he could laugh it off. Laugh off that she offered him a place to crash. Laugh off that she said actually sharing a bed was weird. He's halfway to the bathroom; he turns to face her.

"I liked it," he says quietly. "A lot. But I don't expect it to happen again. I don't expect anything from you." He spreads his palms: there you have it.

"Appreciate it, though," he adds, continuing on his way. "Ninety nine percent of the time my car's just fine. But I'll remember the offer just in case. And you're welcome to come sit on my 'couch' and watch movies with me anytime."

Celia de Luca

The way they're talking, it almost sounds like they're saying goodbye.

That thought goes through Celia with a sharp pang. Just like when he started talking about how sex was off the table, forever, ten seconds before and ten seconds after she was thinking of his body and touching his body and actually having sex with someone close to her own age for once might be really kind of awesome. But it sounds like he's leaving, even if he's just going into the bathroom to maybe piss and grab his hoodie, even if as they speak she's looking for the most meat-heavy things on the menu for the guy who could eat two and a half to three cows this morning.

She smiles at him, covering that pang up. It's small and warm and she just nods. "Yeah." To all of it. Even if what she wants to say is: I wasn't offering in case you need to or if you get sick of your car, I meant if you just want to be here. With me.

He grabs his hoodie from the bathroom and when he comes out, she's on the phone. She glances at him zipping it up over his chest, then looks away again. Breakfast is served all day. Everything is served all day. This is the Hay-Adams, and right now there are plenty of dignitaries both domestic and foreign staying here. She gets herself things like grapefruit and whole-wheat toast, an egg white veggie omelette, and green tea with a bit of honey.

She gets Erich a 22-ounce porterhouse with a rasher of bacon and a slab of seared ham as side dishes. With a scoop of ice cream. By the time she finishes ordering they have, by silent voting while she was talking to the kitchen, chosen to watch The Incredibles off of the on-demand service in her room -- for some reason, Celia nixes Finding Nemo. So that's what they do, while waiting for the food to arrive on its white-clothed cart and chrome-covered platters. They start the movie and unfold the couch together, wrinkling the sheets and pillows and throwing a blanket onto it, which they also rumple. They move his charging cable and his laptop and all of that over to the end table beside the couch.

The server is too well-trained to be obvious about noticing Erich's presence, the used hide-a-bed, the fact that both of them are clothed, but he does. He is far more obvious about noticing Celia's tits, in part because of the way she gives a gleeful pair of bounces when he arrives. He wheels the cart in, unnerved by the feeling he gets from Erich, and looks a bit worried when he heads out again. Ms. de Luca is such a sweet girl, he thinks. He can't blame her friend Jack for being so concerned about her. If someone doesn't look out for her, she'll end up taken advantage of.

They eat off the platters, curled up in the second 'bed', watching their movie, sharing Erich's ice cream.