When he pulls her hands away from her face to kiss her, Sinclair puts those hands on his face, holding his mouth there, meeting him somewhere in the middle of a sudden swirl of energy, and joy, and boundless affection. She's also still laughing when they part, finding his hands again and lacing them together, grinning. There is still salt and sand in her hair, between her toes, and between his. They are barefoot but it doesn't matter, and when he tugs her to the window she lets out a yelp of laughter that she quickly stifles by clapping a hand over her mouth.
Sinclair is the worst at sneaking out, and Alex tells her so under his breath as he jimmies the screen off and drops down. She is noisy and unstealthy and won't stop giggling, tumbling out of the window into his arms. Then they're 'sneaking' around the outside of the house around to the front to get to his car, which they rush into as though as soon as they turn the keys in the ignition they're free and clear.
Alex's phone chimes with a text message from his brother as they're pulling out of the drive and tearing off out of this modest but nice neighborhood, heading west to that terminal edge where the city gives way to seemingly endless marshland, groves of sprawling trees, and swamps. It's entirely unlike any other place Sinclair has ever been, and she tells Alex so as he's checking that text message from Aaron:
"I've never been any place like this. I wanna come back," she says, leaning out the open window. "Even if your dad doesn't build a swimming pool in the back." A beat. She turns to look at him, wind flapping through her hair. "But if he does, then we definitely have to come back."
Alex"Aaron says everyone knows we just snuck out," Alex announces, putting his phone down and rolling his window open. It's warm even at night, the air humid and full of the sounds of night insects, night creatures. "And, we are totally coming back to Miami. And to Kansas. But next time I'll fly and you can zap in, because we should go to like, Mexico City next time we drive."
They're awake again, energized. They've had a full day, truth be told, but this is how they are. Unstealthy. Noisy. Full of vibrant, red-hot life; ready to go at a moment's notice. They're driving too fast, but they're way out in the 'burbs and it's a straight shot down the wide boulevard, west and west until the houses give way to yards and the yards give way to marshland.
At the edge of the Everglades the street just stops. Runs into a T-intersection, but Alex just pulls over and parks. And he gets out, pulling his shirt off and tossing it on the driver's seat; tossing the keys under the dashboard because, seriously, if someone steals his goddamn Hyundai they're just asking for it. He meets Sinclair around the front of the car and takes her hand and they jog across the two-lane highway demarcating marshland from city; plunge down the embankment into the wild.
When the reeds are chest-high, Alex tugs Sinclair to him. His skin is hot, a little sticky with the sweat that comes inevitably from this sort of environment, this sort of heat. He kisses her suddenly and ferociously, hungrily, his free hand quite unabashedly cupping her breast, squeezing her ass. When he draws back he's breathing a little faster, but then he lets go her hand and steps back, laughing in the dark, laughing for the joy of laughing as he waits for her
to change.
SinclairThat makes Sinclair snicker all over again, kicking her legs a little. They choose windows over air conditioning, preferring the night to refrigerated, synthetically-pushed air. It's not as cold. They don't really want it cold. They don't care if it's humid, if they sweat, if they're sticky and hot when they leave. There's an inevitability to all that, and they both understand it. They don't try to run away from it -- instead they drive towards it. And fast.
She smiles at the moonlight. Back to Miami to see his mother and father, his brother. Maybe she'll get to meet Aaron's pack next time, maybe she'll get to work with the sept on something, maybe that silly cub popping her gum will have learned a thing or two. And back to Kansas, to relax with her mother and father, away from other Glass Walkers and septs and Garou, where they can run with Ken and cook with Samantha.
Leaning on the windowframe, she twists to look at him, her chin resting on her shoulder. Sinclair's smile is lazy as he says they'll just fly and zap, and the next road trip will be to Mexico City. She comes over then and touches his leg, a simple and affectionate gesture. She's happy. He knows it, and they don't have to say it right now. They're happier than they ever thought they were going to be, because that just wasn't what they thought life was offering them.
So of course they had to fight for it. And wait for it.
One of those was easy for them. The other was, strangely, a lot more difficult.
Sinclair all but squeals when he stops the car, jumping out. She whips her head around when he strips off his shirt, her heart thumping happily. She can already feel it coming, uncontrollable like it used to be, and it scares her a little -- scares her and excites her and makes her ache that he can make her feel like she's going to lose it and make her feel like she's safe, she's okay
all at the same time.
So she comes all but flying into his arms when he meets her halfway, throwing her arms around him and kissing him first, hard, harder even than she means to, taking a breath when she pulls back from it and they run down into the grass. She lets out a shriek of laughter, of vigor, and it almost sounds like an animal. Birds go rushing out of the marshlands with frenetic flaps of their wings, and the ground tremors with snakes and rabbits and insects that all go bounding and slithering and rushing out of their way.
That used to make her so sad sometimes -- the way her presence would make animals react. Dogs would strain at their leashes, barking and growling, or curl up and piss themselves. Chameleons go pale and submissive. Even snakes in zoos would suddenly coil and writhe across the floors of their terrariums, trying to find a way out. A cobra once lifted up, hood out, hissing at the glass. She remembers that it lunged, and everyone shrieked and jumped, but the cobra was the one injured by the impact, terror making it violent and violence making it stupid.
Truth be told, it still makes her a little sad sometimes. But right now, all she can think is that it means Alex is safe out here with her. There's no venomous or taloned creature that is going to come near him with her scent all over him like it is, not when she's out there. Not when there's a wolf within a mile of him, not when they sense that primal bond that is more real than ever now. There's no predator out here that would dare attack the body, the mate, or the den of a wolf. And she's so much more than a wolf.
She is a savage, savage thing, and because of what she is, the one she loves is going to be safe.
Reeds brush across her arms and her hips as they squelch into the marshes, and he's the warmest thing on a warm night, but when Alex touches her all he feels is feverish heat. Sinclair comes to him with something wild in her eyes, her breathing elevated. She presses closer even than he pulls her, her hands on his shoulders, gripping them like he's holding her on earth -- which, right now, he is. There's the intimation of a moan between their mouths as his hand weighs her breast, wraps around her and covers her ass. Then it isn't an intimation -- it's Sinclair overcome, shuddering.
Yet she doesn't snarl when he pulls back, laughing and panting. She looks at him, that same look in her eyes, and it isn't just wild. It's adoring. And thankful. And hungry. And inhuman.
Her head tips back, and her shoulders drop as though she's just exhaling, but they keep falling, her hands reaching out towards the earth, and under her hair it's easy to lose track of the shift of her spine, the change in how her limbs flow away from her body. It isn't her hands that hit the ground but paws, long ears that still have piercings through them lifting up through her hair -- her fur -- and twitching against the sky. Her legs are shorter, bend differently. And she has a tail now. And fangs.
And bright, summer-sky blue eyes that look up at him when she's on all fours. Sinclair's tail is wagging. She takes a couple of steps forward and pushes her head up underneath his hand, rubbing her neck against the outside of his leg. Maybe Alex scritches her, or pets her, but she circles his legs a few times. Her fur is thick but not as thick as it is in winter, and it's dark -- closer to the color of iron than steel, but the moonlight picks up the white tufts at her ears and her belly and her legs and her tail and makes them shine.
Once, twice, three times around his legs, her tail wagging so quick it keeps thumping him. She's larger than any dog. She couldn't be mistaken for a dog or a half-dog if her life depended on it. She's a wild thing, and almost every instinct in him tells him that this is the sort of animal more likely to stalk him and eat him when it's hungry, chase him off its territory, and it can't possibly be friendly. His brain tries to tell him it's more like a dog, because only dogs have this kind of affection for furless two-legged beings.
But there is that other instinct. That deeper one, that comes from Gaia, from blood, from the fact that he can see Sinclair's laughter in this wolf's eyes. That instinct, so warped by living in cities and in a world that tells him the wild places are a danger to be conquered and the wild things are threats to be consumed, beats in time to his heart. It isn't his human mind or humanity's history. That instinct is the part of him that was drawn to the stars, and the part of him that -- when Sinclair told him about Rorg and Ruatma, about Eshtarra and Tambiyah -- understood.
He's Kin. To the Garou.
To her.
She walks away, circling again, too happy to contain herself, and gives him a playbow, her tail up in the air and wagging like a blur. She gives a jump, and barks, and then takes off like a shot, the reeds rustling behind her. She's so fast all he hears are those reeds hitting each other in her wake, and can't see her, can't even see where she went after a few steps.
So she circles back, in a new spot, and peeks out at him, her tongue lolling out happily. Tag. You're it.
Catch me if you can.
Alex
Alex has seen Sinclair in her animal forms on a few occasions now, but this is the first time he's touched her like this. And truth be told, it's a little weird, it's very new, it's strange and mindbending to see her simply drop into another form, change her skin in a way that his literal, concrete, in-the-moment mind can't quite comprehend.
She comes toward him, but he doesn't so much stand his ground as he steps toward her, meets her in the middle. She pushes her head under his hand and her fur is coarse and downy at once, textured and layered. He doesn't pet her like a dog. She's not a dog. His hands mold over her skull for a moment, trace these new curvatures and lines of this new face, close gently over the soft ears. He lets out a little laugh that sounds a little bewildered. Even now, with utterly incontrovertible evidence staring him in the face, it's almost impossible to believe what she is, what he just saw.
With his rational mind, anyway. His blood and bones, though - these things recognize her, accept her without a ripple.
Of course this is Sinclair. Of course she's an animal. Of course.
She's moving away again, and his hands let her go. He watches to see what she'll do. She gives him a playbow that makes him laugh; she takes off and she's just gone, he starts after her but by then she's in a new spot, peeking out of the reeds, happy, wordless, communicating with pricked ears and wagging tail.
Alex doesn't stop to think. He turns and runs after her, reeds whipping against his legs, breaking against his chest.
Sinclair
He's seen her in animal forms, in other forms, but it's for the sake of violence. She doesn't trot up to him in lupus. They don't go on walkies. This -- what they're doing now -- they've never done before. It marks this whole new world they've entered since they got back together. They're different people, and they share each other's lives more than they ever did when they met in Chicago. Maybe they needed more sunlight to grow in.
When his hand is passing over her skull, her hypersensitive ears flick and her eyes close -- and he recognizes it. The way Sinclair's eyes close when he holds her in homid and she feels something like peace. The way her eyes close in pleasure when he's near, and warm, and gentle with her. They open again, and she doesn't do something as goofy as lick his hand or anything, but just stares at him, her fur thick and warm against his leg.
But then it's time to play. And she bounds off, disappears, and comes back. She looks so happy to have successfully tricked him, and she's quivering with it because she's trying not to wag her tail so much. If she wags her tail then she won't be able to hide. She lolls her tongue at him, and when Alex starts sprinting towards her, Sinclair lets out a yelping bark and wheels around, running off.
And she's not easy on him. Granted, she doesn't run as fast as she's able to -- she'd leave him so far behind in a matter of moments that he would feel abandoned, that the gulf between them would grow instead of shrink. She bounds instead, zigging and zagging, but she doesn't go very slow. She doesn't hesitate to make sudden, sharp turns, or let him get almost close enough to tackle her before skidding away.
Then she goes jumping into one of the small bodies of slow, barely-moving water that dots the marshes. The next time Alex catches up with her, she's splashing around with little hops, her paws squelching in the mud. Bullfrogs are hopping out of the way and onto the banks and she's pretending to chase them but never laying so much as a sniff against their hides. And completely drenched, she sees Alex again and rushes towards him, smacks her forepaws on his chest, and knocks him to the ground.
As...gently... as she can, but still.
Alex
She doesn't go easy on him. He doesn't lag behind, either. They go running into the marshes, his sneakered feet pounding behind her paws - through wet grass, over sundried mud, through puddles and ponds. Once, he plants a foot in what looks like dry mud, goes in to the ankle, laughs and curses. Sinclair circles back, sniffs the air until she catches scent of the ripe sulfur stench of anaerobic mud; then she lolls her tongue at him, laughing silently at his misfortune, before she whips around and
they're off again.
A few times he gets close to catching her. Because she lets him, or because he sees where she's going and cuts a corner, gets ahead of her, his fingertips brushing the thick, healthy fur on her back before she's swerving away, out of reach again. She goes splashing through puddles. He follows her, jumping heartily, two-footedly, splashing dirty water every which way. He's filthy anyway. A little more won't matter. Bullfrogs dart aside, affronted. She pretends to chase them, but her teeth never snap closed; they probably don't taste too good, anyway.
When she leaps at him, he reacts in an instant -- leaps at her, too. They hit somewhere in the middle and her weight and momentum bear him down. He hits the ground on his back, oofing, mud everywhere now: on his back, in his hair. Alex is panting from all that running. His palm is hot when he runs his hand over the dome of her head, tugs gently and wonderingly at her ear, strokes the sleek fur at the side of her neck.
"Change back," he whispers, his laughter quieting to a smile.
SinclairBefore, she changed between breaths. It wasn't as fast as she could go, and he didn't feel the heat wave of a burst of rage from her, but still: she took a deep breath and it started, and in what seemed like a few seconds or less, she was a wolf. Her tongue lolls again happily when he strokes her fur back, and she rubs her head into his palm. That tug on her ear makes it twitch, and she gives an affronted little chuff, shaking him off.
Which proceeds directly into a full-body shake, from the tips of her ears to her tail, flinging water and even bits of mud and grass everywhere. The cold water that was already dripping down onto Alex from the beast on top of him flicks all over the place, but is followed by a sudden wave of warmth, like lightning just struck the air around him but left him safe and untouched.
Sinclair is still soaking wet, and still dripping water from her hair and her clothes. She looks like she did before -- her Super Grover t-shirt, her little shorts, her bare feet -- but saturated. She's got mud splattered up her arms and legs to her elbows and to her knees.
He only gets a flash of the sight of her, before her body presses down against his, her mouth finding his and opening, warm and wet and familiar.
AlexAnd he's right there with her. Right there to meet her, his bare mudflecked torso flexing up under hers as his mouth opens to hers. He kisses her the way he kissed her before he stepped away from her and showed her that it was okay, he was okay with it, if she shifted. He kisses her like that -- and then harder still, hotter, letting loose a low sound that sounds a little like a growl.
There's something playful and savage both about the way he wraps a hard arm around her and flips her under him. He kisses and bites at her neck like he's the animal here, licks her skin and finds her mouth again, kisses her as his shoulderblades rise under her hands, his own hands pressing into the cool wet mud to lever himself over her. Unabashedly, he works his way between her thighs; pushes against her, grinds against her through their clothes. His mouth parts from hers long enough to gasp. Long enough for his eyes to open, and here in the darkness there's no warm hazel, there's nothing but the impression of gleam and hunger and want
Then he's on her again. Eyes closing. Mouth opening, hands searching, pushing her shirt up, up, yanking and tugging, just to get it off.
SinclairIt surprised her a little when he kissed her the way he did before she shifted, touching her like he didn't want her body to change at all, like he didn't want to go run or play, like he wanted... well. Just her. Like that. It didn't surprise her when he smiled at her after that kiss, didn't surprise her that he came towards her and touched her and tickled her ear.
And it didn't surprise Sinclair when he put his hand on the crest of her skull and whispered for her to change back. Didn't surprise her or sadden her. They've been running and splashing for a good ten, fifteen minutes before she decided to pounce on him like this, and they're both panting and winded, hearts racing. It's not the same as a hunt, and not quite the same as running with her pack, but it's close. Oh, it's close. And it is a whole new, separate thing that she's not sure even other mated pairs know about, or want, or know how to handle.
But here he is, and though Alex is never shy or hesitant when he kisses her and touches her, there's something underneath it all that's different tonight. He almost growls when he holds her head to him, eating at her mouth like that, and she groans, pressing her hips harder against his, rolling her lower half firmly between his legs.
They are in the marsh. And Alex rolls Sinclair roughly into the mud and the water and she lets out a laugh that turns into a gasp when he puts his mouth on her neck. Her eyes flicker closed, rolling back as she arches, her hands running down his bare back to his hips, pulling him ever harder against her, moving him even as he's grinding against her himself. A noise leaves her, somewhere between a whimper and a gasp, and she's already pushing his shorts down, tugging at the waistband of his boxers, pushing his clothes as far down his body as she can before she just can't reach anymore.
Alex pulls back. Sinclair looks up at him. The moon is between her phases, and she's neither shuddering with weakness nor glowing with strength. Her soaked hair is all back from her face, and where the darkness leaves his eyes colorless, gleaming, hungry, he can still see how blue hers are. She reaches up to him, wraps her arms around his neck as he's coming down over her again, kissing him deeply as he pushes all that wet cotton out of his way.
Sinclair sits up as she's kissing him, pushing her body against his to lift him so they can work her shirt off of her arms, drop it into the reeds. Her bra they tear at together, nearly ripping off one of the hooks in back as they drag it off her shoulders and bare her breasts to him. She moves closer as soon as she's as bare as he is, as though it's cold when it isn't, because as soon as he feels her breasts against his chest he can feel how hot she is, burning up to the touch.
Her hands go into that short-cropped hair of his, palms molding to his scalp. She kisses him again, pulling him closer, saying
"Alex..."
like it's the first word she's ever known.
AlexThe moon is not in her phase tonight. She's neither charged with its power nor sapped by its darkness. She's simply herself, nothing more or less, and that's exactly how he wants her.
And he does want her. Suddenly, ferociously, as scalding a fever as any that's ever gripped him. She's pushing his shorts off and pretty soon they're down around his knees, getting mashed into the muck; there's mud in streaks on his thighs, too, as her legs rub past them. He's pushing her shirt up and she's rising up to help and they get it off together somehow. It catches in the reeds, a pale blur in the night, and by then their hands are reaching for each other again, her arms around his neck, his hands grasping the back of her head and pulling her up.
Their mouths meet again. And again, her bra fumbling out of the way, her hands in his hair now. He's reaching down to push his boxer shorts down, and it's awkward in this position, pressed so close to her, with only one hand free because the other's caught between touching her and holding himself up. He doesn't make a move to make this easier for himself. He doesn't try to pull away from her, doesn't try to use both hands. It takes him longer, but it's worth it because
his hands are on her skin.
"Sinclair," he pants, something like an answer. He gets his shorts down at last. He grinds against her again, moves like he thinks he might be able to just fuck her now, but of course her shorts are still on and he laughs, a breathless sound; he'd almost forgotten. "Fuck," he gasps, "get these off."
And then he's turning again. Flipping them around. His back to the ground again, turning her atop him, and it's easier like this to undo her shorts, easier to take her hips in his hands and push her up to stand on her knees so he can start tugging them down, down. "Get them off," he says again when they get caught where her legs are parted, straddling him. He's already reaching into her pants, reaching under her panties to finger her, touch her. "Baby, hurry."
Sinclair
"Oh, my god," Sinclair breathes, so much emphasis on that first syllable, that first sound. He's finally naked and she pushes him back a moment by the shoulders to look at him, all of him, but what's happening between them doesn't leave much time or room for staring, for breathing. Hunger has him pushing back to her in a moment, and has her mouth opening over his again. Their hands reach between their bodies, fumbling with the button of her shorts, Alex's hands caught between holding himself up over her and touching her. His hand finds her breast in the dark and she moans at what he does to it. Sinclair finds his ass and pulls him against her body again.
They grind for a few seconds, trying to fuck through her clothes, laughing when they can't. There's so much wildness left in her -- so few words, but incoherent sound after incoherent sound leaves her lips. She's tearing the shorts off and down even as he rolls her above him again, his hands meeting hers at the edges of her clothes and pushing them away. Sinclair lies on top of him then, wriggling to get her shorts and the panties under them down, kicking them off, two wet tangles of fabric lost in the marsh. Her mouth is on his face, his neck, searching blindly and animalistically for his lips til she finds them, sealing them again with a moan.
Her thighs close around his cock them, sliding him against her cunt. A low, dark chuckle leaves her at the sensation, a sound both human and wild, familiar and savage. It falls apart into a gasp when she starts rubbing her clit against him, when her slick and his precum turn him slippery against her.
AlexAlex doesn't put up with that for very long. Or perhaps it's more accurate to say, he can't stand it for very long; can't stand to be so close and yet not inside her, can't stand to be almost there, and not.
He rolls her under him again. They keep doing this, flipping over and over, writhing over each other like primordial, primal creatures, mating in the muck. There's something so primitive about all this: the heat and the wilderness and the summer and the darkness, Miami's downtown so distant and the skies so clear that civilization is only a glow on the horizon. Barely enough to see by. Their other senses take primacy, then: touch, to be sure, their hot bodies and the cool marsh; but sounds, too, gasps and groans, a grunt as she grabs his ass and pulls him against her, that low dark laughter of hers.
And taste. The taste of one another's mouths. The taste of their skin, that texture. The smell of each other, their sweat and their sex, their excitement and anticipation,
the way he breathes, oh god, oh yeah when he finally gets her under him and gets her legs open, when he's finally finding his way into her and pushing into her with those slow, firm flexes of his hips. She can feel the streaks of mud on his back slipping beneath her fingers, and his skin under it hot and firm; his shoulderblades hard angles on which the dense complexities of his upper back anchor and roll.
His mouth finds hers again. He kisses her hard, burying a groan there when he starts fucking her hard and driven and fierce, giving in to the oldest of all mammalian instincts.
SinclairSinclair never teases him like that. She never seems to have the patience for it, but there's also the simple fact that no matter how much fooling around or dry-humping or how close she got to Actually Having Sex in high school, this is new to her. She has no prior experience with sex to tell her to try this, avoid that at all costs. And, wary of making a mistake that would be a dealbreaker, that would send the only one she wants away from her, she always waited for him to lead. And she was always waiting for him to tell her no. She was always afraid that if she came on too strong, too fast, she'd just make him go away. And she couldn't bear for him to go away.
Her confidence has, it goes without saying, grown since then. She still fears losing him, but not because she makes a mistake or comes on a little strong or gets angry or gets insecure or is herself -- and herself is all of these things. She fears losing him only in that final sense, and because she is Sinclair, she thinks more about how to protect him without corralling him, and she thinks of protecting herself so that she can stay with him more than she thinks about how bad it's going to be when one of them dies.
And now she teases him. Writhes atop him moaning like that, kissing him while she rubs herself on his cock and whimpers every time it strokes across her pussy. It feels good. It feels a totally different kind of good than when he's inside of her, and she likes it. She's sweating now, loosening some of the mud on her skin, sticking grass even closer to her. He can feel how wet she is, and feel how strong and lithe her body is, and he can't stand it.
Sinclair laughs when she hits the ground again, but it's soft ground and she's not a terribly soft girl. It's that low, dark laugh again, that one he's almost never heard, the one that doesn't sound much like a girl at all. She's pulling him down to her, rough as he was when he flipped her again, panting for his mouth, grabbing his body to pull him between her legs, pull him closer, pull him into her. Her back arches and her hips lift, welcoming him, meeting him when he drives his cock into her, and she moans so loud that even the birds that have settled ten yards away take flight again, startled by the goddamn wolves who mate so noisily tonight.
The ancestral memories of the prey animals don't remember wolves in these marshes. They are confused, and frightened, and can't see any wolves, but they know they're there.
Sinclair's cunt clenches down hard around Alex's cock, like her very body is hungrier for him than her soul right now. But there's no true separation there, no line drawn between spirit and form. She holds his face in her hands, cups his head, kissing him openly when he grabs the ground beneath her and starts to fuck her. She opens her eyes for a spare moment and sees the sky over them, but it swirls dizzingly, so she closes them again.
No: she turns her head to Alex's neck and opens her eyes. She can almost see through his skin to his pulse, she can almost smell how alive he is. She can feel how much he loves her in every rough through of his hips, and she shudders beneath him for it. Her breath whimpers in his ear, the words tumbling out all in a haphazard row: "Baby I'm not gonna last very long."
AlexIf he weren't so wild right now. If he weren't so primitive-primal-primordial. If he could think better, if he could string thoughts together and make them make sense -- why, then he'd laugh, he'd nip her neck and laugh and tell her
well, good, neither am i
or
well, good, i don't wanna catch pneumonia from rolling around in cold wet mud.
Except he's not in a state of mind to say any of that. Or even think it. Every time he slams into her, she arches under him; shudders are running under her skin like electricity gone liquid, but there's no weakness in her and her hands are strong on his face, holding him to her, kissing him like she might pull him into her body and soul and breath and spirit.
So he just makes noise at her, an inelegant, mindless sound, a groan-growl as his brow presses to hers, his body moves into hers again and again. All that energy in him, all that boundless impatient red-crackling energy: unleashing into her, his hands gripping soft mud and slick grass, his shoulders straining, torso flexing. He doesn't have to think, isn't thinking about finesse or technique; he's using his own ancestral memory, the instinct imprinted in his genes. It's summer, and this is his mate, and it is only right, the only pure and true and right thing to do, to mate with her
just like this.
Under the open sky, on the open ground, with small prey-animals whose genetic memories couldn't have prepared them for this sort of predation, these sorts of predators, scattering from their noise, their scent, their rough, unfettered fucking. Moving into her, feeling her tight and hot and red-hot-alive under him, holding him in hands and arms and legs, holding him in her body, telling him with and without words that's she here; she won't last very long but that's all right, she's here, she's his, his.
SinclairThey've always been a little playful about sex. He laughs so often and never once has it felt malicious or directed at her, never once has it made her feel like she was doing something wrong or stupid. He's just... happy. And he's made her happier than she thought she had the capacity to be in the middle of a war, in the middle of her own life. They are rough and tumble and they nip and lick at each other in bed sometimes, or stroke and finger and work each other up in the shower. Sometimes they go slow, and it's tender and close and quiet and it's... nice, like that. Those times they talk to each other more, and he's learned so much about what feels good to her when they're like that, worked so much shyness out of her that way.
Sometimes, even more rarely, she turns on her stomach and he's watching his cock pound into her and by the end of it she's holding onto the edge of the bed, burying her moans in the mattress, biting down on pillow or blankets, sweat beading on her lower back and when he asks her if she likes that, is that what she wants, all she can do is moan.
But it's never been like this. Not quite like this. And they aren't being silly or playful. Their energy isn't this bright, bounding thing but something darker, more raw, coming in bolts from the sky or tremors from the earth. Sinclair is fucking him back eagerly now, holding him in her legs and keeping his face right there so she can keep tasting his mouth. She grabs his hand and puts it on her breast halfway through, groaning wildly against his tongue, panting away from his lips when she can't breathe anymore.
"Baby --" she whimpers, grabbing his arm, her cunt quivering around him. "Alex -- !" almost like she's frightened, but that's not it, that's not even close. There's so much cold and wet around him that he feels her heat all the more keenly, slick and deep around his cock, trembling as her gasps get closer together, her nails digging into his bicep, then his shoulder. "Baby, hold onto me, come with me."
AlexAs raw and dark as this is, he's still with her. She can't possibly mistake that. He's not merely on top of her or in her but with her, his mouth meeting hers again and again, his heart pounding right next to hers. She grabs his hand and moves it to her breast. He cups it. Caresses it. It's so tender, somehow - that one point of contact in the midst of all this churning, raging fuck.
Her moans go right through him. Into his mouth and into his bones, buried there like a secret tattoo. Her hand on his arm grabs hard enough to leave clean streaks through dirt and mud and bits of grass; she almost sounds frightened, but that's nowhere close to what she is. He comes down over her anyway, his elbow on the ground beside her head, his hand and forearm wrapping over her head like he, of all people, is going to try and protect her. Of all people.
There's an irony in this. She's the one who still has words. All he has now is his body and his tongue and his hands and the raw sounds he makes; the way he groans when he kisses her
-- again, always kissing her --
and snarls when he bites at her neck, her shoulder. He's so hot atop her, they're both so hot that he thinks of burning into the mud, sinking into the mire, like the first bolt of lightning to ever set off life on this planet; he's thinking of that as she's telling him to hold her, hold her, come with her, come.
He holds on to her. He wraps his arms around her, all but lifts her against him even as he's driving into her, hammering her down, pinning her to the ground with the force of his thrust. He comes,
and there isn't a trace of restraint or shame to it. He doesn't try, not for a second, to muffle his shouts. Those shouts ring out across the flat marshlands, barely broken by sprawling trees, whispering reeds. There's a silence in the aftermath when even the animal life of the wetlands has gone quiet, frightened; a silence in which she can hear his shuddering, shattered breathing, hear grass pulled out by the roots as he turns his hand from her body to grip at the earth; can hear the muffled slap of their bodies together again as he draws out a bare inch and slams back into her as though he could somehow make their union more complete.
It's never been like this before. Never so raw, never so ferocious, never so animal as this.
SinclairShe still has words, but not for very much longer after that. She has her arms around him and her mouth sealed to him and her nails dig into him but not as deep as his cock presses into her. They're together. The other morning they made love, because she stretched out in the sunlight and he climbed into the shower after her to hold her under the water and feel how good that body of hers is, how strong and how fast, how full of life and energy under his fingertips and against his lips when he'd lower his mouth to taste her nipple and taste the steel going through it and taste the water flowing over it. They made love then on top of the hotel bed, fucking with dirty, lazy enjoyment, but it didn't feel like a consummation of what had happened just a few hours before. It didn't feel like a ritual. It just felt like them, together.
And this doesn't feel like a rite, either, doesn't feel like it has any form beyond the basic, primitive form of male entering female, female captivating male, two bodies hot and filthy and together. She still has words because she loves him, and because she doesn't have to be an animal or a woman or a Garou or something else altogether in order to be there, with him, this close. She has his name, because she won't ever lose it. She knows to bring his hand to her breast because she knows him, she knows what pleasures him, she knows what makes her skin feel hot. Because right now, together with him in the earth, fire runs across her skin every time she looks at him and because right now, like this, right here, she knows he won't be burned. She knows he's on fire, he's her mate and she knows, without needing him to moan it in her ear or look into her eyes, that he's never had it like this, he didn't know it could be like this, and he can't think about that or process that or philosophize about that because he is in it
right now
with her.
Together.
Sinclair arches and she comes with him, holding his hand to her breast, her heartbeat, trembling under him like she's weak when she's nothing but, turning to liquid energy without losing that firm, warm reality that he's driving himself into, coming into, kissing in order to keep breathing. She arches and strokes him over herself again, comes around him still, or again, just...comes, wave after wave of it, til he's not so much holding onto her to protect her but holding onto her to ride it out with her, that crest you see coming a mile off on the horizon but can't fight, can't swim away from, get lifted up by, then you're flying
and one of the most powerful forces on earth is tossing you around, reminding you that you are so very small, your survival depends on being a part of it. Not separate from it. Not fighting it. Not even surviving it, but riding it. Flowing with it.
Sinclair collapses. Ebbs. She lets her body relax to the ground again, panting rapidly for air, trembling apart, shaking, their breathing the only noise now. Alex withdraws, and thrusts into her again, harder, and she lets out a cry, clutching at him with her hands and her body, electrified again, like he's making her heart beat again after it's gone still. She wraps her legs around him to hold him still, wraps her arms around him to hold him close, shudders to his chest, kisses his neck, runs her hands down his back and loves him. Keeps on loving him. Keeps moving slowly under him, moving so she can keep feeling his cock in her, gasping.
AlexNo: it's not a rite. It's not a ritual. It is not like this because he is hers now, or she is his, or they've finalized something, or they've made this more real. It was always real. They always belonged to each other. It's like this because it is, simple as that, though how it is
is anything but simple.
She keeps moving. So he keeps losing his mind, his hands grabbing at her back, his mouth turning to the juncture of her neck and shoulder, kissing her there, biting her gently. Her name is the first word he finds again. Her name, and then -- baby. baby, just be still. just stay.
Stay. He stays where he is: which is to say, in the mud and the marsh, and Katherine Bellamonte would freak the fuck out if she could see them now. And he stays where he is: which is to say, inside her, close to her, in that obliterated state of mind where he can just float, empty-minded and exhausted and content, resting.
He's never had it like that before. He's never had anyone like her before, in any sense of the word. Never fucked anyone like her before, certainly, but never knew anyone like her either. Never loved. Never had, the way she has him now, the way they belong to each other.
Never. She starts apart: singular, blazing. His breath shudders as he takes a deep inhale, and relaxes; weighs against her, hot and heavy and boneless. He could stay here forever, he thinks, even if it's not true.
SinclairBiting her neck gently like that only makes Sinclair moan, makes her squrim under him anew, working herself on him til he's begging her to please be still, please just stay there with him.
"I'm not going anywhere," she tells him in a breath, reassuring more than promising, and her pussy still moves on him gently, involuntarily, but it doesn't mean she isn't staying with him. That she's not there with him. She's nothing if not with him, right now.
But she does slowly come down. She doesn't try to make her body stop trembling, she doesn't try to make her pussy stop quivering around him in those slow aftershocks of enjoyment. She just holds him, turning their bodies so that they can rest together without parting, laying her head against his arm. She finally closes her eyes. There's enough mud in her hair to turn it dark. It's smeared over her breast in almost the shape of his hand, it's on her arms and her stomach, her hips, down her thighs. Her eyes drift open. They close again.
One of her hands comes to rest on his chest, feeling his heart still pounding ferociously under his skin. And feeling that, her eyes open drowsily. She moves her head to his shoulder, and opens her mouth, closing her teeth over him there. It's so simple, that claiming. That embrace. My mate.
Alex
Some part of Alex - the part that wakes up at six am and sleeps at ten pm every day when they live together in San Diego, the part that runs and lifts and curls religiously, the part of him that is so very, very far from an animal -- that part of him knows he should get off of her. He should get out of the mud. He should get her out of the mud; they should go home and get cleaned up and curl into a nice clean bed.
But that part of him is very quiet right now, and very far away, and he's just so sleepy-replete with what they did to each other. With what happened here. He doesn't want to move. She grips him in her teeth, and that muscle pulls briefly, a tiny inconsequential reflex. It's a claim, that gentle bite, and it's a calling - naming him out of the dark. Not merely Alex or loud-volatile-always-moving-male. Something far simpler; far more complex.
Mate. Just that. No more, and no less.
His hand comes up after a while. He covers hers, which covers his heart. Their hands are all but trapped in the warm space between their bodies. He rubs his jaw against her temple, against her cheek. Settles by slow degree - heart slowing, breath calming, resting with her. Staying.
SinclairThere's no way they're going to stay out here all night. Car out there on the side of the road, mud caked all over them, mud in strange places. Even as an animal Sinclair would tug on her mate til he got up and let her take him somewhere safer, warmer, drier, where there is food and where he could be clean and yes, and it would be good, and they would be together there like they are together here. Only safe, warm, dry, clean, and where there is food. But right this moment, her mind still caught in this fluid space between animal and woman, she stays. And holds him in her teeth and her hands, makes sure he knows she's there. And he's hers.
Her mouth parts when she yawns, loud and mammalian, smacking her mouth together a few times before nuzzling against his throat. They are filthy and cooling. and she is drowsy and satisfied even though she's also quite aware of how gross they are, and she opens her eyes, keeping them half-lidded. Looks around herself like she's just waking up, or just now realizing where they are.
Turning back, she nuzzles him again and smiles. "I said: 'we're gonna get so muddy'. And here we are. I can tell the future." She nuzzles him again, rougher, giving him a long, slow squeeze in her arms. "Let's go back, baby. Let's go back and wash off all the mud and go to sleep in the cave and it'll be really awesome."
AlexSo often in the mornings when Alex wakes Sinclair is still asleep. Not only asleep but glomped all over him, and when he tries to get out of bed she makes some grumping noise of protest, clings all the tighter.
Well, tables are turned now. Sinclair yawns, and she moves, and she looks around like she's waking up and Alex -- well. He makes a grumping noise of protest, tightens his hold, kisses her firmly on the side of the neck like this alone might prevent her from going anywhere. It's not until she nuzzles him that he even stirs. Not until she mentions sleeping in the cave,
safewarmdryclean, with food,
that he lifts his head. Slowly, lazily, leisurely - rubbing his cheek alongside hers, rubbing their noses together until he grins, and grinning, kisses her mouth.
So gently now. Gentle-affectionate-smiling. "Okay," he whispers, convinced. He plants his hands, he pushes up. There's mud everywhere, absolutely everywhere; they literally need a shower. He doesn't think about how dirty his car's going to get, or how it's going to feel sitting in drying mud all the way back. He thinks about her. He thinks about the way she feels when he takes her by the waist and draws out of her, slow and careful, kissing her again before he starts getting to his feet.
His shorts - inner and outer - are unrecognizably muddy. His shirt is ... somewhere. He finds her shirt, though, and he hands it back to her. Then he holds his hand out.
"Right now," he says, tugging her close until their arms are all but wound together, their sides all but pressing together, "I am just ... so happy."
SinclairIt's easy enough to disentangle himself from Sinclair at six a.m. -- and she is almost never, ever up at six a.m. unless she's coming home at that time -- because he can lift her arms and move her around and she just makes those grumpy, protesting noises but rolls right over. Takes all the covers with her and glomps a pillow instead, satisfied as long as she's warm and can stay asleep. But still: she holds onto him. He wakes with her hair spread across the pillow behind her, the pillow that's 'hers', the pillow she almost never uses because they sleep so close together. He wakes with her arm, sometimes her arm and her leg, draped over his body.
A couple of times the noises of protest have formed into sleep-talking words, as simple as a soft, half-sighed No... or No go before she's incoherent again, fully asleep again, lost in whatever dreams that hold her so very deep.
Alex doesn't say 'no', but he grumps and wraps his arms around her, which she loves. His arms are strong. He runs and lifts and curls religiously and his body shows it. He doesn't do it because it gets Sinclair hot, but that has no effect on the fact that it does get her hot. His intentions have nothing at all to do with her reactions, and she reacts with a faint shiver as the way he holds her makes his biceps flex, so she moves a little closer, completely tolerant of his refusal to let her go. When he kisses her neck she twists and nuzzles him, and he smells like sweat and sex and mud, which makes her laugh a little.
Soon he pulls back, smiling, and she smiles back up at him, those eyes of hers so very bright and so very clear. They flicker half-closed when he puts his hands on her waist, and she looks down between their bodies as he draws out of her, sighing softly at the feel, and the simple sight of him. Her shorts and the panties tangled up in them are actually half-submerged in water. Her bra is wrecked, squashed into the mud behind them, the lacey white thing totally destroyed by dirt. Her shirt is hanging on a reed, which broke from the weight of soaking wet cotton. That is the item of clothing he hands back to her, and it makes her laugh.
She grabs his hand and pulls herself to her feet, stepping close to him and smiling so brightly, so purely as her arms go around his neck. She stays there, all but wrapped around him, and smiles. But he can't see it, so she nods against him, breathing in and out deeply. "I am, too," she says softly. And she always tells the truth.
A few moments later, or maybe a lot longer than that, Sinclair draws back. She uses the wet t-shirt to wipe off some of the mud on her, because it may as well be ruined anyway. It doesn't exactly come close to getting her clean, but it's a little more comfortable. Alex gets his shorts and he's looking around after she's found her bra and shorts, so she reminds him he left his shirt in the car, whipped it off like Tarzan before he mauled her face -- there are sound effects and pantomime to go along with these statements. She says she thinks they have some towels in their luggage in the back of the car. They're not clean-clean, but they're cleaner than the two of them are right now. She doesn't bother with her bra and panties but puts on her shirt and shorts, muddy as they are, because she doubts it's a good idea to try and 'sneak back in' naked.
"...naked and covered in mud," she corrects herself as they're tromping up the embankment to the car. "One or the other, fine, but both is gonna look pretty bad."
Sinclair uses it like a semi-clean rag to wipe off some of the mud from her body, but really she mostly just smears it around. She gathers up the rest as she stands, though
Sinclair[Cut that last line.]
AlexAlex doesn't have anything to wipe with, standing out in the marsh, and he wouldn't anyway. On the way back he splashes in puddles. Uses the semibrackish water, which in all honesty looked pretty dirty on the way out but looks remarkably clean now that he's unspeakably gross, to wash himself off. By the time he gets back to the car the parts of him that were rolling in the muck are almost Alex-colored again, though he still manages to leave dark muddy stains all over their semiclean towels.
And he laughs when she assesses the situation, decides that naked + muddy = not okay. "Really though," he says, even though she probably already knows this simply because in two or three days, in just a handful of interactions, she already has a feel for who his folks are, who his brother is, "I doubt anyone'd say anything even if we did walk in naked and covered in mud. I mean, they might be surprised, but they won't care-care."
He folds his towel so that the mud is on the inside. Then he lays it on his seat, protecting all that nice leather from his dirty dirty self. Getting back in, he starts the ignition -- waits for Sinclair to get in before putting the little Elantra in gear.
"Do you wanna stay one more day?" he asks as they're getting back on the road, which is all but deserted at this late hour, this far out west. "Maybe just ... lay around the house and spend time with everyone and chill?"
SinclairThe truth is, Sinclair isn't exactly 'clean' on the way back. Mud is smeared everywhere. The t-shirt just helped...well. She's still a mess, and gross, and she grins when he splashes, kicking water back at him. Holds his hand. And back at the car they pop the trunk and they dig some semi-clean towels out to wipe themselves off. They are almost their usual tan then, but only in the moonlight, which is lying to them and telling them they look reasonable. Compared to how they looked a little while ago, though, maybe they do.
"I know, baby," she laughs, laying a towel over her seat as well before she climbs in after him. She sits cross-legged so that her dirty dirty feet don't get all over the mats, even though those are totally washable. Her hair is still all but brunette from dirt.
He asks about tomorrow, and she is nodding before the word 'one' finishes getting out of his mouth, long slow nods of her head, bobs of her chin. "Yup," she says when he finishes, having never ceased nodding. "That is, in fact, exactly what I want to do. Get up early, go see the sunrise, come back, sleep our faces off, eat burgers or whatever, do laundry, make snacks for the road, and the day after tomorrow we can pack up again and start driving home. A fast route, this time. Just zoom, whoosh, sleeping in shifts, stopping for gas and peeing."
She makes an arm motion with this, too. The zooming and whooshing, not the gassing and peeing.
AlexFor no good reason at all, what Sinclair says makes Alex slow down, stop in the middle of the road, lean over, kiss her. His left wrist is still draped over the wheel; his right hand covers her thigh for a moment, though, warm and sure. The kiss is the same. Warm, and sure: not at all frightened by the way they made love in the wetlands, by the way they grew and changed on this trip.
But then, he wouldn't be. Dynamic and volatile as he is, the last thing Alex would fear is change.
When he draws back, he smiles at her for a moment. Then he gets back to driving, accelerating out of the random dead stop they've come to; head back east toward Pembroke Pines; toward his parents' house. "I'd like that," he says. He means all of it. "I'd really like that."
SinclairSometimes, faced with Alex's spontaneity, Sinclair wonders how long it took him and how hard it was for him to establish the rigid schedule and self-discipline he has. He's not as attuned to the Weaver's sensibilities as she once thought. He and his brother are different kinds of the Wyld: not every glade touched by that aspect of the trinity is chaotic and terrifying. Some are serene, growing with no thought given to the timespans of mortals. Aaron reminds her of grass growing, in a way. Not 'boring', not 'bland', but doing what he does, every day, being who he is.
Then Alex, who she knows -- though it wasn't said -- has never had anything like this before, never met anyone like her before, never fucked any girl in his life the way the two of them just made love. She knows. Just like she doesn't need to be told why he stops the car with a tiny bump, leans over and kisses her. She knows why he's stopping the car and she meets him in that kiss, covering his hand where it covers her thigh. She doesn't wonder why he gives her that kiss, what's behind it, what is going on in his head and his heart.
As much as they want to be home -- their home -- together, there's no less desire for wanting to be home, just home, with the pack-family here. And yes, some of it is artificial -- Ellen doesn't usually come home at two in the afternoon, and Aaron certainly doesn't live there, and Greg has a store to run, but for awhile they can just have a semi-normal time together. Laze about at home. Take naps. Eat whatever is in the fridge, and write things on the whiteboard list for the grocery store. Do nothing all day and get gently mocked by Ellen when she comes home and tells them what she accomplished while they were lying around watching reruns on t.v. or watching the clouds go by.
Sinclair will probably ask Alex to drive her around and show her stuff from his childhood, but they won't spend all day doing it. They'll be home in time for dinner. She might ask if Aaron can come so she gets the real story of things, and also so he can be lasso'd into picture-taking duty for the happy couple. But mostly, they'll do nothing. And just be home with his family, their family, their pack. And then go home. To their home. Their den. Their ocean.
She is smiling softly like that when he draws away from her, soft and knowing. "Yeah," she tells him. "Me too."
Alex
The house is quiet when they return. His parents are asleep, and though there's light under Aaron's door, he doesn't emerge to scold the happy muddy couple on their nocturnal trysts. Wouldn't, anyway.
Still, they shower as quietly as they can, laughing silently, helping each other get mud out of their hair, off their skin. The bar of soap is all but gone by the time they're finally clean. It takes another five minutes to scrub out the tub, and then -- wrapped in towels, still damp -- they crawl into Alex's bunkbed cave and wrap each other up. The windows are open a crack, letting the air conditioned air escape, letting the night in. They can hear insects buzzing, distant cars passing, as sleep draws them down, and down.
All too soon Alex's cell phone is chiming its alarm, and they're fumbling their way out of bed bleary-eyed and sleep-depped, leaning on each other as they pull shorts on, shirts on. Alex's t-shirt is inside-out, and when Sinclair points it out he just makes some vague uncaring noise, leaves it. They're sneaking out of the house again, up even before Mrs. Vaughn, piling into the car, brushing dried mud off the seats as they get in. Eastward they go this time, passing the silent slabs and spires of downtown, which reflect the pink dawn in glass-blue and glass-grey.
The beach is all but deserted. There's no decent surf in this part of Miami, and all the other beachgoers are too lazy to come out this early. They have the sand to themselves, and they sit together, the world crystal-edged with their exhaustion, a thick beach towel wrapped around the two of them.
They don't say much, watching the sun come up. They don't have to say much. Under the blanket, he's sitting crosslegged in the sand and she's wrapping her arms around his chest, leaning against his back. Her chin is on his shoulder. Her legs are wrapped around his waist, her feet tucked into the cross of his lower legs. They're literally twined together.
When the sun peeks over the horizon, he touches her hands where they cross over his breastbone. Look, the touch says. There it is. And she kisses the angle of his jaw, saying, I know.
Or maybe just: I'm here.
In the morning light they drive home. And they sleep until noon. And when they roll out of bed Alex takes her to see the high school he went to, shows her the gym where he regularly stuffed unfortunate wimps into lockers and trash cans, shows her the quad where he and the other jocks gathered to accessorize with the cheerleaders. Shows her the middle school with its science lab where he first took an interest in outer space. Shows her the elementary school; shows her the path he walked home every day, shows her the condo tract that was nothing but wild land when he was a kid, where he and his brother built a fort to hide out in.
"When my brother First Changed," he tells her, walking past the gleaming new McMansion that took the place of the brothers Vaughns' hidey-hole, "he freaked out and ran and hid here until I came here to find him. It was the summer before freshman year, I think."
Not too much more on that story. Maybe it's not his story to tell, though Sinclair could easily look it up on GWNet. Anyway, they're nearing home, and he's taking her hand in his.
They don't have anything planned for their last day in Miami. They lounge around the house. They watch a movie with Aaron. They go get steaks and a salad, and they have another little barbecue in the backyard when Ellen gets home because it's easier than cooking. When it gets dark, Aaron helps Alex get the telescope he built back in high school out of storage, and they climb up on the roof and look at the rings of Saturn, the sullen red glow of Mars.
That night, Sinclair and Alex curl up in the cave again, yawning, agreeing that they're just going to drive straight this time, no stops, go in shifts until they're home. Google says it'll be 42 hours. Alex says that's no sweat.
In the morning, Ellen stays home to see them off. They make waffles; someone found the waffle iron. Aaron runs to the supermarket to get them munchies and drinks; Tripoli eees around the house, saying goodbye to all the faucets and appliances. There are a lot of hugs around the front door; there's some talk of Thanksgiving, of Christmas. Alex suddenly realizes no one's mentioned they're going to get hitched soon and blurts it; Ellen dryly notes that that's hardly news at this point. Then there are more hugs, and there's some back-pounding, and then
then they pile into the car, blanket and pillow ready for naps, snacks ready and within reach. Alex's parents wave from the driveway. Aaron walks them down to the street, keeping pace with the car as Alex backs out, and the brothers clasp hands briefly as they part.
See you on Skype later?
Yeah, man. Maybe when we get bored on the road.
Bye, Alex.
Take care of yourself, Aaron.
It's a long way back: twenty-six hundred miles, all but tracing the southernmost edge of the United States. And it turns out they lied, because they make one more stop after all: New Orleans, because for god's sake, it's New Orleans. They don't get there til 11pm, but the town barely wakes up til sunset, so it works out. The night is muggy and hot. There's a lot of seafood involved, and a fair amount of booze, and some loud music, and some dancing. There's a shitty little motel by the side of the road where they're woken up by some streetcorner singer at 4am, and Alex yells out the window, and
come midmorning they're in the car again, and this time it's Sinclair driving and Alex is guzzling lime soda while he noms on twizzlers.
This time they don't stop. It's thirty hours straight of driving, across the deep south and the white-hot, humid Gulf Coast; across the vast deserts of western Texas, where the air itself bends with the heat; through the rocky south rim of New Mexico, the sandy deserts of Arizona. They take turns. They sleep while the other drives. They eat on the go, helping each other with the wrappers and the straws; sometimes they're both awake and they talk and laugh; sometimes they think of their family-pack, scattered across the country, and feel a peculiar achey sort of happiness.
It's noonish on Friday when they cross the California border. They get out to stretch their legs, and by the Welcome to California! sign they take their last picture of the roadtrip: the two of them pale with sleep-dep under their tans and their sunglasses, arms around each other's waists while Alex stretches his arm out to snap a shot with his cameraphone.
And it's afternoon, four p.m., when they roll through the streets of Mission Bay and Pacific Beach; when they make that familiar turn on that familiar wide boulevard, see their familiar pool, their familiar building, their familiar den. In some ways it feels like they never left at all. In others, it feels like they've been gone a million years. Like they've changed and grown and grown closer.
They leave the luggage in the car. They can get it later, after they've slept. They go in and they'll probably get a pizza tonight, eat it loafing in front of the TV; take a long, long shower after and collapse into bed. Sleep forever and ever. Home, now. Home, again. Home, together.
