everything's oKay - Printable Version

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everything's oKay - kaythebold - 09-19-2016

Entry from the journal of Cassiopeia Curran, aged fifteen:

I had a dream. I was somewhere I didn't know. Kneeling on stone, I think. It was cold. My eyes were closed.
I opened them, and saw nothing but light. It didn't hurt. It didn't even make my eyes water, but it filled my field of vision.
My eyes were open, but I opened them again. The light was brighter this time. I felt a sense of joy purpose rightness.
I opened my eyes again. I realized that I was staring into the sun.



Entry from the journal of Cassiopeia Curran, aged nineteen:

Had a dream. I was a bird, flying above a desert. Nothing around for miles, but then: two figures on the sand. Only one moving. Got closer.
It was a pair of elephants. One crumpled on the ground, unmoving. Covered in dust. The other stood over it, trunk moving over its face and ears. The elephant stumbled, fell. It looked up at me. She was crying. She trumpeted, and I heard a woman's cry of grief.
She sounded like Grams. . .

I'm going back.


Selected entries from the journal of Cassiopeia Curran, aged twenty-two:

Had a dream. A woman and a man asleep in a bed, facing each other. Naked sword between them. Neither of them were me, thank fuck . . .

. . .saw the lake again. This time I watched from the shore as a figure stepped up to it, opened its mouth, drank the water down. . .

Had a dream. I was running through the snow at dawn. Turned backwards and saw I was leaving a trail behind me made of my own fallen hair. Turned forwards and saw the wolf. She held a knife in one hand and a doll in the other. . .

Had a dream. Won't forget it. Not writing it down.


With the windows open, the sounds of the city filtered in. Every so often a crowd of people strolled by the street beneath the apartment, laughing and talking in the tones of the mildly intoxicated. The air was humid with an unresolved rainstorm.
She'd been in Valesport for two weeks now. Not enough time to get used the heat. Not enough time to get used to waking up in an empty apartment. Barely enough time to unpack. The side of the futon where she hadn't been sleeping was covered in clothes that hadn't fit in the closet.

As she crossed the room to the tiny kitchenette Cass ran a hand over her scalp, felt the soft fuzz of her hair beneath her fingers. In weather like this, the cut was going to be a real blessing; she hadn't realized how much her hair trapped the heat until it was gone. Every time she turned her head she seemed to feel it, though, the phantom sensation at her neck.
The cabinet door over the stove creaked as she opened it. She retrieved a chipped mug that said "BEST GRANDPA" on it and held it under the tap. The wood floor was slightly sticky underfoot, from sweat or something else. She'd forgotten that floors were things you needed to clean. She'd get around to it eventually. Probably.

The emptiness of the space around her still jarred her senses. No one blaring music behind a closed door, no one fighting for the stove or reciting poetry in the living room; no one passed out in the hall. No cats, no rats, no screams of joy or anger. Either the walls here were thick or her neighbors were considerate, because she had yet to hear anything from either side.
The loneliness was not pleasant, but sweet somehow in its novelty. A hurt of her very own, and one nobody could see.

Cass carried her mug of water to the window and took a sip. It was lukewarm, and tasted faintly of metal. As she stared down at the dimly-lit street she felt a breeze roll over her, bringing the scent of rain with it.

The storm was coming soon, then. Good. The wait was almost over.

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RE: everything's oKay - kaythebold - 10-15-2016

Johnny - Current year

morning


He'd taken the bus, so he got to the greenhouse a little after nine. The scents that rose up to greet him as he opened the door were as comforting and familiar as his own hands: wet earth, growing things, fertilizer and pollen, rust and sweat.

It was dreary and chill outside, but inside felt nearly tropical by comparison, the plastic sheeting that wrapped the metal frame of the building somehow managing to magnify both warmth and light. He hung his hoodie on a hook next to a row of shovels and brooms, then moved further into the bay, where other volunteers were already milling about.

The greenhouse itself had two bays, divided by a transparent wall; one for community and one for profit. The community bay had an empty space for tables and chairs, where cooking classes and school trips took place, and a set of raised beds filled with soil where people from the neighborhood could plant whatever they pleased. Right now the raised beds of the community bay held the beginnings of green, decorated here and there with signs, flags, children's art-- owners customized their plots any way they liked, and most of what they liked represented their family and their cultures. Johnny smiled as he ducked slightly to avoid a butterfly constructed of paper and ribbon that hung from the ceiling near a plot with a sign reading NUBIAN PRIDE. Last time he'd been here it had been a tissue-paper flower blossom.

He waved at a couple of women he vaguely recognized who were busy watering one of the beds and made his way over to Danielle.

Today her sweater had on a llama on it. For a person who was technically in charge of the entire greenhouse operation, it was ridiculous. For Danielle, it was about typical. Her hair was longer than the last time he'd seen her, almost brushing her shoulders, and she smelled like she'd been harvesting the cilantro.

"Morning, John!"

"Morning, Danielle." He tucked his hands in his pockets, smiled down at her. "What's the order of the day?"

"For you, brawny man, it's potting soil. We've got an order in the truck to unload. You can probably just leave it stacked around back, it shouldn't rain for a while so we don't need to worry about finding room in the greenhouse." She waved vaguely towards the driveway at the back of the greenhouse, where the pickup truck with a green apple logo was parked.

"Can do," he assured her.

"As always. Oh! Rosa, those don't need to be watered today--" and then she was off, darting over to the next task, the next crisis. Johnny made his way to the back door, propped it open with a sturdy-looking rock, and set to it.

It wasn't difficult work, mentally or physically. If he'd been human, the repetition of lifting and sorting fifty-pound bags of dirt might have worn him down eventually, but this wasn't even a workout, really. Just soothing. The repetition of it calmed him, focused the world down to the smell of the soil and the work of his hands.

This was why he liked it here. A clear job to do, and a clear mind doing it. Getting to help people. And maybe it wasn't a real workout, but he could still feel it in his muscles, after; the warmth of a body in motion. His breathing became slower, almost meditative, as he went through the motions of transferring the bags from the truck to a couple of piles by the back door.

He worked that way for an indefinite amount of time, peaceful. The stacks of potting soil grew precariously tall. He rubbed at the back of his neck, considering (leaving a smear of dirt there in the process), then started another pile over by the compost heaps. Less convenient, but the truck was nearly clear, anyway. They could use these last.

A whistled trill caught his attention and he paused, two bags in hand and one draped over his left arm, to look for the source. A small brown bird was picking at the compost, flitting back and forth, chirping to itself like a running commentary. He huffed out a laugh and set the potting soil down as gently as he could, trying not to spook the little thing, and edged closer. The bird had picked up a bright blue petal and seemed to be considering it, but then tossed it away to peck deeper into the dirt. As soon as he got within a couple of feet, however, the bird looked straight at him, froze, then launched into motion.

Johnny sighed. It figured. Even the sparrows didn't like him. He looked back at the place where the bird had been, then frowned slightly. The petal it had been looking at was one of many, from the blue-purple flowers scattered on top of the compost heap. He didn't recognize them, which was interesting-- everything on these piles should've been from the greenhouse, the scraps of growth decomposing back into useful soil. They looked almost like bluebells-- or lavender, maybe?

He reached out a hand for one, curious, to see if perhaps someone had tossed a store-bought bouquet on the pile.

"John!"

He startled, surprised by the urgency in Danielle's shout, and took a step backward, snatching his hand back. The movement jostled the pile of potting soil behind him, and he had barely registered the sliding noise of plastic on plastic before he'd moved, one hand snapping out to grab hold of the bags of dirt before they hit the ground and burst. Only when his grip was secure did he turn to look at Danielle, brow furrowed, silently questioning.

She'd been perhaps thirty feet away when she shouted, inside the greenhouse, but she was moving closer now to stand between him and the compost pile.

"Sorry I scared you," she was saying. "Just didn't want you getting too close to the compost just yet. We had some volunteers in yesterday that threw some blue rocket right on there, didn't even think to tell me. Guess it was growing 'round the back where we had them clearing out. Thankfully they were wearing gloves, or we would've been pretty screwed for lawsuits. They were with some kinda investment firm."

"Oh," said Johnny. "Uh. Thanks for the warning. Is it like poison ivy? I shouldn't touch it?" He leaned back a little, eyeing the compost heap with its vegetable scraps and blue flowers warily. Danielle shook her head, crossing her arms across her chest.

"Don't touch it without gloves, don't even think of eating it, and for you, bud, I would even try not to get in sniffing range. I don't know how the whole deal works exactly, but I don't want you getting some kind of wolfsbane poisoning on my watch. Even if you're not with a legal firm." She winked and gave him a little grin. He met her expression with something like dumbfounded horror.

Wolfsbane? How did she even-- why would she-- he'd been so careful! He was sure he'd never said anything to her that might hint at his condition, and he'd mentioned anything to any of the other volunteers, either. How long had she known? Had somebody told her? Was he going to be in trouble? Oh no, was Marv going to be mad? Had he blown something big here?

Mind whirling, Johnny didn't quite realize that he was standing and gaping in silence, but Danielle did. Her grin shrank a little, but morphed into something a little softer, almost rueful. It was the kind of expression that reminded you she was a mom.

"It's fine, you know," she assured him in a slightly quieter voice. "This part of the city-- well, here, at least, you don't have to worry about people being pricks. And anybody in the greenhouse gives you a hard time about it, you tell me, and I'll set them to rights."

He swallowed, waited until his voice felt steady in his throat before he replied.

"I just didn't...know you knew. Is all." He couldn't quite meet her eyes. She pursed her lips a little, propped a hand on her hip.

"Well, you didn't come out with it, so I figured it was private. Didn't even really realize until Brother Matthew mentioned it."

"Brother Matthew mentioned it?" He knew exactly who she was talking about; there was a house full of monks somewhere further up the street, and one of them, a pleasant-looking middle aged gentleman, had apparently been a carpenter in a past life. He came by once in a while to fix up the beds, or to say hi during events. He didn't seem like...well, he certainly smelled human. Maybe they just taught all the monks the tell-tale signs of creatures of the night.

Johnny was a little bit disappointed, actually. He had liked Brother Matthew.

"Seemed to think I already knew," she said carefully. "And I think maybe I did, just didn't connect the dots."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He looked up at her, finally. She was smiling at him. It wasn't a mocking expression, no underlying hint of smugness or smirk. She was just-- grinning, goofy and wide, same as ever.

"After all," Danielle said, "None of my other volunteers can carry a hundred pounds of potting soil in one hand."

Johnny blinked, then looked sheepishly down at the two bags he still held, dangling just above the concrete. He hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. He smiled at his boss, and as she watched, picked up another four bags with his free hand and added them to the pile.

Danielle laughed all the way back inside.


afternoon


"I think it's the pants. You've got to start wearing something that flatters your butt more."

Johnny shifted the jar of peanut butter to his other hand, adjusting the phone wedged between his head and his shoulder.

"Something that flattens my butt more?" he joked. His sister responded fairly predictably.

"You know what I said, dipshit. I'm just saying, we got the good booty. I do, I know you do. It's genetic. Mom's got a lot of junk in the trunk."

"I'm not sure I want to hear about mom's junk," he told her, nose wrinkling as he added another spoonful of peanut butter to the blender.

"That's a shame, because it's very impressive for her age, and you're dodging the point. If you want the dudes to get all up on that, you gotta give them something to work with." She cut off as Johnny turned the blender on. He scrunched up his face in displeasure at the mechanical whirr, then relaxed as it cut off. A moment after the silence returned, so did Catherine, picking up the conversation without hesitation. "No guy is gonna hit on you if you look like the world's straightest, butchest lumberjack."

"Some dudes are into that," he offered.

"Yeah, they're into it, but they're gonna jerk off about it later, not offer to buy you a drink while you're sitting in that shitty sports bar you like so much." Johnny opened his mouth, but she continued before he could protest. "And don't say it's not shitty, I literally have on my phone this exact second a selfie with you and a rat in that bar."

He couldn't deny that. He stuck the spoon back in the peanut butter jar and frowned at it.

"Point being. You gotta throw off some signals. Be like, receptive, or whatever. Communicate that you wanna be ravished by some other giant fucking meatball of a man and get down and-- no, you know what? I can't do this. I thought I could joke about your sex life but I actually can't, it's both depressing and very uncomfortable."

"I agree," Johnny muttered through a mouthful of peanut butter.

"Also, my pizza is here, and I'm not gonna make you listen to that. So just. Think about it. Buy some tight pants, bang a dude, don't give me the deets. Later, big bro."

"Later, Kitty-cat. Love you." She made an extended groaning noise, which he knew meant the same thing, then hung up on him.

He stared at the blender for a long moment. Almost mechanically, he peeled one of the bananas on the counter and threw it in as well, then pressed the button again. The blender churned the fruit in with the rest of the smoothie, which had turned an unappealing brown.

It wasn't that he was afraid of dating men. Or in any kind of denial about the fact that he was attracted to them. It was just...it was so much easier to date women, if you could. And he had, and it had been-- well, admittedly, parts of it were terrible, but that was the specific woman at fault. Not the whole concept of women.

The point being, Johnny had dated, had slept with, had been in love with women. And while it had been good, sometimes he wanted...

How had Cat put it? "A giant fucking meatball of a man." Well, that was a little rude, because it wouldn't have to be a big guy, he would just have to be...well, manly, right? Masculine. And that wasn't about size, or stature or whatever. It wasn't about genitals, even, he reminded himself as he poured the smoothie into a glass. It was a kind of way you carried yourself.

He thought about the meetings they'd had with the South End wolves two weeks ago. He hadn't seen much of their alpha-- no, right, their First. (Johnny had nearly been laughed straight out of town the first time he used the word "alpha" to Marv's face. And wolves didn't have "packs", they had "families," or, more formally, "Houses". Apparently the paranormal romance genre was using some pretty outdated terminology, which was a source of some disappointment for Johnny for reasons he didn't want to examine too closely.)

Anyway, their First had been at home with a new child, so their Second had been the one to coordinate the meetings. He was a few inches shorter than Johnny, lean build, curly black hair and warm brown skin. He'd been wearing a business suit, like he'd just come from work, but it was the fashionable kind, clearly both expensive and tailored. He hadn't raised his voice during any of the discussions, only lifted his chin, hardened his tone, caught and held everyone's attention like he expected nothing less.

At one point-- geez, he was flushing just thinking about it, remembering-- the man had said something to one of the other members of his pack, one of the younger ones hovering around the edges. And of course it wasn't like Johnny had an uncommon name, like he wasn't used to being confused in a crowd, but the Second had said "John, go and fetch the folder from the car," and he had twitched, moved by the instinctive urge to obey. Had listened to the other wolf leave the room, muscles tense with the effort of keeping his gaze on the floor.

The other man had probably noticed anyway. It was hard to hide anything among werewolves. At any rate he had felt watched, heavy with the imagined weight of his regard.

He sat down at the kitchen table, set his glass down on a coaster.

And all that from a guy who looked like he'd never thrown a punch. Not that appearances meant much among wolves, of course. They'd probably be about even in a fight. If the guy was Second, he'd definitely seen more than his fair share of brawling. He was probably fast, Johnny decided, one of those wolves who used wits more than brawn, who'd have you on your back if you put one foot wrong.

He shifted in his seat a little.

He wondered if wolves from different packs sparred with each other. Probably, right? They did a lot of that, play-fighting or deliberate training, in the House. It would make sense to use it as a kind of bonding activity if you wanted two packs to get along. So it could happen, him and the Second in the lower basement of Marv's place, with the mats on the floor and the one burnt-out lightbulb and the walls that had just enough texture to get some purchase on.

The room had a kind of timelessness to it, like maybe it hadn't been changed in the last thirty years or so. Like they'd figured out exactly what they'd wanted it to be and it had stayed that way, dim and musty and smelling faintly of fight-sweat. (Sweat smelled differently, depending on what caused it, he'd discovered; that was how some people got the idea wolves could scent emotions. It was more like the impossibility of ignoring the pungent perspiration of fear.) So it wasn't impossible to imagine sparring with the Second there, in an imaginary place outside of time. Just another couple of wolves letting out some aggression, in sweatpants and bare feet, with no need to pretend to be any slower or less aware. Just a couple of guys working out together. For diplomatic reasons.

But they were-- they would be-- shirtless, probably, because there was no use in fighting in something that would only get ruined. Even if they were using human forms for this, there could still be accidents. That was just common sense.

Yeah, human forms only, because drawing blood was probably the sort of thing you tried to avoid in diplomacy. Closed fists, not claws, then. Johnny was a hell of a boxer, but that didn't always translate in a real fight, so he'd have to keep his wits about him. The Second probably had more training. Judo, maybe. There'd be grappling.

He realized he was rubbing his thumb against the fabric of his sweatpants, petting, really. They were soft. He'd bought three pairs. He smoothed a hand down his thigh, gaze distant, still imagining.

Grappling, or at least holds, the kind that could be dangerous if you knew what you were doing. Hard to keep a grip on bare skin though, especially if you'd been sweating. Had to dig your fingers in a little. So maybe it'd be wrestling, really, each of them trying to keep the other pinned, using the textured floor for purchase, strength against strength. Hands on shoulders, bare chests, wrists.

His hand was still moving.

He'd be...he'd be hard, hell, like he was hard now, and the other man would probably smell it. The Second would definitely smell it, he decided. Would definitely take advantage of it. Maybe he'd lean up against him on purpose, to distract him, the thick warm muscle of his thigh pressed just so. Or maybe he'd just look, making it clear that he knew exactly what Johnny was feeling, raising his chin and smirking. Or maybe he'd actually-- he'd reach down, and his hand would be so warm, but it would just be another move, and then there would be a foot sweep out of nowhere and he'd find himself on his stomach on the floor.

Yeah. Like that. The Second above him, grinning, the kind of grin that was mostly teeth. The smell of the floor mat in his nose, his face pressed down, arms held tight in a lock that couldn't be escaped with brute strength. And the man above him would lean in, breath hot on his neck, and he'd say, Stay down and he would, he'd stop struggling, lie there and let himself be pinned, and then the Second would say-- he swallowed, twisting his wrist-- and then he'd say, Good, so you can follow orders, and then, and then--
Johnny inhaled sharply and came all over himself.

He looked down at his sweatpants, and then he looked at his smoothie. He still hadn't actually taken a sip.
He sighed, shook his head, and went to go clean up.


night


The laptop's screen was the only source of illumination in the bedroom, turning everything sharp-edged with white light. The voice of a college radio DJ, filtered through the sub-par speakers, became a tinny exaggeration of itself, all taut vowels and enthusiasm.

"...give it a listen, I think you'll see what I mean."

A song came on; a male voice, autotuned but not unpleasant, harmonizing with itself in an oddly haunting way. Johnny turned from the window to look at the screen, squinting. The artist wasn't one he recognized. Something to dig up tomorrow. After class, when he could afford to spend a few hours in a "recommended artist" rabbit hole.

His gaze was drawn, magnetic, back to the window. Outside, the half-disk of the moon was slowly emerging from behind scattered clouds. There was still a kind of green haze on the horizon, born of city lights and smog. His hands clenched and unclenched on empty air.

It was always difficult to describe what it felt like, the pull of the moon. Marv had described it as a hook, when they'd spoken about it that first night-- like there was something that got hold of you and wouldn't let go, a force you couldn't ignore. Sylvia said it was "fire in your veins". And when Kitty had asked him years ago, unusually quiet, he'd stammered something about red capes. That it felt the way those bulls in Spain probably felt, sudden rage without a purpose, a furious need for motion.

Johnny didn't think any of those were exactly right. It was more of...not an itch, but a drive. An...awareness, but that didn't communicate the urgency of it. Something you knew you needed to do. Something that made you angry, but not at anything, just blood-pumping adrenaline and emotion. Something like lust, but it wasn't sexual. Like pressing down on a gas pedal, but with your...everything. It wasn't like being a beast at all, because he knew there was no way a real wolf could hold that much emotion inside of it, that much complex desire. It seemed way too...well, human.

He wondered if humans ever felt this way. He wondered if other wolves even felt this way. Sometimes it seemed like that was all he ever did, like that was all he was ever gonna do for the rest of his life: try and figure out what was normal. Try and seem like he knew what was going on.

I'm up in the woods, I'm down on my mind, the singer was saying. I'm building a sill to slow down the time. Just those words, over and over, smooth as water flowing.

He pressed his forehead against the cool pane of the window and closed his eyes. He took a long, slow breath in and out. It felt like he could sense the moonlight on his eyelids, weighing them down. He let out a sigh, opened his eyes to see the fog of his breath shrink and vanish from the glass.

This was dumb. This was so dumb. And melodramatic, too, which was usually his sister's job. Johnny tried to keep this kind of stuff in his books and out of his life.

But if you weren't allowed to be a drama queen in your own bedroom, then where?

He pushed off the window with both hands, a little harder than necessary, then huffed an annoyed breath out his nose when he realized he'd left smudges on the glass. Fantastic. Somehow novel protagonists never had to worry about cleaning.

It was such a stupid thought, such a petty and inane observation, that it actually made him laugh. Some of the tension left his shoulders, and he swiped a hand over his face as though he could wipe it clean.

Yeah. Novel protagonists never had to worry about cleaning. Most of them didn't have to worry about being werewolves, either, though the few that did usually had some very confusing priorities. That was kind of how being fictional worked.

The song on his laptop faded out, and the DJ came on again, talking about this EP and that album and artist collaborations. Johnny had no idea what he was talking about, but it was nice to listen to. He sounded like he was having fun.

He'd become kind of a regular listener for this show without meaning to; he didn't know any of the radio stations here, but the university had a link on their webpage to a livestream. He didn't recognize most of the stuff they played, but some of it was pretty good.

The DJ was wrapping up. A glance at the clock on his nightstand showed it was almost 1am.

"So that's it for me. I'll be back same time next week, same sweet nothings. For my entire two listeners out there-- good night!"

"Good night," Johnny murmured. He closed the laptop and the room fell into darkness.

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