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It comes in handy sometimes– having a grandmother who lives in the most remote part of the woods.
Everyone always called Flayon the most dutiful of children. They called him considerate and kind, holding him up as the paragon of well-raised, well-mannered boys, and he was always polite in return, offering a softened “thank you” in return.
He never had to try to earn their love and affection, for his family was more important than anything else, but those blessings are the sort that fade with time.
There's a vicious sort of cycle to it. The local children never seemed to agree. Their parents would scold them, wondering out loud why they cannot be more like he is, which makes the boys in turn more angry, which makes them want to hurt him more, which simply causes more and more rage to fester beneath their skin.
There were teeth and claws waiting around every corner, glinting silvery and sharp in the light of the moon.
His mother always told him that it’s better to be underestimated, but Flayon hardly had to cultivate any sort of weak image because everyone had already done it for him.
He does not have to try very hard to be pelted by a quarrelling storm of adoration and envy, so instead he can focus on other things. Things like his grandmother.
And slowly, those same willowy boys who tortured him grew up into taller, more dandelion-like men, but they never truly grew out of that habit. They never really grew to like him, and nothing Flayon could do had ever seemed to change it.
They treat him like a cutpurse. They treat him like the devil. Grudges transform even the sweetest mice into sadistic monsters, blurred through the haze of disdain.
Those children became grown the very moment they tasted envy and war– or perhaps they merely felt that way. They grew in body but not in spirit, always trying in vain to sculpt their anger into something that could fill all the empty space.
Now they fight with an adult’s set of knives, trading fists for subtler, more elegant jabs. They would be excessively patronising, extending his weak image into the sort of feeble pedigree that could hardly survive without them. He became implicit proof of their own strength and power, carrying loaves of bartered bread down the weed-laden paths.
After all, how could a town like theirs possibly be ailing or cruel if they can always send pitiful, young Flayon off to see his grandmother?
They know how much it debases him, being forced to smile and nod as he accepts their charity, so they offer nothing but the best. And he has no choice but to comply, locked out of any real chances to escape.
Still, he finds his own petty ways to rebel. Though they do little to hide their looks of intrigue, they cannot control his feelings. His spirit remains strong, burning deep inside his sternum.
And he is not completely alone.
“There you are!”
Hopping up to catch a glimpse above the crowd is Hakka, plate in hand, looking just as cheery as ever. Flayon cringes as he watches some of its contents spill to the ground.
Hakka scoffs as he drops some carrots onto his plate. “You’re such a fucking carnivore.”
“Hey! I eat berries too, you know.” Despite his protests, Flayon stabs one with his fork, pushing it into his mouth. “And corn. Broccoli. Things like that.”
“Yeah? Well, the fishmonger had some wild grasses. You should’ve grabbed some of those.”
Flayon glances in that direction but shrugs, turning back to Hakka with a grimace.
“Dude’s slimy as hell. I’m not touching any of that.”
“That’s why I went for the carrots.”
“Wha– You gave half of them to me! You’re the one that needs them more!”
Between the two of them, if anyone needs their full share of vitamins, it’s him.
It was fine when they were both young, both dust-covered children, sharing scraps like they were each little treasures, but life has taken them down separate paths. For where Flayon is still doing the same things he’s done since he was born, Hakka has grown tall enough to hide behind. He always had that potential in him, so it never surprised Flayon when the day came to pass, when he went from a boy who promised to grow stronger to protect him to a man who was plenty capable of doing it.
Now his oath stretches thin, spread evenly across the town, for his kindness has a way of pressing it so perfectly flat, but there are things which are still for him alone. Hakka the wolfsbane, he can be for everyone. This version of him, the one who smiles like the moon and all its stars, is a sight reserved for him alone.
And unlike the others, Hakka’s strength has never scared him. It came slowly, wielded with a gentle hand, and he could hardly imagine a day when it turned against him.
They wouldn’t have lasted so long if he could.
“You’re the one running around the forest all day!” Hakka argues, pushing some peas around his plate. It’s sweet of him to try to prolong it, hoping they’ll naturally finish together.
Though he tries to keep it down, a smile still finds its way to Flayon’s face. “All I do is run around. You’re the one killing shit all day.”
Hakka purses his lips but reluctantly agrees, piling their empty plates into a teetering tower. He offers his hand with a smile, telling him about all the wonderful things to see at the festival, and although Flayon has never been able to feel that much wonder, he still accepts it with a grin.
Things could be different when they’re together. Everyone respects Hakka for his skill, even if they can’t understand why he thinks Flayon is worth so much of his time.
He supposes Hakka was not always a fearsome hunter in the same way that he was not always his boyfriend. These are roles they’ve grown into over the years, and now they are theirs and theirs alone, covered in ivy and lace. It’s not that complicated.
It’s a good thing too, the greatest blessing he’s ever had.
Flayon would be much too afraid to promenade in the woods without Hakka to metaphorically support him. It just helps so much, knowing someone will be on his side when no one else will.
Sometimes his love is so vast that he wishes they could be absorbed together into one big red and purple mass. He wishes he could keep Hakka’s warmth and his smile with him at all times, for wherever Hakka goes, safety is sure to follow.
It’s a silly dream though.
At the end of the night– and oh, what a glorious, wonderful night it was– Flayon must return to his little shack and get ready to tuck into bed.
“I’d invite you inside,” he murmurs, grabbing hold of Hakka’s hands, “but I’ve got to get an early start tomorrow. Promised I’d make a delivery first thing.”
Hakka laughs, pulling them towards him. He laughs even harder at Flayon’s indignation, flushed when he kisses each of his hands.
“I’ll see you after, then. I’ve got an early shift anyway.”
As the door shuts, the warmth lingers a little, flirting with the tips of his hair.
The next day, he’s out before the morning light can even start to lift off the ground, squishing his heels into the muddy path. His grandmother is patiently waiting, too old and weak now to get anything on her own.
The woods are a beautiful place, devoid of stares and sorrow.
Today, he notices a mushroom sprouting out beneath a tree, its cap covered in a dizzying array of spots.
There's nothing quite as magical as discovering and rediscovering beauty behind each branch and bramble. And his grandmother hardly minds if he tarries as long as he gets there on time, so it matters little what route he takes. The whole array of fields and forest are his to explore and feel free in, unshackled from the inescapable velour of pity.
Or perhaps not totally free, but it’s much closer than he usually gets. Swinging from arm to arm is his basket of alms: what seems like every type of bread, a link or two of sausage, the sort of tiny thing they can give away without thinking.
Flayon can hardly complain if they're helping her eat. For these regular chances to see her, he is genuinely grateful.
His relative bubble of peace is shattered by the sound of a shriek nearby.
“Wolf!” he hears, so shrill that birds leap into the air. “I saw the wolf! Someone help!”
Flaton always assumed it was nothing but a fable meant to scare children.
It must be real though. It must be. He can hear twigs crunching behind him, the sound of something creeping towards him.
In shock, Flayon slips on a mossy rock, rolling out towards the river. His coat is quickly soaked from the mud, and he rips it off his head, tossing it to the side to throw off the scent.
Pastries fly into the air. Loaves are squished, the jam smears against the basket, and the profiteroles' creamy innards leak out, torn against some craggly rocks. His pants tear too, ripped as he crashes to the ground.
Is he still being followed?
Did he get away safely?
There’s a rustle in the bushes right beside his face, and it's too late to run any further. With nothing else to do, he merely squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for death to come upon him with a nasty snarl.
But nothing happens.
No, instead, when he opens his eyes, he sees men running through the clearing, headed by the person he wished to see most.
“I think it went that way!” Flayon points with a trembling hand, voice cracking as he forces it out. “You should– Hakka, you should go. I’ll be fine.”
The top half of his body feels so distant as he curls against a tree, shivering. He was so close to being caught, to being torn apart. Flayon slumps into the ground once he's sure it’s not going to happen, staring at the clearing ahead.
Despite his warning, Hakka does not go. He does not chase after the mythical wolf, choosing glory and pride over love.
It’s a good thing Hakka was the one who found him. No one else would care as much as he does.
They all would have abandoned him.
“Flay,” he says, still panting from exertion. Once he peels off his cloak, he places it on Flayon’s back, smiling as he buries his head into it.
Hakka’s warmth is so grounding. He wishes he could stay with him forever.
“Thank you… But I– Shouldn’t you–” Although he feels much better, he can still hardly speak, barely managing to string together the few words he’s gotten hold of.
“Shh. It’s okay. C’mere. There’s no need to force yourself.”
“Your hands are so warm. It’s nice.”
Hakka laughs softly, petting his back. “We should get you somewhere dry.”
“I was so scared.”
“It’s okay.” As he embraces him, Hakka places a kiss on each of his cheeks. They warm him up even more, suddenly desperate to hide for a different reason. “I’ve got you. You’re safe here with me.”
“You’ll protect me?” Flayon asks, suddenly shy. It’s a lot to ask from someone who keeps his heart so hot it could fuel everyone's hearths through the whole of winter. “Even if the wolf comes back?”
“Of course,” he answers, wrapping the cloak even tighter around Flayon’s shoulders. He says it like it’s easy, like it’s a foregone conclusion. “I’ll protect you no matter what.”
Flayon’s grin is smothered by the fabric.
Hakka’s nothing if not sincere. It’s a promise he’ll keep no matter what, more dedicated to helping him than killing the fabled wolf.
He wouldn't be here today without Hakka by his side. He probably would have died long ago, beaten and bruised and punished for his crimes.
Yes, his loving partner, his darling huntsman, will come protect him with strength that rivals a hundred men.
Selfishly, he refuses to let Hakka die, so his role must fall to someone else. It must fall onto the next closest person, the next person in line just waiting for their downfall.
They will just have to divert suspicion in his place.
It certainly comes in handy, having a grandmother who lives alone in the woods.
After all, who would ever suspect that it’s her loving grandson who’s been moonlighting as the beast from their nightmares?
She’d understand. It’s a family thing, after all.
Where else would that legend have come from?