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The full moon blinks down at Reece as he walks down their street, carrying the shopping. The plastic bag is light in his hand, only containing bits and pieces – milk, crisps, coke. It begins to swing dangerously, narrowly missing his thigh with each arc. As he passes the last few houses before their flat, he glares at the warm glowing windows of strangers, thinking of Steve. He would no doubt be lounging on the sofa, watching Antiques Roadshow or some other maudlin shite. Without him.
To be perfectly honest, Reece would have happily left the shop until the day after if it hadn’t been for Steve’s incessant nagging. He had shoved Reece out the door not an hour earlier, ordering him to go get milk as if the world would come to an end if he didn’t. Practically barking at him and generally acting as if his continued existence relied upon Reece buying a carton of semi-skimmed. Steve had been grouchy all day, face drawn and sullen in the morning, then bright red and like a thunderstorm in the afternoon.
In all their two years of friendship, and the recent three weeks of living together, Reece had never known him to be quite so moody: it was usually the other way round. Normally it was Reece pacing the living room in an inconsolable fury while Steve attempted to placate him with tea and a rewatch of his favourite horror films. So, from a strange kind of fascination with the situation, and to keep Steve from snapping, Reece had complied with his demands and gone out to Tesco, even though the sun was already setting, and he really, really hadn’t wanted to go.
When he finally reaches the flat, he clumsily unlocks the door, nudging it open with his shoulder as he fumbles with jangling keys and the still-swinging bag. Then Reece suddenly pauses, struck. The groceries knock clumsily against the door, losing its momentum.
Steve has a girl round. That must be it. Perhaps Steve had been hinting at Reece to leave the flat for the whole day, had been getting frustrated by his stout obliviousness and had finally snapped. Had ordered Reece to go and expected him to stay gone. Reece frowns deeply, stares philosophically at his house keys as if they could provide him with an answer. It wasn’t like Steve to do something like that, but he was acting particularly odd today. Reece didn’t what else it could be, other than just a bad mood. Either that or he had accidentally pissed Steve off somehow. None of the options particularly appealed to him – the idea that Steve was currently bedding a woman least of all.
He steps gingerly through the door but then pauses yet again on the threshold. Listens carefully for a moment, peers down the brightly lit corridor. Strains his ears for suspicious noise. He can’t hear anything untoward. No secretive murmur of voices, no banging of a headboard or squeaking of a sofa. It didn’t sound as if anyone else was round. It didn’t even sound as if Steve was there, although Reece knew he must be. Where else would he be?
He keeps hovering. It could still be true – what if they were just being really quiet? Then he shakes his head firmly, making up his mind. If it was true, and Steve wanted the flat to himself to sleep with a girl, then he would have to tell Reece about it straight, instead of speaking in fucking riddles. It was his flat too. Prick.
He goes in then, shuts the door, kicks off his trainers. A strange feeling takes hold in his stomach as he drops the keys haphazardly in the little bowl on the side. It’s eerily silent in the flat, not even the hum of the television. Nothing. He walks through with the shopping, a sharp prickle lifting the hairs on the back of his neck. When he passes the living room, he sees the blank television screen and a distinct lack of Steves on the sofa. Weird. Maybe he had retreated to his room to sulk about whatever he was sulking about earlier.
Reece slowly enters the kitchen, and the overhead light is still on, bathing the room in a warm yellow glow. He shivers, still listening hard for noise and trying to ignore the ice licking down his spine.
“Steve?” He calls out.
There is a sudden scrabbling. A horrid, hurried scratching on floorboards. Reece’s heart leaps in his throat. It’s coming from behind him. Something skittering, thudding down the corridor towards him, growing louder and louder– He turns around, just at the second it stops.
Standing in the doorway is a wolf.
Reece yelps, presses himself tight to the counter behind him. The groceries slip from his hand and crash to the floor with a horrific clatter, dramatically spilling out in front of him. He doesn’t spare them a second glance, just stares in complete and utter disbelief.
It’s a deep, rich brown colour, huge and blocking out half the light from the corridor. The face is broad, cast in warm shadow. A shortish muzzle, wide mouth. Reece’s eyes are drawn to the eyes: burning like two shards of ice in rings of black. They sit below a wide brow, hooded and glinting stark in the light.
What the fuck.
For a moment, nothing happens. The silence hangs between them, filled only by Reece’s stifled panting. The wolf is silent. His heart slams unrelentingly against his ribs as he watches its stony face, gulping. He expects it to leap forward and tear his throat out any moment, imagines the terrible snarl and contortion of the maw – drawing back to reveal sharp fangs built for cutting, biting, crunching. He waits for it.
It doesn’t do that. It only keeps standing, watching him, as if waiting itself. Waiting for Reece to do – what? Something pings in the back of Reece’s mind, a little suggestion that won’t go away once it’s taken root there. It niggles at him. That fact that the beast looks strangely… familiar.
“St…” He tries to call Steve’s name, but the word dies in his throat, falling to ash as the wolf begins to move.
It stalks forward into the kitchen, watching Reece closely. Then it pauses: dips its head suddenly to the floor. It follows its large, quivering black nose, snuffling wetly to where a packet of biscuits have rolled from the plastic bag. Reece shuffles back a little, still clutching madly at the counter, but glad of the distraction. He tries to breathe, tries to grapple with the absurdity of the situation.
How in the fuck was there a wolf in his flat? A bona-fide, honest-to-God, wolf. A wolf that was sniffing deeply at some Jaffa Cakes. In his kitchen. Body almost the height of the kitchen counter, huge, plumed tail almost knocking off the various cups lined up there. It seemed almost unrealistic to Reece, as if he could blink and it would disappear. He blinked. Still there. And very much real, despite how comic its very existence in the kitchen was.
Reece swallowed nervously at the slight movement of the animal’s dipped neck, watching the muscles ripple underneath the thick glossy fur. He had no doubt it could rip him in two with ease. It probably would do in a couple of minutes, when it stopped being so enamoured with the chocolate biscuits.
Would be a good death at least, Reece thought. Mauled by a wolf in his own flat. Memorable. Steve would laugh.
Then he flinched: just where in the hell was Steve? An hour ago, there had been no wolf in the flat. He was sure of that. The flat had been decidedly and assuredly devoid of wolves. So, what the fuck had happened in the time Reece had popped to the shops for Steve to have let one in? Somehow. From whom knows where. Where does a person just find a wolf? It’s not like there was a shop on the high street that sold them. Hello, Mr Shopkeeper, could I have one wolf, please? It’s for a friend. Ridiculous.
But if Steve was still in the flat, he surely would have come running from the second he heard the crash of falling groceries. If he hadn’t been mauled to death first. Oh, God.
For a sickening moment, he thinks that this animal has killed Steve. Has a vision of Steve bleeding out in the living room. Sprawled elegantly out over their sofa like a martyr from a painting, soaking the leather with hot, red blood. Stomach a pool of heaving liquid, an iron soup of intestines and spleen. Throat gruesomely ripped out by sharp white teeth.
Then Reece blinks and realises that the wolf is spotless. Not a speck of red on that thick brown fur, not on either the maw or the paws. He lets out a shuddering breath. And he knew that Steve wasn’t led out on the sofa – had seen it empty not five minutes ago. He was safe, at least. Not here in the flat. Had probably fled the moment he saw the creature. Perhaps he was calling the police at this very moment. Reece doubts they would get there in time.
Watching the wolf closely, he begins to feel his way around to the corner of the counter, reaching with a shaking hand behind him to the rack of knives. He almost has his hand around one of the handles, starting to quietly draw out the blade, when his foot slips and knocks at the crisps, making the packet skid across the floor.
The wolf pricks its ears up. Reece sucks in a sharp breath, shrinking back. The gigantic head lifts slowly, slowly, and then its blue eyes lock with his. Familiar again, to Reece. He can’t think why. He just cowers against the counter and tries not to piss himself. It pads slowly forward on huge paws towards him, claws clicking on the tiles – horrid black knives that tap out the rhythm of a predator.
Stops in front of Reece. Huge body thrumming with strength, ready to pounce. Has a look in its eye that Reece can’t parse out.
“Help!” He shouts brokenly, to no one. Nobody is coming.
The wolf tilts his head curiously. Lets out a little woofle, one that reverberates with the depth and strength of the bark threatening behind it. Not a growl. In fact, Reece thinks wildly, it was almost dog-like. Gentle, although it still held an underlying suggestion of power. Reece looks at it, really looks. The hooded eyes, it’s bearing, the little tilt to its great head. He thinks of – no, it can’t be. That was impossible. How would…? It couldn’t. No, of course not. Stupid.
He sees it then – a little dimple in the wolf’s chin.
“Steve?” He gasps.
The tail instantly begins to wag hard, swishing audibly in the air. The wolf seems to come alive, gazing happily up at Reece with all the excitement of a six-month-old puppy, whole face lit up. Reece’s hand slips from where it had been hovering over the handle of a knife, coming up to scrub disbelievingly at his cheek. Reece looks at the wolf and just sees Steve.
“Fucking hell.” He breathes, still shaking hard, “This can’t be real. Oh, God. Steve.”
Steve sits down, arranging his huge limbs under him. His tail slaps at the floor. As Reece stares, he just keeps on sitting there, blinking plaintively up at him. Light steely-blue eyes, so particular to Steve, so recognisably him. Reece had often found himself gazing into them, forced himself to look away when Steve finally noticed, embarrassed to be caught out. He looks into Steve’s eyes unabashedly now.
God, of course it was him.
He feels the fear melt away, replaced by pure bewilderment. And, past the utter confusion, a little rush of anger directed at himself. How could he have seen anything else in him? How could there be any violence in those gentle blue eyes? How didn’t he recognise him sooner?
“How in the fuck are you a wolf?” Reece croaks, instead of voicing those thoughts.
Steve just licks his lips; face open, dumb and sweet. Hand trembling, Reece reaches out for him. The large furry face moves forward instantly and presses its cheek firmly and devotedly against his palm. Reece gasps loudly. Steve rears back a little and begins to lick at his fingers with a long pink tongue, thick canine saliva.
“Fucking hell.” He murmurs, faint with awe, “Fucking hell.”
-
Reece stretches a little where he’s led on their bed, sliding a bookmark between the pages of his book. The great white body led beside him utters a bellowing sigh. He chuckles, reaches out his hand for Steve’s fur. It’s thinned a little, slightly shorter than it used to be, and no longer brown – hadn’t been brown for a long time. Nevertheless, it is still warm and smooth under Reece’s loving fingers. He scratches languidly at Steve’s side, feels the ribcage rise and fall reliably with each breath under his palm, is reminded of the strange transition period between brown and white fur.
Grey brows, whiskers and muzzle, chest and tail; all coming through with white and contrasting with still-brown paws and body. A line down Steve’s spine that bloomed a gleaming white. Reece had reported the progress of his slow greying each month, and Steve had laughed. Joked that he was becoming a real distinguished mutt. Reece was glad of it, glad of the newfound levity that he had found in it.
Steve had been horrified when Reece found out. That full moon, he had spent the whole night playing with Reece like a puppy and gambolling destructively about the flat, completely unaware of the way he was knocking things off tables left, right and centre. He had fallen sound asleep with his head in Reece’s lap, snuffling happily. The morning after though, Reece woke up to a naked Steve scrambling out of his arms, distraught. Inconsolable, his beautiful eyes gleaming with tears. Did I hurt you, Reece? I’m so sorry. I’m a monster. I never meant for you to find out. I forgot, I forgot it was today. Are you hurt? I’m so, so sorry.
He had immediately pulled Steve in close, anchored him securely with an arm around his bare back, told him that he was alright. That everything was alright. Stroked his hair soothingly. Steve had sobbed then, whimpered and whined into his t-shirt for a whole hour. Shook so hard that Reece was afraid he would fall apart.
It had taken a long time for Steve to accept that he wasn’t the violent beast he thought he was. The first photograph that Reece took of his wolf form, he had been fast asleep (impossible for Reece to get him to stay still for a picture otherwise) with his tongue slightly poking out. Steve had teared up when he first saw, hardly able to believe it. Reece keeps a catalogue of similar photographs in a physical scrapbook, each one proving that he became the sweetest kind of canine on full moons.
It’s on the other side of the bedroom though, so instead he opens a locked album on his phone and flicks through the photos there. Smiles to himself. Steve flat on his back for tummy rubs. Steve refusing to let go of a cushion, clamped in his jaw. Steve drooling at the sight of the smallest sliver of chicken. Steve sitting proudly with his custom-made collar round his neck. So, so sweet.
Reece is pulled out of his thoughts by an indignant rumble; looks up to find Steve has raised his head and is staring accusingly at him. A heavy paw is lifted and dropped unceremoniously onto Reece’s stomach.
“Hm?” He wheezes, laughs at the intent expression on Steve’s canine features. Realises that he had been too lost in memories to remember to keep up with the petting.
“Alright, bossy.” Reece says amusedly, resumes the stroking and is rewarded with a deeply happy sigh.
Steve’s tail hits the mattress in a steady metronome – thump, thump, thump. He tucks his head back into the little divot where he had nestled it between Reece’s thigh and a fold in the duvet. Sleepily blinks his lovely blue eyes up at him, before closing them again. Reece smiles. Just a puppy, really. Even now, after thirty years. He smooths over his fur, feels the steady, sleep-slow beat of Steve’s heart. His puppy.