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Sebastian knows as soon as the door of the house swings open that something is wrong. He’s tangled in Sam’s arms, nothing unusual there, but the only reason he’s even that close is because he knows his mother took his stepdad out on a hike and Maru is at the clinic today. The only person who would be visiting when the Shop is closed is…
Oh fuck .
The heavy booted footsteps clunk on the wooden floorboards above him, and even through the thick soundproofing of his musicians’ ‘lair’ he can hear the idle whistling.
He shakes Sam, but the blond just rolls over and curls into the bed further. He scrambles upward, pulls on a shirt and pulls up his trademark lazy black sweatpants over his tail just in time for the door to swing open.
Markus is standing there, the farmer who’d come into town a little under a year ago, holding one of the styrofoam boxes from The Stardew Tavern that Sebastian just knows holds a serving of his favorite food.
He fills the doorframe, the bear hybrid is not a small man by any means, and his wide brown ears twitch on his head as he leans back with the scents smacking him on the nose.
“Ah.” His voice is such a low rumble as to be almost inaudible. “So that’s how it is.” His boots shuffle in place for a moment, heavy grey eyes piercing Sebastian so far through it feels like an impact to his face, and then his hands go slack.
The claws on his hands curl ever so slightly as the styrofoam falls, the vicious edges long since unused in violence rip gouges out of the box, propelled by nothing but numb hands and gravity.
The food splatters on the floor of the basement, fragrant, but not covering the drowning scent of affection in the air.
Markus opens his mouth, wide fangs flashing in the low light, but says nothing as his whole face stays slack.
He turns around and clomps back up the stairs, then out of the house entirely; and as Sebastian hears the outer door swing shut, tears burn his eyes.
“What… have I done?”
Markus steps out of his house, the winter wind bathing his uncovered fur in a harsh warning.
It burns.
He doesn’t notice.
His hands grip down on the handle of his axe, a maul-shaped beast too heavy for anyone else he knows, and he trudges on bare paws to the stacked rounds across from the stable.
Grover looks up at his owner, hay crunching in his teeth, and returns to his trough of food with a blustering noise. In the distance, the chickens crow noisily in complaint as the wind batters their coop.
They don’t feel the cold, they just like to whine.
Markus doesn’t like to whine.
He barely makes a sound.
He barely makes a sound all day, as the dawn cold blinks into brisk noon warmth and the pile of rounds turns into stacked firewood, and as the sun dips below the horizon he still makes no noise beyond an exhale each time he swings downward.
He looks up, and the lanterns placed along the fence flicker on as the Church of Yoba’s bells chime nine times in the distance.
He looks and sees all the rounds split, all the wood stacked, and he feels no pride.
He sees all the fields, set for winter and healthy in their preparation, and he feels no accomplishment.
He looks down, at his hands dripping in blood from blisters popped by nothing but the force of his swings, and he feels no more pain.
But as he begins to shake, to shiver, he feels the cold, and then the rage comes rushing in.
His great shaggy head dips backward, and he roars .
“ WHYYYYYYY? ”
It rattled the bones like no wind could dare to, it spooks Grover in the stables, and every animal on his farm makes a noise of intense complaint.
So he does it again.
“ WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYyyyyyyyy?! ” The sound goes desperate and quiet at the end, partly running out of breath and partly losing a piece of himself and his voice to the answering shrieking of the storm kicking up.
The snow settles in his fur and he stands in place, feeling nothing but the blood on his hands slowly drying, then freezing in place.
He turns, and makes for his home; for his bed, even though he knows he will get no sleep tonight.
In the town, unknown to Markus, the tavern is full of low, happy chatter. Sebastian is sat at the bar, nursing a glass of Markus’ favorite whiskey he likes to steal sips from sometimes, and munching mechanically through the same type of food as lies splatters on his doorstep.
It tastes like ash in his mouth.
It’s just as Gus is approaching, finally with some time to clear up the worst of his patron’s woes, that they hear it.
It rattles in their bones, shaking them apart and pulling at every heartstring all at once.
It is the cry of a wounded animal, sickly and dying even as it’s predatory nature dares the whole fucking world to bring it one last challenge .
As Alex’s dog barks a thunderous racket outside, Sebastian leans onto the bar and cries.
Every patron is still, some frozen in terror but most in horror, but Gus is not one of them. He pulls the whiskey and plate away from the black haired youth, and reaches a hand over the bar to brush the hair between his black ears with his roughened palm.
Robin, instincts kicking awake, makes for her kit in a jog and embraces him. The boy turns to his mother and clings with everything he has, sobbing pitifully into her shoulder and begging the world to forgive him.
The storm howls louder outside, and the sound drowns it out once more, longer, mournful this time and even harder to listen to.
The first time, something in everyone screamed ‘Danger’.
Now, it screams ‘Hopeless’.
Somehow, that is more frightening.
Markus drifts through his days in a shaky haze, the scent of alcohol and nicotine clings into his fur and bothers his animals, but he can’t bring himself to care. The chicken eggs sit gathered in the basket on his kitchen counter, but they aren’t placed in the cartons to be taken to Pierre’s.
The cows are milked, but the jugs of cream are left in the fridge and the skimmed milk is in sloppily sealed containers out on the countertop.
His claws leave nicks in the soft wood over the mantle as he leans down to stoke the fire, but he doesn’t push walnut putty into the scratches to mask them like usual.
They stay there, bare and raw.
Just like him.
He makes his morning tea, but it sits unimbibed and the mugs collect by the sink.
He makes his morning toast and porridge, but only nibbles are taken from each.
As he goes about his chores with a near empty stomach and a near-empty spirit, he makes no sound.
Not a whistle, not a hum, not even a spared idle grunt leaves his throat.
Bare, raw; him.
Pierre bundles himself up with Caroline and the two trek out to the Breakways Farm against the bitter still cold, and share concerned gazes over the snow left unshoveled on the path.
They clack open the gate and hear the huffing breath of their young friend, and see him shoveling gravel into buckets for some project.
He is Unclad, a state not unknown for fully furred Hybrids but nonetheless strange for Markus.
He grunts a greeting, and though they don’t know it for sure, somehow they can both tell it’s the first noise he’s made in days.
Since the sound .
The Bear’s ear flicks in a consideration, and then with loping strides he beckons them inside. They follow.
Ice sheds off his fur and his tail twitches as the warm air of the cabin hits him, and Caroline unravels his scarf to place in his hand. Markus moves with his trademark gentleness, but there is something stilted and unsettling about it now.
He takes Pierre’s coat and hangs both pieces on the rack by the door, and waves them onto the couch. They both watch him vanish into his bedroom, and he comes back with thick wool shorts that hang below his knees on as he heads for the kitchen and fills the kettle.
There is an aching silence in the room, and Markus keeps it that way as he brings them their tea just the way they like it.
Caroline speaks first.
“What happened, honey?” Her voice is an echo-soft murmur, but it seems to rattle in his ears.
Markus shakes his head, mute. Caroline goes with it.
“Sebastian…” his great shaggy head flicks to her, pinning her under his gaze, and some ancient instinct smacks her, but she powers through.
“Robin told me Sebastian’s been crying for almost a week. He won’t eat, barely drinks.”
Markus looks toward the crumpled cans overflowing the recycling, the full mugs of tea by the sink.
“Me too.” The Bear’s voice is a rasp, difficult to listen to and probably unhealthy to make. “I ran out of tears.”
Pierre feels something in him twist, heavy and choking.
“I understand.” He says. Caroline looks at her feet, ashamed, but his hand covers hers in silent support. “It still hurts.” He admits.
“How long?” Markus rumbles.
“Twenty years. Give or take.” Pierre pauses, looking to the side. “I used to count the exact days, but that never helped.”
The church bells chime in the distance twice.
“I hate that part of me isn’t angry.” Markus admits in turn, clenching his wide paw down on nothing. His black claws glint in the firelight. “I don’t want to understand. I don’t want to get it.”
“But you do.” Pierre says, and Markus nods his shaggy head.
“Robin…” Caroline seems to choke on her words. “Robin says Sebastian wants his mate back.”
Markus’ head raises, eyes glinting with something heavy and low, an ancient emotion flickering to life.
“He would say that.” Markus’ voice is soft now, a featherlight whisper in the still air of the cabin. “And I would say that I want mine back too.” Caroline stands, and embraces the semi-son they’ve adopted, Pierre one step behind.
The tears of all three choke the green wool around Caroline’s small horns.
It’s three days later that Sebastian perks up in his room, the aching weight in his stomach a constant presence, his mother’s offering of his favorite electrolyte drink and lemon water cold on the nightstand.
The weight of the footsteps above him blind him to everything but his mate, tearing up the stairs without getting dressed in the slightest. The cold air blowing through the door burns at his weakened system and thick black fur.
An expanse of brown is standing before him, torso Unclad and thick grey wool pants over legs he knows are a shade ever so slightly more caramel than the rest of him.
“ Mate .” He breathes, desperate and low. Markus sets the canvas knapsack he’s carrying aside and opens his arms. Sebastian crashes into him, sobbing incoherently. “ Mate. Sorry. Wronged. Strayed-scent. Please. Sorry. ”
“ Mate. Forgive. ” Markus says it lowly into the fur between Sebastian’s slack ears, then a growl builds in the chest below the smaller man’s cheek. “ Mine. ”
It’s a dark, possessive sound, and it sounds like heaven.
“ Yours. ” It’s said through half a purr and half a snarl, low in the throat.
They stand there, drinking in scent. Markus doesn’t wait, nor hesitate this time. No polite moment of pause like his last opportunity. He nicks his lip with a fang and bites down on the scent gland above Sebastian’s collarbone, aim unerring through the fur.
Even as Sebastian gasps, he returns the same, marking each other.
There’s a moment of licking to sooth the pain, and then Markus is leading him downstairs. The splattered food has long been cleaned up by Robin, and as Markus removes the light fare Sebastian may be able to eat from his pack he makes a mental note to thank his now-mother-in-law.
He coaxes a thin, tiny piece of salted jerky around the bleeding lip of his mate and gazes warmly until he chews and swallows. Sebastian feeds him this time, carefully avoiding the bleeding wound as well.
This is as much part of the ritual as it is genuine concern for Sebastian’s weakened stomach, and Markus lays back into the bed which reeks of despair and tries as much as he can to release scents of reassurance and peace.
As Sebastian curls into him, atop him, surrounding him, he thinks he succeeds.
He drags a blanket over them, and feeds Sebastian until the fox can take no more.
They fall asleep, together, mated, and both their souls sing a harmony of finally .