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why does it feel like the end
i love him
please don’t let me go
please wait for me
please love me back
please please please
and he tells me
he tells me i have to go
tells me he doesn’t want me
tells me he doesn’t love me
tells me i’m like the others
like all the other wolves
it hurts
it hurts
it hurts but he’s right
i didn’t do what i could
didn’t do more
he’s
he’s
he’s
It was there, all of this. Everything. Jumbled and broken, more wolf than man. Everything he’d felt. Everything he’d thought. There was pain and wonder, sweet joy and dark jealousy. He’d been close, the last time he’d come to my house, the scent of another man’s spunk on my skin. He’d been close to pushing right by me and finding the owner of the scent and sinking his claws into his throat until blood arced against the walls. He’d wanted to hurt me. He’d wanted to hurt me so badly.
Instead he’d walked away.
He didn’t come back until after Joe had been saved from the beast.
And there’d been a moment, a brief and shining moment, when he’d seen me walking on the street, had heard my heartbeat again from inside the diner where Joe had put french fries under his lips and pretended to be a walrus. He’d told himself to stay away, had told himself that keeping his distance was the right thing to do, but he couldn’t help himself.
And even though I’d been angry, even though I’d wanted nothing to do with him, just standing in front of me again after all these years—inhaling dirt and leaves and rain—had centered him like he hadn’t been in years. He’d struggled for a long time with his tether. Thomas had told him for years (though never unkindly) that it might be best to change it, to find something else to latch on to.
Mark had hated his brother for that, even though he knew Thomas was right. He knew Thomas was only looking out for him, knew that Thomas was aware just how deep his grief ran. But he couldn’t stop the anger he felt, and they’d fought then, fought like they’d never done before. It started out verbal, Mark’s voice rising until he was shouting and Thomas remaining furiously calm like their father had always been.
Mark threw the first punch.
It landed with a crunch on Thomas’s jaw, his Alpha’s head snapping back. Later, much, much later, after his brother was nothing but smoke and ash, Mark would realize that Thomas hadn’t moved. Thomas hadn’t even tried to dodge. He’d taken it. He’d taken the hit as if it were penance. Mark had needed a focus for his anger, and Thomas had known that. Had goaded him into it. He had to have known the reaction he’d get. Gordo had been a topic they did not discuss.
Mark ended on top of Thomas, hitting him again and again and again.
Thomas just took it.
