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Hm, well, Muse seems to be making good on her threats to make this the main project for 2011, so:
***
Jason walks in his sleep. His subconscious is looking for his pack, I know, but it makes for awkward moments. Or did, before we both stopped caring.
His parents started warming to me once they realised that Jason might in fact be safer out on his own if he weren't out on his own, even if his flattie wasn't another were. Even if his flattie was... me. You look after him, his Mum always says to me when we part. (The were in that mixed marriage, tiny and golden beside two metres of Caribbean-inflected Canadian accent.)
Of course a were needs his pack. And Jason's one of triplets, still missing the constant presence of Sandra and Button-Down, or Benjamin David to give him the name that none of them used even before he went off to study patent law at Northwestern. They still come here to sleep in a pile when one has romantic issues, ice-cream or take-away littered about as appropriate amongst the mounds of tissues. I think it's innocent. It's not considered polite to speculate, about how much is wolf.
Tonight he's got as far as to actually curl up beside me on my bed. He's clearly not been awake at any point of this, because it's cold enough in here that surely even the least shred of awareness would have sent him under the blankets. Too much olive skin is goosepimpling in ghost of the fur he could use tonight, far too much. Blue eyes blink open and give me a puzzled look as I shove at the mop of blond dreads slithering along my arm. "Put some clothes on," I say.
Jason blinks again and heaves himself up, looking round my bedroom as if I were somehow the one responsible for his not waking up where he'd have thought to find himself. He manages a string of indistinct syllables ending in dude and slopes out.
Just another evening waking up with a stark bollocks naked flatmate. I'd latch my door, but he'd sit outside howling.
***
Jason walks in his sleep. His subconscious is looking for his pack, I know, but it makes for awkward moments. Or did, before we both stopped caring.
His parents started warming to me once they realised that Jason might in fact be safer out on his own if he weren't out on his own, even if his flattie wasn't another were. Even if his flattie was... me. You look after him, his Mum always says to me when we part. (The were in that mixed marriage, tiny and golden beside two metres of Caribbean-inflected Canadian accent.)
Of course a were needs his pack. And Jason's one of triplets, still missing the constant presence of Sandra and Button-Down, or Benjamin David to give him the name that none of them used even before he went off to study patent law at Northwestern. They still come here to sleep in a pile when one has romantic issues, ice-cream or take-away littered about as appropriate amongst the mounds of tissues. I think it's innocent. It's not considered polite to speculate, about how much is wolf.
Tonight he's got as far as to actually curl up beside me on my bed. He's clearly not been awake at any point of this, because it's cold enough in here that surely even the least shred of awareness would have sent him under the blankets. Too much olive skin is goosepimpling in ghost of the fur he could use tonight, far too much. Blue eyes blink open and give me a puzzled look as I shove at the mop of blond dreads slithering along my arm. "Put some clothes on," I say.
Jason blinks again and heaves himself up, looking round my bedroom as if I were somehow the one responsible for his not waking up where he'd have thought to find himself. He manages a string of indistinct syllables ending in dude and slopes out.
Just another evening waking up with a stark bollocks naked flatmate. I'd latch my door, but he'd sit outside howling.
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