Outsiders [Jericho]

[♥ Nathan ♥]

The fantasy of an island paradise is a grand one, an illusion that speaks of peace of mind and white sand beaches, but reality often falls short of dreams. What lies hidden within dark alleyways and glimpsed between cracks in the reverie’s façade is a stark contrast to the serene image presented: a twisted supernatural underbelly lurks behind the mask, a slumbering giant that has only begun to stir from its rest. Information regarding Ponta Delgada’s werewolf element continues to prove elusive. The threat that looms is real and tangible, and yet for the first time in the scant week he has been on the island, Nathaniel Hart cannot find it in himself to worry.

For a man prone to reason and order, the world is made up of facts he can change and those he can’t. Secret cadres of wolves and contracts built on wariness pale in the bright daylight of the mid-Atlantic sun, and it is under its dying gaze that Nathan turns his thoughts to more practical matters. The apartment Micah has managed for him within their small faction’s complex is little more than satisfactory. The sink leaks. The wallpaper is patched and peeling. Further issues have yet to be discovered, but any frustration is tempered by a hope that their various living situations will ultimately be temporary.

That the morning heralds the arrival of a set of neatly packed and labeled boxes is an added blessing. Optimism does not often mesh with innate survival instincts, but Nate dares to feel like his desperate tailspin is coming back under his control.

The normally pervasive presence of his wolf, a darker half reliant upon wild conclusions and rampant paranoia, has been blissfully silent since freed within the walls of warehouse on the harbor. It is unequivocally satisfied; it radiates self-righteous contentment. It has leant the man an air of dauntless confidence that bleeds into human consciousness – and where it would obsess and fret over the hostile unknown, the past two days have instead found it dormant. For brief and nearly disconcerting moments, Nathan is surprisingly human, and possessed only of human concerns. Wolves can wait.

As with all things the man wishes to avoid analyzing, he distracts himself from any unwanted implications with busywork and errands, the minutiae and details of everyday life that have gone ignored for too long. A battered radio pipes in crackling classic rock from atop the kitchen counter; the late afternoon sun streams in through thin curtains, casting the apartment in a golden light. The small flat’s tenant has never been much of a homemaker, not in the least with so little to work with, but there is something to be said for finally feeling settled. Moving off of Micah’s couch and onto a real mattress has done wonders for Nate’s disposition – not to mention his back – and with the recent of a small couch to his sparse collection of scavenged furniture, the residence is at least passably habitable.

The small living room is littered with the contents of unpacked parcels. A modest amount of personal affects and clothing – only the most necessary supplies, shipped the moment the lease had been finalized – lie scattered, awaiting permanent homes. Outside, Nathan fumbles with his keys and toes the door open, a final box tucked beneath one arm and a cigarette hanging from his lips. Music drifts out into the hall, accompanied by the scent of clove and – to the more discerning nose – the telling musk of wolf, before he moves inside to lazily drop the package to the scuffed kitchen table.

He has moved enough times in his life for his possessions to be easily condensed down to a few hastily packed boxes. Sentimentality holds little weight; what few items Nathan has reclaimed are entirely practical, and even then have more to do with establishing a comfortable presence in a new home than any strict requirement. He is only half attentive as he strips the tape from the package. There is a sudden shifting that catches his interest, an uncomfortable and irresistible tug that resonates in Nate’s chest and lingers as the wolf awakens, and his task is forgotten as his eyes fall upon the still-open door.

The animal stretches lazily beneath his skin in its slow hum to life, all idle anticipation, but it is the man in control – and it is Nathan who is left as unbalanced as ever by that familiar thrill that haunts the air.

[♔ Jericho ♔]

The realm of minutia and painstaking detail belong to men like Micah. Jericho, though meticulous in his own right, cannot be bothered to sweat the small stuff. There are those that would rightfully call the man an idiot for considering a pack of angry wolves small stuff, but given the way the Maliks were raised, Jericho has a different perception of reality. Nikolai is dead by the teeth of those that once called him master, and yet Jericho still feels untouchable. The impenetrable armor of prestige and power is gone but he persists and struts around in it; the Emperor in his new clothing.

Human delusions of invincibility are now fed by the animal. The wolf bleeds boldness and assuredness of success into Jericho. He awoke to a different and brighter world the day following what transpired in the warehouse. Clear memory does not filter well from human mind to animal, or visa-versa. What Jericho is left with are the phantoms of suggestions, feelings that tickle instinct and inspire riddles of emotion.

Micah has been exceptionally distant since the night he made a rare foray into the world of beasts. Jericho looks at his brother and feels an odd spike of spite, a lingering dissatisfaction, and then a strange rush of relief. These are mysteries he leaves to decay and unravel on their own accord. If there is one thing Jericho has learned during his years as an afflicted, it is not to waste energy and time trying to decipher the wolf.

Jericho has also learned to capitalize and enjoy the days in which his animal is silent. This day has proven, so far, to be among the blessed.

An open door sees its use when a decidedly disheveled looking Jericho ambles into Nathan’s new abode. He is barefoot and wearing old and worn jeans; there are tears and fraying fabric at the knees. The shirt hanging from the man’s shoulders is at least two sizes too big, and it is a faded blue that suggests one too many trips through the washing machine. Beneath, a white cotton wife-beater that dips a few inches beneath Jericho’s clavicle. The werewolf spares Nathaniel a coy glance and runs a hand through his mess of bed-hair.

”No, I didn’t just wake up. How dare you suggest such a thing.” Jericho is well aware of the fact that he looks like a lost beach bum wandered in from the street, but he cannot find reason to care. Ponta Delgada’s island atmosphere has seen him drop some of the socialite-driven pretense found rampant in his old life.

The play of his smile starts slow and warm, but bursts wide to rival the morning sunshine. ”Here, I got you this -- a house warming gift to welcome my new neighbor,” he proclaims with a wink and holds out a neatly wrapped rectangle. Jericho leaves Nathaniel with the newspaper-covered item to peruse through the man’s belongings. He does not hesitate in handling the other werewolf’s clothing, in touching his personal possessions. Typically Jericho has enough tact to stifle his curiosity, but the wolves forged a contract. What is mine, is yours. It is a thread that carries into the man’s subconscious and drives his actions.

Underneath the sports section and beneath the scotch tape, Nathan will find the cover of Living Successfully with Screwed-Up People smiling up at him. Jericho turns from where he handles one of Nathaniel’s shirts and offers a cheeky grin.

”I figured it might be useful.” He swivels until he is leaning against a counter and tilts his head. Green eyes dip to travel from Nathan’s feet to his lips, to his eyes.

”Welcome home.”

[♥ Nathan ♥]

Despite all efforts to the contrary, Jericho is one of the few individuals to ever render Nathan so troubled. It is a testament to how much the man’s opinion matters that he should find himself concerned; the reactions elicited by the werewolf’s presence are mixed, a set of conditioned responses cultivated by former expectations and the unsettling knowledge that the nature of their association has changed. The beast radiates thoughts of partnership and possession but the man knows the truth of it – what was does not portent what will be.

It is a riddle he has dedicated himself to solving, but even with his brief amount of warning Nathan is caught off-guard by Jericho’s entrance – and still more in the unexpected way apprehension and stress evaporate the instant phantoms turn to reality. The animal settles like a contented cat at the back of his thoughts, comforted and pleased, and its influence is enough to calm him. Surprise lasts only a moment; an easy and honest smile takes its place, amused blue eyes unabashedly absorbing the novel concept of Jericho’s unkempt appearance.

”You? Sleep late?” Nate takes a long pull from his cigarette before stubbing it out in a nearby tray, turning to meet Jericho’s eyes. ”I wouldn’t dream of it.” The corners of his lips curl into an impish smirk. ”You look good.” It is an obvious comment on Jericho’s choice of attire, but in truth the werewolf finds the sudden change for the casual strangely charming. He has grown used to associating the other man with only two styles of dress – one of which can hardly be said to involve clothing – and that some of the pretense of posturing between them should be discarded is a welcome shift. Whether it is for Nate or not is irrelevant; he indulges in the moment, and the wolf bleeds fondness into his veins.

Jeans and a fitted t-shirt may not present much of a contrast, but the attention Nathan pays to his appearance shows – even now, in the privacy of his own home, he does not let the mask slip. He accepts the offered gift with a suspicious glance and occupies himself with tearing through its newspaper wrapping, only pausing to look up as Jericho begins rifling through his things. ”Looking for something to change into?” he taunts, but there is no responding instinct to hoard and defend his things. The man would wonder at that were he not so soundly distracted.

”…Thanks, jackass.” Nate reaches out to smack the offending book into Jericho’s arm playfully, his expression derisive. ”I somehow don’t think – Elizabeth B. Brown,” he reads, ”—could accurately predict the level of bullshit I have to deal with, here.” The sort of bullshit that involves gag gifts and charismatic smiles, the combination of which have Nathan grinning in response. ”But I guess admitting you’re fucked up is the first step to reform, yeah?” The book is tossed lazily to the table and forgotten; the werewolf turns to face Jericho, leaning a palm onto the cracked laminate countertop.

A seeking hand breaches the distance between them. Nathan grips at the hem of Jericho’s faded shirt, running the thin and worn fabric between his thumb and forefinger idly and with little mind for personal space. ”Right, well. It doesn’t feel much like a home yet.” He spares the disorderly living room a glance and an accompanying shrug. What hides between the lines of their words is a familiar dance, but the implications are as vague as ever. ”Getting there, I guess.” Only then do blue eyes lift to meet green, and Nate’s smile grows momentarily thoughtful, unvoiced sentiments heavy on the air.

”Was that your only excuse for coming by, or were you planning on actually being helpful?” Questions remain unasked; the moment is broken with casual ease. ”I have no problem putting you to work – and I’m pretty sure I can make it worth your while.” The comment is said breezily enough to serve as only an intentional imitation of the fire they had once shared, but the arrogant smirk that finds its way to Nathan’s lips is both brazen and encouraging.

It is simple to slip back into learned routines and understood habits, to test the waters with the pretense of playful curiosity – and it is a notion compounded by the wolf’s smoldering and assured sense of satisfaction.

[♔ Jericho ♔]

Jericho laughs. He grins. He flashes Nathan a bright and self-assured set of eyes. ”I admit to nothing.” The volatile mix of arrogance and devil-may-care attitude that is Jericho Malik, teeters between eccentric and neurotic. That the wolf can only partially be to blame is a truth Jericho skirts around; a weakness of character he hides behind charming smiles and pretty words. ”At least,” he murmurs as he captures Nathan’s seeking hand with his own. Fingers play over the smooth of the man’s inner wrist, over the small curve of bone, and Jericho’s lips curl into a smirk. ”No one could ever call me boring.”

It takes a special kind of person, someone borderline masochistic, to partake in Jericho’s games. The way feral eyes peer up at the black-haired werewolf through thick lashes suggests Nathan is that special person. A pervasive deviousness creeps into an iris of green and gold, but in a distinct opposing action, Jericho releases his grip. ”Home is where the heart is,” he says breezily and taps Nathan on the chest. ”So, unless you left your heart elsewhere – this is home now.” An edge of finality laces his airy tone; Jericho refuses to chain himself to the past, if only to ignore the guilt associated with it, and he expects as much from Nathaniel.

”Forget Las Vegas. Forget Boston. All that you need? It’s right in front of you.” Jericho is referring to the island they now inhabit, but he is aware of the double entendre, that he, at present, is right in front of Nathaniel. The incline of his head is casually arrogant and he smiles invitingly, as if daring Nathan to call out the dual-meaning.

He regards the other man with a thoughtful look then gives a lazy shrug. ”I wasn’t aware I needed an excuse,” Jericho counters after a beat, and feigns hurt feelings. Micah has told him time and time again -- he needs a hobby that does not include chasing ass every night. A job, too, if only to keep him occupied and doing something. The lawyer-turned-bum has enjoyed his extended vacation, but freedom turned to boredom, and a fresh idea stirs inside his brain. Nathaniel is far better-equipped for what Jericho has in mind than his brother; but the notion of talking business runs cold when he decides there are better ways to spend the morning.

”I am here to grace you with my presence. But if you insist on wasting it on labor, then fine.” Jericho is well practiced at sounding like a haughty bitch – because, as Micah would claim, he is one. The werewolf turns around, stuffs his hand inside the nearest cardboard box, grabs the first item he finds and sets it onto the counter. Shoulders drop in a dramatic huff and Jericho turns to close the short distance between him and Nathan. ”There, I helped,” is his cheeky proclamation as one arm snakes around Nathaniel’s waist. A hand presses flat against a t-shirt clad abdomen and Jericho leans in until the next words dance over Nathan’s lips. ”Now make it worth my while.”

The first kiss is chaste and playful. The second, like trying to recapture an old memory. The third, like trying to build a new one. There is a swell in his chest that resonates of both pain and relief, as if releasing a breath held for too long. Jericho does not understand it, and so like most things he does not understand, it goes ignored.

[♥ Nathan ♥]

For a creature reliant upon scent and sound, it is touch that manages to elicit the most immediate response; the wolf is tied to a world of physical sensation and the instinctive bond exchanged through contact, and the man bears a weakness for tactile pleasures. The glide of smooth fingertips along the inside of Nathan’s wrist is a subtle representation of a connection that is felt more than understood. What builds inside him is a rumbling calm, a persistent sense of rightness that endures even after the fleeting touch has ended. Jericho has always represented the most captivating challenge, one neither man nor beast can resist; it is a driving force that has seen him cross land and sea to chase down its conclusion.

That motivation is not one Nathan is capable of admitting to, but his willful ignorance does not invalidate its existence.

”I’ve been called heartless before,” the man counters, but the statement lacks any heat – it is the obvious response in a game of words and egos, a contest subsequently abandoned for the hint of truth in Jericho’s words. Blue eyes draw deliberately down the werewolf’s body, and Nate leans lazily onto one elbow. ”But I see your point.” His sentiments are not so much drawn out of either nostalgia or regret as they are realistic – but so is Jericho’s answer in turn. The wolf, in its arrogance and its confidence, knows the truth of it. Ponta Delgada will not be a repeat of Boston. The island has already been claimed. What is missing from making it a home are wholly human comforts, and not the sense of belonging the animal has already found.

A debate regarding what invitations and liberties Jericho is allowed to take is avoided in the man’s exaggerated display, sparing Nathan the inevitable concession that he is more than welcome. He rolls his eyes in response, shifting a wayward strand of hair from his face with a toss of his head, but cannot contain the crooked smile that crawls across his features. ”I’m sure that’s where that goes,” comes the mocking reply, but it loses meaning beneath the weight of Jericho’s command, by the heat of the body suddenly so close to his and the press of lips that quells all rational thought.

What follows is a trade of exploration for hunger, of rediscovery for need. Tension bleeds from Nathan’s muscles in a wash of relief. Hands settle on hips, and when Nate at last draws away for a breath he lingers close, unwilling to abandon their proximity. He noses Jericho’s face away from his in an affectionate brush of skin and stubbled cheeks before his mouth finds its way to the man’s throat. Humid exhalations play along skin, the touch of his lips a phantom caress.

”I was thinking more along the lines of taking you out to breakfast.” Nathan’s voice feigns innocence and offense but the curl of his lips along Jericho’s neck says otherwise. ”You’d need to change, though.” A kiss, a drag of his tongue. ”—I suppose I could help.” Teeth trail delicately along the vulnerable line of an exposed throat, and when they settle at crook of the werewolf’s neck and shoulder it is in a familiar and half-remembered grip. What surrounds him is a scent inherently tied to memory and unconsciously enthralling; Nathan breathes it in deep, the palms of both hands sliding up beneath Jericho’s shirt – too eager to touch, to feel, to remember.

Coaxing fingers find the small of the one-time heir’s back and draw him in close, spiteful of any distance between them. A hot mouth traces the curve of his jaw, his ear. ”Jericho,” Nathan murmurs, but the supplication hangs unfinished; instead he reclaims those lips with his own and eases back against the counter, pulling the other man unceremoniously with him. Fingers dip into the back pocket of Jericho’s jeans and hold.

This is no reckless loss of control. This is no animalistic bid for dominance and authority. What emotion they may have substituted for prior feral appetite is uncharted territory, but with Jericho warm and familiar and real against him, all Nathan can feel is absolution.

[♔ Jericho ♔]

Personal history dictates that Jericho does not establish lasting ties to other individuals. Relationships last until the day they no longer glow so vibrant as to hold Jericho’s attention, or they are abandoned when the person on the other end can no longer prove useful. It is a dog-eat-dog world out there, and that the idiom should sometimes prove literal only shows the necessity in self-preservation. Micah is the only soul thus far allowed within Jericho’s realm of true concern, but a shadow planted in Las Vegas has seeped through the werewolf’s defenses over time, and unbeknownst to him.

The flutter in Jericho’s pulse spins like vertigo and runs hot enough to send a flush creeping up his neck. There is something here, in the space between mingling breath and mirrored touch, that Jericho cannot understand. Will not, because to do so would mean putting a name to this, whatever it is. To name something is to acknowledge it, to usher it from the void of infant concepts and into reality. The two men part, Jericho’s eyes rest at the dip of Nathan’s collarbone, and a bodily shudder born from sudden hesitance runs the length of his spine. It is easily mistaken for excitement.

Parted lips denote a loss for words. Hooded eyes, a strange demureness. Most telling of all, is the grip balled tight within the fabric of Nathan’s shirt. Jericho swallows and twists his lips in the facsimile of a smile. ”I had my tongue down your throat, and you want to talk about breakfast.” He watches Nathaniel’s mouth before looking up, and it takes every last shred of bravery for Jericho to hold that blue gaze. ”I must be losing my touch.” The nonchalant statement is airy and easy, but something rings off-color.

Shoulders rise in tension, but through Nathan’s coaxing tongue and enveloping scent, the demons lose much of their bite. The swell behind the werewolf’s ribcage runs hot and cold, back and forth, until Jericho is reeling from a deluge of indecision. It would be so easy to turn to his wolf for advice, to let the beast seize hold and take the lead. Instinct is easier to understand than emotion. It would be so easy.

Despite his growing trepidation, Jericho deems the unnamed thing too important to share with the animal until he can better understand it. But understanding is not the point, not really; the point is acceptance. Nathaniel crossed land and sea to arrive at Jericho’s side; it is a gesture illustrated in the novels the werewolf read as a youth --the knight chasing his prize. Jericho’s view of the world is romantic but he is not delusional. Nathan is not a hero. Jericho is not a prince. Together they are an imperfect story with so many holes as to render the pages unreadable.

A partnered chase of vice is their common thread, but where once furious hunger ran its violent and selfish course, there is tentative curiosity. Jericho pulls away and worries his bottom lip between white teeth. ”You know I…” his voice hitches; he sounds breathless in a way that cannot be explained away via the kiss. Fingers trail down Nathan’s t-shirt from chest to navel in a thought-heavy caress. ”I could go for breakfast. Or brunch, actually, considering the hour.” Jericho steps back to put some room between them.

His nerves are on fire. His charmer’s disposition frayed. ”I’ve some business to discuss with you, in any case.” Practical matters for practical people; Jericho is grasping for straws. ”There’s a bistro near the chapel I’ve been meaning to check out.” The more he speaks, the easier it is to slip back into his mask. ”Give me, say—an hour?” Brows raise in question and Jericho offers an incredibly convincing grin. ”You need the break. Unpacking is hard work and such –Also? Boring.”

Familiar humor returns to his eyes and Jericho’s grin is back at full force. He is a committed actor or a coward. The latter holds more weight. ”And we can’t have that.”

[♥ Nathan ♥]

Nathan is not a man used to being denied – not in the least when the object of his desires is already held beneath his palms. That it is by Jericho leaves him further surprised; their dance has never ended like this, all hesitance and uncertainty, and it allows a sliver of self-doubt to creep in to the werewolf’s mind. He relies upon constants. Jericho has always managed to shred Nathan’s patience and composure to ribbons but in that, too, there had been some measure of dependability. As a man adrift and amongst the unknown, grasping for grounding familiarity is a comfortable lie, and one he had been prepared to shroud himself in at the first sight of green eyes.

Though Jericho is claiming to have lost his touch, it is Nathan who ultimately stands rejected.

Action is mistakenly believed to be safer than scrutiny, and sex is easiest of all. Sex is thoughtless, instinctive – a realm in which both man and animal meet, mingle, and understand one another. It is simple to abandon himself to that desire and use it as justification. Nathan has always taken pains to avoid analyzing whatever it is that exists between himself and Jericho, what had stemmed in Las Vegas and flared to dangerous life in Boston, and that is a plan that had meshed easily with the distraction of vice and convenient excuses. He is in Ponta Delgada because it exists as his only option; he has pursued Jericho as a logical ticket to satisfaction and a twisted sort of kinship. Self-delusions come naturally in a life built out of fragile ego and a fear of intimacy, but they run hollow in the face of further upheaval.

For a thoughtful individual, Nathan spends a surprising amount of his time avoiding thinking. A flash of dark suspicion crosses an otherwise passive face; he runs his tongue across his lower lip and drops his hands casually, unwilling to feel a thing like hurt. Slighted, perhaps – if only for his insulted ego.

”Brunch, then.” The werewolf has to swallow tightly, and remains where he leans up against the counter as Jericho pulls away. The loss of contact is more substantial than its persistence, and he can feel that old unwelcome anxiety leech into his bones, something cold left in the wake of Jericho’s absent touch. Nathan dismisses it as cleverly as Jericho’s own charade. ”Since business is somehow more exciting.” A hand waves in lazy acceptance, but there is a returning glint in his eyes tailored to match the change in mood – farce though it may be. ”An hour, you’re paying.”

They were never carved out of promises. This is no storybook romance. Jericho’s exit is followed by a sigh and a lingering moment of silence, by blue eyes fixed upon a newly shut door. History – recent at that – dictates Nathan disengage, but a tendril of curiosity and blatant stubbornness has him ignoring learned behaviors. It is this thought that sees him outside the other man’s door a predictable seventy-five minutes later, looking much the same. It is a scene reminiscent of one played out months ago, though where a beast made of desperation and demands once waited hungrily for an open door, a decidedly muted Nathan stands in its place.

What thoughts he has distracted himself with for the past hour do not manifest in his practiced smile, in the rise of his brow that greets Jericho when the man makes his appearance. A new rule in their game does not yet see him dissuaded; Nathan plays for known rewards, the rest of his hand clutched tight to his chest.

”I was promised distinctly unboring lunch activities,” he announces, eyes bright. ”Come on. Show me this paradise of yours.”

[♔ Jericho ♔]

”Is there anything more exciting?” The words are playful but what Jericho next says carries honest truth. ”It’s business that involves our future, after all.” His smile is delicately flirtatious. An obliging dip of the werewolf’s head sees him wandering backwards and towards the door. ”An hour, and I’m paying.” Grins come easily to a careless man like Jericho, but the one he dons now is lopsided and wears a little like plastic. Business. Nothing more and nothing less. It is the mantra he keeps as the door shuts behind him.

A different door opens to reveal Nathan ready and expectant. Jericho, now looking less the bum and more like himself, greets the man with a slow-spread smirk. ”Always so demanding,” he chides but nonetheless brushes past Nathan and out into the hallway. Fingers ghost down the man’s forearm; it is as good as any come hither, and it is accented with a pair of mirthful eyes. ”Let’s go and hope we don’t get lost.” Micah left a message; they need to talk. With his brother’s recent aloofness and the more-than-is-usual apathy to his voice, Jericho is left with the distinct impression that there is yet another argument lurking in the immediate future. It is a headache he plans to circumvent as long as he can, and with the unwitting help of Nathaniel Hart.

Three wrong turns and street construction see Nathan and Jericho arriving at the bistro on the later side of brunch. At this point, Jericho is a touch ravenous and grumpy because of it. He is a simple creature, though he puts forth an elaborate front. The pair is seated to an outside table near the ornate cast iron railing that separates bistro from public sidewalk. In the near-distance and reaching towards the patchwork sky of cerulean and gray, is the chapel of Nossa Senhora.

The waitress is treated with a prickliness that the werewolf will later clear his conscience over by leaving a sizeable tip. Jericho orders strawberry crepes and sausages made from local beef, and an espresso strong enough to knock a caffeine addict onto their ass. It takes a few long sips of the bitter, nutty brew to revitalize Jericho. In the silences that stretch between easy discussion about islanders and the possibility of rain, Jericho watches Nathan and considers him. ”What do you miss most about Boston?” The change in subject is sharp enough to indicate that business is finally on the table.

”I know it was me but now that you’re here, that’s no longer an issue.” Arrogance rings clear in the lazy drawl of Jericho’s voice, but it is mostly for play. ”I, for one, miss the nightlife.” Entire chapters of the werewolf’s life unfolded under strobe lights and rhythmic music, between the sway of bodies that reeked of salt and sweat. ”Specifically the nightlife that catered to…our specific needs.” Human establishments became a hollow experience soon after Jericho was turned. What he came to understand was the ferocity of his beast’s hunger could only be quenched by the exceptional – by those like him.

He is distracted momentarily by the arrival of their waitress. Warm food is piled in front of the wolves and Jericho waits for the woman to leave before continuing. He cuts into a sausage with a fork and knife. ”Which is why you and I should save this city from the clutches of mundanity-- by making a club.” Jericho pops a morsel of meat into his mouth and smiles around it. He chews, swallows, then pushes past any flak Nathan might throw his way. ”Think about it. We could attract like-minded individuals. We could show the wolves here what they’re missing. Give them a taste of a life out of hiding. Why would they ever want to go back?” The projected plan is distinctly not what Micah meant by laying low. Jericho will try to sell his brother on the idea later, and only if he has Nathan’s support.

[♥ Nathan ♥]

Facades shine in the sun and wash thin in the rain. Nathan’s charmer’s smiles and easy shrugs grow brittle over the length of their unintentional adventure, wound tight and sharp from the first flirtatious touch of skin until pure tenacity sees their search successful. Despite the lunch-hour crowd on the streets there is a thread of safety to be drawn from the more public setting of the bistro; beneath Nathan’s skin, the newly-woken animal quiets and calms amongst the collection of heartbeats and murmured conversation. It is the man now seated across from him that has roused the wolf and all its ire, drawing it from slumber and rendering it troubled. Though Nate is not privy to the animal’s thoughts and desires, the pull of its discontent wears at him.

The order of things is yet upset. Man and beast both rely upon known parameters, and Jericho constantly upends them. Where Nathan resorts to wariness in the face of shifting ground, the animal bristles, possessive and hungry. It is a dangerous set of circumstances – and one Nate is, ultimately, too familiar with.

He stifles the wolf’s growing presence in the turn of a thought and a huffed sigh. Banal conversation proves unsatisfying, though the company is hardly lacking, and it is a set of dark blue eyes that find Jericho’s when the topic takes a turn for the interesting.

”What is there about Boston to miss,” he counters, though any bitterness is tempered through the curl of his responding smile – the comment reads as playful despite its implication. Jericho had, after all, been the city’s self-proclaimed prince; its faults must clearly fall upon his shoulders. ”Rain, snow – a sorry excuse for an ocean. Terrible company.” This side of the Atlantic has proven far more promising in the brief week since his arrival, though there is a piece of the man that sees home as a landscape carved out of scrub and sand, a strip of neon lights and sound. Everything else – ironically – is only an imitation.

The relaxed atmosphere of Ponta Delgada has potential in rivaling that recklessness of his youth, but a steady hand has the man prioritizing. ”Boston had that going for it.” Nathan twists his glass on the table, turning it distractedly between his thumb and middle finger. ”Though Vegas did it better.” The smile that haunts his features turns impish, feral for its show of teeth. The club in which the two men had first met had been a favorite hunting ground, a specific collection of offerings for a particular clientele that Nathan has never managed to replicate. There is a responding surge of adrenaline that graces his blood at the thought; he find a diversion in his meal, the lull in conversation applied to deliberation.

Prudence – and a vague understanding of Micah’s desires as de facto leader – should see him gracefully turn Jericho down. The idea is nonsense. Dangerous, even, if past events are any indication. ”That sounds like the opposite of playing nice.” The werewolf pushes his eggs around his plate in contemplation before settling on a response, and gestures at the other man with a sweep of his fork. ”What would Micah think,” Nate begins rhetorically, seeming to warm to the building dialogue and all its opportunity. ”—sell him on it being better than the alternative. The drink you know versus the one you don’t.” He leans forward conspiratorially, elbows on the table. Jericho is unrepentant. Micah’s call for bowed heads and a meek presence will only last so long and Nathan, in his shared mindset and disposition, sees the chance for balance in the blossoming idea.

His support is entirely selfish and born of two motives. Keep Jericho close – keep the wolf occupied. He ignores how his gut twists at the memory of Jericho’s use for clubs. Much like his brother, the man paints an idealistic image but Nathan cuts it down to the basics; how it serves him, how it can best be made practical. ”What do you know about business?” Nate’s grin builds easily, the enthusiastic smile of a child playing at secrets and daydreams. His half-eaten meal sits forgotten. ”You would want to go in as partners?” Two halves of one arrogant soul are each pleased at the thought. ”If it could be controlled,” he muses, as though he is testing the thoughts as he speaks them, ”—if we could play it off as harmless?” Jumbled concepts form broken sentences, as incomplete as the fragmented plans that birth them.

The wolf demands a seat of power; the man requires security and activity. With the proper amount of influence and direction, Jericho may have managed to deliver him both.

[♔ Jericho ♔]

Nathaniel paints a desolate picture of Boston and it inspires a fledgling retaliation within Jericho. For the better part of the werewolf’s life, Boston was home. Residual emotions born from memory will forever tie the errant wolf to his seaside territory, but what was left was lost. The same ocean from a different platform now posits a new question, and Jericho will do his best to provide the answers.

”Micah has his point,” he allows with a tilt of his head then adds, ”—but so do I.” The elder Malik brother is methodical and cautious. Those traits have their place, but so does recklessness. Jericho did not arrive in São Miguel so he could wait for a new life to sprout from Micah’s extreme discretion. He is his own entity; brotherhood may be an oath that transcends blood, but the werewolf is not so easily controlled. When the human guises fall away, it is obvious with whom the strength lays.

Feral green communicates truths that run deeper than the puppet show of human language. It is that set of eyes that regards Nathan now, though the wolf is mute; a beast sedated by an overwhelming sense of rightness. ”Wolves need a hunting ground. We will provide them with one – and should anyone ever threaten those grounds…” Jericho pauses and the thought hangs. He runs a knife diagonally across the crepes, and they ooze their saccharine strawberry filling. ”Well, we know how possessive wolves can be--” Eight months ago Jericho had shown Nathan his favorite place to hunt. There, they met a woman with a sway to her hips and a taste for blood. Jericho can still recall the sting of jealousy her interaction with Nathan inspired. ”--over the things that matter,” he concludes with a sharp smile.

Jericho leaves his meal half-unfinished. The prospect of business has stolen his appetite. ”What do I know? Hmmm.” Brows knit, the werewolf’s face falls pensive. It is melodrama, an exaggeration to push a point. His shoulders pop and he is stuck with an epiphany. ”First we buy Boardwalk, then we procure Parkplace. Afterwards, we build a few red hotels and charge people for walking by.” A foot nudges Nathan’s playfully under the table. ”I know how to avoid getting sued, which may or may not come in handy.” Back in Boston, Jericho was an established lawyer. Charisma could only get him so far; he needed the ability and knowledge base to win his cases.

”I know law. You know security. Together we can meander our way through the whole ‘running a business’ deal.” Jericho sounds feckless but he is confident, and hopes that Nathan can take yet another leap of faith. Stray thoughts wander their way out from the other werewolf, and with each phrase, Jericho’s smile grows. ”Yes. Yes, exactly. Harmless and controlled. See? This is why I came to you.” Fondness seeps into his voice and he does not think to stop it. Micah has never understood; his wolf is ineffectual, a dead and silent presence –nothing more than a ghost. Jericho’s beast is ravenous and bays woefully until it gets what it wants.

Here, across the table from Nathan, the wolf is silent. Jericho is too wrapped up in club-talk to notice. ”You can have your…fight club…thing. I can have my dance floor.” They are achievable dreams in the so-called island paradise. ”So, are you in?” Commitment is the first part of the puzzle; detailed planning will draw out the blueprints. Time and money will see those blueprints rise from the page and into reality.

The biggest roadblock will be Micah, but Jericho can be very convincing. He has the wolf on his side.

[♥ Nathan ♥]

”I’m thinking it would,” Nathan laughs, rolling his eyes and knocking Jericho’s ankle with his own. Playing the role of jilted lover is unsatisfying; there is greater gratification to be found in exploring the offered opportunity, in relaxing back into their roles as comrades-in-arms. The monotonous task of building his own business – or finding gainful employment beneath some taskmaster’s thumb – pales in comparison to the ideas Jericho presents, and Nate allows himself to believe they are possible. If Ponta Delgada is meant to be carved into their own personal playground, then he has better things to do than follow the path of most reliability.

An irresponsible plan can still be carried out carefully. If Jericho has the scheme, Nathan will grant him the means.

”Appearance is everything,” he elaborates, reinforcing his previous point with a concept known to both men. ”Your intent doesn’t matter. It’s how everything is perceived.” Raising his coffee to his lips, blue eyes meet green from over the rim of his mug, a mind best suited for structure and planning already twisting dream into reality. ”If you can make the locals believe this is unintentional ignorance – flashy city wolves longing for the comforts of home – what happens behind our doors can go safely ignored.” It is a stretch where Micah is concerned, but a risk Nathan is willing to take. Jericho’s confidence bleeds across the table, infectious in its charm.

Nathan traces circles around the lip of his drink before tapping at the ceramic with his forefinger. ”We’re ill-mannered foreigners, after all. Irritating, but as I said, harmless.” He draws a brow up persuasively, and the play of his smile suggests the opposite. Establishing a presence is important, but threatening the success of their venture with a poorly hatched plot – all for a quick joyride of cheap thrills – is not on the table. Security is his forte and Micah has placed some measure of trust in him. He does not betray either lightly, but neither has Nathan ever been content to sit back and play by the rules.

Boundaries are meant to be tested, policies manipulated. Working within established limitations to better serve his own needs is a practiced mechanism, and one that encourages Nathan to rise to the challenge. Jericho poses a riddle; the werewolf finds satisfaction in crafting the solution.

”Of course I’m in – if you can convince Micah.” His hand flicks through the air, discarding the idea as something for Jericho to handle. ”—And don’t be so blasé. You loved my fight club thing.” The responding grin is arrogant and certain, and Nathan stares boldly into the other man’s eyes. Obvious innuendo aside, the consequences of that first encounter have been impossibly far-reaching – and, more selfishly, Nate is certainly not above showing off. ”I expect to see you there,” he adds flippantly, ”and I still promise to keep that face of yours intact.”

It is with a faux thoughtfulness that Nathan drops his chin to his hand, elbow on the table, and regards the individual across from him with a coaxing smile. ”We should scout the competition.” He has no doubt that Jericho already has, but that’s hardly the point – that was before Nathan, and therefore meaningless. ”Call it a business expense.”