Walk a Little Tightrope [Nate]

[♔ Jericho ♔]

The scene is a familiar one. Bodies sway and gyrate on an open dance floor. Colored lights flash overhead. Music beats and thumps at the mercy of a DJ. Sex and sweat permeates the air; the establishment is ripe with human pheromones—a siren’s call like any other but Jericho’s ears have fallen deaf. Nothing is ever enough. His appetite is too voracious. When a scene becomes familiar, it becomes boring and therefore undesirable. The extent of the werewolf’s fickleness is his true curse of character, but Jericho plans to circumvent the issue with Nathaniel’s assistance.

Micah was surprisingly –and suspiciously—open to the idea. There are further terms to discuss and Jericho knows that his brother will take his piece of the pie. Portions will be divvied and cut, and Jericho will strive to secure the lion’s share for Nathan and himself. Green eyes draw over the man in question and the sight inspires a hum within Jericho’s blood. Lips settle on the edge of a cool glass; it is Jericho’s third of the night.

They are here to scope out the competition, but there is more to this outing than Jericho is willing to admit. He has been desperate for some time now to establish equilibrium with the other werewolf. This is a familiar scene because Jericho is trying to stuff their relationship within the confines of defined parameters. Clubbing, bar-hopping, prowling the nightlife as two young men should – it is how they once functioned, it should be how they still function.

Events have come to pass that would break the strongest of bonds, but Jericho has never known what to call Nathan. A sometimes lover, a kindred spirit, a business partner with enough sense to survive pack politics, and to know when to jump ship. Nathaniel is here and as much as Jericho would like to act as if nothing has changed, he is starting to realize that the blue-eyed werewolf is the source of his discontent.

An intrinsic part of his core is at a tilt. Jericho is haunted by a vague sense of vertigo and he cannot pretend it away. He tries anyway. Each grin, each flirtation and musing look, harkens back to their shared days in Las Vegas and Boston. Theatre has always been Jericho’s playground and forte, but for the first time, keeping in character has become an exhausting chore. Denial is an unfortunate bedfellow these past weeks, and Jericho imposes a rule onto himself – these thoughts, these feelings are nothing more than growing pains born from stress.

The third glass sits empty on the bar top. Jericho orders a fourth. He has been sure to drink something different every time, under the guise that he is only testing what the competition has to offer. The werewolf cautiously sips a fruity-smelling cocktail and feigns a grimace. ”At least it won’t be difficult to offer better drinks,” he drawls with a self-satisfied smirk. Jericho runs his eyes over Nathan, trying to gauge what he might be thinking, then tosses a look into the crowd.

”Anything catch your eye?” It is an innocent question that casts a long shadow. This, on Jericho’s part, is becoming more and more a play of puppets – only this time he is the one bound by invisible strings.

[♥ Nathan ♥]

Nathan cannot remember the last time he chased after something – someone – and found himself denied. He cannot remember the last time he truly chased at all, not to the degree that the object of his search was so desired. The distinction between a one-night stand and the careful back-and-forth that preludes a potential relationship is painted in shades of black and white, and yet the man has managed an admirable job of confusing the two, of mistaking his own emotions and firmly ignoring the rest. What matters is that Jericho has set new boundaries; what matters is that Nathan needs to test them.

The suggestion of perusing the competition had always been an obvious farce, a ploy to spend their evening as they would in days past, and an easy method to entice Jericho to join him. Nathan does not have the disadvantage of familiarity – the nightlife here is not yet mundane, the thrill of exploration can still be sought – but neither man nor beast are interested in the fares so boldly placed on display. Twisting and seductive scents catch in his nose but go unnoticed; the attraction of the club rings as hollow as their pretense for being here, and Nathan matches Jericho drink for drink, waiting for some alcohol-born solace to be drawn from the building burn in his veins.

It is a predatory demeanor that has settled about him, perched beside Jericho at the bar, but the beast is disillusioned; he lifts his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. Nathan’s eyes scan the assembled crowd with an aloof disinterest, his elbow on the bartop and a drink in his free hand. ”Nothing special,” comes the idle reply, apparent boredom manifesting as superiority. ”We can do better.” The comment reads as a nuanced response for a loaded question, but none of the implication is reflected on Nate’s passive features. The werewolf is not so naïve as to miss the parallels drawn between this encounter and ones of their shared history; it is for that memory, surely, that his blood is afire and his nerves electric. It is for the potential hunt and the exhilaration of conquering new territory that the wolf lurks behind his eyes.

What concerns Nathan more is that he knows the truth of the matter, and has resolutely dedicated himself to denying it. A brief kiss and moments of fleeting contact are not bricks from which a foundation is built. He has written the emotion off as lust but the repercussions are still concerning – the wolf’s insatiable hunger is concerning. The loss of control Jericho inspires has always come paired with a suitable outlet, but now the tension is left to build.

Nathan downs the rest of his drink in a long swallow, setting his glass aside as he presses away from the bar. His lip curls; the hard liquor smolders in his gut, but the expression is masked in the sudden play of an exuberant and mischievous smile. Blue eyes settle on Jericho, and Nate reaches out to still the man’s hand and garner his attention with a gentle grip at his wrist. ”Leave that. It smells awful.” Fingertips slide over delicate bone, coaxing, and the pulse that flutters beneath skin matches the rumbling beat of the bassline. ”—Come dance with me.” The light in the werewolf’s eyes is laced with challenge, his grin skewed and playful.

Whether innocuous or flirtatious, the invitation is intentionally vague. Nathan refuses to spend the night nursing drinks as a crutch for social engagement and disguising meaning behind the pretext of business. Excuses are maintained only as long as they are necessary – and with the first hint of either agreement or hesitance, Nate will lead the other man onto the floor with a laugh and a smile, uncertainty discarded as weakness.

Better to be bold.

[♔ Jericho ♔]

A heartbeat stutters. Lungs capture a breath and hold it captive. Captive like Jericho’s attention, stolen and entranced by the wolf with blue eyes. When he was a boy, flights of fancy were of regular occurrence. Books fed imagination. Theatre, television and movies, informed an already romantic view of the world. With age came experience, and with experience, the predisposition to a fickle and flighty heart. He is not one to be chained, or to be contained by conventional relationships.

There has never been anything conventional concerning his bond with Nathaniel. Born from lust, fueled by a shared hunger; something that burns so bright and ferociously is not meant to last. Yet here they are, alive, together, and so far unscathed by the fires of infatuation. Green eyes drop to where fingers dance over his wrist and Jericho affords Nathan a devious look and a smile to match. ”I thought you’d never ask.”

Bravado comes as a comfortable mask to hide behind. The pair move to the dance floor and a rising excitement has the werewolf’s pulse racing. Here his is enveloped by the scent of adrenaline and desire. Sex-born pheromones roll tantalizing at the back of the wolf’s tongue; the overall effect leaves him remarkably lucid. A buzz weaves its way into Jericho’s skull. He flashes Nathan a broad grin, striking in the stuttering lighting, and starts to move.

This is no graceful dance of known steps and practiced patterns. It is seduction; a demure look cast from under thick lashes. It is flirtation; a hand drawn down Nathan’s side. It is foreplay; hips pressed flush together, moving in tandem, leaving nothing to imagination. An understood prelude to the inevitable conclusion of their games, perhaps, but Jericho is in no hurry. He still carries the fire, but it no longer threatens to overcome, to swallow the man whole and let the wolf assume control.

Foreign hands caress and clutch. Unknown bodies breach the werewolves’ shared space. A spike of annoyance born from human emotions and fed by an animal’s possessiveness flares to life. Jericho’s fingers light over his chosen partner’s throat, delicate and with reverence. His seeking mouth makes a bid for Nathan’s, and his tongue breaches hungrily past the werewolf’s lips. There is a smolder to his intentions, an exploratory fascination with anything and everything Nathan offers. The mundane press in; their unappealing scents are nearly stifling. Jericho’s hackles rise. There is a subtle curl to his lips, the facsimile of a snarl, and it forces the kiss to a premature end.

A breath to steel his fraying nerves, and Jericho opens his eyes to shoot Nathan a weighty look. The slow spread of his lips reveals a dangerous smirk. He steps back, gaze and body language whispering invitation. Another step, a third, then Jericho is swallowed into the writhing masses. A trail of wild sandalwood winds through the collective perfume of sweat and hormones. It leads away from the crowd, into a hallway populated by groping couples, and dissipates near a back door.

Should Nathan choose to follow, he will be greeted by the rush of fresh island air and a narrow alleyway. The scent grows anew, startling clear when free from the concoction of human smells. Down the concrete floor, past the dumpster, through the thin corridor between two tall buildings – the world opens up.

A gibbous moon joined by a family of stars sets the ocean alight. The beach sits below, the buildings above on a raised level built from human hands. There, leaning on a railing and staring out to sea, is Jericho. The cool air dries the sweat at the nape of his neck, and he finally feels as if he can breathe.

Pins and needles tickle over his shoulders and he takes it as indication that Nathan has given pursuit. Jericho has never questioned why he can feel Nathan before sight or sound can kick in. The benefits of the wolf serve as a comfortable excuse. ”Sorry,” he drawls into Ponta Delgada’s night, ”It was getting a little too… tight in there.” He spares a glance over his shoulder, searching for answers within Nathan’s expression.

Whether Jericho finds his answers or not remains unknown. He looks away and out towards the open water. For his part, Jericho is quiet and contemplative – it is in stark contrast to the creature prowling the club moments before. ”You know,” he muses after a spell of silence. What is about to be shared is surely something to blame on the strange effects moonlight has on wolves. ”I would come out here to the beach, sometimes – at night. I’d look out there towards the horizon and think, maybe Nathan’s over there on the other end, doing the same.”

He smiles and it is a self-deprecating gesture. Even Jericho realizes how fanciful his ideas can be. The following chuckle is airy and leaves a slow-to-die grin on the man’s face. ”But I suppose Boston’s view of the Atlantic has nothing on this.” A hand sweeps through the air and indicates the bay. It is then that Jericho falls silent.

The ocean waves roll in, rhythmic and unending. Perpetual. Constant. Reliable. Everything that Jericho is not. And for the first time, he is bothered by this.

[♥ Nathan ♥]

Beneath flickering light and against a backdrop of writhing bodies, Nathan finds Jericho with his hands, with his hips, with his mouth. The difference between the rush of his blood and the thundering pulse of the club grows indistinguishable, and the werewolf surrenders himself to a world of tactile sensation; from the music’s vibration to the buzz in his veins the night is alive and electric. It is a building euphoria ushered to life by the man that burns beneath his fingertips, by the connection struck between them. Amongst a crowd of the ordinary they alone glow bright – and the world outside of their shared existence is subsequently ignored.

The air is stifling as it shifts to fill the space between them. Sweat beads on Nathan’s forehead as Jericho pulls away, and the look exchanged and emphasized with understood body language requires no words; the black wolf follows. He replicates a chase conducted days previous, concrete and iron now replaced by groping hands and shifting bodies – the heartbeat of the club peels away and is traded for fresh air, for a clear night, for a recognized and maddening scent. Behind them lays the breadth of a continent and the span of an ocean; Nathan has long hunted without knowing, has pursued without understanding. The goal each time has been the same, buried deep and never acknowledged.

Even now it is mistaken and overlooked – and perhaps the man is cursed to live the life of a baying hound, confusing the thrill of flushing the fox for the lasting comfort of the end of the chase.

A steady pace closes the distance between them. The frenetic energy that drove him to follow bleeds from Nathan with every step, a predator’s stride abandoned for hesitance, for curiosity. Even the simple sight of the other man is a balm to ragged nerves and the pacing of his beast; it is a surge of relief that should give him pause, but here Nate defers to instinct. He has deliberately avoided analyzing what reads as correct. Jericho’s voice rises above the gentle crash of ocean waves, but he receives only silence for his efforts and explanation, and it is a silence of both words and expression.

Nathan settles beside the werewolf, though their eyes do not meet, and rests his forearms on the cool metal railing. The rhythm of the sea runs parallel to the beat of the club left behind, and where the latter inspired heat and action, the former – gilded beneath the waning moonlight – lends itself to contemplation. In the wake of a brine-laden breeze the night’s atmosphere shifts and Nathan, as ever, is powerless to stop Jericho’s pull.

”Boston had its charm.” What twists in his heart is uncomfortable at best. The wolf is soothed by the prior display of possession, by the shared language of touch acted out in the club, and the man feels startlingly alone in his own mind; his brow furrows with the weight of uncertainty. ”But I guess it’s not charm that brought me there. Not the city’s, anyway.” The morose expression cracks under the weight of a reserved smile, the lines of his face tight. Innate mistrust encourages doubt, the belief that Jericho is leading him on with his talk of horizons, but the words spill from him undaunted.

The moment draws out in an infinite span of possibilities, quiet beneath the open sky, and only one emerges as reality. ”I thought of you.” In his office; at the clubs; in his bed. A beacon had guided Nathan across a country, and had left his world darker for its disappearance. ”I can’t say I made it to the harbor – but I thought of you.” When experiences had paled in comparison to the past, and when Jericho had failed to be so easily replaced. ”Too much.” A shrug; it is his own pathetic confession in exchange for Jericho’s flight of fancy.

Smooth palms run along the iron railing, and Nathan leans out over the sand. The conversation should end here but he presses forward, fumbling, struggling to fit concepts to words. ”Whatever we – whatever this is. I’m not any good at it.” Either romantic words or honesty; whether relationships or trust. ”But I’ve also never been good at being told what I can and can’t do.” He has built his life out of defying what has been deemed impossible, and Jericho has always made a show of dancing that line – a thing to possess, and yet never keep. The werewolf turns, running a hand through his hair before fixing the other man with a pair of haunted eyes.

”You mess me up,” Nate admits, frank and final, as if he could manage to explain everything in four wretched words. From a pocket he withdraws a slender silver case; the quiet is interrupted by the hiss of a lighter, their faces briefly illuminated by flame. Nathan takes a slow breath though a black cigarette and sighs the smoke out over the water. ”I don’t know what to do with you. Half the time I’m not even sure what I want.” Jericho leaves him stumbling and reeling. Jericho challenges him, understands him, shares the same mind. Jericho is a vice, an addiction, a problem.

And Nathan has always been an addict.

An extended hand holds out the cigarette in offering, and it is a melancholic gesture – as though a piece of him is ready to accept that they are over and done, that giving voice to their nature has destroyed it more surely than denial ever could.

[♔ Jericho ♔]

Confession – an often painful disclosure of information or sinfulness, and an act used when a man seeks absolution. Jericho is as far from a holy man as one might manage and Nathan is certainly no devout religious soul. Still, Jericho listens, and he does so with respectful and silent intent.

Each imparted phrase dredges up as many answers as they do questions. The line of Jericho’s jaw is set and he looks away to the side, eyes searching riddles in the concrete. This, not in his wildest imagination, is how things were supposed to go. An upbringing steeped in the world of politics and wolves, coupled with his born-nature, formed a volatile personality incapable of respite. To hear the revelations that pass from Nathan’s lips now serves as both his liberation and condemnation.

”Well,” he breaks his lingering silence with a single and ragged word. Jericho swallows the sawdust gathered in his throat and casts Nathaniel a wavering look. The following smile is wan and his tone too jaded for a man so young. ”That makes the two of us.” To his credit, Jericho does not cringe at the obvious copout. A short exhalation reveals a growing anxiety; Jericho turns his attention out to sea, brows knit in vexation. Practiced words and a predisposition to grand speeches may have won the werewolf cases in the courtroom, but here they are useless – Nathan is too disarming.

Orange light burns mellow into the night and the acrid smell of smoke tickles at the werewolf’s nostrils. Jericho accepts the cigarette with a soft sound of gratitude and slips it into his mouth. A deep inhalation ushers a seeping ,nicotine-laced cloud into hungry lungs, and he holds it there until the burn grows uncomfortable. The rush of smoke from the man’s mouth and nose takes with it a few wisps of trepidation. ”Micah didn’t fight me on the club – much.” Back to business, or so it would seem. Numbers and politics, and familial obligations are firmly in the realm of safe things.

His world persist at a tilt; equilibrium remains elusive. Jericho, frightened of change and yet tired of running circles in the same story, pushes on. ”I know he wants in, and I am willing to bet he wants control of the finances. The pack needs a source of revenue, and we don’t exactly have the family business filling our coffers anymore.” A legacy divided, torn apart, and literally fed to the wolves. Jericho found it strangely liberating, but the loss of Three Kings relegated the brothers into starting from square one.

Square one. He looks to Nathan at the repeated thought and there is something heavy lurking behind the green of his eyes. ”It’s not going to be easy,” Jericho declares even as he knows Nathan is fully aware of the dangers. Violence is incumbent where wolves are involved, and the creed of caution will take the trio only so far. There will be obstacles. There will be pain and stress, and an insurmountable amount of work that will try the strength of pack bonds. ”But It’ll be worth it in the end.”

The talk comes to a completion, the night with it. Their heart-to-heart is killed prematurely by an escape to business, to practical matters. This is where things stop, where stray thoughts and emotions are locked away.

A half-eaten cigarette falls from loose fingers onto the beach below. Jericho turns to face Nathan and with a posture that reads of brittle courage, he says -- ”Like us.” Two words open the door for more and Jericho seizes the surge of bravado like a lost man would a compass. ”I’m not willing to let this go.” It is a startling realization, but one long-brewing. ” But if you are --” His hand settles on the railing and grips it tightly. ”--Tell me now, and I’ll play nice.”

Letting go is not possible, but in this world of werewolves and supposed paradises, Jericho can pretend – if pretending is what Nathan wants.

[♥ Nathan ♥]

Expectation reads too much like optimism. A persistent fear of disappointment tailored from years of validation has created a cynic of a man, an individual prone to practicality, to reservations, to safe bets – to a controlling and calculating nature. Jericho has, since their fateful first meeting all those months ago, proven an exception to every rule Nathan has ever made for himself, but in this he retains control. There will be no dissatisfaction because Nathan has not allowed himself to be hopeful; in priming himself for failure, he has kept those more vulnerable threads of his heart walled off, confined, safe.

So if the thin line of his mouth and the tension in his jaw speak of disappointment, surely it is for some other regret.

”Then let him have it,” the werewolf interjects, though his tone is brusque and dismissive. ”He’s right about revenue, and he’ll be a better hand at it than either of us. Micah gets his income, we get our club—“ Nathan waves a hand in vague gesture at the sea, shrugging, ”—everyone’s happy.” The distant quality to his manner suggests anything but, though obstinacy on both their parts sees a futile attempt made to return to normalcy. Nate ignores the burning in his nerves; it is born from a wholly human anxiety now amplified by the wolf, and it is inconsolable.

A tight swallow regains him some modicum of composure. The sway of conversation is routine enough that Nathan can default to mechanical answers, can once again find the front of business as an acceptable façade to disguise himself behind, but it is a bitter pill. His hands cannot find rest; his grip on the railing is white-knuckled, his gaze determinedly fixed on the horizon. They cannot go back to Boston. They were hardly meant to survive Las Vegas. Allowing himself to grow so close, so fond, was a mistake enabled by elaborate self-delusions, and Nathan can use the same to disguise his errors, to back away now and pretend—

Jericho shatters the spell of deniability in two simple words, with the scope of a fragile offer. Narrowed eyes haunted by the ghosts of surprise and doubt chance upward to meet a bold pair of green – he tests, he questions, but Nathan finds no punchline in that returned stare. The thumb of his free hand runs across the backs of his fingertips in indecision; his lips part in some unvoiced reply, but coherent thought has been stolen from him.

A beat, two, and Nathan is crowding into the other man’s space, maneuvering until Jericho is captured between the cage of his body and the railing. Seeking fingers paint a near-reverent caress along the line of the werewolf’s jaw before threading into dark hair. The pulse of Nathan’s heart is wild and erratic, and it is a possessive fervor that surges through his blood, a hunger that seeks both understanding and certainty.

”I don’t think you know how to play nice,” he begins, cautious and mocking, fearful of both breaking this moment and revealing himself. ”—and I don’t think I know how to let this go.” Blue eyes scan Jericho’s face for answers. History and reputation warn of disaster, but Nathan pointedly disregards caution in the wake of what he wants. ”Worth it in the end, right?” A devil-may-care shrug, and though the grip in his hair tightens, it is a gentle and exploratory kiss that presses against Jericho’s lips – one that hunts affirmation and dares to offer reassurance in kind.

When words fail, Nathan imparts emotion through touch, through sensation, and he is slow to break away. A somber glance is cast over Jericho’s shoulder and out to the water; his hands settle to the railing on either side of the man’s hips. ”Christ, just don’t run off this time.” Their eyes meet in a sidelong look, and the pull of his smile is small and belittling. ”I’m tired of moving, and I’m tired of chasing you.”

It is meant in jest, but only now is Nathan able to acknowledge the kernel of truth there, the driving motivation that has guided him so far from home. Jericho is, and has always been, a dangerous weakness – but Nathan has survived worse.

[♔ Jericho ♔]

There are reservations. There are always reservations – and there should be, because Jericho does not exactly have the best record concerning relationships. The trepidation here does not stem from the usual thoughts of the stress not being worth it, or the lack of conviction towards commitment. When Jericho looks at Nathan, he sees the potential for something great – and the potential of ruining it. Loss is not a concept the werewolf is comfortable with, not when it comes to this. A fledgling hope whispers possibilities; Jericho cannot let this go.

”No, I don’t suppose I do.” It is with a near-rueful smile that he says this. Green eyes light over the other werewolf’s features and Jericho recalls in sharp memory the first time he saw Nathan. Back then there was little more to the chase than a need to extinguish the wolf’s desperate hunger. He found in Nathaniel a similar approach to the affliction. Jericho should have known that something was different when he reached out and offered Nathan a place within Boston – a place within reach.

Jericho rarely revisits old flames, but their burns were never quite so exquisite as the one Nathan inspires. Even now there is a persistent thrum within the werewolf’s veins. That it is a force which grows in strength according to Nathaniel’s proximity is telling; why it has taken so long for Jericho to notice is testament to the man’s penchant for denial.

It is a cycle broken and Jericho knows now, definitively, that he is willing to take a step outside of his comfort zone. ”Nothing easy is ever worth it.” Familiar words imparted once before, but this time they take on a different shape, a brighter connotation. An airy laugh, breathless because Nathan is so close, and Jericho murmurs, ”Though to be fair… I am kind of easy.” The words grow quieter until they are lost against a gentle press of Nathan’s lips. He takes the reassurance and offers his own through slow and decadent ministrations. This is a language Jericho understands, and one that can satiate his wolf.

A palm presses into the cool metal of the railing and Jericho leans back to follow Nathan’s gaze. The sea sparkles, the sky is clear and littered with stars; it is a scene that would drive an artist to salivating. Jericho thinks, why leave. He looks to Nathan and raises a hand from where it rests against the man’s abdomen. Fingers that have not seen a day of honest labor, caress over a stubbled jaw line. Jericho smiles and thinks again, this time with conviction, why leave.

”Maybe I like being pursued.” He will never understand why Nathan chose to continue the chase. Jericho’s ego is great but he is not blind; he knows how exhausting his games can be. To question a gift is to sully it, and Jericho is too selfish a man to cast doubt on something he wants so fervently. ”No more running,” Jericho relents with a coy smile. He seals the vow with a chaste kiss to the corner of Nathan’s mouth, then pulls away to meet his eyes. ”This is home now, after all.” And unlike Boston and Las Vegas, it will be theirs from the ground up.

Jericho takes a moment to watch Nathan, to hear what he has to say, and to read in his body language what he does not vocalize. The smirk that makes a slow crawl across Jericho’s features is crooked and would send a nun running in the opposite direction. ”On that note –I think it’s time you take me back to the apartment. Yours or mine. I don’t think it will matter.” The invitation is clear.

Since Nathan’s impromptu arrival, Jericho has not been able to comfortably define what they are. The pair continue to defy known conventions but the werewolf finds he no longer cares. He is free now to accept the proclamation the wolf has always fed him; Nathan is his – and Jericho fully intends on making up for lost time.

[♥ Nathan ♥]

Behind Nathan, bridges burn. Jericho had provided a convenient method of escape, a lifeline to pull him from the crumbling mire of Boston, but Nathan’s arrival in Ponta Delgada had hardly been a matter of choice. That he should turn failure into opportunity, into potential, is a quality – or fault – of character that is only encouraged by his continued success. He does not gamble save for when the payout is worth it, and with Jericho pressed up against him, with the first flickerings of a dream dancing within his head, Nathan’s confidence grows. Under the gibbous moon, it feels remarkably like victory.

There are lessons to be learned from his continued mistakes, from the heartbreak he has known and has wrought, but he continues to discard them in the name of greed. For Jericho, for a shared hunger and the possibility of greatness, Nathan breaks the rules.

”You like being hunted,” he counters, casting his role as hound in a more favorable light. A cocksure smirk plays beneath the gentle brush of Jericho’s lips; Nathan’s hands slide to the man’s hips, to the small of his back. ”And I prefer that to being the stray that followed you home.” Searching fingers press beneath the thin fabric of a shirt, seeking skin. It is not relief that blossoms in Nathan’s chest, not yet, but the sense of accomplishment that makes a home of his heart is close enough to be confused for the other. He cannot admit to know how this works – how they will work – but for the first time in weeks, his head feels clear. His drive to overanalyze borders on obsessive, but for however long this feeling lasts, both man and beast prove satisfied.

A hauntingly familiar smile cannot fail to capture his attention, and Nathan grins slow and wide in reply, an expression accented by roaming hands. ”I thought you’d never ask,” he echoes mischievously, reaching up to grip gently at Jericho’s collar. ”—Mine.” A simple answer to a simple question, but meaning and possessiveness color his tone. His is a persistent desire to own and to claim, amplified by the animal’s need to establish territory – and if Jericho wishes to make this home, Nathan knows where to start. ”Come with me.” A tug at the man’s lapel, a laughing glance cast from beneath lashes, and two wolves will slip into the night.

Jericho is the visionary. Nathan’s is not a creative soul, a personality more suited to action than innovation, but on the cab ride to their complex – one filled with unquiet hands and deceivingly innocent smirks – he feels good enough to dream. Prospects and potential glitter brightly in the near future and Nate will do his best to usher them into reality, compelled by the instincts of his animal and flared to life by the ambition Jericho inspires. It is an arrogance that believes them utterly capable, that will see Ponta Delgada as theirs, that will rebuild the island into paradise. The buzz in his blood is pleasant, and its influence is undeniable.

Stairwells and hallways, the turn of a key; Nathan’s apartment is much as it was days previous, sparsely furnished and fairly uninhabited, made his solely by scent. The clutter has been contained to a box by the door, the interior tidy. The werewolf discards his jacket over the back of a chair, pauses only long enough for Jericho to make himself comfortable, and then turns to face him. ”I won’t make the mistake of trying to ply you with alcohol this time.” An easy smile, a lackadaisical shrug. ”—I don’t have any.” A hand reaches out to graze knuckles along Jericho’s chest, along the sharp line of his jaw, and the look in Nathan’s eyes is curious and fascinated.

”I’ve never been this patient for anyone.” It is a sentiment that reflects one realized months previous, both a compliment and a boast. The man leans in, tilts Jericho’s chin towards him, and abandons thought for the capture of lips, for the clash of teeth.

Jericho is no prince. Nathan is no knight. Theirs is not a fairy tale. In the temptation to build, to create, there is always the possibility for ruin, and it is this danger that has always stayed his hand – but for once he leaps without looking, and for the fledgling hope of new beginnings, Nathan chooses faith.

[♔ Jericho ♔]

”My, my. Turning a new leaf, are we?” The words come as a murmur through a teasing smile. Jericho shrugs his suit jacket off and tosses it carelessly aside where it lands on a nearby table. ”But you’re right – we wouldn’t want to dull our senses.” A werewolf must imbibe copious amounts of alcohol before their senses are remotely dulled, but Jericho stands by his statement.

His fingers work the top buttons of his shirt open and he turns around in time to greet Nathaniel with a slow smirk. A wandering hand elicits a small exhale and Jericho reaches out to capture the other werewolf’s wrist. Fingertips press in; the facsimile of a tender wolf’s bite meant to hold and to possess. Blood runs hot within Nathan’s pulse and Jericho can feel it with each rhythmic heartbeat. He slips a tongue over his lips to wet them and says with gilded eyes, ”Patience is overrated.”

The residual rumble left from the last uttered syllable turns to a growl, but the noisy vibrations are lost within Nathan’s mouth. Jericho is greedy. He was born greedy, raised into a life of entitlement, and has since lived an existence steeped within decadence. He takes what Nate offers and demands more. His tongue is hot and violent in it explorations, his teeth catch and bite, his breath runs ragged and humid against close skin. It is a need demonstrated in past encounters but this time it is sharper, more exacting, like a man hell-bent on mapping out new, unexplored territory.

Elegant hands rest against Nathan’s hips and hold him there with surprising strength. It is all too easy to forget that, beneath the suit and charming smile, is a wolf -- and one that would have the world on its knees proclaiming it alpha. Jericho’s strength is rarely demonstrated through sheer brawn; he prefers manipulative words to flexing muscles, but something about Nathan appeals to the werewolf’s primal side.

Jericho releases a guttural rumble and pushes Nathan’s back flat against the nearest wall. Their lips part with a wet noise and a sigh, but Jericho is quick to otherwise occupy his mouth. Teeth settle against the long line of Nathaniel’s throat, and Jericho’s tongue presses directly over the man’s jugular. He can feel the pulse, frantic and excited, echoing within his own veins. The rhythms meld and meet, and somewhere between the taste of Nathan’s skin and the friction of the werewolf’s thigh between his legs, he can no longer distinguish between them.

For a while, it appears that Jericho is content to rut against Nathan’s leg and to leave the werewolf’s throat a mess of red, but he is never so easily satisfied. An apologetic tongue laves over a particularly angry bite mark and Jericho goes so far as to nuzzle the underneath of Nathan’s jaw. He pulls away fractionally, and playfully nips at the older man’s chin. ”Sorry,” he says while not sounding sorry at all. ”I got a little over-excited.” The cheeky smirk that follows is accented by an insistent press of his hips.

Gold flecks around the green of Jericho’s irises; it is indication that the man’s feral side is roused. This time stands apart from the rest, because neither man or beast is in control. It is a shared existence, a subconscious agreement between two halves of the same soul. This moment belongs to both of them. Jericho’s eyes drop, nearly demure, and his fingers tug at the leather of Nathan’s belt. ”We should move this to the bedroom,” a pause, a raised brow, and a devilish smirk. ”Unless you’re into the whole wall-sex thing.” Jericho, kind soul that he is, is more than willing to oblige.