↪ ᵃ ˢᵗᵘᵈʸ 𝔦𝔫 . . . fog threading through conifer silhouettes ; the ache of unspoken things passed between glances ; old denim soaked through with rain ; wind through tall grass where secrets were buried ; ghosts you swore you outran returning with the moon ; silence that lingers just a little too long .
whitmer is a social butterfly for pay, usually. but he thinks it's important to show his face at events like this. as if anyone would notice his absence. anyway, there's also the matter of free food, which is something he can't really say no to, not when the alternative is ramen or a bowl of cereal. he also doesn't have any excuse to visit the rez normally, and he likes it there, especially likes that it isn't forks. there's something very...serene in the air, maybe it's the water, maybe it's the tight-knit community, or maybe it's the fact that his finger has never itched to grab for his knife during his brief visits. whatever it is, he doesn't have time to put his finger on it before a familiar face interrupts his thoughts. "i am now," he says affably. whitmer grabs the marshmallows, opens the bag, and tilts it towards bodhi. "that's an exaggeration...right?"
it was a kind of cosmic misfortune, really, to wander into bodhi’s orbit. all fire, all fizz, all the time. he was a weather system in perpetual motion, and of course it would be someone wholly undeserving of such tempest who’d drift too near. isn’t that always the way? bodhi’s grin curves wider, as though he’d been waiting for this — this inevitability of soft-heartedness and generosity — when surely what he merited was someone to tell him to simmer down and quit filching mouthfuls from every dessert in sight. "love to hear that!" bodhi coaxes a ‘mallow from the bag with delicate, thieving fingertips, a small triumph he knows he couldn’t have pulled off entirely on his own. "oh..." the syllable drapes from his lips, head tilting with a slow, almost mournful shake. "you got a big storm comin’. because twelve is nothing to me. i’m actually shocked i went so low! let’s go s’mores for s’mores right now." no, bodhi… let’s not.
Marie did not recognize this intense man but she felt no threat by his discomfort. Hell, she probably was emitting the same vibes.
Marie nodded and picked up her red cup from the sand. She nodded it to him in a toast. "Nice to meet--er--see you, Callum." Fuck.
"First time at a bonfire, hmm? Well, I'm from here but I just got back, so if it hasn't changed too much. It will be lots of eating and story telling." She shrugged. "It's a fun time. Take a seat, the elders always do a great job. Shouldn't be long now."
She squinted at him, "Say, how long have you been in town?"
callum tipped his chin in a small, unspoken exchange — right back at ya — without having to loose the words into the air. "yeah, first time." first time at any sort of town gathering, truth be told; maybe it was the rarity of such an event that had him here, or maybe it was the quiet lure of knowing almost everyone would be in one place (more chances to see if anything was... off). "right. that doesn't sound too bad." he wasn’t even sure he meant it, only that it was the sort of thing people said, a fragile bridge between silence and something like connection. he paused, hand drifting to scratch at his beard, a gesture to suggest the answer wasn’t already etched in his mind — down to the exact day. when he finally spoke, it was with something deliberately plain. normal. "about three years." he didn’t ask her what had brought her back, or what growing up here had been like. he simply let the words settle between them, an invisible weight in the air, wondering if she’d notice the weight of the silence left there.
each step forward prompted her own to retreat, the rhythmic crunch of loose gravel punctuating short phrases exchanged between. paulina felt cornered, even despite the abilities that have allowed her kind to evade such feelings of intimidation. even so, humanity was never a weakness, never once had she seen it as such, not even in a foot race. but his, this stranger, someone she'd only seen in passing, his mortality smells distinctly other, as if she could sniff out the soot, the dirt caked beneath well-worn leather, “ you can go, then. ” she insisted, voice unwavering, her movements almost serpentine, the intentional weave between obstacles to place barriers between the two. “ unless you've taken it upon yourself to conduct night patrols. ” jaw clenched, eyes wavering between the other and flickering street lamps. “ i can assure you, though, i'm fine. ”
callum had only stepped forward long enough to notice the way she kept stepping back, a slow and quiet retreat. and though he was a strange sort — silent more often than not, a shadow lingering at the edge of things — pushy was the last thing he ever was. at least, not without cause. so he stopped, rooted where the air seemed to thin, and let the space stretch between them like a taut thread, the two of them still caught in the same pale orbit. "i'm trying to look, too." the words slipped from him without edge, without the sour taste of accusation. there was nothing in them but truth, even if he knew — deep down — that he was no help at all, just another pair of eyes in a forest that had already been scoured by dozens before him, when the search first began.
"most people are gone now. figured peace and quiet would make it easier to keep an eye out." his arms folded loosely over his chest, gaze flickering across the latticework of trees. "i'm sure you are." the agreement came easily, though his eyes lingered on her, cataloguing each faint shift in her stance. suspicion was his natural state — worn into him like an old habit — and most days it was nothing more than the rhythm of human caution. but this... this was something else. nerves stretched thin? the echo of the disappearance settling in her bones? he hoped that was all. "you know your way out of here? i'm afraid i got myself mixed up." a lie, smooth and unhurried, not a tremor in his tone nor a falter in the beat of his heart. just callum, lingering for no reason he could name, unwilling — perhaps unable — to step out of her presence just yet.
''three in- just be quiet, that's actually disgusting, how dare you?'' she pretended to be revolted by his hair care routine before letting out a laugh. she looked at him, her eyes sparkling as she lowered her phone.
“from the good of my heart? please,” she teased, waving her phone at him. “this is skilled labor. i’m doing very important research here. - you think googling 'how to not set a marshmallow on fire' is easy?”
she tapped her chin, pretending to think it over with a serious face as soon as he mentioned the trade. “hmm, a stolen lemon bar… you’re offering me black market goods as payment? mischievous” a huge grin spread across her face, her dimples going deep into her cheeks. “okay. i think this would make an acceptable form of payment.”
“pleasure doing business with you, please put it inside my jacket pocket or else, i'll burn your s'mores” she demanded, finally starting to put a s’more together for him. “so what’s the deal with this lemon bar? did you have to fight someone for it or something?”
bodhi couldn’t help the laugh that burst free — spilling out like sunlight through a crack in storm clouds. "how dare i? how dare you! you couldn’t possibly think i’d use shit like that… honestly, you really believed me? it hurts more than you could ever know." the words rode the curl of a smirk as he shook his head in mock frustration. the performance softened, dissolving into raised brows. "oh… right, right. of course. how could i forget! fingers tapping on a screen is almost as much work as shoving a marshmallow on a sand-covered stick and stick it in a fire. which is super hard, too. really, this is incredible stuff." when she accepted the lemon bar, his face lit as though he’d just pulled the winning lotto number. "score! i knew this little fucker would help me." with casual efficiency, he tucked the beer bottle under his arm, freeing one hand to slip into his pocket.
the lemon square — wrapped in a napkin like an afterthought, now flattened and tragically unphotogenic — was raised in brief, triumphant display. "lemon bar incoming." he slipped it into the pocket of her jacket before reclaiming his drink. "little do you know, the key to a good marshmallow is burnt, just before it starts falling off the stick, so that wouldn’t even bother me." he punctuated it with a shrug and an insincere, smug curl of the lips. the lemon bar’s tale unraveled with a lazy flick of words. "eh, more or less. more like i kept sneaking behind people and taking shit off the tables so i wouldn’t get yelled at for eating too much. less about actually fighting somebody for it. too much attention, you know? i’m a very chill guy, like to fly under the radar." not true. not even close.
she can't quite deny that she's very much here for the marshmallow. hunger is a constant companion, and every time browns lock on the marshmallow bag, it takes superhuman self restraint not to rip it from bodhi and tear into the fluff. “ i'll have you know i never lie. ” she says, lying. “ i'm a journalist. a truth-seeker. and right now, a s'mores chef. ” another marshmallow is skewered, this time with determination locking in her body. she would not disappoint her savior this time. this time she's succeeded in not destroying it — only because she takes it out a little too fast, forcing the not-hot enough marshmallow to bend under the weight of chocolate and graham cracker.
still, it's a s'more. she whoops, presenting it to bodhi like a gift, waving it in his face. “ what'd i say? s'more chef, unburnt, which means no wrath for me. ” and then — she waits. stares, expectant, for him to try it. “ i'm going to need a full review. don't be shy. but if it's a bad review, you're gonna have to lie to me. i don't have the emotional regulation skills to handle a bad review to my face. ”
a sly nod unfurls between them, stitched with half-jokes and a lazy glint, as he hears her claim she doesn’t lie. as if he doesn’t feel that subtle, telltale shift beneath in his skin that would whisper otherwise. that was always the most humorous thing — humorous in the way vinegar is sharp on the tongue — about his gift. still, distraction comes easily to him; he can scent something else on the wind and let it carry him away. besides, clara was never the kind of person he kept on the watchlist of his mind — never the kind of person he thought he had to. just don’t let anyone else hear that; shifters are supposed to despise those who drink from the living, even if they’re only half leech. "i would put s'mores chef at the top of the list, honestly. but fine, fine! i take it back. a truther, not a liar." bodhi’s hands rise in exaggerated surrender for a heartbeat or two before falling again, his lips hooked in that stupid, effortless smile. his gaze is careful, following the delicate ritual of her assembling the confection in front of him.
his hand slips out to claim the chocolate-laden marvel, a quick nod of approval. "you know what? it'll do... i guess." the words drip with mock disdain — like he wouldn’t eat something that had been dropped in the sand mere minutes before — and yet, half the thing vanishes into his mouth before she’s even finished asking about a review. he’s only half listening, half living in the sugar haze, muttering something that barely resembles a question before lifting a single finger in front of him, cheeks full. he shoves the sweetness to one side of his mouth so he can speak, lips parting just enough. "okay, so even if it's bad, i have to tell you it's good? well... it's good, clara. i'm forever in your debt." the remnants slide down his throat, and the second half of the s’more is caught between his teeth — not yet chewed — as he bends in an overly theatrical bow before her. "how can i ever repay you?"
‘ ✦ it’s always been a comfortable place for her , la push , one where she can relax and be herself and swim until her legs feel weak and her lungs burn . it’s almost sacred , a spot she rarely shares with people outside her pack . hence , seeing it full of vampires puts something heavy in the pit of her stomach , something that wrinkles her nose and the space between her brows . her people are there , though , and she still feels safe , so she forces herself to fucking chill , with bodhi by her side making a mess of whatever he has in his bag . " man , i don’t—i don’t know how to make s’mores , " she confesses , although she has seen others make them sometimes . she looks at bodhi intently for a moment , hands gripping the ingredientes , and feels and aching affection settle between her lungs . " but if you do , and you instruct me . . . " alba sighs , gaze moving away , to the fire . " well , yeah , i can help you . "
he moved through the gathering with the single-minded air of someone on a sacred quest to secure as much food as possible — stored away, perhaps, for some imagined famine. as though bodhi would ever truly want for food! but if he kept his focus tethered to the fullness of plates, the hum of music, the crackle of fire, the endless hush-and-roar of waves against the shore — perhaps then he could set aside that aching knot in his chest, the tangled threads of everybody’s emotions pressing in on him: the anxiousness, the fleeting contentment, the quiet strain, the old and festering hates. the familiar presence beside him smoothed the edges of his thoughts, though the first words he caught made his face crumple into mock astonishment. "you... you don't know how to make s'mores." he declared, as if the thought itself demanded a long, somber reflection. "i think this is one of the worst heartbreaks i've ever experienced." oh, bodhi was nothing if not theatrical. his head bowed in feigned mourning for a moment before he straightened again, bright-eyed. "eh, that's alright! wouldn't wanna enjoy these without a proper s'mores connoisseur. what's your go-to bonfire food then, huh? burn a hotdog over the open flame? chips and dip? which is probably super warm now, by the way. or some secret third option?"
in many ways, and at many times, winnie has thought bodhi must have been made to be her friend. since she was a girl, she thought this – cosmically made atom by atom to be by her side forever ( this hurts, sometimes, thinking of their youth, what they had, always does, but she could never tell him that ). it often feels as easy as riding a bike, loving him. it's only in times like these that winona remembers this love is a choice. a choice to trust him when he says he's fine he'll be fine, and to nod like the worry doesn't make your stomach ache. a choice to act much more level-headed because she knows the world likes to press down around him.
and apparently, a choice to lie, “ i think she just wandered off. teenager shit – ‘member when i used to turn my location off and run to, like, fuckin’ packwood for the night ? and then i'd come home in the morning and i'd be fine. think it's that. ” one can only hope, “ we need to trust that they know what we know. ” that it couldn't have been anyone here, any wolf half-awake would know that ; winnie just isn't sure that's enough to quell a grudge so deep its been forged in blood. trust is a funny word when you think about it like that. “ you do a great job of picking worst case scenario, moss anyone ever tell you that ? ” her, many times ; usually in a lighter context. “ promise you'll chill the fuck out n'i'll buy you a shake. we can talk conspiracy while i get a burger. ” a groan. appetite activated, “ shit, bo, i need a burger. i can't do this. ” a final choice, to let herself be loved, too.
more often than not, bodhi found himself circling the same quiet wonder, like a stone skipping over water: how did i get so lucky? how did i stumble, graceless and fumbling, into the orbit of winnie? the gentle, steadfast girl with a kindness that asked for nothing in return. she was stitched into the fabric of his life longer than almost anything else he could name. there had once been — back when they first shifted — a shadowed whisper in the back of his mind, that inevitable, gnawing fear: she might grow tired of him. back then, he’d been a wreck, all jagged edges and emotional white noise, the relentless flood of feeling and the sudden silences that followed. but she didn’t leave. she showed up. and again. and again, and again, and again. even when he was sure he didn’t deserve it. so he’d stopped worrying about her going. most days, when his mind was steady enough to hold a thought, he simply let himself feel the quiet gravity of her presence — his gratitude not loud, but bone-deep.
his gaze slid sideways toward her, a soft tsk breaking the moment. "yeah, i do. and i remember wanting to beat your ass for it." his head shook, almost absentminded. "yeah, well... trust is earned, win. and they haven’t really earned anything from us. from me." the truth of it ran all the way into his marrow — he was built on the creed of: i trust you until you prove me wrong. and every soul standing across the unspoken battle lines of their bloodline was living proof of why. still, her next words drew a laugh from him, and he felt something small and tense unwind in his chest. "yeah, 'course i do! somebody’s gotta do it. we can’t always be sunshine and rainbows all the time, huh?" he nudged her shoulder with his own, a wordless gesture made warmer by the slight tilt of his head. "shakes on you, burgers on me. don’t let me eat more than three... i think i kinda outdid myself on the desserts tonight. i might be... a little more energized than normal."
♱ towards the edge of the woods, 10:20pm
♱ open for anyone looking for hannah
when most of the people start taking off in the dark, theo follows suit. but the truth is, he's not exactly sure what to look for. footsteps? a scrap of clothing? a strand of hair? it's hard to think about how heartless he must be, thinking that this is all so ridiculous. in a town as small as forks, where else would she be? he's so sure that the girl would turn up by sunrise, that he's resolved to wandering instead of searching, letting the flashlight from his phone guide his senseless path. he's about to retreat back to the heart of the event, maybe sneak a few more snacks before heading home, when the snap of a branch alerts him to someone else's presence. reflexes are quick to spin around and flash the light right at his company, and there's a part of him, a very small part, despite what he's been thinking for the last several minutes, that hopes it could be hannah. brows furrow when theo makes out that it isn't, lips curving downward in disappointment. “ there's nothing here, ” he says, waving his light around the area to prove his claim. “ i passed this area, like, three times. ”
there wasn’t much he could do that others couldn’t — he knew that in the quiet, unlit corners of himself — but still, that knowledge never stopped him from trying something. anything. to press his hands against the fraying edges of a situation and hope it might hold. though he’d always rather slip between shadows, unnoticed, there were rare, sharp moments when he abandoned the comfort of anonymity. a missing teenage girl in the woods of the town his father last pointed to — well, maybe that was one of those moments. he hadn’t thought to bring a flashlight, hadn’t reached for one even when they were offered. so callum was just wandering, really, threading his way between trees whose branches reached like skeletal hands, without any clear direction to follow. that was — until a thin beam of light ahead cut through the dark, catching his eye. it swung toward him, and instinctively, he squinted, gaze dropping to escape the glare. "sucks." he says, and for once, he means it. not a tossed-off line to plug the gaps in conversation, but something felt, something lodged in his chest. "sounds like she’s not here." callum steps closer, the ground whispering underfoot, eyes sweeping the space between the trunks. "or, really, anywhere near here." that’s helpful, thank you.
Declan had been circling the fire for most of the night, never lingering long enough in one place to be drawn into anything deeper than small talk. He liked it that way—moving through the warmth without letting it get under his skin. Still, the gravity of certain people was harder to sidestep, and Bodhi was one of them. He came up behind him just in time to see the precarious balance of graham crackers, chocolate, and marshmallow bag all threatening to collapse.
“You’re a disaster waiting to happen,” Declan said, voice even, but with the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. He plucked the marshmallows from Bodhi’s reach before they could tumble into the sand, holding the bag just out of his grasp for a beat longer than necessary.
“Relax. I’m here for s’mores.” He dropped onto the log beside him, leaving a small, deliberate space between them. “But twelve? You planning to run laps around the beach after, or just let the sugar turn you feral?” There was an ease in his tone, but not quite comfort—like they were both playing their parts in a familiar script neither of them had agreed to write. Declan tore the marshmallow bag open and slid it across the gap between them, meeting Bodhi’s gaze with a look that was somewhere between a challenge and an unspoken truce.
“Go on then,” he said. “Show me how a professional does it.”
it wasn’t declan’s fault — none of it was — but knowing that did little to ease the strange, bitter twist bodhi felt coil low in his gut whenever the man was near. there was nothing malicious in declan’s gaze, only a persistent curiosity, a quiet hunger to belong, to be part of something larger than himself — and, worse, he got that belonging without ever having to ask. bodhi knew the fault lived in himself, curled in the marrow of his bones like some old, familiar ache. he understood, in the abstract, why he couldn’t just open the door and let declan in. maybe it was pride. maybe fear. maybe something meaner. because bodhi had been born into this — the rhythm of it all, the rituals, the unspoken rules that clung like fog. he had clawed his way into a name, brick by bloody brick, and still... still, it felt like too little.
especially when standing beside someone so new, so wide-eyed, so easily adored. declan had been folded into graypine like he’d always belonged. laughter had found him quickly. arms had opened. a space was made without question or cost. and bodhi, watching from a step removed, reminded himself — over and over — that this was who they were. this was the good in them. but they'd never had someone like declan before. not like this, not so soon. and it didn’t matter that bodhi could feel the truth of declan — good, decent, earnest to a fault. the old instinct still flared when declan reached for the bag of marshmallows, the same one bodhi had asked someone to grab. a small, sharp thing twisted in him. unwelcome, but there. his laugh came too quick, too shaped to sound real. a poor performance.
"better not take all the good 'mellows." he said. it should’ve been paired with a grin, crooked and easy. anyone else would’ve gotten that smile. but for declan, it barely rose before falling flat. he had to get his shit together. "twelve is the sweet spot. literally. with twelve, i have just enough energy to do suicides across the beach for five minutes. tire myself out, be quiet. it's really for everybody's benefit." he plucked one marshmallow from the bag and took up the forgotten stick, spearing the pillowy white center like it owed him something. "hope you're okay with the smell of char." he added, voice dipping as he eased the marshmallow into the flame. "no better way to enjoy a dozen of these fuckers. gotta get 'em crispy."
attending the bonfire is a rather tried and true lesson in loneliness for siobhan ⸻ the familiar sensation of entering all manner of situations uninvited , and yet with her head still held unhindered and high. for even with the open invitation extended to all , it's waddling into a sea of unfamiliar faces and rather worryingly delicious scents that has her chasing a lifeline ; clinging to the first recognizable face she sees. accompanied by the overwhelming scent of sweetness , this time of a more human and chocolatey kind , and the hand that currently holds , the distraction comes easy enough once she attempts to pick apart the sight before her ( and here siobhan thought she could be considered greedy for overindulging in a bite of flesh or two ). so while she wasn't certain as to how exactly a s'more would taste , there was no way it justified the eating of an entire dozen of the overly sticky treats. ❝ this must be the type of greed they talked about in the bible , your poor , poor dentist. ❞ plucking the bag of marshmallows from him , she fished out a handful to have at the ready once he got to the actual roasting bit. ❝ … don't you need a stick ? ⸻ you're not planning on sticking your entire hand into the fire , are you ? i was informed the barbecue already happened at six. ❞
there was always something a little off about him — not in the alarming way, but in the way that made you look twice and wonder how someone like that slipped through the usual filters of the world. he moved through people like water over stones, smoothing them, never snagging. even the sharp ones couldn’t seem to cut him. never snapped, never seethed. no grudges kept in his pockets, not even when others pressed them into his hands like coins. he had the sort of autonomy that felt rare — met people where they were, not where he wanted them to be. so when siobhan, half-blooded and wholly unbothered, settled in beside him, he didn’t so much as flinch. "hmph." the laugh came out, short nod following. "bold of you to assume i even go to the dentist." and there it was again — that thing he did. some in-between creature of his own making, part mischief, part recklessness.
an eyebrow arched in her direction, lips curling into the barest hint of amusement. "and what if i did? i'd heal quick, you know. you should see it some time. pretty cool stuff." his voice had dropped, hushed like a secret between breaths — not out of fear, but performance. humans within earshot, yes, but easily deceived. always easier to dismiss the strange when it’s wrapped in humor. bodhi, ever the peculiar, ever the charmer, had a marshmallow stick lying idle in the sand. he picked it up, fingers brushing against the scorched tip, casual and soft. "see? good as new." sand still clung in tiny constellations, but he paid them no mind. "'mallow me." he offered the stick, point-first, like a knight offering a sword — or perhaps just a boy offering trouble in the shape of sugar.
you hear it before it’s spoken aloud. the scent of it hits first — bitter like pine sap scorched on sun-hot stone, curling around your ribs with a sharpness you mistake for your own breath catching. something wrong, something leaving. not death, not quite. but the kind of silence that follows it. you try to ignore it. you always do. the low thrum of other people's grief has made a home in you, endless and echoing, and you’ve learned to let it pass through like wind through old screens. but this — this clings. it sings.
you feel wren in it. not the boy you used to chase barefoot through tidepools or the one who used to throw pebbles at your window at midnight, laughing like the moon belonged to him. no. this wren smells like ash and fury. like he’s burned every road behind him just to make sure no one follows.
elias orders you to let him go.
his voice is steady, final. an alpha’s command pressed between his teeth like iron. "he’s made his choice." as if that could be enough. as if choosing to walk away from the pack, from you, from the only thing keeping his bones from turning to dust under the weight of his loss — as if that choice didn’t matter more than anything. you nod. you try to obey. but your hands won’t stop shaking.
and when the others are asleep, when the trees are thick with the hush of waiting things, you slip from the house like a secret, half-asleep and aching. you follow the trail he left like a dare. every snapped branch, every half-formed footprint in the loam sings wrenwrenwren in your ears. he’s not running. not yet. but he’s not looking back, either. you find him just past bellwood lookout, where the mist clings low to the ground and the trees hang like judgment.
he turns before you speak, like he expected this. his eyes are colder than you remember. not angry — not yet. just resigned. like the world has already ended and you’re the only one who didn’t notice. "don’t." he says. and you don’t know what hurts more — that he knew you would come, or that he’s already decided you’re not enough to stop him.
the air between you is damp with something unsaid, something unspeakable. you want to grab him, shake him, hold him, scream. instead, your voice splinters out of you like breaking bark: "you don’t have to do this." and his laugh is a knife, soft and cruel. "you think this is a choice?" you take a step forward. he doesn’t move. another. still, nothing. you whisper his name like an apology. and he flinches like it’s a curse. somewhere inside you, the wolf stirs. but you don’t let it rise. not yet.
his breath fogs in the cold between you. the world holds still — like even the forest is waiting to see what you’ll do. "you’re not thinking straight." you say, and it’s almost gentle, like you can still talk him down from the edge. "you’re hurting, i know, but leaving like this — "
"don’t." he snaps, louder now. "don’t you dare talk to me like i’m some broken thing you have to fix." you swallow. you’ve never been good at arguments. you flinch at raised voices, let people storm past rather than stand in their way. but not this. not him. "wren. just… listen to yourself. you don’t even know who did it. you’re chasing shadows, ghosts, rumors — "
"and you’re doing nothing." he’s shaking now — not from cold, but from the sheer force of what he’s holding in. "they’re dead, bodhi. my family. ripped apart like they were nothing. and you just want to sit around and wait for elias to tell us it’s safe to breathe again?"
"he’s trying to keep us alive."
"no. he’s trying to keep us silent." the words hit harder than a punch. you step back before you mean to. he sees it — how your faith fractures behind your eyes — and it only makes him angrier. "you think peace is gonna save us? that if we just play nice and bare our throats long enough, they’ll stop killing us?" his voice breaks. "you’re dreaming."
you clench your fists at your sides. "i believe in what we’ve built. in what we stand for."
"then you’re a coward." you flinch. not because it’s true — but because it’s him saying it. because this is the boy who once curled up beside you under the stars and told you he’d follow you anywhere. because this is the boy who now looks at you like you’re just another thing he has to leave behind. "you think this is what they would’ve wanted?" you whisper. "your family? for you to run off half-feral into the woods, looking for something to kill?"
"i think they’d want me to care that they’re gone." he spits, and that’s the part that hurts most of all. as if your grief isn’t real because it doesn’t make you bleed. you’re too quiet for a moment. then, soft: "you’re not the only one who lost them." his mouth twists. "but i’m the only one willing to do something about it." and with that, he turns his back.
you don’t mean to follow. you tell yourself you won’t. that this is where it ends — this aching standoff in the trees, two boys on opposite sides of a heartbreak neither of you can name. but your legs move anyway, slow and quiet, pine needles soft beneath your boots. like maybe if you just stay close enough, you can still catch the pieces of him before they fall too far apart.
"don’t follow me." he growls over his shoulder. you ignore it. the forest thins near the ridge, air sharper now, wind moving fast between the trees. your pulse is too loud. but his — his is everything. burnt copper. salt. lightning-struck wood. you can feel his emotions tangling in your throat before you get close enough to speak again.
grief, wild and bladed. anger, wrapped in the wet bark of exhaustion. and beneath it — something like guilt. like he knows. "please." you whisper. "i’m not here to fight you." he turns on you so fast the wind stutters. "then leave." his hand is already clenched into a fist. yours isn’t. "you don’t want this." you say, stepping closer.
he shoves you. it’s not gentle. not a warning. he means it. "you don’t get to tell me what i want." his voice cracks down the middle. "you stayed. you watched them put the bodies in the ground and you still chose to believe in them."
"because i had to!" the words tear out of you raw. "because if i didn’t, i’d lose everything. and so will you."
"good." then he lunges.
your shoulder hits the dirt, breath knocked from your lungs as his weight crashes over you. fists now — clumsy, human, all sharp elbows and broken breathing. you manage to shove him off, roll to your feet, hands up, defensive. you don’t swing. you won’t.
but he does. again. and again. you dodge most of them. one catches your cheek, another your ribs. you taste blood. smell his. and then he’s too angry for skin. too grief-sick for words. you smell the shift before it happens — muscle pulling, bones reforming, heat and fire and pain. his scream breaks into a snarl halfway through.
the wolf that lands in front of you is nothing like the boy. he’s taller, leaner, and brutal. his eyes — still wren’s — gleam with a hurt too deep for a human throat to carry. he lunges. you don’t move fast enough. his claws rip through your forearm, white-hot and staggering. the blood comes fast, dripping to the leaves like melted rust. your knees hit the ground.
and even now, even with the pain singing through every nerve, you hesitate.
but he doesn’t. he crouches again, hackles raised, ready to tear you open until there’s nothing left of the boy who begged him to stay. so you shift. you don’t hesitate now — there’s no time. the wolf is always there, just beneath the surface, and you let it swallow you whole.
when your paws slam into the forest floor, the impact echoes up your spine. your vision sharpens. your heartbeat shatters into his. and then — you’re inside the maelstrom. his feelings hit you like a flood.
his mother’s voice. his sisters’ laughter. his blood screaming for justice. the scent of their bodies, long cold. the silence of the house when he came back too late. you stagger under it. you’re hurting too much to see straight. you think, voice-echo through the bond, thick and trembling.
his reply is all teeth: you’re still trying to save me like i didn’t already burn.
then a lunge. you leap back. he slashes again — misses this time, barely. you circle each other through ferns and fog and pine-shadow, breath ragged in tandem.
they’re gone, bodhi. i have to do something.
you’ll lose yourself too. you plead, pacing slow. this isn’t what they would’ve wanted.
his snarl is pure heartbreak. you don’t get to talk about them.
he lunges again. you catch his shoulder with your teeth — too hard, not out of rage but hope, some fractured instinct that maybe if you bite deep enough, if you anchor him to the ache of this moment, he’ll remember. not the pain, but the belonging. not the blood, but the bond.
your jaws clench down like prayer, like grief with fangs. you don’t mean to hurt him, not really — but your teeth find bone, and some desperate part of you begs: feel this. remember me. come back.
he snarls, lashes out, but you open your mouth again and snap down on another part of him — his flank, his ribs, his past — anything. anything to stop the unraveling. to shake loose the ghost of the boy who used to laugh at your jokes and fall asleep on your shoulder and say: this pack is all we’ve got, you know?
but he doesn’t yield. your teeth leave red in the fur. your heart leaves more. and still, it doesn’t work. his jaws clamp around your flank and you howl, your leg crumpling beneath the pain. blood in your mouth. not his. yours.
please stop. please wren. please — you can barely finish the thought before he tackles you again. you hit the ground hard, ribs cracking. he’s over you, fangs bared, a deep growl building in his throat. you could fight back. you should. but you feel it. all of it. the rawness. the unraveling.
you’re in too much pain to hear me. you breathe the thought out soft and quiet as snowfall.
and then you stop fighting. you lower your head. you bare your throat. the tension stills. just for a breath. just for a moment.
his claws still press to your side, but he doesn’t strike. not yet. you feel him hesitate — feel the shaking in his chest, the tidal pull of grief giving way to something else. something like sorrow.
why do you always let me hurt you? he says, barely more than a whisper in his head.
because i still believe you’ll come back.
then — he lets you go.
you stay on the ground until he disappears into the trees, the forest swallowing the sound of his retreat. your blood soaks the moss. your breath tastes like rust.
and still, you do not call for help. you only lie there, and feel the shape of him fading through the bond like a song cut short. like something you won’t stop waiting for.
you stumble back into graypine just before dawn. the trees blur at the edges. your wolf form unraveled halfway through the return, body too broken to hold it, and now you’re walking barefoot and shirtless, blood-soaked and shaking, carrying the forest in your bones.
you don’t remember making it to the treeline. only the way the moss stuck to your ribs. only the way your name echoed once — twice — through the pack as they found you slumped at the edge of camp like a ghost come home.
hands grab you. too many voices. but none of them his. you don’t say his name. not yet. not until elias steps into the clearing, face grim and unreadable.
"he’s not redmaw." you choke out before anyone can ask. "he’s — he’s grieving." someone’s pressing cloth to your arm. it burns. the slash is deep, deeper than you realized. too clean to be accidental. too raw to forget. you already know it won’t heal right.
"we have to go after him." you breathe. "to reach him." elias’s mouth is tight. his silence says more than a hundred orders ever could. "he’s not lost." you say, and your voice cracks like thin ice. "not completely."
someone murmurs, bodhi, you need to lie down. someone else says, you’re bleeding through the bandage. your head tips forward. the world sways.
"please." you whisper. you don’t remember if anyone answers. the next few days pass in pieces. pain comes and goes in waves. they try not to let you see the way they look at you — like something fragile, foolish, already fading.
you stay in your room. barely speak. the arm’s wrapped tight, but it hurts to move, hurts more to sleep. you dream in teeth and forest-fire. when you finally stand on your own again, it’s raining. you limp to the edge of camp, eyes scanning the treeline. just in case.
but you already know what you’ll find. his scent is old. cold. washed away by time and weather and choice. wren is gone. and all you have left is the dull ache of your bones and the ragged scar winding up your forearm like a question that never gets answered.
“ couldn't be. don't smell ‘em. ” winnie's eyes are scanning the tree line, straining to find something ( someone, in the form of a young girl she used to see playing at the park. no dice ). a quiet apprehension, the calm before hurricane winnie. she's trying to be calm, if only for the sake of the others around her. embers shoot from the dimming fire weakly, a mirror of forks's own sapped energy. when winnie swallows again it's thick, breaking her gaze away from the trees to look at him properly for the first time in what feels like hours.
all at once brows furrow and her head tilts, arm reaching out to smack his a little. “ knock it off. you're catastrophizing again. ” bodhi isn't, she knows that. but it doesn't mean that winnie is going to allow her best friend to crumble under the weight of it, “ you can't figure out what happened to that girl. stop trying to. ” a sigh, heavy and burdened. her hand finds his, fingers lace together in a reassuring squeeze. when she speaks aagin, there's more conviction, “ stop. we'll figure it out. ” hopefully.
he nods, slow and subtle, a quiet concession that brings him the faintest comfort — at least he wasn’t the only one caught in that thought. but even shared understanding doesn’t unmake the hollow bloom in his chest, the sour note clinging to the air, the way concern hangs like a fog around them, thick with unsaid things. he knows he’s letting it seep too deep, like he always does. knows there’s nothing he can do, no lever to pull, no thread to unravel. and yet. still, it burrows. still, it stays. sometimes, he thinks it’d be easier to be like the others. something sturdy. useful. a blade the pack could wield instead of this… soft-wired creature, all open nerve and lingering ache. what is he supposed to do with all this feeling? sit with it? make peace? ridiculous. a work in progress, at best. his eyes remain fixed on the distance, but he can feel her gaze brushing against him like the tide. he pulls in a breath, full and slow. she hits him, and that gets him to look, to soften. the corner of his mouth lifts. "i'm fine." his voice is feather-light, but the sigh that follows tugs heavier. it says what he won’t: i’ll be fine.
his jaw tightens when she speaks again. you can't figure out what happened to that girl. the words land heavy. he wants — desperately — for her to be wrong. wants it with the kind of yearning that coils tight in his gut. her hand finds his. he returns the pressure, a silent anchor, a wordless thanks. "i just hope she's okay. i hope that she really just got picked up or something. and maybe her phone died." his shoulders roll in a shrug, more defeat than indifference. a breath. "i guess we'll find out tomorrow." his brows draw inward, a flicker of thought passing like cloud over sun — he pictures how the redmaw might take this. not well. never well. "yeah, until they say fuck it and do something about it." he knows he’s spiraling, letting the worst-case tether him. he exhales, hard, and shakes the thought loose. "but you're right. we'll figure it out. they've done worse shit to us, i'm sure we'll make it out... alive." that last word drips with theatrical flair, a wry tilt of tone to pull the mood up by the collar. "what d'ya wanna do now? join the herd? get some food?" ever the hunger, bo. always.
