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He always smelled of sex, whether his own or someone else's mixed with his own. I guess he couldn't help it, if I'm being honest - how many maned, long-furred, melanistic tigers are there in the world, much less one so perfectly lean and hard-muscled in all the right places? Look up "sleek" in the dictionary, and the words would pale before a picture of him. I ought to know, considering how many times I tried to describe him myself, in a story or (gods help me) a poem. I made sure that he never saw them. He was tolerant enough of me to be my dorm-mate, but I doubted that he'd like to know that I'd a crush on him from the first moment, and damn me for enacting the cliché, but it's only true. Holy_gods,_ he's beautiful. And he knows it.

Somewhere, the Great Brain of the university must have thought it amusing to pair up a senior with a sophomore, or a feline with a rodent, or a jock with a nerd. I've not yet determined if there really is a St. Turing to pray to, but I'd be on my knees 24/7 in supplication just to have five minutes of hacking the damned computer's guts, preferably with an axe. I'm a computer nerd, but not in a hacking sense; I just know how to find information faster online than I can in the library. If the reverse were true, I wouldn't be in that dorm room nearly as much as I was, but it was just easier to research online. I mean, Holy Ones save us from Lickipedia, "where everyone can get his licks in." You'd think it was a porn site, but what they did was just as obscene: A "compilation of facts" with almost no fact-checking behind it. I know how to get online references from books, papers, magazines, anything that's gone from print-to-media, so I can cite my sources just fine. That is, when I can concentrate well enough.

This is one of those modern dorms, where the school prepares you for life in a cubicle. The ceilings are high, the two beds are lofts, and the work areas are underneath. This leaves more floor space, and they tucked the wardrobes and built-in dressers at the far end. When my "roomie" was out doing whatever it was that he did (and with whom), all that saved me was that he was at least kind enough to stash his dirty clothes in the cupboard; the only thing that still smelled of him was his bedding, and as might be expected, it was quite saturated with his scent. And say whatever you wish about rats, but when it comes to the sense of smell, we're up there with bloodhounds and grizzlies. We've got cilia in our nostrils that can detect changes in_emotion,_and the vomeronasal organ that's sensitive to pheromones...

Yeah. I know. I can even cite the source. Who cares? I guess it's my way of coping, tucked under my bed in my "student workspace," as the uni brochures call it. Big whooping deal. The only thing that helps is that about two thirds of it is closed off from the rest of the room, to provide wall space for notes, posters, whatever. Like I said, it's to train us to be tame little drones in the corporate cube-farms of our futures. Bullocks. I keep a can of coffee beans at my desk. I don't drink coffee; I'm wired enough as it is. It's so that I can sniff them and clear my nose of him as much as I can. I can barely think when he's actually here. He smells of... I may have to create a new word: Sex-cess.

I heard a keycard swipe the door lock; the tumblers clicked, and my roomie shambled in without even the hint of grace that one might usually expect of him. With the differences in temperatures between the hall and the room, a burst of air permitted his scent to enter before him, and I caught every nuance, whether I wanted to or not. Dinner had included something with Italian sausage, or else whoever he was humping smelled of fennel. Dessert had been tiramisu and coffee. The artificial fragrance his date had worn was something in the Oriental portion of the scent sphere - a poor choice to go with garlic, since the scent was flowery and spicy. Much of it was on his mane, I suspected, although the female had no doubt had her scented muzzle elsewhere on his body as well. His own muzzle smelled of cervine, and as he walked, his well-fitting trousers billowed enough to carry the mixture of tiger and deer musk like a billboard advertisement for the nostrils. I struggled not to pay attention as he stripped, chucked his clothes in the general vicinity of his wardrobe, and climbed naked up to his bunk; he wrapped his bedsheet around himself and, within less than two minutes, was snoring with a soft, self-satisfied rumble that was almost a purr.

I tried very hard not to hate him.

Gabbing the tin of coffee beans none too quietly, I opened it and sniffed deeply. I capped the lid on it again before my few tears fell off my cheeks. Nothing disturbed his regular breathing, and I felt myself burn as I always did on nights like this. I shouldn't be comparing myself so much. I was only a damn sophomore; maybe when I was a senior, I'd know how to bed whatever I wanted, if ever I figured out exactly what that was. Maybe I'd get some fur-tats, something to break up the ridiculously solid white that covered me from tip to tail-base, with the exception of a dark brown patch that no one would ever know about, if things kept going as they were.

I rolled my chair back slowly, looking up at his bunk. He always slept stripped to the fur, no matter the temperature indoors or out, and he never covered himself with anything more than a sheet. Blankets would be redundant with that long, thick pelt. I had to wonder about his lineage, what genetics gave him such a damnably perfect blend of features. His fore- and hindpaws were large and agile, with substantial pads as black as pitch, and he could no more stomp like a jack-booted thug than he could fly (although the way he slam-dunked a basketball was enough to make you wonder if maybe, just maybe, he_could_fly). His fur, similar to that of a Turkish or Persian feline, had a glow like mahogany or the richest cocoa, striped with black except on his firm chest, belly, and inner thighs. (He wasn't modest, and I tried not to hate him for that, too.) His headfur was more like a close-cropped lion's mane, including the ruff down onto his chest, and almost paradoxically, it was a stunning, dark antique gold that could catch whatever light was in the room and convince you that it was actually a kind of halo-like aura around his face. His long tail, poking out from under the sheet, was still save for the tip which thapped softly against the bed, as if signaling a dream or some unspoken language that I couldn't learn no matter how many lit classes I took. And his scent...

He had it all, and he had it so easy. Rich family and private schools; picked for the college b-ball team in his freshman year, not a star, but a solid player; enough brains to get by, at the very least; a perfect body, perfect smile, perfect everything, and all the sex he could want. He just coasted by like the Queen Fekkin' Mary. And maybe he deserved it. I kept trying to remind myself of that idea, that maybe he had earned all this adoration and sexual conquest. It wasn't that I didn't want him to have it. It was just... why couldn't I...

I put the laptop into idle and turned off the desk lamp. If I had one more thought, I'd either explode or dissolve into a puddle of tears, and I'd be godsdamned if I let myself get there yet again. My clothes went onto my desk chair, and I climbed into my own bunk. It always felt too big, even though it was just a full-sized mattress. It felt empty and cold, with a big hollow place that nothing could fill. I covered myself with a sheet and blanket, curled up even smaller, and buried my nose in my pillow, hoping that the scent of the laundry soap would mask everything else, and hoping that the pillow wouldn't get too wet from my crying.

* * * * * * * * * *

...found in the victim's room included hard copies of papers written for classes, electronic tablet (contents being analyzed, appears to be texts for classes consistent with his listed schedule), laptop computer (hard drive being analyzed, may have been wiped), clothing (inventoried, identified by parents), jewelry (inventoried, identified by roommate). No note found.

(from Walker County Sheriff's Office report)

* * * * * * * * * *

"I'll never know how you can do that."

I took the printout from our shared printer and looked at the tiger, clad only in shorts, seated in the desk chair under his loft bed. "Do what?"

"Knock out a class paper so fast."

Shrugging, trying not to show any particular concern, I put the papers into the side pocket of my courier bag, a last gift from my parents before I went to live in the dark world of student loan debt for the rest of my life. "Always been able to string words together," I said. "Not like a foreign language or something."

"Speak for yourself." His grin, that damned endearing smile, still had its effect on me. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "Maybe you could help me sometime."

"Sure," I said. I'd heard this line before, but he'd never actually gone ahead and asked for my help. He turned in his papers, one way or another, but maybe that was just one more thing he got out of his conquests. Some of the sorority females were actually students as well as easy conquests. Or maybe he did well enough on his own; he wasn't stupid, which was just one more feather in a cap already resembling a damned peacock tail. I put on my rings, put the ear cuff on my right ear, gathered up my tablet and other papers. "Time to turn it in."

"Matty?"

My name is Matheson, but it was futile to correct him; I'd been trying since the beginning of last semester. I still couldn't quite look at him. "Yeah?"

"It's almost March."

"Yeah."

"B-ball finals coming up. Might even be on the road a little. You'll have the place to yourself sometimes."

"So?"

"Just sayin'." He shifted a little in his chair. "I'll try not to leave a mess behind."

"Thanks." I shifted the courier bag on my shoulder a little. "Class."

"Yeah."

I grabbed my coat, figuring I'd put it on before I left the dorm. Fact is, I felt so pissed that I was halfway to my classroom building before I remembered that I was carrying it instead of wearing it. It doesn't snow this far south, at least not usually, but the wind chill can chew your tail and ears off. I picked up the pace, managing at least to sling the coat around my shoulders. It helped a little.

The Language Arts building housed everything from foreign languages to lit classes. My major was shortened to "English," since anything worth reading was written in, or at least translated into, English, right? No one got a B.A. in "Literature" anymore, unless it was lumped into a generalized "Liberal Arts" degree, and that one sounded even more useless to cube-life than my declared major. The four-storey building had an elevator, but most of us never used it. The universal joke was that one might get stuck between floors with Dr. Biedermeier and die of being lectured beyond endurance. I actually liked the old red-eyed Norwegian (perhaps rodents stick together after all), but I could understand the fear residing in those students who had not come to college to think.

I padded up the wide staircase to the top floor. My class this morning was in Room 415, "Literary Forms and Substance," with Dr. Donald Stalling. It was a junior level class, and as a sophomore, I had to petition and interview for entry. Lucky for me, I'd met with Dr. Stalling the previous spring. He had been roped into teaching one section of second-semester freshman English (usually the last English class most students ever take), so he had taken my measure already. I'd taken his as well, and in neither case do I mean anything that would concern the moral turpitude clause of his teaching contract. If I had my way, I'd have him teach all my classes and be my thesis advisor for a doctorate, if I ever got that far.

Most of the class was already seated when Dr. Stalling padded in. I'm not quite sure why I always think of him as having the quintessential "regal bearing." Being feline was enough, I suppose; being such a perfect example of the king cheetah species was another. Fastidious to the point of being called "finicky" by his detractors, Stalling was the perfect mix of professor and mentor; anyone in his class smart enough to realize it would learn a lot from him.

"Good morning, all," he began. "Let us use today to take a dip into the realm of the seven deadly sins - metaphorically, of course. Can we name them all?"

He stepped up to the whiteboard, dry marker in paw, ready to write. I thought I'd let my classmates founder for a bit. At last, one voice managed to squeak out, "Greed." Stalling wrote it on the board. "Pride," said another. Frankly, I was impressed, given the caliber of the average student here; maybe that old movie had some benefit after all. "Lust" and "Gluttony" managed to make themselves known. One female voice offered, "Jealousy?"

"Almost," the professor acknowledged. "Try again."

A good half-minute passed as the assemblage tried to tap out the question on their tablets. Dr. Stalling waited patiently, one eyebrow raised high, thick tail starting to twitch, before I volunteered, "Wrath, sloth, and envy."

"Well done, Mr. Knox," he said, writing the remainder on the whiteboard. He turned back to the female who had suggested "jealousy" as an answer. "You were close, Ms. Stuyvesant, but there is a distinction between jealousy and envy, albeit a fine one. Jealousy, as Shakespeare put it, is 'the green-eyed monster that doth mock the meat it feeds on.' Someone who is envious of another may admire a trait or feature about them, and he may wish it for himself, but he does not accuse the admired of not being worthy of having it. On the other paw, jealousy claims not only that one deserves having that trait, but also that the other party does_not_ deserve it. The distinction is the difference between wishing one had a thing and wanting actively to deprive another of having that thing."

"Wouldn't that make jealousy more deadly than envy?" she asked.

"In many ways, yes," Stalling admitted the point. "But notice that, on the surface, the seven deadly sins affect the person who sins, more often than they do the person sinned against. It's a toss-up, I admit, especially as we use the terms these days. Wrath, for example, is by definition a noun rather than a verb, although our modern vocabulary thinks of it as an action taken. Should one's wrath be exacted upon another, it's potentially deadly to both parties. Gluttony affects the sinner most, unless it deprives another of food. The reason that they are called 'deadly' sins is because they are considered mortal to the soul; he that thus sins is in peril of losing his soul, either for the destruction wrought upon himself, upon others, or both. Mr. Knox," the cheetah smiled at me. "In another class, you impressed me by knowing both a song from the 1960s and the even older poem on which it is based. Do you recall it?"

"E. A. Robinson's 'Richard Cory'," I said, recalling the paper well. "Paul Simon wrote the song about it."

"Would you say that it was about jealousy or envy?"

I thought about it, ignoring the hard stares of a few in the class who clearly thought that I was being Teacher's Pet. "There's a feeling of the speaker wanting to be like Richard Cory, but there's not a sense of wanting to take away what's his. The chorus of the song says, 'I wish that I could be Richard Cory,' but despite a certain derision in describing Cory's life, there's nothing about him not deserving what he had. So I'd have to say envy."

"And what of Mr. Cory's fate?" the regal cheetah asked, a glimmer in his eye. He knew that this was what would get the students' attention.

"In the song, the lyric says that 'He surely must be happy with everything he's got,' but the last verse says, 'My mind was filled with wonder when the evening headlines read: Richard Cory went home last night and put a bullet through his head.' "

There's no need to create a Zen koan about the sound of several jaws dropping; the whole class heard it.

* * * * * * * * * *

...whereabouts the night before are believed to have been at the Steak and Spirits restaurant with a female companion, after which he accompanied her home and left, presumably to return to his dormitory room (see accompanying statements). When asked, neither she nor friends nor the victim's roommate can recall any unbalanced behavior prior...

(from Walker County Sheriff's Office report)

* * * * * * * * * * *

The weekend of his first away game was going to be like a vacation for me. I held out hope that he'd make good on his promise not to leave the room a complete mess. Maybe I wouldn't have to use the coffee beans as much. I gave myself reasons to be out of the room until later Friday evening, when I could be certain he'd already be gone. I unlocked the door and braced myself for the onslaught of tiger musk, with or without any side-dish of his latest dish. I was surprised when what I smelled first was the remains of a modestly-scented laundry soap. My whiskers danced as I tried to find more traces of him. When I looked over to his bunk and study space, it was all astonishingly neat; his laptop was powered down and closed, the chair was parked up against the desk, and the bed above looked smooth and freshly-made. I wondered for a moment if I had somehow gotten into someone else's room by mistake.

It was the right room; it was just clean. Apparently, he had even washed everything that was in his wardrobe as well. I was, like the firefly who flew through the lawnmower, de-lighted, no end. I imagined the possibility of nearly forty-eight hours, distractionless, limitless, tigerless. I set up my rarely-used speakers, putting my headphones aside while I let my favorite music stream unfettered. I gave myself the luxury of playing one of my games for a full half-hour before turning my attention back to the reading I had to do for the next week. I camped out on my bed, free to move in any direction without having to worry about the headphone cord being tangled. I forced myself through a chapter in the biology text first, to get it out of the way. Eventually, I discovered that it was a reasonable time to get to sleep, and I didn't have to worry about my roommate waking me by returning at some unconscionable hour of the morning. I shut down the music, climbed happily into my bunk, and settled in for a comfortable night's sleep.

It didn't happen quite like that. It took some time for me to get relaxed enough to fall asleep, and when I woke, I felt uneasy. It wasn't the first time I'd slept in the room alone; it may have been the first time that my nose was alone. That Saturday morning held a feeling unlike any that I'd had before. Something about it scared me, but I couldn't tell what it was. I dressed quickly, took my tablet, went to a café for a cheap breakfast, read through the various posts and such on my websites, and then realized that I didn't know what to do with myself for the day. I had plenty of options, from reading for classes to playing some games, or going for a long walk, watching a movie online, browsing through what's left of downtown shops in this college burg... but I couldn't focus.

I got back to the room eventually, and I made myself settle down with a textbook. The streaming music helped, along with a few tricks I'd learned in high school to get myself to work when I didn't want to. Eventually, I managed to get most of my required reading taken care of. I could even remember some of it.

The new distraction, for me, was now the emptiness of the workspace and loft bed across from me. I kept expecting him to walk in early, for some reason. The game was far enough away that, even though it happened that Saturday afternoon, the team wouldn't be headed back until Sunday. (Okay, so I checked the details. Freakin' sue me.) Why should I care that he wasn't there?

It was early evening but still light out when I finally climbed down from my loft and violated his workspace. I'd already known how cleaned-up it was, from when I had first walked in last night and glanced in. Actually being in the space, though, it felt almost as if it had never been used, and that idea spooked the hell out of me. He was at away at a basketball game, I knew that, and there was no news of anything happening to the transport, or the team losing a player to injuries, nothing like that. He was okay, doing what he did best (out of bed, at least). It just felt so empty.

I jostled his desk chair as I leaned against it, and I heard something like crinkling plastic, and the scent hit me moment later. Pulling out the desk chair, I found a plastic grocery bag with some clothing in it. One of his sweatshirts. It must have escaped the laundry somehow, and he'd stashed it here, maybe hoping I wouldn't have to smell it. I did, though. I don't mean that the scent simply rose from the bag; I opened the bag and stuffed my muzzle into it. I didn't even think. Then the scent took over, and I couldn't think if I'd wanted to. I inhaled him (it was only him, no other scents, just him) for a full minute before something in me finally snapped awake. I thrust the bag into his desk chair, pushed the chair back, and scrambled into my loft, shivering. Even wrapping up in the blanket didn't make the shaking stop; I quivered like a plucked harp string, teeth chattering, tail lashing, my ears flat back against my head, as if I'd been attacked. Feelings of shame, embarrassment, and something horribly desperate ripped me apart from the inside out.

I don't know how long it went on. My thoughts were so jumbled that it was actually a surprise when I realized that I'd stopped shaking. It was full dark, and something felt very late, even though the digital alarm clock on the protected shelf at the head of my bed told me that it couldn't have been. The only light in the room was below me, from my workspace. I could see well enough. I could see just inside his own workspace, and I knew what lay there. I climbed down slowly to the floor, reached into my space to turn out the light. I took off my clothes and put them onto my own desk chair. I crossed to his, took out the plastic grocery bag, tossed it up onto my loft. I climbed up, my heart beating hard but slowly, excitement and comfort, a heady thudding like a giant metronome,largo espressivo. Slowly, I took the sweatshirt out of the bag, held it up in the dark as if imagining him wearing it. The feeling wasn't sexual; I had no intention of using the shirt the way other males used socks, jocks, and catcher's mitts. I held it against me, larger than any of my own clothes, but it seemed somehow fitting. As I lay down on the bed, my head to my pillow, the sweatshirt against my chest, its arms seeming to wrap around me warmly, I felt myself relax again, my body heat helping to release the scent in the cloth more fully. In the quiet, I realized that only his hushed, purring snore was missing. I didn't mind that so much; my ears were, for the moment at least, secondary to my nose. I fell into a deep sleep almost on the instant.

* * * * * * * * * *

Some mention has been made regarding the victim having a firearm in his possession, but no records have been found for the purchase of any firearm or ammunition in this or adjacent counties. Gun shows are prevalent and frequent in several cities within 100 miles, so an unregistered purchase is possible; the victim does have a car, although it has not been found within the county thus far. According to the victim's family, the victim has never shown any interest in guns of any kind, nor any reason ever mentioned for getting one...

(from Walker County Sheriff's Office report)

* * * * * * * * * * *

I'd put everything back where it was, showered twice, tried not to look suspicious or guilty when he came back early Sunday evening. I made sure that I was in my own workspace when he walked in.

"Hey, Matty."

"Hey. Saw you won."

"Yep. Another step up the ladder."

"Congrats."

"It was all teamwork."

"I'm sure you did your part."

"They could have done it without me."

I didn't react to that statement then; I was too self-conscious about the whole thing with the sweatshirt. It wasn't until later that I realized how it would sound, if I'd known what he was really thinking.

He opened up his duffle, and in moments, the room was filled with his scent, just as it usually was. He put the dirty clothes into the bottom of his wardrobe to tend to later, put his tablet on top of his laptop in the workspace. I began sweating, hoping that he wouldn't notice anything had been disturbed. He didn't seem to. He took the sweatshirt, plastic bag and all, and tossed it into his wardrobe. He stripped off his jeans and shirt, and they followed the bag. From his dresser, fresh athletic pants and sweatshirt were donned quickly. "Gonna go for a run," he said.

"Okay."

He paused at the door, looked back over at me, seemed about to say something, stopped. "Back soon."

After the door closed behind him, I couldn't concentrate anymore. He was going to say something about the sweatshirt in the bag, I was certain. I felt my face burning. He knew. However it was he knew it, he_knew._ I had no idea what to do. It wasn't even full dark yet, but I thought maybe I could climb up to my loft and pretend to be asleep when he got back. It would only postpone things, and then only if he really thought that I was asleep. Did I snore when I slept? I had no way of knowing; no one had ever been with me long enough to tell me, and I wasn't sure I could manufacture a convincing snore even if I wanted to. I'd have to just hope that he wouldn't try to wake me.

I turned out the light in my workspace, put my clothes on the chair, got into bed, sheet and blanket both. I knew I wouldn't be able to get to sleep. I could never tell how long his runs would take - twenty minutes to an hour, depending on distance and how hard he pushed himself. I tried to make myself not look at the clock at the head of the bed, but after a long time, I couldn't help myself. Time stretched, and the clock silently registered nearly 90 minutes before I finally heard the tumblers in the door click into place. He padded in quietly, the dark room signaling - I hoped - that I'd gone to sleep. My back was turned to the center of the room, but I kept my eyes closed anyway; the tiger's eyes were even better at seeing in the dark than mine were.

I heard the rustling of clothes, and of course the smell of him filled the room, damp, warm. I sensed more than heard him step up near the head of my bed.

"Matty?" he whispered. "Maybe you're asleep and can't hear me. Maybe you'll hear me and think it's a dream. I'll get the nerve to say something when you're awake. Better be soon. Meanwhile..."

Pawsteps moved to the ladder at the end of my bed, and I had the sensation of someone climbing about halfway up. There in the uncertain night, I felt something cover me gently, something warm, damp, soft in touch, strong in scent. The sweatshirt he'd been wearing on his run. I didn't dare move, speak, even breathe.

"Sleep well, Matheson."

His body whispered up to his own bunk, and he lay down, adjusting the sheet over himself. I listened, but I didn't hear the purring snore for a very long time. It took even longer than that for me to get to sleep.

* * * * * * * * * *

I woke to the sound of rain and sleet tapping against the window - exactly the sort of fatalistic harbinger that Monday mornings usually feel like. My alarm wouldn't go off for another few minutes, and tired as I was, I didn't feel that I wanted to be jangled by that raucous buzz. I shut it off and sat up, realizing only then that I still had the sweatshirt covering me. I looked up sharply and saw the tiger, sitting on his bed, naked, looking at me with eyes that I couldn't read.

"Rain woke me," he said softly.

"Uh-huh," I agreed with him.

"Good day to play hooky."

"I should get ready for class."

"Screw class." He leaned forward, his deep hazel eyes pleading. "Matheson. I need to talk to you."

"I shouldn't--"

"Because he moves like one of the gods, that's why," he quoted from a source that I knew all too well. "Because his scent hypnotizes me into thoughts that scare me, but that I want so much. Can he, does he, know what he does to me? How much I wish I could be like him?"

I could barely breathe.

"Yes, Matheson. I read them. All of them. More than once. I didn't mean to, I swear that I didn't. You'd left your laptop on when you left for class one morning, and I got to it before the screensaver locked me out. I swear to you, I was only wanting to see what search engines you were using for your papers. That, and yeah, maybe get a copy of your citations and sources." He paused, something like a smile on his muzzle, but one that was more shy than any I'd ever seen there before. Shy, and with more than a little pain.

"You don't want to be like me, Matheson. You don't, I promise you. 'Me' is not a very nice someone to be. I want to be different. Truth is, I want to be like you."

My jaw fell open, and I felt my eyes bulge outward.

"You're studying what you want to study. You work at your classes because you want to. You don't apologize for who you are, and you never pretend to be what you're not. By the gods, Matheson Knox, I wish that I could be like you."

"I don't understand."

"You know the difference between you and George Washington? He said that he could not tell a lie. You_can_ tell lies, but you won't. That makes you stronger. So much stronger."

"What are you... I don't understand..."

"No, I guess you wouldn't. You have no idea how much I hate myself. How much I hate what I'm becoming. You never met my father. Be grateful for small blessings." He shook his head, his short mane dancing, glowing gently even in just the gray light of the rain-filled morning. "He loves to brag about all that he'd done in school, all that he'd accomplished. Oh, a decent GPA in business courses, but he was talking about his athletics, about his track record with females, with how he could drink other males under the table and still bang sorority twins, and then not have a hangover in the morning, so he'd bang them again." The tiger winced. "That's the word he uses. I don't think he ever 'made love' in all his life. Not even to my mother. I was the result of him 'banging' her one night, about 23 years ago."

Something inside me broke, and I found myself clutching his sweatshirt closer to me.

"Do your parents love each other, Matheson?"

"Yes."

"Do they love you?"

"Yes."

"Do you like yourself?"

I paused. "Usually, yes. Sometimes, I'm ashamed of something I do."

"Like sleeping with my sweatshirt Saturday night?"

He did know. I could only nod slowly.

"I left it for you." The tiger shifted on the bed, passing a forepaw over his muzzle (wiping away a tear? Could it be?). "I cleaned absolutely everything. I sprayed fabric freshener on my bed, washed the sheets, my clothes, everything. I took my morning run first, put the sweatshirt into the bag, hoping you'd somehow find it. I showered, laundered, cleaned, wiped down, got rid of every trace of my scent, except for that sweatshirt."

After a long moment, I croaked out, "Why?"

"Because I wanted you to have the room to yourself, but I didn't want you to be alone."

"Why would you--"

"Because I had read what you'd written, pulled copies for myself onto a thumb drive to read and reread them. Because I looked at me through your eyes, to see what I was doing. It made me realize that I wasn't just lying to myself. I was lying to you. Without ever saying a word. Matheson, did you never wonder why I would come back here after bedding those females, and not talk, not do anything but stumble into my own bed and pass out? Did you never wonder what I was thinking, what I was doing?"

Another pause as understanding dawned. "Your father."

He nodded slowly. "That was what you couldn't know: That I was trying to become my father, because that's what he wanted me to be. And you, Matheson... you bemoaned your plainness, your ordinariness, the idea that there was nothing special about you." He shook his head briefly. "That is so completely wrong. You're everything I wish I could be. I envy you down to my soul."

I could no longer speak. I managed to breathe, and I tried very hard to think, but I couldn't form words.

"May I..." the tiger began, and then I was sure he was crying, because I saw two huge tears running down his furry cheeks before he could wipe them away with a sniff. "Matheson, I want... I want to know who you are, while I still have some 'me' left. I want to face the truth, for once in my artificial life. If I truly make you feel that way, then I want to do something I've never done in my life. I want to know what making love feels like."

The rain and sleet nickered, nature's susurration of urging him, urging me, to dare. I raised my arm slowly, extending my forepaw to him. He came down from his loft quickly, up the ladder of mine, pausing there, pleading in his eyes, a silent question on his lips. I nodded, reaching for him, setting aside the sweatshirt in favor of the source of the scent that had so captivated me. I took him into my arms, feeling him tremble, uncertain, needful, all the things that I could never have imagined him to be, never once. I reached up and stroked his mane softly, took his chin in my forepaw and, trembling myself, let my lips meet his in a kiss so tender that it was as if neither of us had ever kissed anyone before. Perhaps, until that moment, we hadn't.

He wrapped his arms around me and let himself go, tears so long in the making that it was a wonder he'd not drowned himself in them. "Gods," he rasped in my ear, "Matheson, I want to be you."

"Don't. I want you to be_you,_ not me. I want you to know who_you_ are. To be who you are."

"Not that strong."

"First steps." I pet his mane again, nuzzled his neck, inhaled his scent, for the first time tasting the fear that he had suppressed for so long. "Just hold me. I won't let you go. I swear to you, Richard, I won't let you go."

* * * * * * * * * *

...no further information was available from our interviews and investigations. Because of the nature of the crime and the jurisdictional issues involved, we hereby close this case locally, setting all information and jurisdiction into the paws of the FBI for further inquiry, as requested by the victim's parents.

(from Walker County Sheriff's Office report)

* * * * * * * * * * *

We spent the rest of our semester secretly sharing our bed every night, except when he had a game on the road. On those nights, I would sleep in his well-worn sweatshirt, making the blanket superfluous. He made excuses to the various females, and he never came back to me smelling of someone else's sex, only his own musk; if the female got her perfume on his clothes, they ended up in the wardrobe even faster than usual.

The sexual exploration happened gradually, waiting as it did on his slowly rising confidence in himself and what he wanted. The only promise we made to each other was to be there, to support each other. We were quite active in our lovemaking by the time the semester was over, and his graduation day loomed closer. He had performed well enough in his classes, and the college team had played well, just missing the Final Four; his degree would be in business, like his father, so even if some pro b-ball team didn't pick him up, his future would have looked bright enough, save for one problem: Me.

That was what finally decided it, you see. That's what finally made him do it. If you want to say it that way, it was my fault. He planned most of it, but he included me. He wouldn't leave without making sure that I would be okay. I knew I'd miss him, but that couldn't be helped. The night before, he had one last dinner date with a female who, had he followed his father's pawsteps more precisely, could have been the one he would have "banged" to pass along his father's self-sainted name. That was something that he just couldn't live with. Instead, that night we made the sweetest, most passionate, most unifying love we'd ever experienced, and the next day, May 7th, Richard was gone.

Word spread quickly enough when his parents arrived on May 8th, what would have been his graduation day, and he was still missing. It's usually a 48 hour wait before the police could start a missing person's case, but money always speaks louder than the law. The local sheriff was "persuaded" to look into things, and after another 24 hours, they brought in the FBI, his father fearing that it was a kidnapping, his mother carefully avoiding thinking that he had killed himself. There was a rumor about a gun, but I told the authorities truthfully that I'd never seen one. I was asked if I thought that Richard would kill himself; I replied truthfully that Richard was too much like his father and left it at that.

There was quite an uproar when Richard's car was found in Houston's gay district. Circulating photos at the various bars yielded some hits, as did some surveillance cameras outside of some of the clubs, but that didn't matter: His parents quickly shut down the investigation to stanch rumors about the business mogal's only child being a homosexual. The case was officially handed off to the FBI, considered a possible kidnapping, until they too were informed of the location of Richard's car. Although the father tried to claim that he had received a ransom demand, the FBI surveillance and investigation turned up no such activity. Richard's father was warned against wasting the time of the police and federal officers, and ultimately, all trails ran cold.

I had long since moved out of the dorm, partly for police reasons, partly because the dorms would close up until the summer courses. I wasn't too worried about that. I'd talked to Dr. Stalling often after that March Monday morning; it was he who had helped me get into another program at a very good university far away from that one. I wouldn't be able to start classes until the fall, but after a brief stay with my parents, I convinced them that I could afford an apartment in the town, perhaps find a part-time job that I could keep through the school year if I needed it. They weren't sure about it until I explained to them that the new college had offered a very special fellowship, not a student loan but a scholarship award that would give me something just short of a free ride. They'd never heard of the grant, and I told them that Dr. Stalling had helped me to find it.

It was true. Dr. Stalling had a great knowledge of how such grant-making institutions were created, how they worked, and what paperwork would be necessary. Of course, it wasn't necessary for anyone but my parents to know about it; the university I was to attend was perfectly happy to take the cash that I used to pay for tuition, books, etc. And naturally, I'd have a roommate to help me with rent and such. It only made sense. Happily, I had the perfect roommate. He had stashed away far more of his allowance from his rich parents than even they were fully aware, so we would be comfortable while he provided for the rest of my schooling, and he continued discovering who he really was. Richard's father tried to make him into another one of himself. Richard could not, and did not, survive. Neither of us wanted that. Richard was, so far as the world was concerned, gone forever. My beautiful tiger, however, was newly born.

I'd missed him terribly for the brief time that I was with my parents, but by early June, we were together again. When first I saw him, I almost didn't recognize him; his magnificent mane had been dyed a discreet ash blond, and his right ear boasted a trio of piercings - copper, silver, and gold - that Richard would never have dared to wear. With the FBI and other searches cancelled, changing his name lawfully was a simple, ridiculously inexpensive, and quiet affair handled in the local court of our new hometown. It caused not a blip on any radar, despite the Internet trying so hard to deprive us of our privacy these days.

His new self is recognized only for who he is, not who he was. He volunteers at the local gym, coaching a community league in basketball. It allowed him to accept and be glad that he wasn't a "star player" who was always in the limelight. I may get teaching credentials, to get us started; his volunteer work might get him recommendations for coaching at the local high school, and he could take the teaching classes with me for what they call "emergency certification." Our options are open now, and both of us intend to take full advantage to make a happy life together. One day, my parents will be stunned and pleased by the handsome young tiger who has proposed marriage to me. You might get an invitation to the wedding of Matheson Carver Knox to Daniel Jedediah Hawkins. It's going to be splendid. Guests, please leave your envy at the door.