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"Which do you prefer. Final Fantasy or Phantasy Star?"

"Ugh. What kind of question is that?" Oliver grimaced.

"A legitimate one."

"The Elder Scrolls."

"That's not what I asked."

"But it's what I answered."

"Fine," Rian fell onto the couch, "What's your favorite Elder Scrolls game, then?"

"I'm partial to Skyrim."

"Oh, that's so typical."

"Don't tell me you prefer Oblivion."

"Never Oblivion."

"And please God do not tell me you prefer Daggerfall or something."

"Daggerfall has its merits. But I'm more of a Morrowind guy."

"That game's too hard," Oliver said simply. He sat down with a bowl of popcorn and tossed a puffed kernel into his mouth.

"Maybe for you," Rian smirked. "Not for a skilled player though."

He squeaked as a piece of popcorn hit him squarely on the nose.

"Pick up this controller," Oliver said, "And I'll turn on Skyrim. I'm going to show you why it's the superior game."

"Fine. But we're playing Morrowind next."

"I don't have three thousand spare hours of my time."

"You'll find it somewhere."

"Not if I spend it all doing this," Oliver climbed on top of Rian. He began kissing him.

"Hey," Rian said, playfully turning away. He scrunched up his face and batted at the fox. "Cut it out."

"'Such strong legs and shapely tail!'" Oliver held Rian down by the wrists and kissed him deeply. The skunk yanked away and laughed.

"Hey, you stop that!" he said

"Come on. Humor me." Oliver replied.

"I thought you wanted to play Skyrim."

It was Oliver's turn to laugh.

"'Plenty of time, my sweet. Plenty of time.'"

Rian clicked the button on his phone and heard the familiar sync-up noise as the speaker activated. He tapped his screen once, twice, then flicked dutifully up and gave a final tap. The sounds of his downtempo playlist slowly spread forth and he settled to the ground, assuming the regular position. Tuesdays and Thursdays were yoga days. Nothing suited that better than Solar Fields, Aes Dana, Moby... He had studied yoga once under a trainer who insisted Tangerine Dream was good yoga music; that just made him feel paranoid, like he was stoned. Another trainer tried Brian Eno, but that made him feel like falling asleep. Other trainers advocated practicing in proper silence. Rian had learned what he liked to hear though, and the light beat was helpful.

He stretched, feeling his muscles taut under the skin and fur, gradually accustoming themselves to use. Rian didn't believe in any spiritual application to yoga, but it did wonders for his physical and mental health. That he couldn't deny. Something about the process calmed him. It could be physically taxing, but it required more finesse than something as simple as running. You didn't have to think about running; you just did. Yoga meant he had be careful, be delicate, and watch how he moved if he didn't want to tear something.

He thought that was it. Because he put so much concentration into the practice, he didn't have much room to think about anything else. Rian focused on the muscles in his back, tensing in anticipation and then giving way as he bent. To a degree it was relaxing. The only thoughts he had room for were the good ones -- the waves of rippling pleasure as his body limbered. Each muscles sighed in turn as it awoke.

Oliver didn't like it. He was always grumpy when Rian got out of bed early -- "glorified stretching" he called it -- and he wasn't really wrong. But he couldn't see the beauty in it and that was his trouble. That fox had a hard time doing anything that could be called good for you. It made Rian feel alive. He was by no means an agile creature but he tried to keep himself as lithe as he could. It was good for him to do his body a service like this. Time certainly wasn't going to keep his muscles active. Discipline just might.

If he were a little braver, he'd sit by the water. There were plenty of places nearby -- Lindo Lake, Lake Jennings, Lake Murray... Even the Pacific. He wished he could -- he really thought it would enhance the experience. But the thought of other people seeing him filled him with a sort of dread. He stayed at home and rolled the yoga mat out in the living room instead.

Today, he needed the peace of mind. He'd just woken up to an empty bed, reminded that he had dropped Oliver off the night before. Sleepy and more than a little frustrated with his absentee lover, he had spent a good deal of the morning session putting off his own dark thoughts. He let his limbs relax and then exhaled. Dammit Oli, he thought, Who do you think you are?

"The fuck's going on in here?"

Rian nearly leapt out of his own hide at the sound of the voice.

"Woah woah, take it easy," Jeff said, stepping back once. He'd emerged from the balcony, cigarette in hand. Rian was standing now and chest heaving and heart pounding. He'd completely forgotten about the guest.

"Dammit, Jeff, don't do that," his voice broke.

"Hey man, I said take it easy."

"Don't give me that."

"What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing."

"I didn't scare you did I?"

"Can we drop it?"

Jeff shrugged, walked to the kitchen and poured himself a can of beer. Debauchery began in the early morning for the wolf. He shook a cigarette free of its fellows in the pack and grabbed it with his lips, then held the pack outward.

"You need a smoke?"

"Never picked up the habit."

"Never too late to start."

"I'm fine thanks," Rian snatched up the speaker without bothering to stop the music and took the yoga mat and returned them to his bedroom.

"Oli gone?"

"Yes," Rian groused. He'd been asleep when Oliver had called:

"Hey Rian."

No response.

"Rian?"

"What?"

"Just calling to say I landed safely."

"Okay."

"Everything okay?"

"As good as ever."

"Sorry for waking you. I just thought..."

"I know."

"Yeah?"

"Okay."

"I love you, Rian."

"I'm sorry."

"What?"

"I love you too, Oli. Enjoy yourself."

"Should I have brought you along?"

"I'll be fine here."

"It's only a few days."

"I know."

"Okay. I'll let you get back to sleep. I'll see you soon."

"Goodbye."

He, of course, had been unable to get back to sleep. It was then that, fully dressed, he had clambered out of bed and carried the yoga mat into the living room.

Jeff stood and puffed at the cigarette till it died, before flicking it out over the balcony.

"Don't you know that's illegal?" Rian said.

"Illegal?"

"It's practically begging fate to set fire to California again."

"Well that's bound to happen either way."

"As long as people keep pulling stunts like that."

"Come on dude, you're not being really chill. Oli knows how to, like, chill."

"I'm not Oli."

"Clearly."

"Dammit Jeff, don't you know how to act like an adult?"

"All right man, cool it. I'll be chill for the both of us."

"I just don't know what to do," Rian mumbled.

"Hang on a second," Jeff said. He walked to the refrigerator and opened the off-white door and reaching inside pulled out a couple of beers and walked back to Rian and held one out.

"Let's talk, huh? I - uh - I don't know you well. Let's just kill some time. Shoot the shit. You can tell me what's bothering you, yeah?"

"This is about as kind as I can expect you to be, hmm?"

"Sorry dude, never mind."

"No no, I'm just genuinely surprised. I never would have expected you to try something like this."

"Hey, Oli sees something in you. You've got to be a pretty cool guy if he thinks so."

Rian flashed his teeth in a grin but it faded quickly.

"Where'd you get that?" he asked, pointing at the beer. "We don't keep anything like that around here."

"Walked down to the liquor store on the corner last night. Was feeling like a beer but couldn't exactly drive."

"You don't have a car, do you?"

"Naww, and I sure as hell wasn't going to take a bus to the bar."

"Right," Rian eyed the dark brown bottle with something like wonder, something like trepidation.

You'll have to forgive me; I'm still a bit of a mess right now. I've not had a drop to drink in a while now and I think it's beginning to get to me. The situation with Oliver isn't really helping. I'm not sure why he can't just tell her already, but until he does it's placing a great deal of stress on me.

Oh, what am I rambling about now? That's not why I'm here. But it's true, isn't it?

I'm afraid of what it means. I have such a hard time controlling myself these days. I don't have that crutch to fall back on. But even that crutch turned out to be more of an obstacle than anything. It's only that -- he's going to be gone for nearly a week and... I don't have anything else to do. Anything else to think about. One drink couldn't hurt, right?

"Did I ever tell you about my dream wedding?" Rian asked, one morning. Their faces so close they felt each others noses. Both were chained down by post-coital exhaustion. Oliver could still feel faint tremors in the arms of his lover, and likewise. He brushed a piece of hair out of Rian's eyes.

"You never said anything about wanting to get married," Oliver mused.

"Didn't I? Well, I do."

"Tell me about it."

Rian's face was split by a smile.

"We'd be on the bay," he said.

"Coronado?"

"Well, anywhere on the sea is fine, I suppose. It doesn't have to be the bay."

"But it has to be on a boat."

"Naturally."

"Unexpected. But not undesirable."

"There'll be a whole crowd of people on board. I'm talking about a pretty decently sized boat, mind you."

"Naturally," Oliver smirked.

"Aren't you clever."

"I should think I am."

"Shall I continue?"

"Please."

"My family would be there."

"I should hope so."

"It's not that simple," Rian's voice fell.

"Oh. You mean --"

"Yes."

"Hey. Hey I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring it up."

"My fault."

"C'mon," Oliver said, putting the skunk's face between his hands and kissing deeply. "Don't get all sad on me yet. I wanna hear about our wedding."

"You really mean it then? We can get married?"

"And why shouldn't we?"

"Oh, Oli!"

"Hey, calm down. Calm -- mmpff!" he broke off as Rian attacked him with a kiss of unforeseen ferocity.

"Sorry," he giggled.

"Let's hear the rest of that, shall we?"

"Right, right. Um, where was I?"

"Big crowd. With, er, the family."

"Oh right. It's true. I'd want my family to be there, but that's a fight for another day. It's just... I can see the whole thing in my mind, so clearly. It's night time, out on the water. There's a crowd and everyone I care about is there. Live music. A piano. Someone's out on the deck smoking. Lights on chandeliers twinkle. Champagne. And the two of us, all fancy in our tuxedos. Ceremony itself brief, almost dreamlike. All eyes on us when we kiss..."

"Sound like a reception, not a wedding."

Rian considered for a moment, a puzzled look on his face.

"Don't argue semantics with me. Just because you're right doesn't mean--"

"Doesn't mean we can't still do it, hey? I'll do what I can to get that fancy yacht-club reception."

"But we don't know anyone with a yacht!"

"I'll figure something out."

"You're a liar, Oli," Rian grinned, "But I love the lies you tell me."

"What kinds of lies have I told you?"

"The yacht, for starters."

"Aside from the yacht."

"You say that you love me."

"You goddamn rascal. You know that's not a lie."

"Sometimes you get this look in your eye."

"You goddamn rascal."

"Oh! Hey, that's a cheap shot. I wasn't ready for that."

"Don't you complain. I'll stop, I swear to God I will."

"No way you'll stop. Oh, hold on -- all right, that's better."

"I swear I'll stop. You can't complain about something good."

"You're a liar, Oli. A liar, but the best and sweetest kind."

"What's the best kind of liar?"

"I don't know. Whatever you are. But it's also the most dangerous. Oh! Hang on a second --"

"All right; you asked for it. I'm stopping."

"Like hell you are," Rian laughed. He kissed Oliver and held him tighter and the sheets tumbled in a fury around them as they broke those chains and began mending them anew.

When Ashleigh drove him to her old house he realized it was not in Chicago proper. Her family lived in a sort-of suburb named Wheaton. The city was only about a half hour drive from downtown Chicago, which made it ideal for visits, while the Wheaton streets themselves looked like something out of an old Christmas movie. Winter may not have been affecting San Diego, but it was plain as day that the residents of Illinois were an inch away from being swallowed. But in that last inch, something magical came together.

Snowdrifts piled up on the edges of salted sidewalks, the substance building up into solid clumps on the leafless boughs of trees. It coated rooftops on brick buildings with warm fires in the windows and wreaths on doors. The black road was slick with the moisture of shoveled snow.

He could see it come springtime, the snow gone and the leaves returned. A revitalizing wind blowing through. Flowers shooting up and the residents planting gardens. Summertime, the children riding bikes in the streets. Baseball bats cracking in the still air. Plant growth unchecked. Elderly folk on the porch. Autumn, the trees a brilliant orange, leaves piling up, great cairns under the shade of the dying. Winter again, the cycle complete.

It was a picturesque place, the sort of place that didn't really exist -- the forgotten land of childhood memories. He found himself unable to withstand its charms. Although, he quickly realized, there was not much to do.

"We're home!" Ashleigh called, unlocking the door with a key under the mat. Oliver felt himself carried through the introductions in a blur: her father, Rand, tall, bespectacled, messy hair, turtleneck sweater; her mother, Carlotta, short, wispy, high-pitched voice, sprite-like; her brother, Bradley, mischievous, a romping imp, tiny and full of energy, awkward and annoyed constantly. And then Ashleigh herself -- of middling height, but exceedingly handsome, hair short, almost tomboyish, but curvy in the right places -- he always noticed that much. His fiancée. It was important not to leave her out of the puzzle he was busy assembling.

The trip to Chicago was almost surreal. The longer he spent there, the less he remembered. It swirled together in his mind, one series of events after another. Dizzying him. Ashleigh had him with the family, drinking coffee together, hand in hand.

"Come on," she said, pulling him towards the car. He turned and looked at the house as they drove away.

"Are you sure?" he asked. They pulled off the freeway. "Are you sure, I mean, that we should be going to such a fancy dinner?"

"Of course I'm sure," she put the car into park. "Why?"

"It's just," they entered the restaurant (yes, reservation for two, Carter), "We could. You know. Be doing something more casual."

"This is fine. I promise."

They sat and ordered food and had red wine, and eventually the first rounds began to emerge.

"Oli, do you not want to be here?"

"Of course I do," he picked at his salad with disinterest, "I'm only trying to think of if you'd really enjoy this."

"Well I am enjoying it, so stop worrying," she began to eat her soup.

If I couldn't dissuade her from the night out, so be it. I would do all that I can to make the night as normal as possible. The whole trip, as a matter of fact. I didn't want anything to be memorable. Not if I had to break things off with her.

You see, I didn't want to break up with her. Even though I had to, it was something I kept very far from my mind. I kept treating it as if it were some far off thing -- something I didn't have to think about for a long time to come. Maybe it had been that way once, but the time had finally arrived, and I was delaying it. How would you have treated this sort of situation? It's not exactly normal. I can't possibly imagine what it must have felt like for her. But I did try to soften the blow. Make no mistake about that -- I'm not a monster.

"When are we going to get married?" she asked. We were back home and still dressed nicely from our dinner date. It was late and the family was all asleep in respective bedrooms. Ashleigh looked at me. Her arm around my waist, my hands quietly folded in my lap. I didn't respond.

"Hmm?" she grinned, white teeth dazzling, her head nestled in the crook between my shoulder and my neck.

"I'm not sure," I said. "Not for... Not for a while yet."

"Why do you always have to spoil my fun?" she pouted.

"It's true, that's why. We haven't worked out a lot of details. It's all still very... tentative. We can't just rush into it."

"I know that there's still a lot to work out first. But you could at least play along, couldn't you?"

"What kind of guy would I be if I couldn't?"

"Tell me we're getting married next week."

"We're getting married next week."

"No, tomorrow."

"Tomorrow then."

"A big white Christmas wedding with holly and mistletoe and spiced wine."

"All of that and more. Ice sculptures too."

"It's a mean thing I'm doing, isn't it? I shouldn't fantasize."

"The biggest damn wedding cake you've ever seen."

"We're both living a dream, Oliver. Our wedding won't be nearly so spectacular."

The first part of what she said was one of the truest statements I'd heard in years. We're both living a dream. It all made sense when you put it that way. Her dream of a happy relationship. My dream, where I didn't have to tell her about Rian. Our big happy dream where everything was perfect and nothing went wrong. I'd been living in that dream for months now. But the funny thing was, I'd been living in a dream long before that. My whole life had been a dream, some grotesque series of events hinting at a hopeful future. As long as that hope stayed alive the future never seemed so bad. But I'd just now seen through the veil of that dream. One day things would come to an end and there would be no more future to keep reaching for, and what would I have to show for it? A string of unsatisfying days cut miserably short where all the while I'd been living for an unattainable something and someday. I was a piece of work all right. It took all my strength not to cry right then.

"I'm sorry," I said, "Can we go to bed?"

"Impatient, huh? Don't you worry, you'll get more than your fair share of what you deserve."

"No, no," I said, "I don't want to have sex. I want to sleep."

"Oh-h. Yeah. I guess we can go."

"I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you sometime."

"Yeah."

"On my honor, I will."

"Don't get so defensive," she tweaked my ear, "It's just one night, and you sound like you really mean. I'm not upset."

"Sorry anyways."

"You're a hazard to my good health, Oli. I can always handle myself. Be off with you."

"You're not coming to bed?"

"Of course I'm coming, you daft idiot," she kissed me, "I love you."

"And you too."

"You have a really difficult time saying that, for someone that I'm going to be marrying."

"I love you, darling," I spoke in my best faux-sauve voice and picked her up (she squeaked -- a noise I'd never heard her produce before) and dipped her down and kissed her far more passionately than she had kissed me, earlier.

"All right then, Clark Gable," she muttered when I set her down, "Point taken."

"I always preferred Cary Grant."

"And I thought you preferred sleeping. Don't dally now."

I chuckled as we joked and sported but it was a hollow laughter. She was a marvelous woman and a fine specimen and she deserved far better than me.

"The trick is," Rian said, then paused, taking a long drink from the plastic cup in his hand. He looked back up and blinked. Both he and Oliver were seated next to each other in the skunk's dorm room.

"Er," he stammered, "I forgot what we were talking about."

Oliver laughed. He was feeling a little tipsy himself, though nowhere near Rian's level. He was completely and utterly sloshed and Oliver was on his way to joining him.

"You're re-defining drunk as a skunk," he said.

"That's tasteless," Rian said. He spoke slowly, and with some difficulty.

"It's true."

"You're pretty mean for someone so cute."

"Don't joke."

"I'm not joking, man. You're hot. Seriously hot-t-t-t."

"You're drunk."

"So are you."

"Yeah but I'm not the one in question."

Oliver laughed and poured himself another cup. Well, he thought, maybe he's right. I am a little drunk. He nearly fell over as he giggled.

"You think I'm kidding. I'll suck your cock right now."

"You're a goddamn psychopath Rian."

"I will," his brows knitted together, "Don't believe me? I'll do it."

"Like hell."

Rian suddenly grew very still. He set down his cup (which fell over, spilling vodka on the carpet) and leaned slightly. His body swayed and he shook his head. Dizziness overwhelmed him. Rian grabbed Oliver's pants and undid the zipper (with much difficulty), before he grabbed the fox's underwear and, fingers slipping, managed to pull it down. Oliver sat very still and his breathing tensed, the skunk looming just over him. Rian opened his mouth -- and vomited all over Oliver's crotch.

"Shit, I'm sorry," Rian retched, and vomited again. He rose unsteadily to his feet, knocking down the desk chair in the process, and staggered into the bathroom. He puked on the floor and slipped. Oliver watched him hit the ground, heard the loud thud, and fought his own mind for what to do. After what seemed a long time, he realized he'd stretched out on the ground and that he had passed out. He woke up with Kurt, Rian's roommate, standing overhead.

"What the hell was going on in here?" he heard the cat mutter. "What the hell."

"What?" Oliver mumbled.

"You awake?" Come on, get up. Can you stand? Rian's giving me trouble enough as it is. I don't need you giving me a hard time too."

"Head hurts," Oliver's voice was drawling.

"Get up," Kurt grabbed Oliver by the arm and yanked him to his feet. All at once he was assaulted, the world dizzy around him, the rank smell of vomit and alcohol, his body weak, pants around his ankles. He tripped and nearly contributed to the drying pool on the ground. Kurt reached out and steadied him.

"Easy there."

"Head fucking hurts," Oliver moaned.

"Rian doesn't exactly go easy," Kurt said, "I wouldn't try to keep up with him when he drinks."

The cat came out of the bathroom carrying Rian. He had his arms looped under Rian's, who lay limp against his chest. He dragged the skunk to his bed and dropped him on it.

"Shit," Kurt said.

Oliver groaned loudly as he stood to his full height, head leveling.

"Shit, shit, shit."

"Is he okay?" Oliver's mouth felt dry. He had an awful taste caught between his teeth and his tongue.

"Probably," Kurt said. He opened Rian's mouth to check that his throat wasn't blocked. "I mean, he looks okay. I've seen him worse than this before. He's just made the worst fucking mess."

"Ah."

"And it's only a matter of time before this happens again. Don't know how he manages."

"Hmm."

"What, don't know how to talk?"

"Um. It's just..."

"Never mind. Shit, are your pants still down? Get in the bathroom and clean yourself up."

Oliver shut the bathroom door as he entered and stepped carefully to avoid the reeking puddle on the ground. He stripped his clothes off himself and turned the shower on, hot. He let the steaming water fall sheeting on him, stinging his skin, his fur heavy and damp. When the water stopped he waited to dry. But it was no use. He opened the door and poked his head out.

"Do either of you have a dryer?" he asked, quietly. Kurt didn't hear or ignored him.

"C'mon, Rian. Wake up. You idiot, wake up." He was slapping the skunk on the face. Rian made small movements, but they were only that. Small.

Oliver frowned. Rian's demeanor was frightening. But it was no use. He'd be no help here and he didn't want to embarrass Rian when he woke. Oliver put his clothes back on despite his wet fur. Then he slipped out of the bathroom and left the dorm without another word.

The greatest pleasure a man can experience in this life is that of innocence. That once youthful spark embedded in all of us from birth, lost gradually or all at once in a terrible instant. When we're innocent, we don't actively seek joy. We don't turn over every last nook and cranny to see if there may be some dark corner of the Earth not yet tainted, some last hope of joy, some lost ray. When innocent we find joy everywhere without needing to look. And yes, the dark still exists, but it is a far-off thing. A reality we must never confront. It is the final destination but it is a long ways away. That is why to be innocent is far better. It is the only true pleasure a man can experience.

There are older and wiser men than I who would disagree with me. And I don't want to sound cocky but damn if I don't know better than any of them. You can live to be eighty and not see as much trouble as I have, and I expect that's their problem.

I see young boys itching to throw that innocence away. That very thing that keeps them able to enjoy life while they can. I would urge them not to be so hasty to get rid of it, but like as not, any boy that's fixing to lose his innocence has lost it already, long, long ago.