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Marty holds my paw as tight as I hold his, and I don't want to let go. Although the room is crowded, he's the only person I have eyes for. He's a dazzling sight to behold as he drifts across the floor, mingling and flaunting effortlessly with flocks of people, leaving an impression on everyone he - or, really, we - meet. He wears his suit and tie with the comfort of lounge wear, whereas I wear the smart, fitted clothes he bought me with a degree of uncertainty and discomfort; this isn't a world I ever used to be a part of. He presents me to every new group of people we come across like a trophy befitting bragging rights and I do my best to play up to the expectations he sets for me. It's exhilarating: being who he wants me to be, who I wish I was. We play off of one another only the way two established actors can, that we're also lovers only adds to the believability of our performance. Right now, even I believe in our charade; I'm certain he does too. A lot about Marty confounds me, makes me second guess myself, or him, but not this. He loves me. More and more lately, I think I love him too.

And then he lets go of my paw and seems to spin away, and he flickers in out of my vision, and when I catch sight of him again I feel fear, as if he has become something other in those invisible moments. But, it's only him, it's only Marty.

We're at dinner with my parents now. He's making them laugh and wag with every other sentence of every one of his endless anecdotes. His paw is lodged in mine again, and this time he doesn't let go, and when my mom sees us holding paws she smiles and when she realizes we've been glued together all evening she looks like she's about to cry. When Marty kisses me in front of her she looks away and makes a sound. The sound could be mistaken for a gasp or a laugh and the averted gaze embarrassment or an attempt to give us privacy, but none of that is true. She's choking up and hiding her tears. She's so damn happy for me it hurts.

At the end of the evening, while Marty waits for me in the car, she tells me how proud of me she is. She tells me I should hold on tight to that otter and never let go. I think about how his family name, wealth and connections probably feed into her positive impression of him, but try not to be too cynical. I think about how he dotes on me, how fun he is and all the opportunities he's brought to my life and I promise her I won't.

In moments I'm hopping into his car. "Ryan," he says.

"Yes?" I strap on my seat belt and turn to him.

His eyes are wide, wider than seems possible, as if bulging out of his head. He's shaking, he opens his muzzle but all that comes out is a juddering wheeze, an awful death rattle.

A gash opens up along his neck, blood oozes out, then gushes, splattering across the wheel, the windscreen, me. I scream.

I sit up with a jerk, in bed, panting, finding darkness and gloom surrounding me, that and a comforting short-furred blob laying beside me and stirring, his thick, tapering tail curling around me. I check the digital alarm beside our bed, still shivering with residual fear and confusion. 7:43. Not too early, at least.

"You okay, gorgeous?" Marty asks, croaky with sleep, stroking a paw up my side. "What's wrong?"

"A nightmare," I tell him. "I'll be okay."

"Do you wanna talk about it?"

"I- Okay." I take in a deep breath. "You were there, it was like, you know, it was a dream, there were, like, different scenes and settings, I don't think I remember all of it. It kind of flowed, had a sort of internal logic to it, but not really. It was, we were at, I don't know, a gala? Then at my parents house. It was all sort of just reliving memories, but they were all mixed up and strange, a blurry distorted version of the real thing. But it was all okay, the dream, until, well, we were in your car, and you turned to me, and- And..."

"It's okay babe, you can say it. I'm right here." He squeezes me. "No matter how bad it was, remember that it wasn't real. Everything is fine."

I tell him what I saw.

"Oh god, you poor thing! Well, look," he takes hold of one of my paws and brings it to his neck, guiding it across so that I feel his fur mingling with my own. "I'm safe and in one piece." I giggle and my flattened ears perk. "But I'm sorry you had that horrible nightmare. I love you."

Instead of responding I go in for a kiss. He pushes into it, his muzzle locking with mine, his tongue a subtly choreographed dancer atop my own. His kisses never fail to send a shiver up my spine. Of his myriad skills, French kissing may be his most impressively honed. At this, he is a true master.

We make out for what feels like hours. I check the clock. 11:12. Huh.

He takes me out to lunch at some fancy, but not too formal, restaurant. He says that after that nightmare, I deserve a treat.

The table we're sitting at is conspicuously large for a lone couple. We're in a sort of booth, him beside me on the couch-like seating, another couch-thing opposite us and empty. The venue itself is spacious and quiet, there are a decent number of customers here but all spread out in separate booths and none are disrupting the ambiance with obnoxiously loud conversation or the cries of accompanying children.

"Did you know, Ryan?"

"Did I know what, Marty?"

"You're the best thing that ever happened to me."

I laugh. "I do know that. You tell me often."

"Just making sure you don't forget it." His tail wags, and so does mine, but it falters.

"It's a lot of pressure though, to live up to that," I say. "Isn't it?"

"Oh, sure, but, the thing is, you couldn't fail me even if you tried. I'm crazy about you."

"Yeah," I laugh. "Totally unhinged about me."

"Freakishly loony about you darling."

I laugh. I feel good, then awful.

Even beside him I am isolated. Totally alone. The pressure is too much. I can't be your everything, dammit. I can't be your world. You're too much Marty! You're too much! I care about you, but you take things too far and too fast. I feel like I love you, but you're goddamn living for me. It's too much, Marty. It's too much and it's going to break us apart!

"What did you say?" He asks.

I laugh. "Nothing.".

He kisses me and nothing else matters.

The quiet and relaxed atmosphere of the venue is blown apart by speakers suddenly blaring music. A pop song plays and it's one of my favorites. A disco ball descends from the ceiling in the center of the room above a wide, empty patch of tiled flooring. I realize it must be some sort of dance floor. Apparently this place has more to it than I knew, though Marty appears entirely unfazed.

"Come on," he says, and I'm grinning wildly at the unexpected, over-the-top oddness of the moment. Marty tugs at my sleeve, laughing, then drags me over to the dance floor with little resistance; I want to go. He's mouthing the words to the song and staring at me as he effortlessly moves in time with the bass. I lip sync with the best of them, contorting my body to the beat and before we know it we're in the midst of a maelstrom. More attendees than I even realized were here are dancing with us, around us. I notice a large portion of them are otters, but nothing about them particularly stands out to me other than that they all have the same dark fur as Marty. Oh, and over there is a red fox dancing with a gray wolf. There's something about them that catches my eyes and I feel like I know them even though I don't and then the chorus begins and none of that matters.

I'm singing along and dancing and not giving a fuck, and Marty is too. The next song is a banger as well, and the next. We're the life of the party: all eyes are on us. We are hot and young and fun and everybody wishes they were us. They're thinking: god, I wish I was that cute gay husky with the bubble butt. Or they're thinking: I wish I was that smooth, confident otter - just one look at him and you know he could have anyone he wants.

At some point the disco ball retreats and we return to our seats, giddy and joyful and I'm feeling better about things, about him.

He sniffs a few times and wipes at his nose with a napkin. Out of the corner of my eye I spot a residual smear of white powder on the tabletop.

"Oh," I say with a grimace. "That's where all that extra energy came from."

He shakes his head and nuzzles into my neck.

"It was just one bump, darling."

"Hmm."

My stomach turns.

And then my stomach grumbles.

"Hey," I start. "Where's the waiter anyway?"

"Right here."

I find a pair of feet clad in big black boots resting on the edge of the table opposite us, attached to said waiter. Other than the boots I find them nondescript in every way.

"I'll take the arrabbiata," says Marty.

"Wait, where's the menu?"

"Oh, don't worry about that. Just order."

"Uh, okay, I'll, uh, have the ratatouille."

"Very good sirs."

The waiter leaves, the only remaining sign of their existence being scuff marks on the far edge of the tabletop.

"So you can just, like, order anything you want here, or?"

Marty waves away my concerns and asks me what I think of the newest record from someone or some such and we talk about it at length. Then he says how excited he is about our next play, I agree and we discuss the scenes within and our talented coworkers. We go deep into it, getting all heated and passionate, and it's wonderful. This is how he fell for me, and I for him: shared love and joy for acting, for_art_, the one thing that matters most in life for each of us. It is our point of connection, our origin story.

When talking shop, we are always on the same wavelength, and it's incredible - that's the only word I have for it. Talking with him, acting with him, the opportunities he has afforded me, I mean, god, he has brought such a light to my life! We bounce ideas and thoughts off of one another in quick succession as the flow of conversations pulses rhythmically, musically. It's easy and it's fun and I think maybe I really could love him forever.

He leans in, conspiratorial, eyes darting from side to side, barely speaking above a whisper. "Hey, Ryan. How about I fuck you in the bathroom?"

I exhale hard and my tail sways in stuttered twitches, rallied by his titillation. Then I'm touching his hard cock, slipping a paw into his pants, right into those undies, stroking him. He's nipping at my neck and moaning, grabbing a pawful of my butt and squeezing. He's breathing heavily and so am I. I pull my paw back and lick the tips of my fingers from where they have been wet by his pre.

"I'm gonna push you down and do you real good," he grunts. "You're gonna love it too, aren't you bitch?"

"I-"

He flickers in and out of my vision, I'm just blinking, or, but suddenly I'm not sure about his proposal. Suddenly I'm afraid.

"I'm gonna pull your hair until you scream my name, push your face against the floor until I nut real deep inside of you. You want that, huh?"

"Well, I- I'm not so sure?"

"You're not so sure?" He stands, picks me up and puts me down on the table, laying me on my back. He undoes my belt and pulls down my pants and briefs. My cock springs forth, achingly hard and dripping, my knot swelling in my sheath. "You're not so sure, huh? You're not so sure?"

I cover my face with both paws.

"This is crazy!"

"Relax, nobody can see us in the booth unless they come right up. In fact, that's an idea! How about I fuck you right here? I wanna stretch your asshole so bad."

"Not here! N-not here! In the bathroom!"

He calms. Helps me down. I pull up my undies and pants and do up my belt. Just in time too.

"Your food, sirs." The waiter returns with two plates. "The spaghetti for sir," they say, putting one in front of Marty. "And the quesadilla for sir," they say, putting the other in front of me. They place cutlery for the both of us, then leave.

"You're not hungry?" Marty asks, digging in.

"Not any more," I say.

Lined up with the cutlery beside my plate is a single shiny razor blade. I pick it up on instinct and twirl it through my fingers, wondering how it got there. Handling it, playing with it nervously, the motions feel practiced, natural. A directionless fear wells up inside me.

"Your loss," Marty announces, taking my plate and eating whatever it was that I ordered too. "I love you." He says. I kiss his cheek. "I said I love you," he says. "Say it back."

I shiver and shake. "I love you," I say.

Sometimes, I think.

"What did you say?"

I laugh. "Nothing."

You bring a lot of joy to my life, Marty, and opportunity, and you're fun and beautiful and we have so many great times together, but, I don't really know what I want, not long term. Maybe it's you, it could be. I just don't know.

"What was that?"

I laugh. Marty coughs, lights a joint, takes a drag.

"In here? Really?"

"They won't stop me."

"It stinks, could you at least do that further away from me?" I can hear myself nagging, and I hate it, but his habits are indistinguishable from addiction sometimes, and I hate that, and it does stink, so what else am I meant to say?

"Fine," he says. He slides over to the far end of the couch-like-thing.

It feels like he's miles away. I squint and peer at him. He's there, just, very far away. He's a dot on the horizon.

"Oh," he says, and his voice is as loud and clear as ever. "The show is about to begin."

"What?" I shout, but I can hear him just fine. "This is ridiculous, finish that up and get back here." One inhale, one exhale, and he stubs it, and he's next to me again. "Wait, what do you mean 'show'?"

He shrugs. "Something special." He turns to me, takes one of my paws in his. "I'm sorry for lighting up, it wasn't the right time."

"It's whatever."

"I'll keep getting better for you, Ryan, I want you to know that. You're worth it."

"I really hope you do, Marty. I don't think things will end well if you don't." Wait, what? "Wait. Oh. I only meant to think that."

He shrugs. "It's fine," he squeezes my paw. "I don't want to lose you; you complete me. I don't want you to feel responsible for my problems or- I don't know, but, you're so damn good for me. I want to be better. I want to show you how much I love you."

"You do that, all the time. I know you love me, and you care so much for me, and I'm so thankful."

But-

"But, you don't feel how I feel, not exactly."

"I- I mean, I love you Marty."

He smiles. Frowns.

"But you'll never love me the way I love you."

"Hey, you don't know that. I'm still figuring things out."

"Oh, you're always figuring things out." He pauses, offers a fragile, trembling smile. "Look, it's okay. I'll do what I can to make this work," he says. I laugh, awkwardly. I don't know what to say. "Can I just ask, what is it about me that keeps you from committing?"

"Um..." Permission granted to go off, I guess. "Your drug habits scare me a bit, like, it's fun to party, but you never really seem to stop. And like, you're really intense all of the time, and I love that mostly, but, like, sometimes I just wanna chill the fuck out, you know? And you- Well, you love me too much."

"I love you too much?"

"It's oppressive. It's all encompassing. You're unhappy when I want to do things on my own, and, and you say things that scare me, like that I give your life meaning, and that you don't know what you'd do without me. I can't take all of that responsibility."

"Okay," he says. "Mostly fair, probably." He seems distracted. He's looking out across the empty floor in the middle of the venue and his voice drifts. "But, hey, it's pretty clear to me that you don't like yourself very much either."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" He's calling me out without even paying attention? Where does he get off?

"You don't like being loved so intensely because you don't feel worthy of that love. You feel uncomfortable in your own fur and you blame me for inadvertently making you reckon with that."

A panic rises in me, one that is unsettling and familiar, far too familiar.

"What the fuck are you even talking about? We never had a conversation like this."

He turns to me, eyebrow raised. "What do you mean had?" He turns away again. "Anyway, the show's about to start."

The tiled flooring in the center of the establishment rises up, becoming a stage as a spotlight descends from the ceiling. I check the bedside clock. 6:57. Wait, what? I check the bedside clock. 2:24. Uh.

"What kind of a show is this?"

"You'll see! Oh, but, these will make it better. We should try these." He pulls out a little nondescript booklet and flips through it. Pages and pages and pages of acid tabs in a variety of wild designs flick past too quickly to catch the details. Some of them seem to have pictures of me on them, some have pictures of him. It's a goddamn flip book composed entirely of full sheets of acid.

"_No_thanks," I say, more than a little upset at his compulsive recklessness, but not wanting to make a scene.

"More for me," he says with a shrug, tearing out a few pages at random, scrunching them up into a ball and shoving them into his mouth like a damn jawbreaker.

"What the fuck are you doing? That's way, way too much! You're insane!"

"Shut up, the show is starting."

"Shut up? What the hell-"

"Shh!"

The lights dim, the spotlight flicks on.

On stage stands Marty, and Ryan.

I look to my side, Marty's right there. I look to the stage and there he is again, a little younger maybe. And I'm here, but I'm there too.

"It's us!" I exclaim. Marty just nods and puts a finger to his lips. This doesn't make sense, but Marty seems okay with it. Maybe I'm just being extra, I don't know.

Stage Marty says: "It's your eyes."

Stage Ryan stutters: "M-my eyes?"

It's the first scene Marty and I ever performed together: some shitty script by the drama club lead. Marty was an out-of-towner just strolling in to check us out on a whim, he absolutely smashed the scene on his first try.

I couldn't get him out of my mind that night, he made such an impression on me. I fell for him kind of hard, kind of fast, but for some reason watching this is making me sad.

"Do you remember this?" I ask him, but he's slumped in the couch-like-seating, head rolled back, moaning softly. He's tripping out of his fucking mind. For fuck's sake.

The scene on stage plays out to its conclusion, there's polite applause and then the spotlight goes out. Moments later the spotlight comes back on to an empty stage.

"This is it," says Marty. He seems totally fine now. I want to hold him and kiss him and tell him I loved him, or I love him, or- What? "It's okay," he says.

"What?" I ask.

"It's not your fault. Not really."

"What are you talking about?"

He points to the stage. "What happens next. It's not your fault."

"It didn't have to go down that way." I say. I don't really know why. I feel out of body. I feel otherworldly. I feel wrong. But, there's more I need to say. "Why, Marty? Why did you do it?"

He shrugs. "It happened. Or, it's going to happen." He shrugs again, points to the stage again. "In fact, look, it's happening right now."

We're on stage once more. A little older now. Just a little.

Marty is scrambling to his feet, looking distraught and ragged in only his underwear. When he's up he pushes a fully-clothed Ryan to the ground.

"You don't have to watch this," says non-stage Marty.

I burst into tears.

Stage me tries to get to his feet. He can't. Stage Marty won't let him. The otter bares his own cock then straddles stage Ryan, kneeling on his legs and shoving his shoulders down, working stage Ryan's pants and underwear down to his ankles. I scrunch my eyes shut.

"Why, Marty?" I open my eyes, not looking at the stage but at the otter beside me. "It didn't have to go like that. It doesn't, surely. Please, please, tell me it doesn't."

Marty stares, stunned at the stage, a paw covering his open maw, mouth drawn wide in abject horror.

"Is that really me?" He asks. "I don't want that to be me."

"It doesn't have to be. We can change this. You can be better for me, like you said you would. I can be better for you."

"No, no, that's definitely me. Oh god. Why am I doing that to you? I'm hurting you. You don't want it at all."

"Then don't do it! You don't have to keep doing it!"

"But I'm doing it. I can see myself doing it right now."

"Then stop! Fucking stop!" I'm practically screaming.

"How did it ever come to this?"

I'm crying so much.

"Don't let it! Can't you change it? Can't things be different?"

He shakes his head.

"But this is what happens, Ryan. You know that."

"Shut the fuck up! I cared about you, you made me so happy so many times and you had to go and do something like that?"

He turns to face me now, and he looks different somehow. He scares me.

"It's not like it went from that first scene to the second, is it? So much happened in between. You know that."

"Like all of this?" I spread my paws. "Like today? It hasn't been so bad, has it? It's been good, mostly."

"Mostly. But things declined from here didn't they? You never really felt about me the way I felt about you, and you made choices based on that. And I figured it out, slowly, that things were changing, and I lost my little fucking mind, didn't I?"

"It's not that simple."

"I spun out though, didn't I? More drugs, a deeper, more caustic obsession with you. My dependencies hurt us both. Your dependency on my monetary safety net meant you didn't leave when you should have."

"It's not just- I did love you."

"For a while. In a way. But even when you didn't I still represented safety. I represented comfort."

"I cared for you Marty. I wanted you to be in my life. But-"

"That was never going to be enough for me. We both know that. Our relationship deteriorated. Things spiraled and spiraled and spiraled and-"

"I don't want to think about that!"

"Of course you don't, but it's true. I lost control of myself, and my life, and started trying to exert control on yours instead. And when, finally, you slipped free," he shakes his head and points to the stage. Stage Marty lets loose an orgasmic moan. I still can't look. "I did that."

"And fuck you for it!" A brutal shock wave of anger explodes out of me all at once. I brandish the razor blade. "Make it not happen! I don't want it to happen!"

"I wish it didn't." He shrugs. "I wish we could go out and dance and sing, I wish we could act together and fuck and have fun. I wish I didn't make things weird. I wish I didn't spin out. I wish you loved me just a little more. I wish you loved yourself. But that's how it went down. Beginning and end."

But he's wrong. And I know he's wrong. There's another scene still to come.

"We could have been such good friends," I say. I mean it.

"But I never wanted to be your friend," he says. And then stage Marty is right there behind him, wild eyed, sharp toothed and larger than life.

"Come on slut." Stage Marty says, but, no. It's both of them, talking at once with the same mouth. "One last fuck for old times' sake?"

"No!"

The two Martys flicker, and then there's only one, and he's naked, and hard as hell. He grabs a pawful of my butt and lifts me onto the table, undoes my belt, pulls down my pants and underwear. My achingly hard cock springs forth, dripping.

"Are you really going to pretend in here, Ryan? Your secret is safe with me."

"What the fuck are you saying?"

"Look at you, leaking like a fucking faucet. How often do you touch yourself thinking about me, huh?"

"Are you insane?"

"Oh come on, how often?"

"F-fuck off!" My paw is on my cock and pumping. I think of all the times we fucked and it brings me close to climax almost instantly.

"I gave you so many good memories though, didn't I? As if you were going to throw them all away after one bad night."

"Fuck you. Fine. Every now and then, but it never gets me there alone. And I feel so fucking awful afterwards every single fucking time."

"Oh, so it's not okay to enjoy those memories just because we broke up?"

"You fucking raped me!" I scream the words, almost crying, about ready to cum too.

He has this shit eating grin, and I know exactly what he's about to say.

"That's right, and you see it crystal clear in your mind, don't you?"

"Yes."

"You remember every little detail, every single sensation."

"Yeah," I exhale hard between strokes of my length.

"You're getting close now aren't you?"

"Mmf."

"And when you touch yourself thinking of all the usual sex we had, it just isn't enough is it?"

"No, it's not enough."

"So you think about me shoving you down and hurting you, fucking _raping_you."

"Fuck."

"And you cum like crazy."

And I do.

And I'm moaning and panting.

And I hate myself so fucking much.

I'm sick and twisted and "I fucking hate you!"

"But how can you even call it rape when you clearly loved it so much?" He asks, and I'm up, punching Marty in his cackling, overconfident, psycho face. I'm clawing at him, making him bleed. He laughs and laughs and laughs.

"It didn't have to be like this, huh?" He's laughing and laughing. Or is he crying? I can't tell. I don't care. I keep punching and scratching. He doesn't fight back.

"You ruined me! You twisted up my fucking head! You destroyed my fucking life!"

"That's right, bitch! I did. And what are you gonna do about it? No, no. What_did_ you fucking do about it?"

There's a paw on my shoulder. I turn, it's me.

Stage Ryan passes me the razor blade in total silence. My heart beats double, triple time. "Does it really have to-?" I fail to ask the question.

"This is how it goes," says stage me. "That was how it went."

"But, like this? I'm the aggressor now. Is this a choice I can live with."

"Is it?" And he flickers. And he's gone.

"This is the part where you kill me," Marty says.

We're sitting side by side on our living room couch, in our apartment. It's quiet and calm. He is as he was before: my boyfriend, somebody who brings me joy and showers me with love and praise, somebody who I can rely on to be there when I need him most. I'm still holding the razor blade.

"Why does it have to be like this? Why couldn't you have been better like you promised? Why couldn't I?"

"I don't know. You know that I don't know. I can't know anything you don't know."

"Yeah," I sigh. "I figured."

"You could wake up if you want."

"I know."

"But you're not going to."

"No."

"I really did love you, you know?"

"Of course you did. And I loved you too."

"No more caveats?"

"No more caveats."

"But you're still going to kill me?"

"It happened right? It happens. It's happening right now. That's just the way it is. You know that."

"Yeah." He says, solemn. "Like I said though, you could just wake up." I nod slowly. "But you won't."

"I won't."

"Because, in spite of everything, you want to do it."

"You ruined my fucking life, Marty." It's not a frenzied accusation; it's a statement.

"I did, Ryan." I lift up the razor blade. He lifts up a paw, signaling for me to stop. "But in some small way, back then, and every day since, and every day yet to come, you're letting me." He adorns an untamed grin and grips my paw in his, the one holding the blade, and lifts it to his own throat, leaning his head back, offering his neck right up to me. "At any point," he says, moving my paw slowly about an inch across his fur covered flesh, blood both seeping and spraying from the freshly cut wound. "You could choose to let go." After a small delay, he drags my paw across the remaining length of his neck in one quick, vicious motion. I clutch the blade tight the entire time.

His gushing throat wound fountains me in gore as he dies. It is the single worst thing I have ever witnessed. I have witnessed it a thousand times.

I don't wake until he takes his last shuddering breath, all hope erased from his eyes as he watches me watching him go.

I sit up with a jerk, in bed, shaking, clutching my sheets, not stable. I look around. There's no dark-furred lump beside me, no Marty, thank fuck. And it's not our bed, it's mine. But, god- My face scrunches, my paws ball into fists. The most awful fact of all lingers on my mind: there is a part of me that misses him, that wishes he were still here.

I slam my fists into the mattress, suppressing a scream, then pick up a pillow, push it against my face and let it out. I breathe slowly, uncurl my fists, rub my eyes. I check my phone. 8:51. I look away. I check again. 8:51. Okay. Look away. Check again. 8:52. Awake, then. Just had to be sure.

My legs wobble as I stand and move into my en suite, all the individual details of the dream fading quickly, but the ennui lingering.

Did it really have to go down like that?

It's not a real question. That is what's happening, happens, happened. There is no way to stop or undo it. I loved him, and now I hate him so much there are times I wish I could kill him all over again.

I'm stained, both by his actions and my own, and the shower doesn't do a damn thing to wash away the blood.