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Sasha

Back when I was a kit I had a lot of troubles, and a real big one was getting to sleep. But I wasn't afraid of the dark, and I wasn't afraid of anything lurking under my bed ready to snatch me from beneath my covers. Monsters like that weren't real. What kept me awake--what truly frightened me--came from myself.

The nightmare was never too violent or gruesome, and normal furs probably wouldn't even think it were scary to begin with. Only I understood what it meant.

I'm only seven years old. I'm so small that the top of my head doesn't even come up to their waists. They're just a random crowd of furs: adults, teens, kids. Their faces are all blurred out so I don't recognize anyone, but they're all turned right at me, staring. They surround me. I'm s __tanding_ still amidst their anonymous glares, my eyes darting all around, ears pinned down, tail between my legs. I know what's coming. I've had the dream so many times that I've memorized every detail. Still, it does me no good. A little boy flings up his arm and points at me, and the woman holding his hand covers her mouth and giggles._

From across the circle of blurred faces, a man asks, "What is it?"

"I think it's a boy," the man beside him replies.

I shudder, my knees growing weak.

"It's a girl like me," says a figure my size in a little dress. "So pretty."

Soon I'm overwhelmed by the sounds of rabid discussion, the pointed fingers aimed in my direction, the fuzzy faces unreadable but--somehow--still judging me. I begin to cry after a man bursts out laughing at me, and my knees give out and I sink to the ground. I close my eyes and beg to wake up. I close my eyes and feel their hands begin to touch me.

I'd wake up screaming and crying then, knocking imaginary hands from my chest and from between my legs, tears clinging to my cheeks and dripping onto my bed. Claire would usually come and comfort me, and if she didn't my parents would. No matter what, though, I'd need the necessary form of compassion. My family's love mattered, but they never really understood what I was going through. They only knew my status as "intersex" and what the condition was because of the doctors and pamphlets and things, but they couldn't ever grasp my confusion and strain in figuring out why I looked and felt the way I did. They didn't understand how "outside" of normal I found myself.

Conall lived right beside us when I was young. He moved in with his parents when I was only five, but I still remember playing with him at that age. He was six years older than me, but that never mattered to him. The handsome wolf/deer hybrid formed a camaraderie with me from the start, and it was because we were the same: we were ridiculed for how we looked. He was a person made of two species that (supposedly) couldn't breed but had, and I was a person made of two genders all mashed up into a little body with white fur and a complex.

He loved to draw and paint--it helped him wind down and get emotions off of his chest--and he thought it would help me, too, so he taught me what he knew. And it did help, but I wasn't about to yank out a sketchbook every time I had a nightmare. No, Conall knew about my dreams, and he told me that if I ever needed him--no matter the time--he'd be there. So, when I'd have the nightmare, afterward I'd wipe my eyes and climb down the stairs and head out the back door. Conall always left his window unlocked, so I'd knock. He'd always hear me. He'd open the window and help me clamber inside, and then he'd let me snuggle up to him in bed and cry some more. There were countless nights where he'd talk me to sleep, his shoulder sopping wet with my tears, soft and sometimes cracking voice lulling me into a calm state. He never ever complained.

It wasn't a gay thing. I didn't even really understand what being gay_meant_ at that time. I just knew that I loved Conall and Conall loved me. He helped me to overcome my fear of myself, and the dreams just...stopped after a while. But Conall's window remained open for me up until he moved away to go to college. I hated to see him go, but I knew I'd be okay. No more nightmares after all.

Until tonight.

It's the crowd again--the same faceless crowd. I'm not a kit anymore, and I stand tall and resolute before them. They still surround me, but this time they're different. No one points. No one giggles. No one questions who or what I am. They all know.

"That's Sasha!" one exclaims.

"Yeah, he's gay!" another chimes in.

This doesn't particularly bother me; I've accepted who I am. What really surprises me is that they all seem indifferent to my homosexuality. I know they know, and they just don't care.

Snow begins to drift down from the featureless sky, and they all continue to watch me. I look up, however, and the snowflakes kiss my nose and face ice-cold. It melts into my fur--white into white. "He's pretty remarkable," one figure says.

I glance at the crowd again, and they're...smiling. It doesn't look fake, either; __t_ he_y're sincere.

A little boy tugs on his father's shirt tail and says, "I want to be like him!"

The father looks down at his son and pulls a football out from behind his back. Or maybe he'd had it the whole time. He gives it to the boy.

"That's great, son. You can be brave, too. You can be whatever you want." The father smiles at me and shoots me a thumbs up.

"Catch, Sasha," the boy says, and he throws me the football. I catch it effortlessly.

"Touch doooown!" the entire crown yells.

The snow has completely covered the ground by now, and if I hadn't been dressed I would've blended perfectly into the environment, unseen.

E __ven though the crowd isn't moving I hear footsteps crunching and growing nearer. The sound terrifies me for some reason; it's so foreboding, like heavy breathing in a dark room you thought empty. __My heart beats faster and faster as n_ earer and nearer the steps sound, until the crowd begins to clap and cheer...for_ me.I think. Then, right in front of me, the crowd parts. Past the blurred faces a figure walks toward me, isolated _. He cuts through the opened path, his footsteps still crunching, crunching. My_ legs_ grow weak. I stare wide-eyed into the figure's hooded face as he stops a couple of feet away from me._

"Where's your sword, hero?" he asks, voice like encroaching thunder.

I drop to to my knees, the football rolling from my lifeless hands and stopping in between us.

I can't speak. I can't move. The crowd continues to clap. They continue to smile. The monstrous man reaches up and pulls off his hood in a single, graceful motion. Tall, sharp ears stab up into the falling snow; lips pull back to reveal vicious teeth. He's a doberman, but he's not Corbin.

His black and russet fur begins to pepper with white and gray; his blue eyes fade to a shade of red. He pulls a handgun out from behind his back and aims it at my head, and my __heart ski_ p_s a beat. The crowd goes "ooh" and "ahh." He then swings his arm up and fires into the heavy sky three times. I flinch with each bang of the gun. Then I flinch again as three bodies plummet down and hit the snowy ground around me with hollow thuds.

" __Take a look, hero," the Shadow says. "_ Don't be afraid._ Take in the casualties."

I do as he says and the bone-white world stops.

Red lays on his back before me, his eyes clouded, a bullet hole in between them _; Conall lays to my right, flat on his stomach with his arms contorted, lifeless eyes peering at me and blood dribbling from his mouth; Lee is to my left laying on his right sid__ e_ and facingaway from me, blood seeping through an exit wound in his back right where his heart was.

I try to scream, I have to, but no sound escapes me. It's infuriating and sickening. The three furs who are most important to me in the entire world are right here, right around me, and they're dead. My entire body grows cold as if it's leeching the chill from the snow and air, from their corpses. Then the shadow begins to sing.

"One dead Red, a bullet in his head. Six milk eyes, windows for the flies. Cold big brother, on his own blood he smothered. Poor shepherd boy, empty of all joy _. " He steps toward me, deep voice washing out the clapping crowd, snow crunching, crunching. I look up and feel tears flowing down my face._ I feel small again, tiny and insignificant and lost like when I was a kit. I look up at the Shadow, but the doberman is no longer a doberman--he is me."Fox white as snow, with nowhere left to go." Shadow-me grins and lashes out. My body jerks, and warmth spills down the front of my chest, extinguishing the cold that had set in. I don't feel any pain, but I do feel empty. He smirks and holds up his hand and __i_ t's dripping and covered in blood. My heart--he's clutching it, squeezing it._It's still beating, after all.

"Apple warm and ruby red," he sings. "Starving to be fed." And he takes a bite.

I fall face-first into the bloody snow and just...melt into it like it had earlier melted into me...

I wake screaming and clutching at my chest, feeling for a hole that isn't there. My face is wet. My room is black, but some light spills in under my door from the hallway. Chest heaving, I feel around and find my sheets are damp and cold with sweat. I fling them off and throw my bare legs over the side of my bed, just sitting and breathing and trying to calm down.

I'm not used to this, but it's no surprise that I'm a little more on edge than usual, more prone to the darker side of my mind. It's_him,_ the Shadow, for one. The biggest one. I thought he'd been put away when Corbin was arrested, I thought I was safe after The Haunt bullshit was taken care of and put behind me. I thought wrong.

It turned out that Corbin was innocent of my attack and that the real_Shadow was still out there. Rutger and Ridge, the goofball hare and steely wolverine police officers assigned to Corbin for parole, had dropped by the house earlier in the week, before the game, and told me and my family the grim news. Regardless, I put up a brave front. No one knew what the real Shadow was after, after all. Back at the Haunt he'd told me face to face that he didn't give a shit about me or Red or Lee, so--for whatever reason--he'd been using us. He'd used Corbin and gotten him framed, maybe knowingly or unknowingly getting him charged with domestic abuse. Now, it seemed, the Shadow was done for the time being. What he _was done with, though, no one had a clue. Still...he was out there. That was where my nightmare had stemmed: I was afraid of getting hurt again, and I was afraid of my loved ones getting hurt because of me.

There was also Friday night's football game. I was antsy about that, too. I received/was receiving a lot of unwanted attention after/since the jersey came off. Maybe I was just too unaccustomed to the spotlight outside of running track since it's not much of a spectator sport, after all, unlike the bone-breaking, mad-rushing madness that is football. The fans were much more...proactive. I sat up straighter and my back ached, not from being at the receiving end of a tackle, but from the hard and thankful pats I got once the game was over, from the game we won.

My boxer-briefs had ridden up into the crevices between my legs, so I grunted and yanked them back into proper position. I'd kicked off one of my socks, too--just one--so I plucked the other one off of my foot and tossed it. It landed across something in the floor, and when my eyes adjusted I saw that the winning game ball I'd received from Trace Friday night had fallen from its stand on my dresser. I could make out the signatures of some of the Emerald Knights from my bed--Trip Bardow, August Fletcher, and Trace's massive scrawl with a heartfelt letter of thanks.

I didn't move to pick it up. Instead, I curled my tail up into my lap and stroked it, staring at the egg shaped thing in my floor and knowing it didn't belong there or here (in my room) at all. Yet it was.

The game was for the state championships, after all, so the ball was sort of sacred. Some of the players didn't think I deserved to have it, but Trace gave it to me anyway. I didn't blame them for getting upset. I mean, at first I thought I was just filler and wasn't going to be playing at all, but--in reality--I was coach Trace's secret weapon. He didn't put me in until the last play when the Emerald Knights were behind a few points. No one outside the team really knew me. No one expected me. I just went onto the field and did what Trace had told me to do: run, catch the football, and then run again like I never had before. I did. I scored. We won.

We celebrated. There weren't any problems at all game-wise. Whatever Red had been worrying about didn't happen, but I didn't get any satisfaction from proving he'd been wrong, from proving I could take care of myself and that he should have more faith in me. He'd seemed surprised about me winning the game--little 'ol me--_but so did everyone else. I took his surprise a little harder, though. He still hasn't apologized for snapping at me, for calling me _stupid...

I wiped my eyes, wiped back hair, and then picked my phone up from the night stand beside my bed to check the time. It was Sunday and only ten o'clock. I locked the screen and stared around my dark room knowing I wouldn't be able to get back to sleep after my nightmare and all the contemplating I was doing, but I didn't know what else to do. The place felt cramped and confined and I suddenly wanted to leave, but I didn't know where I'd go. I'd gone to bed early because Red was still moody and popping pain pills so hanging out was out of the question, and I kind of didn't want to be around him right now anyway; Lee was still sticking by his uncle in the hospital whenever he could, and I didn't want to interrupt that.

I knew, if I was back in my childhood days, where I'd be headed: Conall's window. His parents moved some time after he graduated from college (to Virginia, I think), so their old house had long since been occupied by a nice Otter family, but Conall didn't live that far away. He loved Emerald Bluff too much to leave, and I loved him for it because it meant I still got to see him.

Surely he wouldn't mind me dropping by for old times sake, right? Especially given the...circumstances.

I thought about calling him while I pulled on some track pants, shoes, and a tee shirt. Conall was an adult with a life and stuff, so maybe he had stuff going on. A party or something.

"Nah," I finally said, pulling on a jacket. My contacts were out, so I grabbed my glasses and flipped them open, sliding them delicately onto my snout.

Conall wasn't a big socialite, like me, and I knew he was probably just watching TV or reading or drawing something. I headed out of room and quietly made my way down the stairs, looking up my brother's address on my phone as I went.

"I won't be a bother."

I hoped I wouldn't be a bother.

When I got downstairs I noticed my parents were sitting on the couch with the lights off, their laptop on the coffee table before them. They were watching Parks and Recreation, the sound on max (probably why the didn't here me yell). I coughed over the excitable voice of Leslie Knope (aka Amy Poehler), and my mother jumped and puffed up a bit, her winter coat much thicker than mine, Claire's, or my dad's. Pop just glanced up at me over the rims of his glasses with little reaction and paused the show.

"What is the meaning of this interruption of precious Netflix time?" he asked.

Mom smoothed her neck-fur and tail back down and looked at me, her eyes wide. "You scared me."

Dad chuckled and patted mom's knee, and then he smiled at me. "Everything alright, kiddo? I thought you were asleep?"

I didn't like it, but I lied. "No. I was reading."

Mom noticed I was dressed and cocked an eyebrow, once again adopting her role as mother and nose sticker-inner. "Going somewhere?"

I nodded, thinking quickly. "I got a craving for a latte. I'm going to run to Perks before they close." My folks knew I loved Perks coffee, and they knew they were open late on the weekend. Not an overly far fetched excuse. "I may go see Red, too." Definitely not a far fetched excuse.

Dad squinted. He gathered an air of sternness I didn't like and hadn't anticipated. "I think you can wait until tomorrow for coffee, son. And Red's not going anywhere."

Not okay. I just gazed at him, and then I perceived a bag of baby carrots next to him in the crook of the couch cushions. Mom had forbidden him any sweets after 7 pm and had been forcing veggies onto him in the last few weeks.

"I'll get you a big eff'in snickerdoodle cookie," I said deadpan.

"Cheerio, and say hello to Stephen for me. Red, too," he blurted, stretching his arms over the back of the couch.

Mom was shocked. I grinned at her. "I'll get you one, too."

She frowned, but she didn't stop me. "Okay. Be careful."

I sighed inwardly in relief and saluted them. "Will do on both accounts. Have fun, parental units."

I got to the kitchen door and grabbed my keys, but mom hollered after me and I thought things were too good to be true. "Get decaf, honey! It's so late. And tell Tanya that I'll return her cake pan tomorrow!"

Since Red's mom wasn't over her baking addiction, she had gifted me with a triple-fudge bundt cake for my football victory. I didn't get any of it, but my dad assured me it had been like licking chocolate sauce out of an angel's belly button.

"Okay," I replied, and then I went hastily out and hopped into my car.

Lying to my parents ate at me as I drove, but it wasn't like I hadn't sneaked out before. They caught on that I was going over to Conall's soon after it began. Walking into your youngest child's room in the morning to find him missing only makes you look for him after all, and boy were Conall's folks surprised to find me in bed with their son. But that was at the age of innocence, so they didn't think too much of it. Both families let it continue, and I'm grateful they did.

I hadn't ever, in actuality, been to Conall's house. It was a shame, and to be as close as we are (used to be), you would've thought that I would have dropped by earlier. I don't know why I hadn't bothered to visit, but I reasoned that it was because I saw Conall nearly everyday at school, and I had_had a lot of stuff going on recently. I did find his address though, as he was listed in the yellow pages (the perks of being a home owner: you _can be located at all times). My phone was spewing directions out to me as I drove, but I didn't have to go too far. I had to make a few U-turns and drive slowly down streets while peeking through my windows like a total creep (everything looks different in the dark!), but I eventually spotted his truck.

The house was nice--kind of quaint in an aged way, but the neighborhood he was in looked older than where I lived. It was brick and a single-story, maybe three bedrooms and two baths (I'm no Realtor just an observer). The grass was expertly cut like the perfectionist I knew Conall was, zigzagging back and forth in lines of dark and light blue under the winter moonlight. Little, round hedges wound through a flowerbed from the garage to the front steps, and some white flowers were miraculously blooming even though it was December. His truck was parked outside the garage, so I pulled up to the curb and saw that the lights were on in the living room as well as the dining room. The curtains were drawn, but there were shadows that may or may not have been a group of people. My stomach twinged and I grew antsy. I could've turned around, or I could've gone to Perks like I said I had been, but instead I decided to take a chance.

The grass crunched a bit underfoot as I made my way to the front door, and a night breeze bit through my jacket and fur and made me hustle to get out of the cold. I hopped up the front steps onto the porch and gently opened the screen door, but I didn't knock on the door-door because I heard music and voices--only two (one was definitely Conall, thank God). The fact that he did_have company made me second guess my visit, but I still raised my frigid paw and knocked. I'd come this far...which wasn't _that far, but you get my point.

My knuckles popped against the door, and the music was lowered inside. Someone thumped through the living room, and through the glass at the top I spied my brother's rack of antlers and his deer-like ears poking straight up. My belly tingled in excitement and I couldn't help but smile as the door opened and Conall was there, dressed in some old jeans and a black tank top that hugged his muscular body in all the best ways. His chocolate fur stuck out around the tight garment, making him look particularly soft and snuggable.

I thought he'd be just as excited to see me as I was to see him, but instead of a smile his lips pressed flat and his brows knit together, short tail flicking from side to side. I stepped back as he opened the screen door, suddenly feeling that I was indeed intruding on something.

"Hey, Frost," he said, looking at me then up and down the street. He sounded tense. "This is a surprise. What are you doing here? I didn't know you knew where I lived."

"Uh," I pulled my phone out my jacket pocket and wiggled it. "Miraculous technology we have nowadays."

He smirked. "Right."

I started to turn around as grumbling came from inside. "I can go if it's a bad time..."

"No," he stepped out completely, ducking to keep his antlers from hitting the door frame. His ears drooped as he glanced back inside. "I mean, well..."

I could take a hint. My heart sank a little. "It's alright. I don't want to be a bother."

He laughed. "Oh, no, you wouldn't be a bother. Not at all. Is everything alright?"

My paw found the back of my head. "I just...wanted to talk. Maybe draw. I dunno--I had a nightmare..."

He was quiet, but his eyes expanded. "Oh, Sasha. Really?"

"Maybe. Yeah." A knot grew in my throat, but I choked it down. "But it's alright. I'm a big boy now."

He flinched, wide shoulders sagging. "Hey, no, you can come in. You're always welcome. But, there's just one condition..."

"Hey, Conall," a voice--a familiar voice now that I could really hear--called from inside over the low music. "I'm struggling here!"

Goosebumps rose on my flesh, and I just glared at Conall now chewing on his lower lip, eyes squinted in some kind of mental agony. I knew that voice; I'd heard it more times than I cared to think about, screaming from the sidelines and bellowing plays to the football team.

"What the fuck," was all I could manage. Blood and heat flushed through my body like wildfire and melted away the chill in the air. "Why is Corbin here!?"

Conall raised his hands, like he was preparing to block punches. "Easy, Frost--calm down!"

"Why is he here!?"

Really, I didn't care for an answer. I didn't want to hear any excuses. I just wanted to storm off, but Conall grabbed my shoulder as I turned to go.

He growled, his grip much firmer than I'd ever felt. It hurt a little. "Hey, believe it or not, he's here for the same reason that you're here."

I laughed, the sound snapping...like the ankle of a running back. "Bullshit."

Conall just looked hurt. He let me go and stood tall, looming over me, his sun-scorch eyes burning my fight away. "You're not the only one with problems, Sasha, and you're not the only one I've ever helped using art therapy. Corbin's been coming here for almost a month and a half, and--believe it or not--he's...changed."

The scowl I wore made my face ache. "I cannot believe that. He's a monster. He hurt Mindy..."

"I know that," Conall said, voice rumbling. "Believe me, I know. And I've..._confronted_him about it, but the fact remains that he's different. He needed help, and he got it. He's working his problems out, and I'm helping him."

"Why?" I crossed my arms. "You don't owe him anything."

My brother just smirked, his expression anything but merry. "Sasha, I didn't owe you anything either, but did it stop me?"

A gasp passed through my lips round in surprise, and then I immediately snapped my mouth closed as he'd successfully shut me up.

"Now, are you going to come inside to work that frustration out?" He opened the door and stepped in, holding it open for me.

I shuffled there on the porch, unsure and frightened and wishing to prove to Conall that I wasn't a total asshole. I mean, maybe Corbin had changed. I'm sure being framed and arrested and dumped all in such a short amount of time can do things to you, but Corbin always seemed so stubborn...in every way. He may have changed, but had he changed for the better? There was only way to find out I guess.

Conall nodded and smiled as I breezed past him and into the warmth of his living room, my arms still crossed, looking for Corbin but trying my best to look like I_wasn't_ looking for him.

"Welcome, by the way," he said, closing the door. "Make yourself at home."

"Thank you," I said, sincerely.

"Your folks know you're here?"

A simple nod pacified him.

The living room was empty of doberman. Conall's black leather couch was abandoned, big flat-screen TV lifeless. Pictures he had (family, friends, yadda-yadda) and paintings he'd made hung along the walls. He made his way past me and I followed, skirting around a well-used coffee table, my eyes then following his hand as he pointed toward a canvas set up in a corner next to a shelf of books and DVDs.

I immediately went to it, forgetting my anger and forgetting that there was a doberman on reform somewhere nearby, and all I could say was, "Oh my God."

Conall came up behind me, his voice soothing and warm like when we were younger. "I take it you remember this masterpiece?"

"You kept it?" I turned to him, surprise forcing me to smile. "I can't believe it."

He shrugged, looking surprised himself. "Why not? I kept everything you made. That one just makes me happy." He grinned, cheeks and ears growing rosy, "I had to put it out somewhere. It'd be a sin not to."

I blushed, turned, and ran a finger across the painting's surface. The acrylic was just as I remembered it, so I guess Conall had done something to seal the surface after I'd worked my magic. Hah.

It was an accident, really, the whole thing. Maybe that's what made it a work of art to Conall, the fact that the painting itself was completely designed by the workings of fate...and that fate was eight year-old me falling face first into the canvas. I'd never forget slathering the thing in royal blue, working ravenously and rough, the easel rocking and my stool teetering until I just...plummeted forward. I snickered, unable to hold it back, as the impression of my face popped out of the blue of the canvas. It actually looked pretty neat, to be honest, with the sharp contours and miniscule fraying effect along the edges from my fur. It reminded me of a mask, or the blotch of white light you see when you close your eyes and clench them really tight, floating and wavering in the pseudo darkness.

"Some of my hair is still in it," I said, looking close.

"Yep. It's one of a kind," Conall said, sounding satisfied.

Someone snuffled from behind us. "I've been wondering about that one since I started coming here."

Both Conall and I turned to find Corbin leaning against the door frame of the dining room. He was dressed similarly to Conall in a tank top (red instead of black) and a pair of tan cargo pants with no shoes on. Conall padded over to him and stood by his side, but I didn't budge.

"You should've asked about it," Conall said. "It's definitely a conversation starter."

I just gawked. I hadn't realized how much bigger my brother was than Corbin...or I hadn't realized how much weight and muscle Corbin had lost. He reminded me of a junkie now, one who'd been forced into detox and who'd suffered the damaging effects of withdrawal. Skinnier, paler, face sharp and eyes dark and sunken in a bit. One, his right, was black and puffy. I recalled how Conall had said he'd confronted the dog about what he'd done to Mindy, and I shuddered a bit.

"Do I have paint on my face?" Corbin asked innocently, reaching a paw up toward his cheek.

My lips slipped into a frown. No, I was just staring, taken aback. Corbin looked...awful.

"Let me see," Conall said, leaning in toward the dog and scrutinizing his mug for blemishes. "All clear."

Corbin laughed. He laughed."Oh." He looked at me and smiled. It was a sad sort of smile. Apologetic. "I guess I'm just freaking you out then, huh, Clemmons?"

I snapped back into the moment and found my heart was beating fast. "I just didn't expect you to be here, that's all."

"It's alright," he said. "I don't doubt it."

Thick silence set in all awkward like; the minute or two it filled was more than unbearable.

Corbin coughed gently, wincing and cradling his left side then rolling his eyes at himself. He reached into a pocket of his pants and pulled out a sweet of some kind, unwrapping it and popping it into his mouth. It looked like a cough drop. His once boisterous voice was a bit scratchy and softer.

"You can be honest," he said to me, rolling the piece of red candy around on his tongue. "I can take the hate." He smiled again and, this time, he didn't look too bad. "I've gotten used to it, honestly. As bad as that is."

I didn't think, I just spoke the truth. "I don't hate you. I just...don't know you. Not really. I know what you've done, and that's the only impression of you I have. I don't like it, but..." I tapered off, unable to finish my sentence as I didn't actually know how to turn it into something not insulting to him.

His cropped ears perked, left eye wide in surprise, right trying but still squinted and wounded. "I know, and I don't like the old me either. I caused a lot of pain_._I'm different now, or...trying to be."

The black monitor strapped to his ankle drew my eye, and I slipped. "I don't know if I want to know you now..."

"Hey," Conall snapped. "None of that..."

"It's alright, big guy," Corbin said, still watching me. "I don't blame him. I'm a mess."

More silence. I got the urge to leave again, but I was too scared to try, too scared to look like I didn't care about Corbin's situation or the person he claimed he was trying to be.

"No," Conall finally said, looking into the dining room and their painting area. "The only mess here is your color palette." He turned Corbin back toward his station, frowned at me, but then motioned for me to follow which I did.

It turns out that the shadows I thought were people were easels set up near the windows. Conall had thrown some plastic sheeting down on the floor to keep from ruining the carpet with paint splatter, and it crinkled under his and Corbin's feet as they trod over it to get to their places. A radio sitting on the dinner table was whispering soft jazz, and Conall turned it up a little as he passed it.

Corbin mumbled something as he took a seat on a stool before his easel, the canvas splattered with Pollock-style marks of various clashing colors: red and cyan, purple and green, yellow and blue. He stared at his work, seemingly unsatisfied.

Damn my curiosity, but I couldn't_not_ get a closer look. I stepped onto the plastic and stared at the painting too, because--shocker--it looked really cool.

"It's vibrating," I said, caught up in the painting's interaction with itself and looking over Corbin's shoulder, uncomfortably close but uncaring. "It's not a mess at all."

His breath was warm on my cheek as he turned and gazed at me, and it smelled good, like menthol and cherries. Still, I stepped back as his tail brushed against my knees.

"You think?" he asked. "I just threw stuff on." He turned back to the painting and squinted. "It kind of hurts my eyes."

Conall was grinning as he set up another easel (undoubtedly) for me. "You're doing fine, Corbin."

"You said my colors were a_mess..."_

I chuffed, and my brother's grin faltered. He wanted me to stay civil, so instead of bringing up some touchy subjects, I'd talk art and remain neutral for now.

"Conall just doesn't like abstract stuff, that's all," I said. The hybrid in question snorted and pulled a blank canvas from a cabinet nearby. "He doesn't understand it."

Corbin sighed, his shoulders drooping, and he picked up a brush and dabbed it into his palette set up on another stool next to him. "Hell, I don't understand it. I'm not an artist." He jabbed the brush onto the canvas and left some blotches of orange atop some blue.

"I beg to differ," Conall said, stopping what he was doing and gathering his sagely art-wisdom which I'd long since been able to predict, like a meteorologist predicts the path of a storm. "Everyone can make a painting..."

"But only a few can make that painting into a work of art," I finished for him with a smug grin. He shot me a bird in response and made Corbin laugh.

I'd heard that saying already as he told it to his art classes at the beginning of each year, but he'd told me the saying when he'd first shown me how to paint, years ago.

Corbin bit into his cough drop and I grimaced as his jaw muscles flexed and popped. "That's deep--real deep." He then eyed Conall and me, dabbing his brush into more paint. "You two seem close."

I froze, caught off guard by the dog's pointed assumption. Conall just smirked.

"Yeah, Sasha and I go way back. We were neighbors as kids," he said.

"No shit?" Corbin spat, covering his mouth right after and streaking his muzzle with white paint. He seemed to droop. "Sorry. Tryin' not to cuss so much anymore."

Chuckling, I felt my anxiety lessen somewhat. He was actually trying to be better.

"It's not like I haven't ever heard or said 'shit' before," I said.

He loosened up a bit, tail wagging. It was a side of him I hadn't ever seen.

"Heaven forbid," he said. "You're eighteen after all. And," he pointed at Conall with his brush, "You're a lot younger than I thought you were."

Conall pulled out another stool and sat some paint on it for me. "How old did you think I was?"

"29 or 30," Corbin said. "You're beefiness through me off. It makes you look older."

I snorted and slid toward my easel. "Heh-hey, beef-eh!"

Conall turned red and smacked me playfully atop the head, and then he handed me a brush.

"You coming on to me?" he asked the dog with a smirk.

Corbin's tail slowed to a soft sway and his ears perked, but he kept painting. I swore he was grinning just a little. "Would it surprise you if I was?"

"Yeah, kinda," Conall said, playfulness replaced with timidity.

"Me, too," I chimed in. "A_whole_ lot."

Now Corbin was smiling. "As a fellow man, I can admire the results of hard work and training, can't I?" His gaze flicked to Conall working his way over to his own easel. My brother didn't see, but I did. "You look good."

Conall was suddenly very busy checking the caps of his paints. "T...thanks?"

I hadn't stopped watching Corbin to gauge the meaning of his...compliment. He turned to me and winked, his smile soft now. "You're welcome."

He went back to painting, and I followed his example and mixed up a light blue. I started free-handing when I got the paint just right.

"You looked good too, Clemmons," Corbin said.

I streaked a line of paint off of the canvas in surprise. "Huh?"

The doberman smirked. "Friday night? I was watching the game on TV at home, and I nearly crapped my pants when I heard your name."

I swallowed and wrangled my brush back under control. "Yeah, I bet you weren't the only one."

Corbin clicked his tongue and waved his paws (splattering paint from the brush in his right), his eyes intense. "Don't get me wrong! It wasn't because I thought the game was done or anything, I just couldn't believe Trace had thought to ask the track team to help out."

"Yeah," I said. "I couldn't believe it either. I thought it was crazy."

Corbin bounced on his stool. "I thought it was genius!"

I didn't know what to do or say as I once again found myself staring at Corbin, taken completely by surprise. How was it possible that this amiable, wide-eyed dog was hidden somewhere inside that steely, loud-mouthed, ex-football coach?

Abandoning my previous plan, I once again let my words escape me, hoping beyond hope that this mystery would be revealed to me. "What happened to you?"

Conall hissed behind his easel. Corbin locked gazes with me, his countenance still, but I could tell he was squirming on the inside. I never felt I could have some sort of power over him, but in this weaker state he was vulnerable and it kind of bothered me. I felt bad for popping such a question on him_after_ the fact, and I kind of expected him to get angry with me, but he didn't. Conall didn't try to stop him answering either.

"It's simple," the doberman sighed. "I lost everything."

Conall tried to interject, but Corbin shook his head at him.

"Have you ever lost anything, Clemmons?" he asked me.

I thought about it, and I hadn't. I shook my head and Corbin nodded.

"Have you ever lost anyone?" he continued. "Someone you cared about?"

I'd come close, especially in the last few months, but the answer was still no. Again, I shook my head. Shame started to creep in and unsettle my stomach. Apparently Corbin could tell that I was starting to squirm, and the power I thought I'd wielded was ebbing away. I stopped trying to paint as my paw was still, and I focused on the dog.

"You're young, so I didn't figure you had," he said. "And that's alright. It's a good thing. You're lucky."

"Corbin," Conall said, sidestepping his easel and watching the dog warily. "You don't..."

"It's fine, Conall. It really is." He nodded toward me, his ears falling a bit. "I've learned a lot about myself since I got arrested, and I want to share it. You said you don't really know me, Clemmons, so this is just to prove that I'm not a bad guy.

"I've been taking anger management and talking with a therapist every week because I _needed_it. I didn't realize I needed it, but people like me don't realize they have a problem until it's too late." He started to paint again, talking calmly as he did and gesticulating with his brush strokes and poignant facial expressions.

"My dad died when I was three years old, and my ma was always working. The only male figures in my life were my older brother and my grandad, and my grandad was a real son-of-a..."

He pursed his lips, eyes rolling as he searched for a cleaner word, I guessed. Conall was painting, his radar-like ears aimed toward Corbin.

"Nah," the doberman finally said with a heavy brush stroke. "He was a son-of-a-bitch. Sorry. My brother and me, we stayed with him when mom was working. He wasn't soft in any way, and he wasn't a patient man. He'd smack ya' around as soon as look at ya', and we got smacked quite a bit. My brother especially, because he was always hardheaded and stubborn and wouldn't back down about anything. Mom never said nothin', but she knew what was happening. She couldn't do anything, though. She grew up with the man, so she'd suffered the same crap. You say his name around her now and she'll still flinch, even though the old bastard is far beneath the ground.

"Anyway, my dad was gone, my mom was never around, and I got a beating nearly everyday for no reason." He shrugged his lean shoulders, the black fur shiny under the fluorescent light. "It sucked. Eventually my brother started taking his frustrations out on me, too. He could've gone the good route and protected me or something, maybe tried to be someone I could rely on instead of hide from, but if he had a problem then I had bruises. It stayed that way until he graduated High school and moved away. I was a freshman then. Got picked on a lot because I was small. Got into a lot of fights because that was all I knew to do. My first month, I was about to get kicked out of school when I met a guy named Kenai--a caribou, and the quarterback on my school's football team.

"He saved me," Corbin said, his eyes glistening. "He got me into football and got me taking my frustrations out on a punching bag at the gym instead of other guys."

I gasped a little because this sounded awful familiar. Corbin tilted his head at me inquisitively as only dogs can do.

"Sorry," I said, sitting the paints on my stool in the floor and popping a squat. "It's just...the same thing happened to me. My friend Stephen did the same and got me into track."

Corbin smiled. "Small world, huh?"

I nodded.

"I remember when you used to fight at school," he said. "I broke one up. You were fine. The other guy wasn't."

I blushed in embarrassment and changed the subject.

"What happened with your friend?"

Corbin sighed, smiling and painting. "He was everything I wanted to be, and even though he was a completely different species I called him my brother."

Conall coughed. I looked and he was smiling. "That sounds familiar, too."

"Yep," I said. "Sorry, Corbin. Keep going."

"It's fine. But, yeah, he was always there for me, and I'm not ashamed to say that I loved him. He was family."

He grew quiet for a bit, eyes falling to floor and painting hand growing still.

"What happened?" I asked.

"He died senior year--bad car accident on his way to my house one night. A guy ran a stop sign and..." He grimaced and shook his head. "He had massive head trauma. They put him on life support, but he was unresponsive. He was gone four weeks later." He looked up at me and a tear bubbled up in the corner of his eye before he quickly wiped it away. "I was there when he went. It was the worst day of my life."

"I'm so sorry," I said, imagining what it must have felt like to watch someone you cared for die right before your eyes. My nightmare flashed in my mind, with Red, Lee, and Conall all doing just that in a circle around me. I couldn't help but shake. I didn't think I'd be able to live after something like that.

Corbin just nodded and wiped his face again. He started to paint but his movements were much slower, his mind obviously stuck on his lost friend.

"After Ken was gone," he said, "I took over the football team, but my spirit was broken. Everyone's was. He'd been the heart and soul of the team, and with him gone we felt hopeless--me especially. I fell into my old habits again. I resented everything and everyone. My life went on, but I kept anticipating the things that I had to get ripped from my paws. If I found someone I grew to care about I latched onto them and wouldn't let them go." He sighed heavily, his breath rattling out. "And if they tried to leave..."

His left paw went up and gently covered his eye, the black one (the bruised one). Conall shifted uncomfortably behind his easel. Corbin dropped his paw and didn't say anything afterward, but he didn't have to. I understood.

I also understood how much Mindy leaving him must have hurt. I mean, I certainly didn't condone his brutality, but--as awful as it was--he'd just hadn't wanted her to go.

"The things that I did weren't okay," he said. "I know and understand that, and I regret what I did. It's hard, but I'm doing my best to start again. For one, I didn't really have anyone to talk to about this stuff, and it all just...festered inside me for the longest time. Doing this," he motioned at his painting and at Conall and me, "and getting it out really helps. I didn't think it'd work or that I'd like it at first, but talkin' with my therapist and comin' here to finger paint are my favorite things to do." He adopted a Groucho Marx voice and wiggled his paint brush near his mouth like a cigar. "Not that I_have_ much else to do, but you get my point."

"Well, you're welcome here even_after_ your parole is up," Conall said, now half-sitting on his window seal. "And, hell, we could go to the gym together if you wanted. You know, since you admire my beefy bod."

Corbin was silent for a spell, just smiling softly, contemplatively.

"I'd like that," he finally said. "Thank you."

"No problem, bud."

The doberman snuffled sweetly and started painting again.

Everyone kept to themselves, the jazz music and creative atmosphere an uplifting relief after Corbin's tale. I'd never thought he could've gone through so much or that we'd have as much common ground as we did. I mean, I understood now, and I felt awful that I'd judged him so harshly. He was a person with his own trials and demons, just like the rest of us--just like _me--_and even through it all he was working to better himself. He was reaching out, and I admired him because of that.

I jumped as his voice broke the ambiance, splattering paint a bit.

"So, what'd you think?" he asked me, testing the waters again.

Thoughtfully, I continued to paint. "When do have these sessions? Just Sundays?"

"Sunday and Wednesday nights," Conall piped. "Why?"

Corbin's tail beat against the legs of his stool. "You wanna join us, Clemmons? Changed your mind about me?"

"Well, you're still a smartass," I said, smirking at the doberman as his ears flopped down and he frowned like a scolded toddler, "But--yes--I think I will start coming if that's alright."

My big brother lit up. "Of course that's alright!"

A warmth I hadn't felt in a while settled in my chest. "Thanks." I tilted my head, watching Corbin as he tapped his brush against the canvas. "And, yes, I have changed my mind. I owe you an apology, too, so I'm sorry for how I behaved."

The dog, like my brother, seemed to glow. "It's alright, and...thanks, Clemmons."

"Call me Sasha," I said.

His chest rose as he took a breath, and he smiled with his eyes. "You bet."