Everything Carries Me to You (Axton and Leander Book 3) (8 page)

Human again, there was so much more to miss.

So Axton paced in his room, until restlessness drove him out, and he paced around the house. Up the stairs, down the stairs--looking out the windows and seeing nothing--staring blankly at the kitchen--

The floorboards around the stairs were unbearably squeaky. Axton noticed it on his eight circuit around the house and couldn't unhear it. He went hunting until he found his way into the dusty shed outback that had long abandoned tools stored away.

Dana found him surrounded by pried up floorboards, raised an eyebrow, and said nothing.

Axton was mercifully occupied until sundown.

The next day at breakfast, Dana watched Axton fiddling with a kitchen drawer. There was food on a plate in front of Axton, on the countertop, and he absently took a bite every now and then.

"You seem to be adjusting," Dana said casually.

"What?" Axton said, moving on to the next drawer. "Do all of these stick?"

"You're finally doing the thing," Dana said, "that you do all the time when you're human. The fidgeting to fix things. The constant picking shit up, checking it for flaws, then putting it back down. Trying to find something for your hands to do. The tinkering."

"I ran out of books to read," Axton muttered, pulling a drawer fully out.

"Mm," Dana said, noncommittal. "There's a truck out back that needs work done, if you want."

"'If I want,'" Axton repeated. "Jesus."

"A life for a life, Ax," Dana said sharply.

Axton finally looked up. He blinked.

"I know," he said.

"Don't you forget it," Dana said, standing up.

"Can't," Axton said, and he pulled out the next drawer.

Eventually life was so monotonous it was peaceful. Axton knew what every day would bring--some tedium, some work, and as little conversation as possible. With dusk came the change and with the change came the hunt. The hunt was the best part of the day. But after the hunt came the lonely hours of his forced human shape trying to sleep, and that was the worst part of the day. It wasn't that the sleep itself was so bad; Axton had never been much for nightmares. It was the painful wakefulness before the sleeping that nearly killed him every night, because Axton could not lay himself to rest without remembering Leander.

He'd been so lonely, before. And he'd come to terms with being lonely, because he'd never fallen in love before with someone who loved him back just like he needed, just like he wanted. He'd never loved someone without reservations before, so it had made sense to be alone.

Now Axton knew what he was missing. Now, Axton knew the easy press of lips against his at night, or at dawn, or in the middle of the street on a busy day. He knew what it was like to feel his lover's fingers lost in his hair, or scratching the fur behind his ears. He knew the casual night long embrace of a lover who didn't care what shape he shifted in for the night; he knew the arms of a lover who would hold through any transformation.

Axton made a low keening noise in the back of his throat when he thought of it, which was often, and he would flip onto his stomach and stick his head under his pillows, as if he could somehow escape the longing that suffused his being.

And some nights, he almost did.

Love was better as an abstraction.

What Axton could never escape was the specificity of memory. Love had a name: Leander.

This night, like many nights, Axton bit at the softness of his cheek, hoping for a distraction. But it was no use--he couldn't force himself to sleep before the rush of memories came. Scent came first, because the expensive hair gel Leander used hadn't ever changed and it had been the first distinct scent note Axton had ever gotten from him. The smell was lavender and black pepper and the musky sweet scent of sweat on the back of Leander's skull and down his neck when they fucked. Axton had buried his face there so many times, and joyously feverish with love he had thought:
I want to remember this scent forever
.

And he did. Neither time away from his lover nor time in isolation from everything had been enough to take the memory or even dull it.

Axton pushed his face into the mattress like he'd pushed his face into the crook of Leander's neck, and he tasted blood.

What a stupid wish that had been, remembering forever.

All his products had coordinated--the soap Leander had used was lavender and black pepper, too, as was whatever he shaved with, so even when they'd fucked long and hard and athletic, Axton's sensitive nose could still pick up the dying floral scent, almost medicinal. It worked well with the more dominant note of the scene and of Axton's sense memory, which was the particular scent of Leander's skin, Leander's sweat.

Alone in his narrow bed, Axton shoved his nose against his wrist and breathed heavily. No. He didn't want to remember.

Except for how he did, because memories were all he had left--

Leander had been so good at throwing his weight around, too. They were close in height but Leander was broader across the shoulders, and his kinesthetic awareness was excellent, all of which meant that he'd been spectacular at pinning Axton down into the mattress no matter what position they were in. And he'd always flipped Axton over onto his stomach so easily, so casually, like it was no big deal that he could throw a werewolf down and around.

Axton exhaled noisily. He shifted uncomfortably, biting back the shame that rose in his throat because he was half hard already. Part of him felt like this was a disrespectful way to mourn, but...

Quick breath. Axton turned onto his side and stared hard at the wall opposite the room's door.

But Leander's physicality had always turned him on. Axton had noticed Leander's easy striding walk from first time they'd seen each other human to human. There was a looseness to that walk that promised flexibility with the obvious strength, and Axton had been thrilled to find out that Leander's body kept all the promises it made and more. His thighs, though--Axton had loved the way Leander's broad shoulders filled out a sweater and how his forearms looked when he rolled up his sleeves, but nothing, nothing could compare to the way that those muscular thighs could straddle him. Axton used to like splaying his fingers out over Leander's thighs then, right above his knees, to marvel at how his hands couldn't reach even halfway around. It always gave him a jolt of arousal deep in his gut. They could have been fucking as hard and fast as racehorses at the finish line, but Axton would squeeze Leander's thighs to feel the size and the strength of them and he'd
still
get a little extra kick in his insides.

How many years had Axton spent training himself to silence, only to have his brief time with Leander render him shamelessly vocal? Would it take a lifetime to undo the freedom he'd learned?

Axton brought one arm up by his face and the other down by his dick. He mouthed at his wrist and then curled his lips back and bit down. It would muffle him, Axton thought, but he bit down hard enough for pain, for something to keep him grounded.

Stupid, stupid fucking human body with its stupid,
stupid
needs and its fucking vivid sense memory.

Axton closed his eyes and closed his hand over his swiftly hardening cock. The memory that made his breath stutter out fast with the first pump wasn't even of Leander's thighs, or his shoulders, or even his perfectly girthy dick. What Axton remembered with most longing in that moment was the quickness of Leander's gaze, how his grey eyes could sweep down and across you to learn all your secrets in less than a second. Leander could stay perfectly still but smile at you with his lips and his eyes from across the room and it felt like he was holding you tight. It was like the sun smiling at you, touching your skin softly.

Stupid fucking human body
, Axton thought, with needs that weren't purely carnal.

And the thing about Leander's eyes is that they saw still more of you when you were exposed. For Axton had laid on Leander's bed, his shoulder blades pushing into the mattress, feeling raw and exposed as the wound where a wisdom tooth used to be, and
still
Leander could rake his eyes across him and Axton felt like his own skin was breathing out more secrets in response. When Axton had thought he had nothing left to give, Leander had gently coaxed it out of him, fucking him slow like honey and whispering softly sometimes, as if Axton was an easily startled horse or a stray cat or some other skittish woodland creature--

Which--well, yeah, in a way, and Axton swallowed back a smile at the thought.

He'd never felt more naked than with Leander but he'd also never felt so accepted, and that feeling of
belonging
permeated all his memories even when he just wanted to remember the mechanics of their fucking. And he really did want to remember the mechanics of their fucking, how they pressed together hard dick to hard dick, each slide more urgent and demanding than the last. There was an emptiness inside him, too, that ached for Leander and remembered him vividly. Or then there was the way that Leander could get on his knees to suck Axton's cock, hesitant but enthusiastic at first and then confident with earned knowledge.

And that memory made Axton shiver in his cold and lonely bed--Leander's big muscular body, kneeling before him. It wasn't submission or supplication, but just--

Axton moaned softly around his wrist, and then bit down a little harder to stop the noise.

Everything. He missed everything. He had too much with Leander, and he had appreciated every fucking second, and he'd been so, so grateful--but he lost it anyway, because reverence wasn't enough to keep bad things from happening.

And the awareness of his loss cut through Axton anew, stinging and sharp like acid poured into an unhealed wound. But he bit into his wrist harder and he choked back his groans and he slid his hand up and down on his dick with frantic need. This was all his had--this was as close to Leander and he would ever get again--thoughts jumbled and unhappy Axton thought desperately
please
and he didn't know what he was begging for, or from whom. Memory, memory, what was one that would make him feel a connection, no matter how fleeting--Leander pinning him down by the wrists or Leander tying him up or Leander offering up his shoulders for a bite or--

Or Leander looking him straight in the eyes, Leander driving into him with measured but blinding intensity so that Axton had to cry out and look away but whenever he looked back, Leander's eyes were still
on him
and Leander's assault on his senses was relentless.

Fire thrilled and licked at Axton's insides at the memory, drilled by Leander's gaze as Leander thrust his dick inside him and Axton had felt like Saint Sebastian, pierced by arrows into ecstasy. But the sadness bellowed like a monster inside Axton, too, and he knew that the tidal wave of loss was going to slam into him soon. He just needed--god, he needed to come before the loss hit him again.

Axton's grip had tightened and his hips thrust into his fist now even as his hand pumped and just--a bit--
more
--

Teeth clamped down, eyes shut tight, and Axton shuddered his release as the taste of blood hit his dry and thirsty tongue that longed for kisses.

There was a thin film of moisture on his lashes, too, so Axton released his wrist and buried his face in his arm to pretend that his eyes were dry. His flanks heaved with unsteady breaths, and he shivered intermittently until finally, no less heartsick than before, he drifted off to uneasy sleep.

Morning light filtered through the windows and Axton woke up to sticky sheets clinging to his thighs and a headache lurking around his temples.

Wretched.

Fuck.

"Forgetting is so long," he muttered, quoting to the world as a whole.

Fucking Neruda.

Forgetting really was so long, though.

There was Dana to spend time with, and it wasn't always horrible.

Sometimes they roamed together, made camp in the woods, slept in the dirt and woke up feeling the relief of it deep in their bones.

One of Axton's sketchpads had miraculously survived all the recent turbulence of his life. Really, a fair amount of his stuff had made it to this godforsaken cabin somehow--Dana had extracted one of Axton's bags from the wreck of Ax's truck before they all scattered. And so, after the solitary confinement, after the most obvious mourning, after having read all the books in the house save whatever what might have been in Dana's room--Axton had turned to drawing. He figured he'd plow through his remaining pages and then take up wood carving or else go slowly insane. There were wood scraps scattered all over; if he hadn't been forced into his human shape for so many hours a day, Axton would have been fairly entertained. He would still be miserable, but at least he'd be miserable and not locked in a featureless basement.

Thinking of the basement still made him feel bitter. As if there wasn't enough to feel bad about.

Before, back in his own cozy cabin that seemed so far away in both space and time--before, Axton had mostly sketched out light studies, chasing the look of sun filtering through the forest canopy. He needed human hands to draw and his human eyes were better at seeing light, so he'd always chosen subjects that his human anatomy appreciated more. And light, when Axton was human, was fascinating.

But now, human by default and without the distraction of the man he loved, Axton found himself scribbling out half finishes sketches of a distinctly wolfish inclination. The perspectives were mostly close to the ground, and most of the drawing would be done in fast, minimalist lines--but the true subjects of the scene were drawn in exquisite detail. And the true subjects of the scene were always the features Axton would have picked out by scent, because that was the sense that dominated his world as a wolf.

There was a melancholy sketch of a field of wildflowers and woodland scrub. The lavender in the scene unfurled in full glory, but everything else was vague, blocked in shapes. Lavender in the wild was not the same scent as the lavender in Leander's fancy hair products, but the association was still there for Axton.