#congested

Rip had watched and listened to them talk during the trip and it had been insightful in many ways. Hector definitely swore a lot. Alessia wouldn't shy away, though Rip thought it was more of an effort to seem bold than actually being that comfortable with it.

He didn't know how he came to the conclusion. All he could do was listen and hone instincts, but he had no idea if he was right.

He wasn't used to second-guessing himself so much before. If his skills would be enough, if had the experience with people he needed to feed his intuition. If what he realized actually were realisations or just illusions in his head.

But this place, this pack, were a place of order, civility and cleanliness and Rip grew to like that a lot. That's why he liked to keep their apartment tidy, that's why he copied how Isaiah spoke when he wasn't sure how to reply. And that's why he swore a lot less too.

Not because they made him, but because it felt like a choice he could afford now. There were other ways he could express himself.

If he figured them out.

Dylan emerged from the bathroom in a white button up with red lilies, throwing out his hands. "I can't breathe."

Rip immediately rose to his feet in alarm. "You can't breathe? What's wrong? Do you need-"

"No, not like that," Dylan waved him off with an amused huff. "I think I caught a cold. My nose is all stuffed up."

Rip let out a relieved breath, almost stumbling back against the window still. "Jesus. Don't scare me."

"Relax, mother-hen," Dylan said with a grin, then turned to look at himself in the body-sized mirror that newly hang from the wall. "Such a bad timing though."

"Where are you going?"

"I have a job interview," Dylan said with a snicker, winking at his reflection.

Rip's breath caught, but he turned to the side quickly to mask his surprise. "Really? Where?" He tried very hard to make his voice sound absolutely normal. Like this was mundane as weather and not his best friend with depression looking for a job after two years at home.

"Well okay, it's more of a practical course for a personal trainer at the gym, but I can do my practice and theory there and get a job too. If I get clients to pick me."

Rip fumbled to lean against the wall instead of accidently falling through the window, crossing his hands on his chest to settle them. "When did this happen?"

"This morning. They want an interview, but really the course is paid—my dad will bitch about it for sure—but if it lands, I can pay him back!" Dylan sounded incredibly pleased with the idea, rightening his collar and putting on a gold chain on he got as a birthday gift from his parents.

"Sounds...fun." Rip wanted to knock himself in the head. Was that what you told people when they went to get a job? It will be fun? Good luck?

"I hope so," Dylan said, getting his shoes on, then walking back to the kitchen for a paper towel.

Rip wanted to remind him of the dirt he was spreading with the shoes that way but bit his tounge. No way he was ruining such an exciting moment for them.

Dylan blew his nose vigoursly and painfully, but nothing came up. He regarded the results critically, making Rip cringe as he balled the paper up and threw it on the counter. "Gonna be late. See ya!"

Rip rolled his eyes as the door crashed close, taking a new paper towel to pick up after Dylan, smiling to himself the whole time.

...

When Rip told Seline the news, she tackled him in a tight hug. Dylan apparently meant to tell her only if it worked out, but even the attempt counted to Rip.

Secretly, Rip and Seline became conspirators on Dylan's health, trading info and observations. Rip liked to check in with her in the mornings or evenings before he went to Isaiah to report something.

The visits became a tradition after Matthew's departure, evolving from Dylan and Rip regularly visiting to ensure Isaiah was up and Seline wasn't sulking. If the two were left to their own devices, they might not have spoken for days in a row. Dylan could talk for all four of them, though. Something about his voice seemed to warm up the room.

Seline immediately called up her grandfather and chatted with him in Slovak. He wasn't in the mood to return to the empty apartment and he felt...strangely welcome? Well, he didn't feel unwelcome, so he stayed in the trio's—ah, now only Isaiah and Sel's—apartment. Dylan would have raided the kitchen by now and while Rip was more shy about it, he was hungry too.

Isaiah said nothing when he came, raising an eyebrow at Seline sprawled out on the couch, talking with lightning speed in gibberish.

Rip braced himself for getting a scolding for sneaking portion of the spaghetti from the fridge. In Isaiah's style, it wouldn't be yelling, but more likely a long look or a slight scrunching of the nose. But Rip would know.

Isaiah regarded him, but his face was carefully neutral as he got his own portion. He reached over Rip's bowl and Rip closed his eyes on instinct, thinking the food would be taken away in silence.

Instead, Isaiah added some grated cheese on top.

Rip felt his face heat up in embarrassment at the weird reaction, but Isaiah just shrugged with a small smile and returned to his seat.

Dylan came two hours later—Seline was still on the phone, hungry and bright-eyed, joining them at the table.

"-so there are different base trainings according to body type, goal, health, age. You basically try to adjust it as specifically as the client wants." Dylan sniffled, brushing his nose into his sleeve. It was constantly running now as development from early morning.

Isaiah stayed at the table, listening, though Rip could tell he was tense, legs shifted to the side, ready to leave any second. Dylan obviously didn't realize without such close attunement as Rip and Isaiah shared, which made Rip strangely proud and forlorn at the same time.

Did he ever hear Isaiah talk to Dylan at all? The Executioner never mentioned him, although he shared his thoughts about different wolves and packs with Rip freely, in the spirit of explaining to him their background and what to watch out for. The absence of an analysis was what made it strange.

A loud burst of laughter sounded from the living room, making all three wolves jump up.

Rip looked towards Seline and back to Dylan and Isaiah's carefully averted gaze. He never heard the witch laugh like that with anyone else.

Rip swallowed heavily. "...is she still talking to your grandfather?"

Dylan grinned. "Yep. You'd better leave the house when that starts; it can go on for hours."

Rip's eyes flashed to Isaiah and back at Dylan. Isaiah's expression didn't change, still pretending like that he wasn't interested, but he was more alert at once.

"Something important to discuss?" Rip's heart thumped louder in his ears. He wasn't one to be nosy, and it felt more than private given the language...but this was one undeniable common interest he could see between the two most important people in his life and he wasn't about to waste the chance.

"Ah, you know. Anything Seline is currently thinking about goes through thorough consultation with mom and gramps," Dylan said with a shrug, unconcerned. His brown eyes flickered towards Isaiah and away, uncharacteristically timid.

Rip really really didn't want to know more, cringing as he continued: "Like what?"

Dylan stopped eating, listening intently for a while. "Job hunt, money, future, how not to worry, how to deal with unfair colleague emails,..." he glanced at Isaiah more openly now.

Isaiah's eyebrows raised. "Me?"

Dylan cleared his throat. "You don't have to worry about not being taken seriously, y'know? She has been in stitches about what you said in Italy. Bought two new books on relationship psychology and this is the 2rd time I know of talking it over with gramps."

Isaiah shrank back in his chair, blanching a little. "Wait, you...know?"

Dylan and Rip exchanged an awkward glance. "We all know. You said it in the middle of the night in an apartment filled with wolves, man."

Isaiah coughed into his elbow, loosening the collar around his neck like it was suddenly way hotter in the room despite the continuous drizzle outside, bathing the room in a muted gray light.

Rip shuffled his feet. He would rather get his eyes poked out than talk about anything relating to the love life of the man who was practically his boss. Isaiah’s love confession wasn't a joke. Rip had no idea what you were supposed to react when someone said something that raw by accident...and everyone overheared.

Dylan quickly waved his hand. "She is talking a lot about Matt leaving too, don't worry!"

Isaiah didn't look comforted by the comparison.

Rip, who was sitting opposite Isaiah until now, got up restlessly, pacing behind Dylan's chair. Maybe they could just go already, opportunity or not.

Isaiah cleared his throat. "Is that...normal?"

Dylan leaned back in his chair. "For Seline? Yes, absolutely. Don't worry about it, this is her usual process of working through something important. You definitely got a high spot on the list." Dylan even added a wink that made Rip groan and hide his face in his hands. He was seriously considering plugging his ears or jumping out the nearest window.

"Okay," Isaiah said. "Thanks, I guess?"

Dylan smiled at him widely. "No problem. I'm actually cheering for you guys. If anyone can get through to her, I'm betting it's you."

Isaiah's composure was coming back as he crossed one leg over the other, leaning back with a huff. "How so?"

Dylan pointed his thumb at the living room. "If that didn’t scare you off, then… congrats. You’re probably right for her."

Isaiah snorted softly, but didn’t reply.

Rip watched him from the side, pulse ticking a little too loud in his ears. Isaiah’s careful silence. Dylan’s grin that wavered just a little.

He could feel the distance between them—like Isaiah was holding something back, weighing every word too carefully. Maybe because it was Seline. Maybe because Dylan had always been more open than Isaiah knew what to do with.

Rip wanted to smooth it over somehow. Say something that would make it easier. But the topic still made his ears burn, and he didn’t trust his voice not to crack.

So he stayed quiet, hoping Isaiah would find a way on his own.

Dylan suddenly lifted his eyes, laughing at Rip's expression. The tall brown-haired wolf had no problems reading Rip, that was clear. He turned his head towards Isaiah. "I actually meant to ask you about...you know, as a wolf, do you know..."

It was Isaiah's turn to narrow his eyes and look attentive at Dylan's hesitation. Even mildly interested.

"What kind of things do I watch out for that will be different for me as a wolf when working with humans? Or with wolves? When I design the trainings," Dylan shuffled around for his bag to show Isaiah the charts he got today about different body part workouts and abilities, spilling them over the table.

Isaiah pushed his chair closer, studying the charts.

Rip let out a breath behind them. He wasn’t sure what he wanted. A laugh, maybe. Or one sentence that proved Isaiah didn’t just tolerate Dylan, but liked him. That would’ve been enough.

This was as good a start as any.

...

The door clicked shut behind them, sealing out the faint sound of Seline’s laughter still drifting from across the hall. Their own apartment felt dimmer, quieter. The lights hummed faintly in the entryway, casting pale reflections on the floor.

Dylan didn’t bother taking off his shoes right away. He leaned his back against the wall, eyes squinting like the hallway light hurt. His shoulders sagged in a way Rip didn’t like.

"You good?" Rip asked, watching him carefully.

"Yup," Dylan said, voice raw and half-swallowed by congestion. "Absolutely thriving. Don’t mind me, just dying."

He pushed off the wall and shuffled toward the couch like an old man, hoodie half-zipped, socks slightly damp from where he'd stepped into a puddle earlier. The taller wolf kicked off his shoes, then immediately flopped face-first onto the couch.

Rip hesitated in the hallway, eyes scanning over him. "You need anything?"

"New head," came the muffled reply.

Rip rolled his eyes, but it was more fond than annoyed. He headed to the kitchen and came back with a glass of water and a damp cloth. Dylan hadn’t moved.

"Sit up."

"No."

"Then turn over. You look like roadkill."

Dylan groaned dramatically but shifted, rolling onto his side. His face was flushed, and his eyes looked glassy and unfocused.

Rip handed him the water, which he took with a grateful grunt, then pressed the cloth against Dylan’s forehead. Dylan flinched at first, then sighed, eyelids fluttering shut.

"This is weird," Dylan muttered after a moment. "You being all nice."

"I can take it back."

"No, no. It’s a nice weird. Don’t stop."

Rip gave a noncommittal hum, pulling the blanket off the back of the couch and draping it over Dylan’s legs. Dylan reached out, clumsily grabbing the edge and tugging it tighter.

"You didn’t have to carry my bag."

"You looked like you were gonna fall over if I didn't."

"Still." Dylan cracked an eye open. "You usually wait until I’m worse."

Rip sat down on the floor, resting his back against the couch. It was a long day and the emotional rollercoaster left him more exhausted than an all-day workout. "I care more than I know how to show."

Dylan was quiet for a beat. Then, "You’re doing fine."

Rip exhaled slowly, letting the soft hum of rain against the windows fill the silence. Dylan’s breathing evened out behind him, heavy and congested, but steady.

He stayed like that until he was sure Dylan had fallen asleep—then got up quietly to fetch another blanket, just in case.