#moredreadisbetter

    Alistair could appreciate the idea of boundaries, of rules, and just the way things should be. He may not have it in him to admit his failings and was more prone to chasing them back with a strong drink, a bout of violence, or cheap sex—but he could admit to himself, maybe just maybe, that he was tired. There, now he’d done it—he’d put a name to the weight bearing down on him from above. From all sides, flanking him not unlike the pack in which he used to call home (behind closed doors, in the dark—a soft secret whispered to himself as though confessing a sin).

    There was something like hurricane in his chest, tearing apart his insides layer by layer and only seemed to grow more potent as the days wore on, the fading silhouette of a man as he turned away. You’re used to that aren’t you though? Your solitude? Is it not a state which you craved? Wolves are pack creatures, they thrive in such environments and if Alistair was being honest he’d never really been alone.

    Not as Alistair anyway, Alistair always had someone, somewhere to go to.

    Aleksei had not, never had.

    He refused to return to such a sorry state, so he lurks as he so often does. Pacing and chewing over his thought and all his ideas like a bone in his teeth. Notch by notch he thinks and worries and the slivers splinter off to burry themselves in his gums, he tastes the blood and swallows every drop. The coppery taste a welcome relief from the memories that sought to coat his tongue instead.

    So why was he here?

    What did he expect? Taking the stairs two at a time, still feeling the pull of stiches under his faded shirt and the weather biting into his knee—forcing a limp (must be rain on the horizon). There’s dark circles under his eyes and a scowl on his lips, lips split in one place from a fist and a discoloration which could possibly be considered artistic along his jaw and shoulder. The ache in his chest that thrums with the winds of that hurricane is one much stronger than the blades, the fists, or the bullets that struck his Kevlar. The scabs itch, they pull too at the flesh and he remembers the look of them (and he picked and scratched even so, wanting to weep not at the pain of the action but of the pain he couldn’t scrape off his heart).

    He wanted to hold his heart in his hands and ask it why. He wanted to look for the bruises and all the lacerations, maybe it too had scabs for him to pick at—who are you kidding Aleksei? It does not know how to heal, it festers and rots and still it beats. How much longer can you go on?

    The station seems somehow busier than usual, a colorful assortment of distractions dangle before him like a temptation to steer him from his course. He doesn’t even allow himself to consider. “He’s busy!” someone calls after him, a patrolwoman who may or may not be called Cindy but he can’t for the life of him remember (or find it in himself to care) and he catches the briefest glimpse of alarm on many a face and someone calling out with a drawl of amusement (someone’s in the dog house!).

    I am the hound, I’ve always been on the outside and yet now without the leash around my throat I hunger for it. To look back to where the lead does go, to the fist that holds it unmoving.

    He arrives at the office as a taller man is leaving, an older gentleman with dark hair and a narrow features—he wears a suit with a badge on his waist and his hand clasps with Alec’s Charles’s in a brief shake (out here he’s not yours and you’re not his—not the way you want or need, you’re merely his unfortunate lover and single Father recently split from a divorce). He has the story, all the lies that rolled so easily from his tongue now choke him and he only gets up in close as Alec’s attention settles on him—or he knew ahead of time, because of course he did. Even so, his hand grabs his bicep in a vicelike grip “We need to talk.” He says to him, voice a dangerous rumble as he hauls him into his office and kicks the door shut behind them only when he flicks the lock does he let go of the male’s arm.

The woman’s dark vehicle pulled up into the apartment complex. She left her car, wearing a shirt that draped across her form, obscuring her figure, and equally loose fitting pants. Before making her way into the construct, she reached back into the car and pulled out a dog wrapped in a blanket as well as her large bag containing the scrapbook. With the two in either hands, she ventured off.

Ian made her way up the stairs, her hard shoes sending clicks echoing throughout the corridor. The tiny dog, dubbed Petit, gave out a tiny whimper of confusion, but the woman placed a soft kiss on his head and the sounds seized. 

The woman stopped in front of a familiar door and gave it a few knocks for she sadly couldn’t just let herself in. Vivienne’s voice called out in a gruff tone, “Police, open up.”