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Sometimes Peter lets Roman come with him on full moon nights. The first time Roman asked, Peter hesitated saying “no.”
“Look, it’s…different. And you wouldn’t be able to keep up, anyway,” he said.
“Aww, c’mon. What do you do anyway—chase a few rabbits and piss on some trees?”
“Hey, fuck you. Don’t stereotype me.”
Roman smirked. “You totally do, don’t you?”
Peter took a breath, his mouth flattened out to a line. “It’s different. It’s not like I’m going to be someone’s super-smart Fido. I’m a werewolf.”
“Yeah, I get that. Fur, fangs, and everything—I saw that.”
“And now you want to be a part of that, is that right?”
Roman swayed closer, tilting his head down. “Yeah.”
Peter glanced away, mouth tugging into a barely repressed smirk. “All right. Let’s see if you can keep up.”
That was earlier this week and now they’re both standing outside the Rumanceks' trailer, waiting for the sun to sink down on the trees. Peter’s mom kissed both their cheeks, told them to stay out of trouble, and returned inside. She winked at Roman before shutting the door and it made his stomach clench at the suggestion. A quick glance at Peter showed he didn’t seem to suspect. But they’re both waiting now, Peter twisting to look over his shoulder at the sun’s progression.
Roman’s not sure when, but at some point in their friendship, Peter lost the guarded hunch of his shoulders he adopted whenever he stood before Roman on full moon nights. The first time, Roman could tell that he’d been nervous, feeling the exposure more keenly than he ever had. Now, there’s a different type of energy in him and it’s filling up Roman, too. This full moon will be different, but neither of them are sure how.
Peter takes a couple deep breaths. Roman’s eyes watch the way his chest expands, how the “g” shifts over his ribs.
“Hey.”
Roman quickly moves his eyes up, meets Peter’s gaze.
“Hey, don’t run away from me out there, okay?”
He’s about to crack a joke about playing chase, but Peter steps toward him and plucks at the lapel of his jacket, points a finger in his face.
“I mean it. Don’t trigger my hunting response. I told you: it’s different.” He’s silent for a moment. Roman can’t look away. Peter starts to frown. “Maybe you shouldn’t—”
Roman pushes his shoulder. “No, I’m doing it.” He spreads his hands out, appealing. “I’ll behave, okay? Promise. Besides, if it was really dangerous, I don’t think your mom would’ve given her blessing.”
Peter glances toward the trailer and then turns and walks a few paces away. Roman follows the shifting muscles in his back, watches him take a few more deep breaths as Peter turns to face him, shoulders leaning forward.
“Okay,” Peter gasps out and braces his hands on his knees.
Feeling his pulse tick faster, Roman finds himself breathing deeper with Peter. Adrenaline pools in his stomach, a puddle of lightning, when Peter drops down onto hands and knees, head bowed deeply. The turn pushes through him and then Peter shakes out of his old skin, steps forward on huge black paws and regards Roman with golden eyes.
Lynda had told him to stand still until Peter let him know it was okay, don’t move until he could identify Roman after the initial disorientation. So, he lets Peter approach and sniff the length of his leg. Finally, he butts the side of his mouth against Roman’s hip.
“Does that mean ‘okay?’”
Peter starts a slow wag of his tail and that seems to be sign enough. Roman puts a hand on his broad head, tentatively at first, smoothing his fingers over the glossy fur to big ears. Peter groans a yawn and ducks his head away. He raises his tail a little and trots away, looks back to make sure Roman will follow.
And he does. He follows Peter into the woods, into the weakening light, over fallen logs and trickling streams. A few times, Peter doubles back to push at the backs of his thighs, nosing at his knees. Roman takes the hint and picks up to a run beside Peter, letting him take the lead and sprinting after him. Peter’s tail hangs behind him in the air like a banner and Roman grins as he follows. Later, when they’ve slowed back to a jog, Peter panting happily beside him, it’s the most refreshed Roman has felt. He goes as long as he can at the easy jog Peter sets, but eventually he stops and leans against a listing oak tree.
“Okay. You’re right,” he says between breaths. “I definitely can’t keep up.”
There’s a rumble of discontent from Peter’s direction as he walks around in circles and figure eights. He stops to shake himself and then keeps moving, pacing away and then coming back to Roman.
“Ah, go on. Just don’t forget about me, okay? I’m fucking lost out here, you asshole.”
Peter snorts at him, circles the immediate area once, wuffs at him and then goes tearing off into the woods. Roman settles down at the base of the tree he was leaning against to wait for him to come back. He’s not sure what Peter meant by “different.” There didn’t seem to be anything weird or unexpected about interacting with Peter the wolf.
Roman waits…for a while. He hears what he thinks is Peter every now and then, distant sounds in the forest, but they never get closer. Checks his phone to keep track of the hours and shifts from the ground to a fallen tree. It goes full dark and he waits a few more hours. He wonders if something happened—a hunter’s trap or a bad fall or something. He thinks about trying to head back to the Rumanceks' alone, but Peter has him all turned around and there’s no way he’d get back in the dark. By midnight, he starts calling out into the woods. He’s not sure if it’s the best idea, not sure whose attention he might be attracting, but Peter should hear him.
It’s another half hour before he turns up, panting like he’s been running for hours and Roman suspects that’s probably not far from the truth.
Peter growls at him and walks off again.
“Hey!” Roman walks after him quickly. “Hey, asshole, you’re just as black as everything else out here, you know. Slow down a little.”
The wolf doesn’t respond, just keeps walking, and Roman trips after him. It takes longer than Roman thought it would to get back, nearly a half hour. As soon as the trailer is in sight, Peter heads off in a different direction.
Roman bites back a protest, too cold and tired to really care. The trailer door opens with a creak and he tries to be quiet as he closes it behind him. He’s not expecting to see Lynda sitting at the table with a mug and an afghan wrapped around her shoulders.
She sees his expression and chuckles. “I wasn’t going to sleep knowing the two of you were out there running around.” She looks him over. “Well, you’re still in one piece.”
He raises an eyebrow at her. “Did you think I wouldn’t be?”
Lynda thumb rubs the side of her mug. “It’s tricky, sometimes, knowing how he’s going to be.”
“But he’s not dangerous.”
“He’s not aggressive, no, but the turn unleashes a lot of trapped energy.”
Roman hangs up his coat and takes a seat across from her. “He likes running.”
She sighs. “Yeah. He’ll be back in the morning.” She gives him a look. “Now, he didn’t leave you out there alone all night, did he? I’ve taught that boy better manners than that.”
He blinks, mind tripping. “Uh, no. Not…not the whole night. I got tired and he wanted to keep going, so he went. He brought me back.”
Lynda raises the mug to her lips—hiding a smile, Roman is sure. “Good,” she says and takes a sip.
“Peter said that it’s different on full moons, the turn, being the wolf. But…nothing weird happened.”
She smiles at him. “I think he just didn’t want to scare you.”
Roman laughs. “Are you kidding me? Did he really think, after all the weird shit that’s happened in this town, that I’d be scared of running around in the woods at night?”
Lynda sets her mug down. “I think he didn’t want you to be afraid of him.” She’s silent for a moment, letting Roman digest that, and then says, “I left some blankets out for you.”
“Uh, thanks.”
Lynda stands up and, on her way to take her mug to the sink, she strokes his hair. “Good night,” she says after she’s rinsed the mug and then walks quietly down the hall to her room.
Roman taps his fingers on the table for a few moments, gets up and peeks outside, but Peter isn’t out there. He lets the curtain fall back into place and toes off his shoes by the door. The same blankets from the last few times he’s spent the night at the Rumanceks' on a full moon night are folded on the couch. He shakes them out and lays back against the pillow resting on the couch arm, settles the blankets over him. It feels like he’s awake for a while longer, an immeasurable hour of wondering, and he falls asleep without realizing the advance of his fatigue creeping up on him.
He wakes up to the morning light streaming into the living room.
He stretches with a groan and sits up on the couch. Lynda is eating cereal at the table, a novel spread open in one hand. When he doesn’t register Peter in the room, he checks his phone.
“It’s nine-thirty—he’s not back yet?”
“He probably ran too far last night,” Lynda mutters, putting down her book and mashing the flakes in her dish with her spoon.
“Should we go look for him?”
Lynda pauses only for a few seconds before setting down her spoon with a clink. “All right, let’s go.”
Dressed in their coats against the morning’s damp air, they head out together to start looking. Roman can’t remember where they had been last night, but Peter could have gone in any direction after he led Roman back. Lynda tells him not to worry about it; Peter isn’t lost, he just hasn’t made it back yet.
“You can’t confuse a werewolf’s sense of direction, not after they’ve spent whole nights running every inch of this forest. We’ll just try to meet him,” she says.
So, Lynda starts calling every few minutes and listening for a response. They take turns, walking slowly into the woods. Fifteen minutes pass before they hear an indistinct shout to their right.
Roman cups his hands around his mouth. “Peter!”
The shout comes again and they both make for it. They call and respond with Peter until they’re close enough to pinpoint his location. He’s huddled in the hollow of uprooted tree when they find him, the hole and the overhang of roots providing something like a shelter. He looks completely wiped out, eyes bloodshot and the beginnings of dark circles under them. There’s dirt smudged along his jaw, caught in the hair there, and sprinkled on top of his head. He looks like he might have fallen in and just stayed there.
Lynda clucks her tongue at him and bends down to wrap him in the blanket she carried with her, one of the blankets Roman had used last night. “Oh baby,” she murmurs, “you overdid it, didn’t you?”
Peter accepts the blanket, but his jaw sets into a mulish expression. “Maybe,” he mutters.
A look passes between the two of them that Roman doesn’t understand, but Peter doesn’t seem any happier with his mother’s implied meaning.
“Hey,” Roman says and receives Peter’s attention. “Are you okay?”
Peter glances around him at his impromptu shelter, grimaces. “Yeah.” Instead of elaborating any further, he sticks out a hand.
Roman hauls him up and out, steadying Peter when he sways into him on weak legs. Lynda pats Peter on the back and starts walking back. He feels Peter sigh, an annoyed sound rather than a tired one, and when he takes a step forward Roman lowers his hands.
Peter wobbles on the third and makes a “come here” gesture, so Roman replaces his hands on each of Peter’s arms, near his elbows. His back brushes Roman’s chest on every other step and, this close, he smells like loam and sweat. He walks stiffly, the kind of stiffness that comes a day or two after that gym class where everyone did sprints all period. The farther they walk, the easier it becomes for Peter to miss a step, to catch his foot on something. Roman stays behind him, tightening his grip, pulling him upright when needed.
Lynda makes it back long before they do. She’s got a sandwich with more meat than bread and a bottle of water waiting for Peter when he sinks into a chair at the table. He makes a face at it, too tired to eat, apparently, but Lynda pushes it toward him. Then she sets a plate on the table for Roman, too.
“Eat and then you can sleep,” she tells Peter and for a moment Roman wishes Lynda was his mother, all soft-heartedness and firm love. He eats the sandwich Lynda made for him and washes it down. Peter manages most of his food before he protests again. Lynda picks up his plate and strokes a hand through Peter’s hair, kisses a spot on his forehead that isn’t so dirty.
“Okay, off to bed with you.” She glances at Roman and then takes the dishes to the kitchen.
It’s with a strange sense of familiarity when Roman moves to help Peter to his feet. It’s when they’ve moved to Peter’s room and Roman is digging out a pair of sweatpants for him that he recognizes it. In a way, it’s just like caring for Shelley—Roman doesn’t have any self-consciousness about caring for another person who needs his help. He’s not embarrassed to show that he cares by being helpful, even if it’s not strictly needed. Like how he holds Peter steady while he steps into the sweatpants. It makes him pause, breath stopped for a second, when he realizes that this…this closeness…is too obvious.
When he looks at Peter, he’s already looking back, the blanket still clenched together in one hand. “Thanks, man,” he says and sits down on his bed.
Roman takes a deeper breath now that they aren’t as close. “Yeah.”
Peter lies down on his back, stretching his legs out, the blanket bunched around his shoulders. His eyes close for a second and struggle to open again. He looks braced to sit up, which could only be for the duvet that’s been kicked to the end of the bed, so Roman pulls it up and over Peter before he can move.
The “thanks” on his lips is barely heard, a puff of breath as his eyes close again. Roman opens his mouth to respond, but he waits and it’s only seconds that spill by until Peter is asleep.
There’s a smear of dirt on his cheek and Roman wants to wipe it off. The thought makes him startle, but there’s no one in the room to witness it. He rubs his fingers together instead and returns to the living room.
Lynda looks at him as he falls into the couch, but he doesn’t return the attention, not wanting to know how much she understands. He thinks about Peter sleeping in his room and the way he felt in his hands.