“

  Before you assholes go on and get things as twisted as you want ‘em, let’s get one thing clear as fuckin' crystal:

  You won’t believe me after I’ve told ya, but, stripped down to its very essence, this is just a love story.

  Sure, there might be a couple twists thrown into the mix, an unexpected traitor, some particularly violent fight scenes, and your typical cursed-fishbowl-trapped-kraken just to mix things up, but if you stripped this thing down. Broke it. Bit by bit. I mean, really bore it into its very one, very singular atom, this story would be nothing at all.

  Because this is a story about two.

  We’ll start with the more fucked of the pair. In every single relationship someone has been fated to be the crazier one. If you’re lucky, the disagreements in sanity are only slight, and if you can track and trail the exact stars your beloved followed before they suddenly stopped and launched out into that Great Beyond, even though you can’t exactly join them in that blackest sea, you can at least lax your sails, chart their course, and bask in their glow for a while. And if you've never thought to consider your beloved in such a way it might be high time to ditch old shit or at the least start shining it up. An anchor can be a beautiful thing. This one’s name is Opal.

  The fuck up goes by Dante. Please, excuse the fact he’s bare butt-ass naked at the moment. And outside. He’s been having a bit of a rough morning, and the raw rabbit still in his gut isn’t helping. He’ll have his pants and whatnot back on as soon as the last of his shoulder blade shrinks enough to pop back into place.

  Fortunately, the cold hasn’t gotten to him yet. He still runs pretty hot for the first few hours after a transformation. Right now, he’s trying to get his bearings. He takes it all in with an arm pressed against the shaft of a wide pine tree as he notes every detail. He’s nearby. He knows that at least. Every night Before, he makes sure to gather a change of clothes, a toothbrush, a snack, and some mouthwash all up in a knapsack and hang it from the trees. This time he went with oreos. He can’t do anything too hearty, or else he’s likely to smell it when in Lesser States, and tear into it without truly appreciating it. Vacuum sealed oreos are definitely the way to go. Double stuffed too.

  He wouldn’t want me to tell ya, but he whimpered when the last of his shoulder popped back into place. Dante is a man who keeps to himself. Gives up nothing to nobody. Not an asshole exactly, but they wouldn’t hang you for mistaking him for one. If it helps he doesn’t mean anything by it, he’s just better by himself. His own words, believe me.

  And that’s why he’s still butt-ass naked and halfway through his third failed attempt to climb this damn tree when a couple snow sprites take notice. Nasty buggers, those, but they mean you no harm. Physically. And I mean that quite literally. They’d set fire to the office, flood the house, and fuck the wife before they’d even think about setting one ill-intended finger on you. Which meant rustling the snow-covered tree branch above his head was absolutely fair game.

  But they were nice about it. Dante, still shaking the snow off in a huff, heard a thump on the ground behind him, and turned to find his knapsack resting atop a pile of snow.

  After he took three seconds to flip off the sprites, he spent the next 72 getting his clothes back on. Whenever he made his humble return back to reality, he always felt a need to get clothed as soon as possible. I don't believe I need to explain why. He made sure to go pretty far off into the woods, far from any trails. Though it wasn't the dead of winter just yet, out of the 4000 people on his campus, he couldn't help but think there was someone dumb enough to want to go hiking off in the woods alone.

  Not that Dante was alone. He never truly was. One of his backseat passenger’s greatest joys in life was reminding Dante just how right there they always were. Their barking had mostly quieted now, and Dante was able to enjoy something akin to hiking almost the whole way back.

  He made sure to stop by the Denny’s on his way back in. Denny’s was a pretty usual spot for him, but he had a special little ritual of stopping by there after every morning After. That sausage hash brown bowl packed a mean fucking punch, one strong enough to put down even his wolf for a while. Only a while though.

  The broken bell at the door made a singular clank against metal as Dante walked in. He doesn’t notice it anymore, but it pisses me off every time. He could already see through the slit in the wall behind the register that Moe was working the kitchen. And I’m only using the word “working” in case Moe’s manager ever happens to hear about this shit. What can actually be seen is something more akin to…I don’t know. If you ever come across a word for openly smoking a cigarette over a pan of frying eggs feel free to let me know.

  Moe always took care to make sure his little pleasures at work never ruined the experience for the customer. He always ashed after a puff and made sure the smoke never touched the food. And he’d do that till he got his cancer a few years later, but that’s beside the point.

  It was Junie who was working the register. Which Dante expected. Wherever you found one you knew the other was close by, and Junie and Moe were true working buddies. Work soul mates might be a better description. What one of them knew they both knew. And what one of them didn’t, the other was more than happy to help them catch up to speed. Well, with most things anyway.

  Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

  Junie smoked Pall Malls at work and topped it off with a daughter strain of Sour Diesel at home, so she had a very permanent state of smoker’s lungs, and she had no shame in letting Dante hear the worst of it. Especially this early in the morning. As he approached the counter the floorboards creaked under his weight.

  Junie scratched at a wen on her neck as she took a spent rag across the countertop.

  “Same thing?”

  “Same thing.”

  She forked over a not so toothy smile and left to toss the order to Moe.

  Dante took his usual booth off in the corner. It even remembered his ass. He liked being able to see the entrance of places. It made him feel…more aware of what’s going on around him. Like nothing could sneak up on him.

  Dante was staring out the window, taking in the mountains as he usually did when Moe plopped down in the seat across from him and his breakfast was placed squarely in front of him with some silverware wrapped in napkins off to the side.

  “Most of the piss went to the eggs, but I still managed a few drops more to help butter the toast.”

  “Appreciated.”

  Moe waved away Dante's gratitude and crossed both arms over the table as he leaned in.

  “So, how’d it go?”

  Dante fought the urge to look around and check who was in earshot. He had this thing, amongst other things, that he sometimes felt like he just had to do. Moe was looking at him, eager to hear whatever news Dante had to share, and Dante stared back at him as he locked his head in place. He knew he was perfectly alone, he had taken a good view of the Denny’s when he walked in, and he was the only customer on this entire side of the restaurant. And as far as Denny’s go this one was pretty sizeable. But, like all of the other fucked up shit in his head, he couldn’t get rid of it. And just outside his periphery was the whole world waiting with a bucket of popcorn, a nice seat, and Sherry Long from the 5 o’clock news.

  “Dante?” Moe said, but Dante didn’t hear it. He was too busy replaying his own little showtime version of the previous paragraph over and over in his head until he decided to just say fuck it and take an exasperated look around the Denny’s again. Every seat looking more empty and destitute than the last.

  “As good as can be expected, I guess. I didn’t wake up with holes from buckshot or scars from a mountain lion so that’s a plus. Think I ate something again though.”

  Moe raised an eyebrow.

  “Something?”

  “Yes. Some thing.”

  Dante fought the urge to roll his eyes. You almost eat a guy ONE TIME, and they think it’s the only thing you want off the menu.

  “Probably just a rabbit or a possum or something. I feel full, but not like bursting or anything.”

  Moe scratched at his chin, failing to still appear interested in Dante’s story as he learned there were no massacres. Not that Dante really minded, because massacres were exactly what Dante sought to avoid. It’s why he runs off in the woods whenever Shallow fucks him on getting his medication. Not that he can be mad at Shallow, seeing as how he's the reason he could afford his tuition at all. It just made nights like the last incredibly inconvenient.

  Moe asked, “Why’re you here then? If you’re already full. And sweating.”

  “Water and breath mints can only wash out so much. Need actual food for the rest. I’ll probably take most of it to go.”

  Moe nodded. And then he started doing that shit Dante fucking hates. If Moe ain’t cooking he’s scrolling. Like on his phone, the dude would rather blow his own brains out than enjoy some peace and quiet for more than a few seconds. But, Moe was raised alongside 4 siblings by a hardworking single mother with high aspirations. Much higher than being a line cook at Denny’s, but ya can’t win ‘em all, and she had won most. What I’m trying to say, is the guy had good manners. Sorry. And even if he knew better than to pull out his phone at a table, he couldn’t help but cause a ruckus at doing anything but. Can’t win ‘em all.

  So, whenever Moe found himself entertaining someone’s story rather than being entertained by it his body started coming up with all sorts of schemes to get him that dopamine in other ways. Your typical foot tapping sprees, lint picking contests, and ball readjustment maneuvers. Usual, mostly unintrusive stuff. The one that drove Dante mad was the one he couldn’t help but to see. Table tapping.

  Moe, when bored, would pair his first two fingers together and start going at the table like a madman. A few taps here. A short series there. Before long, he’d find himself in a nice little groove with it too. A nice little pattern that let the entire process shift over to the more automatic side of his brain, so he could get back to listening to whatever boring shit the shmuck across from him was saying without wanting to shove the guy’s dinner knife into his own eye. And this nice pattern just happened to drum out in this nice little series of five.

  And five was a bad deal for Dante. If you took it from him, the whole human race could really do without the number altogether. Just say half of ten. A quarter of twenty. Nine bushels more from what coulda' been a nice harvest. Who cares. Anything but five. Five was the first step on a trail, the sip that starts a binge, the Monday that kicks off the work week. It’s a nightmare. Begging to be ended. And Dante loves to finish it.

  Well, love ain’t the word for it, but if you were seeing what I am now you’d understand why I got confused. At the end of every series of five, Moe doesn’t know it but Dante is sitting there right across from him, finishing his half-assed attempt against the wood underneath the seat of the table. He used to complete it to a series of ten, but he recently allowed himself down to eight, and eight worked well. He couldn’t think of why, but he just felt better after doing those three taps.

  But he hated that it made him feel better. He hated that just encountering the number 5 made him feel so bad. He hated a lotta shit. And the only commonality to be found amongst the things he despised were that they all eventually circled back to something originating within himself. Like I said, the dude’s a fuck up. I guess a fuck up ain’t really the best word to use, but it’s what he’d use.

  Uses.

  Anyway, Dante soon switched the conversation over to whatever was going on in Moe’s life at the moment. There wasn’t much, but Moe had a real talent for making the most mundane magical, and Dante really wanted to stop sneak tapping the table. At this rate he’d wear off the paint.

  esteemed writer of the fabulous, Bitterwind, who's first season is available right here on Royal Road! If you look just below, you'll find Mike took out the time to record his very own rendition of the narration of FCOS's Chapter One.

  very real within the first month of my posting it. :'-D.

  If you ever get tired of me and want to spend a little time with some ham-addicted, swashbuckling pirates in a beautiful, sea-spray-soaked fantasy setting look no further than Bitterwind. I'm certainly enjoying it!