Wraith
Honeysuckle and summer rain thread through the chemical burn of neutralizers, wrapping around me in the dark pit I've been drowning in.
Each breath pulls me further from the nightmare playing on loop in my skull.
Everyone knows.
Everyone sees.
Everyone hates—
No.
She's here.
Ivy's here, pressed against me through the blanket, her heartbeat steady against my chest even though mine is jackhammering hard enough to crack ribs. Her small hands clutch the fabric at my back, holding on like she's afraid I'll disappear.
Like I'm the one who might run.
My face stays buried in the gap near her throat, breathing her in with desperate, shuddering gulps.
The neutralizers are fading enough that I can catch traces of her real scent now, and my chest starts to unknot.
A low, rumbling vibration starts in her chest.
Soft at first, barely there, but building steadily until I feel it through the blanket. My whole body goes slack as she purrs.
For me.
My racing thoughts slow to a crawl.
She pulls back slightly, and panic spikes through me again—no, don't look, don't leave, please—but her hands come up to cup my face instead.
I freeze, then quickly bury my face in her palms, trying to hide again.
I'm not as disgusting in the dark.
And it isn't dark enough in here.
The memory crashes through me without warning.
Cold, damp concrete against my skin, the darkness in the basement so complete I couldn't see my own hands until I started to go fucking feral and my eyes adjusted, the sound of my mother pacing above me while I starved for touch and something other than raw meat shoved under the door and licking condensation off the pipes.
This is like that place.
A dark basement room.
But Ivy is here with me this time.
Her soft scent drags me out of the spiral before I can even descend.
She slept down here for two months because she had no other fucking choice, even though she was starting to go feral herself.
And she came back for me.
My hands hover uselessly near Ivy's shoulders. Can't pull her closer. Can't push her away. Can't do anything except wait for her to open her eyes and finally—finally—understand what she signed up for.
But her eyes stay closed.
She's keeping her promises.
"I love you," she whispers with a soft smile. "Nothing changes that."
Then she leans in.
And presses her lips to my exposed teeth.
My brain short-circuits.
I can't—
I don't—
The softness of her mouth meets the sharp points of my teeth.
The kiss only lasts a few seconds, but those seconds stretch into infinity. Her lips are so warm. I feel the slight catch of her skin on the points, the way she adjusts the angle to fit us together despite the impossibility of it.
My hands shake where they hover near her shoulders.
I'm afraid to pull her closer.
Afraid I'll hurt her.
Afraid to push her away and shatter whatever spell is allowing this impossible moment to exist.
When she finally pulls back, my lungs remember how to work again.
Barely.
"Can I open my eyes now?"
The question is soft. Patient. Like she's got all the time in the world, even though we both know she doesn't. Even though the game starts in less than an hour and I should already be warming up and the whole fucking world has seen my face and—
I nod.
Can't make myself sign. Can't make myself do anything except brace for impact.
Her eyelids flutter open.
Ocean blue-green finds me in the crimson dark.
Her gaze travels over every inch of my exposed face.
The worst possible lighting.
And her expression holds nothing but fierce love.
My hands grip her forearms without my permission, fingers curling around the soft fabric of her borrowed hoodie. Need to hold onto something. Need proof this is real and not some fever dream my broken brain manufactured to survive the panic attack.
"My mate," she says softly.
I'm so stunned by that word on her lips, I can't even think to panic when she leans in and kisses me again.
This time I feel it completely. The soft press of her lips against my teeth, the way she tilts her head to find an angle that works, the warmth of her breath ghosting across my exposed face. She doesn't rush it. Doesn't treat it like something to get through or endure.
She kisses me like she means it.
Like she wants to.
When she pulls back, her eyes are shining.
"I'm so proud of you," she says, and her voice cracks on the last word. "You know that? I'm so goddamn proud of you."
For what? I want to sign, bewildered. For having a panic attack in a storage closet? For worrying Whiskey so much he texted you to come find me?
"You're still here," she continues, like she can read every self-loathing thought spiraling through my head. "You're still standing. After everything—after today—you're still here. With me. And you're going to go out there and play the best game of your life."
I stare at her.
She can't possibly believe that.
"I'll be watching from the crowd." Her hands slide from my face to my shoulders, squeezing through the blanket. "Cheering for you. Even if you can't hear me. Even if you can't see me. I'll be there."
My throat burns.
I want to tell her so many things.
That she's the only person whose opinion of me actually matters. That the entire world can see my face and think I'm a monster, but as long as she looks at me like this, I can survive it.
That she's my sun and my moon and my stars and everything good in this world.
But there's no time, and my hands won't cooperate, and the words feel too big for the limited vocabulary of signs I know anyway. Let alone the ones she's learned in the short, beautiful span of time she's shone that light on the shadows of my life.
So I just sign thank you and I love you and hope she understands everything those simple words are trying to carry.
Her smile is soft and sad and perfect.
"I love you too," she whispers. "Now let me fix this."
Her hands reach for my face—for my mask, I realize, as her fingers find the edge of the gaiter bunched around my neck.
She pulls it up slowly, carefully, smoothing the fabric into place over my jaw.
Her touch is gentle, almost reverent, adjusting the fit so it sits properly and covers the worst of the scarring.
I hold perfectly still.
Let her work.
Try not to think about how this is the opposite of what I usually do—yanking the mask up myself in a panic, hiding as fast as possible, making sure no one sees more than they absolutely have to.
She's taking her time.
Making sure it's right.
"There," she says finally, stepping back to examine her work. "Perfect."
Nothing about me is perfect.
But she's smiling like she means it anyway, and I don't have the energy to argue.
Thank you, I sign again, trying to smile with my eyes.
She presses one more kiss to my masked mouth. The fabric muffles the contact, but I feel it anyway. Feel her warmth through the barrier between us.
"Go kick Wade's ass for me," she says with a sly little grin. "And when you're done, we'll celebrate."
I hope she can't see how much my face is heating up.
Whiskey is waiting in the hallway when I emerge from the storage closet.
He's leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, massive frame taking up half the corridor, his expression caught somewhere between relieved and worried. The moment he sees me, he straightens.
"There he is." Whiskey pushes off the wall, grinning despite the worry still tight around his eyes. "Thought I was gonna have to send in a SWAT team. Or like, a really aggressive therapist with tranq darts. You alright?"
I give him a flat look.
Alive, I sign.
"Yeah, no, I know you're 'alive,' but are you actually—"
Ivy emerges behind me, and Whiskey's attention snaps to her immediately. His whole demeanor shifts like just seeing her confirms everything is okay.
"Keep an eye on him for me, yeah?" Ivy asks him with a soft smile.
Whiskey nods, uncharacteristically serious. "I got him."
The look Whiskey gives me is too soft.
I've been taking care of myself since before you knew what a hockey stick was, I sign to Whiskey with a frustrated growl. I'm fine.
"Sure you are, big guy. You don't need anybody but Ivy. I know." Whiskey's grin widens, completely unfazed. "But you're stuck with me anyway. Package deal. Non-refundable. Bros for life."
I'm about to argue with him when Ivy laughs softly behind me, and the sound cuts through my irritation like a knife through butter.
The bickering helps anyway. This familiar back-and-forth, the way Whiskey refuses to treat me like I'm different… the static in my head fades a little more with each exchange.
Guess this is what pack is supposed to feel like.
"Don't worry about a thing, wildcat," Whiskey says to Ivy, throwing an arm around my shoulders like I didn't just growl at him thirty seconds ago.
"We're gonna warm up, stretch, do some alpha bonding shit, and then go out there and absolutely fuck the Demons in the ass.
Impale 'em with hockey sticks like Vlad Dracula. Crazy style."
I roll my eyes.
Ivy's smile is tired but real. "I'm counting on it."
She moves toward me, rising up on her tiptoes, and I lean down to meet her in the middle as she presses another kiss against my mask. The contact is barely a brush of warmth through the fabric, but I feel it everywhere.
My hand comes up automatically to cup the back of her head, holding her there for just a moment longer.
Be safe, I sign when she pulls back.
"Always," she promises.
She understood that, even without fingerspelling.
She really has been learning.
Then she turns to Whiskey.
"Hey," she says. "Come here."
Whiskey blinks. "Yeah, wildcat?"
Before he can say anything else, Ivy grabs him by the head—both hands fisting in his damp hair to haul him down since he still hasn't realized what the fuck is going on—and gets up on her tiptoes to kiss him too.
It's not a long kiss.
But when she lets go, Whiskey looks like he's the one whose head she caved in with a fire extinguisher.
His face is bright red beneath the stubble. His mouth opens and closes twice without producing sound. His eyes are doing that wide, stunned thing that makes him look like a cartoon character who just walked into a glass door.
"I—" He clears his throat. "That was—you just—"
"Thanks for texting me," Ivy says simply, like she didn't just short-circuit his entire brain. "I mean it. You did the right thing."
Whiskey manages a strangled sound that might be words in some alternate dimension.
Ivy grins at both of us. "Please text me if anything else happens, okay? I'll find you." Her grin sharpens. "I'm a little bit feral too, remember?"
Then she's walking away, her borrowed hoodie swallowing her small frame, her freshly darkened hair disappearing around the corner at the end of the hall.
Whiskey and I watch her go.
Mesmerized.
Neither of us moves until she's completely out of sight, swallowed by the maze of tunnels that lead back toward the main arena. Even then, it takes another few seconds before either of us manages to function.
We're halfway to the rink before I realize Whiskey saw me, too. He's the one who found the fucking picture.
I glance at him sideways.
He's walking beside me like nothing's changed. Same easy swagger. Same dumb grin threatening to break across his face. Same complete lack of the distance people usually put between themselves and me after they've seen what I am.
He hasn't flinched once.
Why?
The question must show in my body language, because Whiskey catches my eye and raises an eyebrow.
"You good, bro?"
I hesitate. Then sign slowly.
You saw the photo.
"Yeah." He shrugs. "So?"
So. My hands stall. I don't know how to ask what I'm trying to ask. You're not...
"What? Scared? Of you?" Whiskey snorts. "Bro, you don't even eat meat. And last I checked, this is Grade A prime beef." He thumps his broad chest. "If I were tofu? Yeah. Then I'd be worried."
All I can do is stare at him.
He's not lying. I can always tell when people are lying. Their scent shifts, their pulse jumps, their eyes do that flickering thing.
Whiskey just looks at me like I'm an idiot.
"Besides," he adds, and his voice softens despite the casual tone, "you're my brother, man. I love ya. Spooky mug and all."
He punches my shoulder.
I shove him into the wall.
He bounces off with a laugh. "Come on. Let's deal with this shit the best way we know how. Kicking Wade's ass so hard, we send him straight to hell."
I fall into step alongside him, signing. We're not ALLOWED to send him to hell.
"Figuratively speaking." Whiskey grins even wider. "But we can make him wish we had."
I growl my agreement.
"Oh shit! I almost forgot. Time to cover up," Whiskey says with a dramatic, reluctant sigh, taking a tiny spray bottle out of his pocket and spritzing himself with scent neutralizer.
I should see it coming.
I don't.
He nails me in the face before I can react, cackling when I double over, coughing my lungs out, my mask soaked in it.
What the fuck?! I sign angrily when I can breathe again.
"You smell like honeyfuck or whatever the hell it's called!" Whiskey insists, chasing after me and spraying the air, screaming in agony every time it blows back in his eyes.
I snarl back at him.
This time, I don't really mean it.