oregon.

Devon

She loves him, yeah, yeah, yeah.

--

Devon holds Rafael's hand as they walk out of the hotel. Check out, really -- they leave the bike where it's parked and leave their few possessions in the locked compartments on the bike, so they can just swing back and take off when they're ready.

For now, though, they stroll. She holds his hand, fingers laced through his, no wearing a jacket because it's too warm for one. Turns out that it's too cold to go entirely without something covering her skinny arms.

He buys her a dark green hoodie pullover from a souvenir shop that has the shape of the state on it made up of a white screenprinted wordcloud of all the things that supposedly make the state amazing. She cuddles in it, her free hand in the front kangaroo pocket, her braids hanging down either side of the hood, and holds his hand again as they keep walking.

She is quiet.

He is, too.

Neither of them are much given to talking a lot, and most of the time they spent living together they hardly conversed. He told her today that he's hers. He's hers, he repeated, gruffly and with difficulty, but genuine, because he loves her, and he tells her the truth.

Devon keeps smelling the air. She never comments on it. She stops by the path they're on at one point, plucking an Oregon iris from the grass and putting it in her hair before they go on.

Rafael

They're holding hands. She could pass for a local girl today: light makeup, braids, hoodie. He could never pass for an Oregonian, just as he never quite passes for a Coloradan, or a Montanan, or a Mainer, or any of the places he's been. He's a wolf: that's the long and short of it. She stoops to pick a flower and he waits for her, not bending with her, still holding her hand. When she straightens, putting the blossom in her hair, he half-grins.

"Now you're ready to go to San Francisco," he quips.

Devon

Rafael cannot pass for human some days. No wonder he keeps to himself. He can barely get along with his own kind, much less other humans. Devon knows this; Devon is the same. She gets along more or less fine with people, but she never opens up. They always leave. They always get sick of it and leave. She's got a precious handful of people in her life who trust her: her mum, her godparents, Rafael. The rest look at her strangely sometimes. Even her friends. The rest, she knows will eventually drift away because she can't be herself with them. Not totally. Never.

Not even other Kin.

Certainly not most wolves.

She takes his hand again after she finishes with the flower, rolling her eyes at his grin, his comment. "That's such an old song,"

but she knows it, doesn't she?

"Do you want to go to San Francisco?" she asks. "Have you ever been?"

Rafael

"Heh," a sort of grunt-laugh, "but you got the joke."

Then he shakes his head: "Never been." Thinks about it a little. "Maybe next time we go somewhere. You?"

Devon

"You've met Brian and Sheila, yeah? Never know to meet them, but they were total hippies. Flower children."

She squeezes his hand. "Denver's the farthest west I've ever been, til now," she confesses. "Never really left Boston when I lived there. I mean, visited places. New York. Maine. Canada. Philly. Just... random things. In London I traveled a fair bit, but usually just with mum. Or alone."

She quiets, there.

Rafael

"Can totally see it," he says, of Brian and Sheila. "Especially Sheila."

She quiets. So does he. There's a silence as they stroll on, side of a road, then down to the water. Lots of trees in the Pacific Northwest. Pine forests everywhere, many still unspoiled, ancient. On just about any road anywhere, you can't throw a pebble without hitting a tree. Terrain itself is hilly, too; very different from the wide-open spaces that make up most of Denver proper.

"You ever do that backpack-through-Europe thing?" he asks after a while.

Devon

"Bullshit," Devon scoffs, of his estimation of Sheila. Brian is the more flower-child one. Building things with his hands. Peaceful but strong. Sheila is just... maternal. Well, not really. She's an auntie. Through and through, to her core and out the other side: Auntie. Not Earth Mother.

She shakes her head. "Not really." Quiet, for a few more shuffling steps. "Ran away a few times. Not... like a kid, 'I hate you' to mum or anything. Just needing to get away. Stop getting looked at. Stop getting questioned. No one I could talk to about what I was, there."

Rafael

Wolf huffs a quiet laugh. Lets her hand go, but only to put his arm around her shoulders, pull her rough against his side.

"We got that in common," he says, gruffly.

Devon

Devon is tense when he pulls her close. She's initially resistant, which he can never really see coming. She doesn't think they're the same in this. He'd eventually find others like him. He'd eventually figure out why he was the way he was. But then he wouldn't have a dad, wouldn't have a mum, wouldn't have anything but a half-brother who hates him -- does she even know about that guy?

In her case, she still hasn't found anyone like her. Doesn't know why she's like this. Doesn't know what it means, what it's for. And she's got her mum. And if there are half-siblings out there who hate her, she doesn't know about them and they don't know about her, either.

She exhales, sighing to herself. Tries to relax. "I was miserable then," she mutters. "I don't like talking about it. I hated everything. Especially myself."

Rafael

Senses her stillness, her discomfort, the way animals sense fear. That side-hug, already awkward and gruff to begin with, terminates early. He walks a little ways beside her.

"Meant running away," he says. "Just that."

Anyway: she doesn't want to talk about it anymore. They don't talk about it anymore. They stroll in the clear morning down to the river's edge. Hundreds of miles from its mouth, this river flows fast and wide; the light hits it, catches it, scatters on its surface. Near the city's tiny downtown, there's a riverwalk; a little patch of wild green land that they, almost by instinct, head for.

Devon

Strange that his retreat from that squeeze is comforting to her the way the hug itself would be in another circumstance. Strange that when he just lets it go, says he understands running away, when he doesn't pry into her saying hated everything, hated myself,

she's comforted. Relieved. Feels understood, wordlessly, and feels accepted in spite of what an awful thing it is to say. To hear.

They walk, hand in hand still. She squeezes him there, without saying anything in response, and as they keep walking, she wraps herself around his arm a bit, laying her head on his bicep. They walk closer to the water, like animals. They walk towards green grass coming back from the winter, like animals. And when they flop down on the slightly dew-damp ground together, Devon scoots closer, curling up against his side for warmth and closeness and comfort, like an animal.

Devon watches the water. Listens to it. Listens to the town.

Says, out of nowhere after a while:

"I like the name Maeve."

Rafael

Wolf blinks. His mind goes to the exact place one might suspect:

"You pregnant or something?"

Devon

Instantly, she tenses. No: startles. She's collected warmly and safely in his arms, leaning against him watching a pretty river on a pretty morning, and she jumps a little, a shimmy through her shoulders. She looks up and over at him, caught off guard without entirely realizing that obviously her non sequitur would come across... that way.

"What? No." A beat. "Not that I know of."

Devon is thoughtful for a moment, her brow wrinkled. "Just looking at the river. The current. Thought about the snow, at your party. Then thought about whether I could make the water go backwards." Her brow wrinkles even more as she follows her own train of thought like a bread crumb trail. "Thought that seemed like something some ancient witch could do: make water flow backwards, use ice to fuel a fire, things like that. That made me think about ancient witches and fairy queens."

Her cheeks are reddened now with anxious embarrassment at her silly thoughts, not to mention -- the other thing. The thing he thought of.

"That made me think of the name Maeve, and I like it," she mutters, now looking more at his forearm than his face.

Rafael

Train of thought is long and convoluted, but it gets to its destination already. Water to magic to witches to fairy queens, to Maeve. Wolf wasn't aware of the connection, though he can infer it.

"Maeve's the name of some witch?"

Devon

"Queen," Devon answers, settling a little bit. Not entirely, but she curls against him somewhat, once more. "Real one. Irish. But also the name of the fairy queen."

Rafael

He's sitting leaned back on his hands. Doesn't have his arms around her but they're close nonetheless, and he's planted, solid, firm as a tree trunk. And she comes closer he turns his head, nuzzles her hair aimlessly, thoughtlessly.

"So tell me about her," he says.

Devon

"That's all I know," Devon huffs, semi-amused by her own ignorance. She scoots closer against him again, frowning that his arms aren't around her, that he's not more cuddly. It's chilly, still this early in spring, near the water. Even in the hoodie he got for her, she crawls all over him, insinuating herself into his warmth.

"What names do you like?"

Rafael

Fine; she makes her point. He shifts his weight to the other arm, wraps this one around her -- a warm heavy weight around her middle. Snorts -- "You sure you're not pregnant?" -- but then thinks about it.

"Don't know. My mother's name was Maartje. Thought it had a cool pseudo-Viking sound."

Devon

She's disgruntled this time, even as she's midway into settling into his half-embrace. She makes a grumpy sound, defensive -- and that's all.

He tells her his mom's name. "What about your dad?"

Rafael

Beat of pause. Then he tells her. "Went by Frank, but his name was François." Shrugs, like this explains it, "Quebeçois. Lived in Maine. We moved a couple times when I was a kid. Up and down the coast, little towns. An island once, I think."

Devon

Her eyebrows hop. His dad was Fre-- oh, his dad was Canadian. His mother was Scandinavian or something. "Your mum named you, yeah?" she asks quietly, reflective. Trying to remember if he told her that or she made it up.

Rafael

"Yeah."

Devon

She rubs the top of her head against his jaw, as though asking for another nuzzling. Which, to be fair, she is.

"My dad named me," she offers. He may already know this. She says it again anyway. Because he ran away a lot when he was younger, too. And because they were both named by the parents who left them. And because she is not good at sharing herself, and clams up usually when she realizes she's doing it, and sometimes all she can do is offer these piecemeal tidbits of herself. Names. Things she likes. A point of warm physical contact.

Rafael

He didn't know that. Knows it now, though. Turns and presses his lips against her skin: side of her forehead, temple.

"Like your name. Fits you."

Devon

That makes her smile. The nuzzling sort of kiss he gives her, really. But the words, too. She smiles lopsidedly, lazily, watching the water.

"Like your name, too," she says.

"Like Maeve an Maartje." Pauses. Thinks quietly. "Even sort of like Frank."

Rafael

"Don't really like or dislike it. It's boring and normal. Fit him though. Much better than François, anyway."

Devon

Devon doesn't answer that. Not stiffly, not in a non-responsive response. She just has nothing to say. The river babbles, fills in the blanks between them, softens the edges of verbal silence. She feels him and listens to him breathing, then comes out of nowhere again:

"Would you be mad?"

It's quieter than her statement about a name she happens to like was, though.

Rafael

He doesn't follow. "What?"

Devon

"If... I... got pregnant," she mutters, each successive word mumbled quieter and more grumpily.

Rafael

"Oh." He thinks for a beat. "What? No. Why would I be mad? I'm the one not wrapping my dick."

Devon

That nearly makes her choke. The glib yet clumsy way he references his dick and 'wrapping' it, which makes her thing of winding a ribbon around it rather than rolling on a condom. It makes her amused enough that she doesn't tense up that he thinks the question is a weird one. She doesn't tell him that she knew girls in Boston -- and in London -- who got pregnant and whose boyfriends were pissed off about it. She doesn't get glowy and excited and tell him that's good, because DOT DOT DOT. She just huffs a laugh and then relaxes against him once more, snuggling into his side.

"Okay," is all Devon says to that, content with his answer. She goes back to watching the river.

Rafael

He's still thinking about it though. It's turning around in his primeval, concrete brain: this abstract idea that takes a while to coalesce into digestible shape.

"Not really ready to have a kid though," he says after a while. "If it happens it happens. Not gonna freak out and run off, if that's what you're scared of. But not in any rush either."

Devon

Still, she doesn't get defensive. He didn't laugh at her for her train of thought about Maeve, after all. She leans into him, content, and listens while he ploddingly, methodically pursues his own slowly-meandering creek of consideration.

"I'm not scared," she does tell him, and it sounds like she means it: calm, steady, oddly warm. Reassuring. But she does say this, because it's the whole reason she circled back, the whole reason she asked him if he'd be mad:

"I do want to be a mom one day. Not anytime soon. But it's something I want. Eventually."

Rafael

"Yeah?" This triggers another bout of thinking. "Guess I could be a dad someday. Never really thought about it."

Devon

Surely this is where she says Maybe you should! and surprise, reveal, she's knocked up. But Devon isn't pregnant. Isn't even close to pregnant. She drowses contentedly with him, surprised at how easy it suddenly is. Admitting to her boyfriend of over-a-year that he might want to consider how he feels about being a dad, because she sort of wants to be a mom at some point. Bringing up this sticky, difficult, fraught topic and having a deep, deceptively gentle conversation by a deep, deceptively gentle river.

But still.

She has to ask.

"But... do you think you want that?"

Rafael

He has to think about that, too. "Guess so," he says, which perhaps isn't the firm answer she wants. "Really haven't thought about it."

Devon

That's all right.

"All right," she says. She's not bothered. He doesn't know. And they're in no rush.

"You let me know what you figure out," she murmurs sleepily, contentedly, leaning against his arm.

Rafael

Relaxes a little, hearing that. Wasn't sure if it'd touch a nerve. Set something off. Follow the train of thought too far and it probably could: what if she does, what if he doesn't, what then. All that.

Seems too far in the future though. Hazy; answer unclear. It's all right. He grunts affirmation: he'll let her know when he figures it out.

Devon

After that, there is very little noise except the river itself. Some birds. The coming spring that almost feels like summer but for the occasional, deeply chilling breeze that makes Devon curl up in her sweater and against her boyfriend a bit more. She watches the sunlight ripple off the surface of the water, and when her eyes get tired of that, she closes them to listen to the day around her. Rafael's own breathing, his nearby heartbeat, serve as a foundation for every other sound -- more agile sounds, lighter, floating away from her while he stays

right there.

With her.

--

Some time later she breathes in, deeply, opening her eyes and expanding her chest. She blinks a few times as her eyes re-adjust to the light, which comes in first as a red haze broken apart by molten gold before diffusing out into all the other colors around her: so much blue, so much green, spots of purple and white and yellow where there are flowers eagerly, shrilly proclaiming that spring has finally come and no one's gonna stop them now.

Devon squeezes Rafael's arm in a little mock-up of a real hug. "We should head out," she says, moving to stand up, pushing herself to her feet and dusting bits of grass off her now slightly-damp jeans. "Gotta get to the beach."

Rafael

In the meantime he's leaned back on his hands; then reclined on his elbows. By the time she stirs, breathes deep like she's awakening, he's drowsing himself in the spring sunshine. He's a little stiff from lounging right there, unmoving; shakes out his hands one by one, leaning on the other while he does.

Looks up at her as she stands. Wants, absurdly and animalistically, to bump his brow against her thigh; lean against her. Doesn't. Gets up instead, dusting his ass off; his back where he can reach.

"Pretty rocky shoreline I think," he warns her, just in case she had visions of pristine cerulean waters; white sands. "Might be pretty cold still."

Devon

"I lived in London," she informs him, to her point. Beaches there tend to be mostly rocks, anyway. She takes his hand, heading back with him to the path, to walk back to the hotel, his bike, to keep driving west.

Rafael

"Should go there with you," he muses as they leave the riverbank. "Never been."