“I hate him. I mean, I don’t hate him, but I hate him. You know?”
“I just… I can’t…” The Owl put down his guitar; the Wolf put down his book.
“I didn’t tell him.”
“Tell him what?”
“About me. What I can do.”
“And there was stuff he didn’t talk about, too. Stupid things, inconsequential things.”
“It seems odd that you would keep things from each other.”
“Yeah.” He sighed, picked his guitar back up and continued to play, singing softly under his breath. The Wolf watched him a few seconds longer then followed the other boy’s lead.
The Owl felt well enough to take a gig at a local bar filled with boys with fresh beards and glasses they didn’t need and girls with dreadlocks and festival bands crawling up their arms. The Wolf had a tendency to avoid large crowds and loud noise, but he was there, tasting the Owl’s sweat on the air even over all the body spray and the spilt beer. His scent had undergone a subtle but significant change.
The Owl stepped onto the stage, sat at the piano, cleared his throat and then began to play.
“At night the demons crawl from my head,
I’m memories of a long lost man,
I am the feelings that you had,
All of the love and damage done.”
That night the Owl performed like a warrior; that night witnessed those demons crawling from shattered minds wrestled and slain. The Wolf smiled and cheered with the rest of the crowd, though a solitary tear escaped the corner of his eye.