matteolazkano

[matteolazkano]

Matteo stumbled, half dragged and half collapsing under Riley’s grip. He barely registered their voice over the roar in his own ears, where blood and guilt and memory boiled in tandem. The trees swam around him, too tall, too close. Every step felt like it would split him open. Still, he fought. Weakly and instinctively, he fought. Not against Riley, but against moving, against continuing to exist in this body that had done what it had done. "I can't go—" he muttered, "I can't leave him like that, Riley. I left pieces of him out there—" Limbs scattered in the woods, left to rot, or be torn apart again by whatever found them first. "She saw me. She saw me, Riley. What if she tells someone? What if she — what if she remembers?"

Then they would take away his kid. And who else did she have, if not him? His brother was nowhere to be found and even if someone did hand Addie over to Cesar, what good would that do? The same curse ran through his veins. Was he even alive anymore? Matteo hadn’t heard from him in years. She’d be ripped from his hands and swallowed by the system. Placed in some foster home with strangers who didn’t know her laugh or how she liked her eggs. Liam would try to hold onto her, Matteo knew that much. He’d ruin himself trying. He still had his own ghosts to battle, and he wasn’t ready to be anyone’s father, no matter how hard he tried.

"They’ll take her from me," Matteo said, the words escaping in a choked breath. "My baby girl — they’ll take her away." You’d never hurt your kid, Riley had said. But they were wrong. This was already hurting her. He shook his head, violently now. "Riley—" his voice cracked like a fault line, like everything inside him was splitting wide open.

They were finally willing to listen, it seemed, and for the sake of getting through to them, Matteo paused, all movement ceasing: "Riley, I need you to understand. I’ve been managing this — this condition for most of my life. My brother, and my father— It’s hereditary. A bloodline curse." Matteo tried to explain, but words came out broken and wobbly, uneven — "It wears you down, piece by piece, until the line between you and the animal becomes impossible to distinguish." One hand still gripped onto them, holding on for dear life. "That’s how my father died. He—he was gone, Riley. I walked into that house and he didn’t even know who I was.” His gaze flickered up to meet theirs, hollow and dark. "He looked at me like I was nothing. And I’m telling you this because I know, I know —that’s where I’m headed."

There was no easy way to say the next part, but it had to be said. "I need you to call Arleen Bailey."

Matteo is fighting them, struggling feebly in their grip and he's mumbling like a madman. Stop? They can't stop. Anyone could find them and that would be a whole other can of worms that Riley's not sure if they can clean up. "I know, I know," they tell him, trying to be reassuring, even as they keep pulling at him to get the older wolf moving. They understand the bloodthirsty nature of the wolf, how it takes over and they end up ripping people apart in their hunger. Even when it's not the full moon, Riley can feel that anger and emotion rippling through them at any given point, and they can only imagine it's the same for others.

"I know you. You'd never hurt your kid. You'd never touch Addie," they say stubbornly. That was the difference between Matteo and their father. Even if this damn wolf thing passed down to the sweet little kid they'd come to know, Matteo would be a better guide and teacher than Riley's had been. They know it.

They manage to pull him past the treeline, following the scent of blood that gets thicker as they head in that direction. It's not hard, and any hunter would be able to track this. "Listen to me. I can fix this, I just need you to tell me what happened," they say, breaking out the voice that they generally reserve for distraught or unruly clients. Whatever will cut through the haze that Matteo seems to be trapped in.

With one hand still gripping Matteo's arm tightly, Riley tries to think of any options. Who can they call? There's a witness, a dead body, a half-raving local professor and one of the city's public defenders. The news would have a field day with this. "Okay. Okay, here's what we're gonna do," they mutter, mostly to themself, running their free hand through their hair. "Has... has this happened before?" Animal attacks are a common thing in Port Leiry, but for whatever reason, Riley had never imagined that Matteo could fall to the same bloodlust they do every month. He always seemed better than that. Stronger.

"Tell me what you need."

[matteolazkano]

So far, not helpful at all. Despite every effort to keep his face neutral, disappointment flickered through — in the crease of his brow, and the soft collapse around his eyes. It was subtle, but there.

It wasn’t her fault. She wasn’t to blame for trying something dangerous like reaching into the dark, for a man she barely knew, and coming up empty. It wasn’t even a failure, not really. Maybe it was just him. Maybe the thing in his blood had dug too deep. Maybe the curse had devoured him, swallowed him down in pieces and spat out whatever was left. It had replaced parts of him; memories, instincts, hope with cold, hollow voids that throbbed whenever someone tried to reach inside. Estela was brave for trying, but what if there was nothing left but rot?

Still, disappointment twisted into something else — concern, then a flicker of something like hope. The kind a dying man cradled at the end of the road. Hope, not for a cure, but a little more time.

"I believe you can pluck at it. And maybe that’ll help. Maybe it’s the only thing that can help me." he said, his voice quiet, "But I'm not sure the magic in my blood stains, I think it spreads, and I need you to promise me that if you're hurt, you'll pull back and you'll leave me."

"It doesn't, no.." She flexes her hand, the tips of her fingers fading away into their usual pink-ish tan color after a few seconds. Interesting - not rot on her, but a stain. Then again, she'd never actually pull or threaded apart curses. Her family had never allowed her to practice this part of her magic, just lock it away. The practice she does have is on friends who deal with the pain of the pull to allow her some experience. Another flex of her fingers.

".. I think maybe it might - It has to have something. Either that or the curse has been woven so deeply with the lycanthropy that it doesn't need one." Could she cure a werewolf of their curse? She doesn't think so - Truly, genuinely, she thinks it would kill her. So if this curse is threaded with that..

She brings her fingertips to her bottom lip, tapping on it gently while she thinks. "I'm the only one who can siphon it." Estela says it carefully, "Other magic might hack at it, chop it up, leave you more broken than before. My skillset means I can pluck at it,little by little." Like she said, it's possible. "I think.. The stain might have effects on me, yes, but there's no way to tell if I can fix that without having it. Garnett witches are crafty - Caitlin alone could help me with preventatives or cures for me, if it comes to that."

She looks back up at him, eyes narrowing. "Let me help you. We can start small, a little at a time."

[matteolazkano]

Matteo didn’t lift his eyes. He couldn’t. Not when Liam’s voice struck with such precision, stripping every last excuse from his bones. Shame, shame, shame— "I know," he said hoarsely. "I know that I'm making this all wrong. Do you think I don’t see that? I hear her voice and it’s like someone’s driving nails into my ribs. I want to go to her, I do, but the second I think about it, I see blood on my hands. I smell it." Matteo rubbed his palms over his jeans like he could scrub them clean, wipe all his sins off. "Sometimes I see her face Liam, covered in blood, and I don't know if it's a dream or a memory I haven’t made yet." Some kind of sick premonition. A quiet, creeping dread that wrapped around his throat.

When the older wolf finally looked up, his eyes were a mess — red rimmed, darkened, wide with something too close to fear. "I’m afraid I’ll hurt her. Not yell at her or forget to pick her up from school. I mean really hurt her. You don’t understand what it feels like when the wolf takes over. I don’t black out — I watch it happen. Like I’m locked in the trunk of my own body."

It felt as though his world was unraveling, thread by thread. He reached out for his son, where palms hovered over tensed shoulders but never quite landed, even if touch was the one thing he needed to ground himself, to know that Liam was solid, there — that when everything was falling apart, he wouldn't disintegrate before his eyes. But his hands were shaky, uncertain — eyes pleading for permission. "I left her with you because you’re the only one I trust with her. Because she loves you and I trust you not to break her the way I’m breaking. That isn’t fair to you, I know. But I’m scared, Liam. I’m scared of myself."

Liam stared at him, eyebrows furrowed as his adopted father spoke to him. None of it made sense. The way he reacted to Liam and his words, or what he was saying. It had nothing to do with what he had asked. "What the fuck are you even talking about?" He spat out, shaking his head back and forth. "You're the reason she's acting like that. You aren't picking her up from school. You're isolating yourself from her. You are confusing her, Matteo."

It was causing Addie to ask Liam questions about her own father. Causing Liam to lie, to smile, to insist that everything was alright. That daddy just needed some time. He was busy. Oh, you know how forgetful he can be? Yeah, it's one of those days. Liam wasn't just picking her up from school, but providing her with meals, packing her lunches, making sure she brushed her teeth at night. Hell, he was even tucking her into bed more than once a week. Liam was acting like he was her fucking father and he wasn't.

It was Matteo. The man in front of him was who was supposed to be doing everything that Liam was doing. "Tell me what's going on. Now." Liam insisted. He'd dealt with so much horrible behaviors when he was younger that he didn't want Addie to have to take it on. He didn't want her to see any of it. So he'd protect her from it. He would face Matteo and his problems head on and he would fix it. For her.

[matteolazkano]

He could still hear her. That woman on her knees behind them, wailing, shaking, muttering something about her husband. Matteo could barely make out the words through the broken sobs. He wanted to turn around, he wanted to tell her that help was coming, that she’d be okay, that — God, something would be okay. But he couldn’t move. His arms were heavy, like marble slung over Riley’s shoulders and his head hung low, helplessly bowed, not in shame, not even in prayer, just broken. Like it was him who needed saving.

Riley wasn't going to leave her. That much, Matteo knew. They’d spent their life fighting injustice — fixing what others broke. Sooner or later, they’d untangle themselves from beneath his weight and go to her instead. Help her point a shaky finger at the one responsible. The one who shook her world to the core. The one who ripped love out of her from the roots. His eyes lifted, just barely, seeking the honey brown in Riley’s.

See me, they begged. See me for what I truly am.

But they were tugging on him now, rushing him away from his crime, as if he was anything but guilty. As if he still deserved mercy. He didn’t. Matteo didn’t deserve to have his hands washed clean — these hands that were more claw than skin, more beast than man, these hands didn’t deserve to be held, didn’t deserve to be shown kindness.

What are you doing? No, no — "Riley, stop—" His voice cracked, as he reached for their hands, trying to still them, to make all movement cease. He wanted to waste more of the time he had left before someone came and found him. He wanted to be found and captured, instead of having Riley chipping away at the part of themselves that still believed in justice. Not their soft edges blunting against his sharp ones. That part of them, he didn’t want it gone, stripped away so something colder, more like him, could take its place.

Where would he even begin to explain?

"Riley, I can't control it— I know there's a lot you don't know, but what does matter is this—" he dragged in a breath that sounded more like a sob, "—you can't leave me around my daughter, I can't be trusted with anyone." crack, crack, crack — "I can’t control the wolf. I can’t control the bloodlust—that awful thing in me that wants to kill, that wants to tear everything apart."

He is feral and half-mad, they can see it in his eyes. It sends an unnerving chill down their spine, but they keep their grip tight in his shirt. At first, Riley thinks he's going to fight, to snap his jaws in their face and they'll be forced to push back harder, maybe even hurt him. It's the last thing they want when his mind is clearly already gone. It would do nothing for both of them to fall to their animal instincts.

Their wolf is torn, unsure whether to give the man the deference it wants to, while they can hear the whimpering woman still collapsed on the ground beside them. But suddenly, the fight drains out of Matteo, and he rests his head against their shoulder. They don't let go of him, but they hope the threat is passed for now.

Turning their head, they look down at the woman who is shell-shocked, tears freely falling down her face but not a single sound. Damn, she could use that handy vampire trick right about now. She's seen both of their faces, could tell someone about the man who transformed into a giant wolf that at her husband.

Riley makes a decision and begins to drag Matteo away, hating themself with each step. They can only hope that someone will find her soon enough, and Riley would circle back once they'd gotten Matteo settled just in case someone didn't. It wasn't ideal, but it was all that they could do.

They pull off their jacket and strip off the shirt they're wearing underneath, handing it to Matteo as they zip up their jacket. "Wipe your face with that," they tell him as they look around to make sure no one else has been alerted to the commotion. No one has started screaming yet. "Tell me what happened. Where did you guys come from? What the hell got into you?" What do they need to clean up?

[matteolazkano]

No, it didn’t matter much — her name. But knowing her name, letting it settle between them like something fragile, made her real and human. Not a warning, or a saving grace, but just someone's daughter, who had a life outside the monstrosities. Someone with dreams and hopes and wants and needs — human things. Like love. She wasn’t here for him to feed on, to bite the hand she’d outstretched so carefully. He was nothing more than a wrong turn she’d taken — missed the sign along the way and wandered down a path by mistake. It wasn’t too late to turn back. Allie Fleur, could still turn back.

And something in him, wanted her to. "I don't remember a woman with that last name."

Maybe, he simply didn't want to think too hard. Open up some boxes marked do-not-open, and dig inside for relics. Sitting down on the chair behind his desk, he gestured for her to get comfortable on the couch, if she wished to stay. It felt like there was more, that she wanted to share, and he wasn't going to stop her. "No, I'm not a witch." a beat, "I'm something more monstrous." truth spoken with a grain of salt. Just enough honesty to be generous. Just enough distance to keep her safe.

Something pulsed inside the top drawer, a memory that had a heartbeat almost. He remembered there was a picture he still kept of her, in there. Just like that wedding ring still on his finger, it was another thing he had to let go of, but couldn't. Sometimes, he still talked to her. Having her look at him through the veil of time, sharing his deepest fears, always brought a strange kind of comfort.

Matteo pulled out the photo and handed it to the young witch, his thumb lingering briefly over his wife’s face — as if saying hello. "This is her, and two of her friends. I know they were witches, from her coven.” A pause. “Does anyone look familiar?”

        he lets her in. she’s okay, she’s good, and she hasn’t ruined anything or made him too mad. the hope blooms that tiny, small blossom until a magnificent creature with petals and feathers. it’s okay, it’s alright. she feels the tensions of the room turn softer, some hushed conversation that happens just outside of the realm of her focus. her attention instead steers towards calming herself down, making sure she doesn’t cry again. and, anyway, it’s probably just professor stuff. her eyes wander about the office in his brief absence, but when the door shuts kindly behind him, the color of paint on the walls and pictures don’t matter so much. 

        allie’s attention flutters to matteo, and it’s not so hard to stay floating in the air, now that she’s not dragged down by fear or guilt, or any of the other heavy iron things that lead to drowning. her smile is still shaky, but her bright beaming would be too much, now. 

         now, she’s more determined to not scare him away, not push like she had with her mother, like she can feel happening with so many people in this city. she’s ruining everything all over again, and she can’t do that here. his eyes are tired, and sad. they remind her of tree bark, first. then, she finds, it’s more than that. he’s more like a forest, wild and haunted. she blinks, a little too far down the rabbit hole of her own head as she realizes he’s talking to her. photographs sound wonderful, journals even more so and hope dances in her eyes as her name rushes out of her mouth.  “ oh, i’m- i’m allie. ”  and then, a beat later, she considers that this all ties back to mom-witch-stuff, he might need just a little more.  “ … um, fleur, but i don’t think … that matters much. and- and i know your name, so ... ”

        and despite how badly she doesn’t want to, allie keeps talking.  “ you’re not a witch, right? you’re … something else. ”  she’s getting better with the feeling stuff, at least remembering similarities, what feels familiar, what’s strange, what’s new, what’s wrong. she notices he feels a little like liam.

[matteolazkano]

There was agony written on his face when their eyes met. This is a school. She was right. There were innocent kids here. Millie (written on a little nametag on that janitor uniform) was an innocent kid here, working to make a living or pay off her student loans. Whatever cards life had dealt her, she was here, and she didn’t deserve to die like a slaughtered pig.

He stared at her, hands shaking, the weight of the wolf stirring within him, pushing him to lash out, to destroy, to take what little control he had left. The scent of fear in the air only made it worse, but her eyes cut through the haze.

What was he doing?

A snarl twisted his lips, but his mind screamed for him to stop. He wasn’t supposed to hurt her. He couldn’t hurt her. So Matteo let his anger bite at the desk, the blinds, anything in his path—each strike a desperate release—until there was nothing left to break but her. “Get away from me—” a growl, erupting from the depths of a hungry throat. And what then, when she did leave? Worry crept in. What if someone else saw him like this? A member of the faculty. What if they saw him for what he truly was? Have him suspended, then fired. What little lucidity he was holding onto—gone. What little normalcy was left in his life—shattered.

There was a presence at the door. He could sense it: a rapid heartbeat, eager footsteps. Someone coming— "No, no—don’t let them in." His voice cracked. "We can’t let them see this. Lie if you have to. Hide me. Just—" he looked at her, something close to pleading in his eyes, "—please. Don’t let them open that door."

Her eyes go big, like saucers, when she sees his hands, his eyes. Panicked thoughts jackrabbit around in her brain while her stomach drops into her feet. She feels suddenly threatened, suddenly full of fear. Bro, it's the TWELFTH. Don't you KNOW you can't do that til the FULL Moon?

"Bro, you walked into me!" she pleads, ducking a drag of flexed out claws. "Fuck! Bro you can't be doing this here, this is a school!"

She can feel the plaster coming off the wall and peppering into her tied back hair. "OOF that ain't me, that ain't me."

As if anyone's listening.

He glares down at her and she's stood about three feet back. "Hey, hey, it is chill hours, you can totally not transform into a wolf in the middle of this shitty classroom it is not that serious my fren'."

He taunts. She would run but brother is standing in the door. Her hands are outstretched - is she trying to comfort him, or ward him off, or what? She doesn't need to worry about being bit, and if she's gotta tussel, she's sure she can get away, but damnit these are her good overalls and she really doesn't wanna get fired for stabbing somebody in a lecture hall.

"Hey, hold on to the brain, man you lose it in here we're both fucked! Thank about it, y-you teach here yeah? That's big brain work yeah? Use that fuckin' big brain and don't do this stupid shit!"

[matteolazkano]

It was a strange concept, imagining his curse as something that bloomed — came alive in color, with soft petals and a fragile stem. Non omnis flos floret. Beautiful, if not laced with unimaginable violence and cruelty. Latin sounded different on the sensei’s tongue, like something lifted from a spellbook, or exhaled by the ancient dead. Witches passed their words down that way, from bloodline to bloodline. Perhaps the curse that plagued him had once lived, on a dead man’s chapped, blue lips.

His wife had once shown him that world, lifted the curtain just enough for him to glimpse it. An ominous scene: Sofia and her grandmother, and a whispered exchange beside a deathbed, where only she could hear the meaning beneath the breath.

Miyazaki seemed like the kind of man who wouldn’t stop until he understood everything. The kind with a taste for forgotten things. A hunger for knowledge.

The wolf waited for something to strike — a slap of energy across his chest, or a soft jab in the gut. But instead, there were only more questions. Was it supposed to go this way? A cross-examination, barefoot on a matted floor? He glanced around, as if expecting something to emerge from the shadows at any moment — something real, something solid. Not the phantoms that nested in the cracks of his mind. No, this would be different. Less his. More Tetsuya’s.

Musume. He could only assume that meant his daughter. They were still on the topic of family heirlooms. "She hasn't come of age yet." What he meant was: she hadn't had her first kill. No one had died by her hands. And some cowardly part of him wished he wouldn't be there when that happened. So he wouldn’t have to look into his baby girl’s eyes and see hatred. Wouldn’t have to hear her say: You made me this.

Maybe if he was gone by then, she’d spare him a sliver of pity. Pity for the old man who never wanted to see her suffer. Who’d die trying to save her.

"There needs to be a kill." A life lost. Blood spilled, almost like a sacrifice to an ancient god. A divine enemy. Mouth barely parted to say more, when the world tilted and he found himself legs up in the air. Then crack — a brutal landing. Matteo almost laughed at the display of controlled power; this was only a snippet, he assumed, there was probably a lot more where that came from. Still, it surprised him. Werewolves didn’t know much about magic. But Estela had dipped her fingers into his blood once — and they came out black. And that trembling girl outside his office had dreamed something. Something real.

Was Miyazaki planning to fight his curse with a well-timed puff of air?

Pushing himself up on one elbow, he groaned: "Okay, I understand the method. I fail to see the necessity." If the goal was to wake what was still snoring inside him, he’d have to try a little harder than that. And Matteo would strongly advise against it. This wasn’t going to be an efficient way of handling his condition. "I know you’re curious to see the beast, but I have to warn you…"

Miyazaki had not known what the answer would be, and had it not been for his child's training in the dojo, there would be no prior expectation that this magic belongs to anyone but Lazkano. There would be no need to open with queries of inheritance. But there is a craving for a deeper understanding; blood and its magic is a reckoning force of its own. Often, it is natural for them to be one and the same. Tetsuya had felt a smaller, less primal version of the dulled magic in the child.

So when the question is met with honesty, it offers vital insight into the potential origins of whatever does not belong inside a wolf.

There is humility in admitting Miyazaki does not have all the answers. This is a challenge, self-indulgent, if he has to consider it something. A time-filler that may end up wasting the limited time the witch has left.

Miyazaki has always been a conservationist, but he would rather see magic snuffed out than allow those who are not meant for it, have it.

Tetsuya remains still, standing with his hands folded neatly behind his back, amused by how quickly the man begins to slide his shoes off, to put aside. Readying himself for something he has yet to realise.

"Non omnis flos floret." Tetsuya offers lightly, a twitch in his lip. He understands that blood is a complex science, less magic in its roots. He may water the same tree in his garden, and yet sometimes there is no saving the stunted stem, for no reason or explanation; they just are. "That is nature." The science that Miyazaki does understand is technological in its creation; man-made constructs. Lazkano presses on several of the sensei's interests, but doesn't belong in any.

Miyazaki is yet to know what this magic in Matteo's blood does, but what he does know is that it is a deep-rooted thing, for the air prickles when it dares to explore the man. This wolf bites, even in the sunlight. Tetsuya had not intended to make this a moonlight session until he knew the nature of this magic. They have the day to allow Miyazaki to determine what he can.

Control can be beaten into submission, in most accounts. But Matteo presents as a disciplined man, already. (Though, so does Miyazaki, until tested.)

"And your musume?" There is no mention of her being afflicted with this parasitical magic, just a brother. But Tetsuya had been in the same room as his offspring, and whilst quieter, it is there. His mind can only draw conclusions as to believe there is a cursed thing upsetting his change; the creature that this man is, and becomes. An unsettled beast, usually known to be one and the same as the man it lives within. This magic is anything but settled; it is hungry, ravenous even. And it should not be magical at all; the witch should not be able to feel beneath the surface of a wolf and know there is something more there; that is not his to know.

He supposes they have moved beyond pleasantries; time is not their friend.

Tetsuya tips his head gently towards Matteo, and when he lifts it again, the air rips his feet out from beneath him.

It is better to discover this magic than it is to waste words talking about it.

[matteolazkano]

MATTEO LAZKANO ⸻ MEMES ( 1 / ?? )

[matteolazkano]

Time had become a warped thing. He’d tried to maintain some semblance of normalcy—on the days he felt lucid and coherent enough to go to work, to check in with the strays (Arleen still called them that) he liked to look after. He’d offer whatever he could: a couch for a night, a warm meal, a quiet place to breathe.

Riley could go an entire day without a bite, and Matteo, ever the annoying helicopter parent, liked to remind them it didn’t have to be that way—especially if they’d stop giving away the sandwich in their bag marked with an R to the homeless man around the corner.

Yes, he knew about that.

Their kindness was admirable, sure — but he figured it had less to do with generosity, and more to do with plain old stubbornness.

Everything was alright on the days when he still felt like himself. But on days like today, he felt helpless. Was this how his father had felt at the end? A furious blur. Inhibitions lost. An animal set loose, roaming the woods with nothing strong enough in his path to stop him from tearing someone apart. Beastly senses had caught the scent of hikers — just a couple, setting up camp for the night with little thought of what might be watching from the trees. A beautiful landscape hiding teeth and claws.

Onyx fur and sharp whites, the wolf lunged, tearing one of them apart. Blood splashed across the tent, the once beautiful landscape now drenched in crimson.At the sight, the woman, left at the mercy of the wolf, who was too busy ripping her husband limb from limb to even acknowledge her, bolted. She ran, through the trees, out of the woods, and into the back alley of a restaurant. Stop. Stop— A plea, coming from a soul left to drown, somewhere deep within himself.

Inhuman sounds tore from the throat of a beast who was somehow feeling too much and too little all at once. How was that even possible? To be unraveling from the inside while ripping someone else apart—merciless, mindless, and still aware enough to feel the horror of it?

Bones cracked. Muscles recoiled. He dragged himself on all fours, half-blind, half-feral still, and fumbled with shaking hands until he found what he needed: a shirt and pants. Then he crouched over what had once been a man, ribs cracked open like a mouth screaming silently to the sky. What are you going to do now, Matteo?

He could still hear her screaming. Not far. The wolf followed her cries, through the trees, dragging shame behind him like a second skin. And then—out of the woods, into the back alley—

Riley.

He came face to face with them. His muzzle—no, his face—was smeared with red, the skin beneath his eyes dark with exhaustion and something else: a vacancy, like he'd been hollowed out from the inside. His hands somewhere between human and wolf, fingers curled into claws slick with gore.

Shame, shame, shame—

She was alive. Breathing. Startled to death, with knees bruised and her ankle snapped from a brutal fall. She’d escaped him—just barely. No. Not him. She’d escaped the beast. Her husband hadn’t been so lucky.

The initial shock didn’t leave him any time to react before he was shoved back, pressed against the alley wall. Small but fierce hands pinned him there, holding tight with all the strength they could muster. He sagged suddenly, his head dropping forward until his forehead met Riley’s shoulder, breath shuddering against them. The blood on his hands, on his face—it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

They were supposed to meet Matteo to have dinner and catch up, see how he and his charges were doing. Work had been non-stop, and for once, it wasn't the supernatural creatures that were giving them the biggest headache. Well, there was probably something supernatural involved, but nothing to pin it on them. On top of that, a group of the Reardon's escorts had gotten scooped up by vice, and Riley made a mental note to send a message to Kali about it, but it was a fleeting thought as they got sucked down another trian of thought. One thing led to another, and they were almost forty minutes late in meeting her friend.

They shot off another quick apologetic text as they darted off the bus, though Riley wouldn't even blame him if he had to take off. Matteo had a kid after all, on top of his collection of strays and the students he worked with on a daily basis. Time quite literally was money for him. They skid to a stop outside the restaurant and try to look past the group that is blocking the door, but their height has them at a distinct disadvantage.

Riley fishes out their phone again, this time opting to call the other wolf and see if he was still nearby. The line rang and rang, but their ears picked something up under the low rumble of the city's ambience. A generic ringtone, but a familiar one nonetheless, and they have learned not to tune out their gut feelings.

They follow the direction the sound is coming from, and they slow briefly as it gets louder and they realize they can smell blood. In an instant, Riley speeds up, sprinting around the corner and stopping short when they see a bloodied heap on the ground.

"Matteo!"

At first, they think it's him on the ground, and it's his blood that taints the air, but when the attacker turns around, Riley hesitates. There's a look in his eye that throws them, unfamiliar in its savagery, almost like he doesn't even see them in this state. It reminds them of their father and their knees buckle slightly before they launch into action. Whoever he'd hurt was still breathing for now, but they needed to get Matteo to calm down.

They pull the older wolf away, pressing him up against the wall and trying to pin him there. "Enough! It's over," they plead, trying to push past the violence swimming in his eyes. "This isn't you!" / @matteolazkano

[matteolazkano]

The door crashed. They were home. What time was it? He'd let the day slip by in deliriums. Voices from the hallway, his daughter’s voice, or the ones coming from the TV in the other room. Or the ones in his head. He couldn't tell anymore. The light through the blinds had changed, hadn’t it? From gold to grey. Shadows danced across an unmade bed. The wolf had wrestled with his exhaustion; every time he laid down, it was like sleeping on knives. His eyes felt so heavy, so desperate to close and rest, it was as if the moment he blinked, the world would spin without him.

Hightened senses followed the footsteps, going from the stairs to one of the bedrooms upstairs. Picking up on a promise between siblings, who might not have grown up together, but had been shaped by the same man—taught to hold onto each other, because one day, he’d be gone.

He’d watched Liam transform from boy to older brother, the weight of that role settling in slowly but surely. Matteo felt selfish, for making him carry that burden—forcing him to take after him, to manage the manor, to be there for his kid when no one else was.

"I heard her," he said, "Heard her laughing with you. Thought I dreamed it." a beat, "She doesn't laugh with me anymore. I scare her, Liam." Because it wasn’t like before—pain and anguish crashing in waves. It was constant now. The rage. He recalled an image painted in red, of those hikers on the outskirts of town. They were dead. Limbs scattered across the area, a grotesque reminder of how little control he had left. Dried up blood and dirt still covered his fingernails, where he dragged hands over his face. "I hate what she's starting to see in me." You're a coward. Hiding from your own child.

closed starter for @matteolazkano

It had been the third time that he’d been called by Addie’s school. The third time that Matteo hadn’t picked up his daughter, or picked up his phone when called. And while Liam wasn’t against picking his sister up from school, this time, he’d had to leave work early for it. Thankfully, his boss was understanding but Liam knew that there was only so many times they’d allow him to leave early before it became a problem.

“You hungry?” Liam asked Addie as they entered the house. He placed her backpack on the table, unzipped it and pulled out the folder that usually had her homework in it. “Here. Bring that up to your room. I’ll get you some snacks and a drink and I’ll be up there in a few minutes.” He smiled at her and then knelt down in front of her. Liam took her hand as his eyes met hers. “I need you to put your headphones on when you get up there, okay? Can you do that for me?” Liam waited until she nodded before he stood up and let go of her hand. “Alright. I’ll be up there soon. And when I am, I’ll help you with homework.” Liam hadn’t even finished high school himself, but he always did his best to help Addie.

He watched as she darted up the stairs, waited until he could hear her door open and close, then he slowly made his way to Matteo’s room. He didn’t even knock, just grabbed the door handle and pushed it open. Liam closed the garage door behind him and locked it. “We need to talk.” Liam’s rough voice sounded out sternly. “You can’t keep doing this shit to Addie. What the fuck is going on?”

[matteolazkano]

The wolf was still, as still as marble, while she examined his shame. His curse. The thing that made him less Matteo and more monster. He had never let anyone look at him so clearly. Had never let anyone touch him in a way that would let them know just how broken he was.

It was the first time he had ever heard his bloody heritage described as something warm. And maybe she was right. The wolf inside him, the one he had been born with, had always been a comfort. It was something he shared with his father, and his brother, and all the ones before them. It was like laying in front of the fireplace.

He nodded. All he could do was stare at her and nod. Listening to her steady heartbeat — and how it skipped, when she dipped her fingers deeper into the mud, searching for something lost, something hiding, something that didn’t want to be found. He didn’t need a witch to tell him he was rotting. Is that all, Estela? She was beginning to sound like every other witch who had ever sensed his doom. And Matteo couldn’t help but feel a flicker of disappointment —

"It doesn't have a heart?" Ironic, he'd say. Of course it wouldn't have one — not when it had fed on his. It was a tumor, a cancerous thing grafted onto what was left of him. Feeding, and growing, and waiting.

The swift change of color on her fingers didn't go unnoticed. It only frightened him, for her safety. Instinctively, he pulled away, like he was infectious. Because he was. Estela had tried to reach inside him, and she came out marked. "That's okay with me" he said quietly. "I'm willing to take the risk. But I don't think you should." a beat. "It looks dangerous. You might come out of this with more than just stained fingers."

It almost sounded like a warning. Like he wanted to convince her to walk away. Walk away, witch. Not all battles were meant to be won. And he was okay with losing.

She strokes gently along the back of his hand with hers, an action meant to be both soothing and assessing. Estela looks at him just once - tries to understand what she sees in his eyes, then closes her own and concentrates. "I feel the lycanthropic curse at the forefront." She still doesn't pull, knowing that it would hurt him to try-- and she doesn't want to without warning. "That's warm, almost a comforting feeling - more natural than what a vampire would feel like."

She takes a deep breath, concentrates harder, pushes deeper with her feeling. Then, quietly, "This is.. like rot. It's not layered beneath the curse, like most are." As she explains, her voice is quiet. "Many curses and hexes are placed in a way where if you peel enough back, you can find the root of it and begin plucking it away until you destroy the heart."

Her head tilts - "This is.. interwoven. With the curse you were born with - I can't feel the heart of it, or find one. I don't--" She chances a pull, then, focusing on the deep black of the curse and immediately jerks her hand back as if she'd been burned. The tips of her fingers blacken for a second then fade.

"Yeah, that's.. fucked." With a nervous laugh. "It's possible. I can see how it's possible, but it won't be easy."

[matteolazkano]

She talked too much, and too fast. Her voice was like a little screeching bird in his skull, making his hands fly up to each side of his head, pressing harder and harder, trying to crush the noise out. If any rash words of discomfort escaped him, he knew he'd apologize later. The other was merely here doing her job, at the wrong time and place.

Pain forced his eyes shut — blocking out the shocked look on her face when realization finally settled in: he wasn't in his right mind. Matteo would rather eat her then and there, than care about boot socks. "Y-yeah, I'm o-okay, I just need you to be quiet. I just need quiet—"

To him, that supply closet felt like a mousetrap. He didn't do good with tight spaces, especially not when his blood was beginning to boil, and claws were bursting through where his fingertips used to be. He tried to rattle the cage, leaning into the constricting walls and catching a broom in the process — snapping the fragile wood in half. Oh God. This is bad. I'll pay for that later, I promise.

Claws continued to wreak havoc wherever he touched. Marks covered the wall behind the janitor, close to her head, where the drywall chipped and fell. "Sorry, I'm so— sorry— Please, just go—"

I know about full moons.

His attention snapped back into focus — senses that, during a migraine, usually dulled, now sharpened to a brutal edge. Her scent invaded his nostrils. She was one of his own. Not the same. Not the same— Matteo wasn't a wolf. He was a monster.

"Some of us don't need a full moon," he muttered. It was enough for that moon to shine high in the night sky. But what would she know? A turned wolf. Young and shaky. Run, little wolf.

"Okay but... see... I'm cleanin' in here and it's wet? See how I got these socks on my boots? You got boot socks? You can come in if you've got boot socks."

She looks behind her, and then back to him, and it dawns on her that under all that floor cleaner he stinks like she does, if you filtered it through a whiskey still.

She looks him up and down. "You fuckin'... you good? I'm okay. I'm chill. You good? Like... you need a ride somewhere man?"

She steps back from him, just in case. "I know about full moons man and it ain't that close, what's up? You tweakin? Oh shit, are you on bath salts? They had that shit in Florida and somebody ate a guy's face."

[matteolazkano]

He didn’t know what to do with the trembling mess in front of him now. If he should reach for her, tell her it was just a bad dream — a nightmare neither of them could make sense of. Sometimes dreams were only that: fractured nonsense born from the darkest corners of a troubled mind. He had them too. Worse now, since the curse had sunk its roots into his already broken conscious. But when he was younger, Matteo used to search for meaning in the chaos. To make sense of the treacherous images that haunted him in sleep. He used to believe they meant something. Maybe he should've sent her away, instead of asking his colleague to give them space. Tell the young witch, who's never seen a man rot from the inside, before death has even touched him, to stop looking for meaning where there was none. It was just a dream.

Matteo didn't seem to believe his own lie.

Silently, the other professor slipped out of their shared office, leaving the door to click shut behind them. It was safe to talk now — of magic, of healing hands, of men who turned into wolves. “You don’t have to apologize,” he said softly. “Please come in. I don't want anyone to overhear.” His frustration had ebbed, now that she was offering pieces of herself. He needed clarity. Needed to understand why she was here. Why her. Why now.

Things were starting to click, even if only barely. She was a witch, after all — timid, inexperienced, maybe due to her young age, or the way her mother had locked the door to that world for her. But her hands were still magic-bound, and he could almost smell the burnt ash and pinewood, sense the softer undertones of sun-warmed moss.

It clung to her palms. It reminded him of her.

"I know you're looking for answers," he said quietly, with hands going over rough features. Exhaustion beginning to weight him down. "And I wish I could give you what you came here to find. But all I have are memories—" already fading, slipping through his fingers. A face, he never wanted to forget. "Some photographs. Maybe a couple of her journals, if those would be of any help."

The wolf realized, he didn't know what to call the young witch. "Can you tell me your name?"

        allie’s falling to pieces all over the floor of his office, she knows it because she can feel the ridges of the floor collecting pockets of dust. what a mess she’d made, terrible and horrible and grief-soaked. regret curls in her gut, she feels sorry for so much of it, her nails have welted little red shapes into the sides of her fingers. soft skin punished for her weakness, her tears. she has to fix this, somehow. she has to make it better, find the hope that had carried her here.  “ i’m twenty-one, so, um … i don’t know- i don’t know, i was a kid, i think. it had to have been … ”  that’s not helping, she doesn’t know anything about sofia, she doesn’t know when she knew her, it’s not fair to make him listen. she needs to apologize. she’s sorry, and he needs to know.  “ anyways, i’m, like, really sorry for interrupting you and - and crying … ”  he can’t forgive her until he knows.

         allie breathes, the pads of her fingers skirting along the skin under her eyes, sweeping tears from her cheek. she starts over, calmer, this time.  “ it was just me, and my mom, for, like, ever. um, we lived in oregon too, just … not here. she’s … we’re … ”  there’s a big hump that keeps her from getting the word out. witch. it’s a mess of not-supposed-to’s, tangled up with allie’s craving to be honest, to find an answer of some kind, or another. if she doesn’t tell him, how could he know? a healer, he said his wife, sofia, was a healer. do normal people even say that? wouldn’t he just say nurse? allie doesn’t know, she’s drowning in all the things she can’t even begin to grasp. this town swallows her up, spits her back out right where she started, lost and alone. she looks up at him. matteo, professor lazkano, whatever she’s supposed to call him.  “ we’re not healers, but we’re … close. but um, when i was fourteen she … she left, i was too much for her. mom always locked the downstairs door when her friends were over so i’m just … i don’t know how i … ”  when the ends of her words grow loose, allie tries her best to tie them back together. the bows just aren’t as pretty as she likes.  “ but my mom’s been gone for years, that’s why i’m here, because i got selfish and i stopped looking but i just … i’m desperate, i guess. i didn’t think … i thought maybe even if i couldn’t find her, by coming here, i’d find … something. or someone. because i don’t really … have anyone. not like that. ”  she smiles softly, lamb-like, and gentle.  “  even though i don’t remember her, it sounds like i was lucky to have her. sofia, i mean. ”

[matteolazkano]

It was ridiculous to believe, childish, even — but ever since he was a boy, Matteo had always thought that in the early morning, while the sun was still in diapers, his curse was still asleep. He imagined it as a living thing. A creature with a heart — black, yes, but still beating. It had a mind, too. Cunning, restless. Always stirring in the dark. It was what kept the wolf awake at night.

His father had always said that every living thing could be killed. Manipulated. Controlled. Overpowered. Matteo clung to that. Imagined the curse as a man that could bleed. A man that could be hunted. A man that could be killed.

What was left to figure out was how.

And that question had taken him more than a couple of decades to ponder. His father was no longer alive — the shadow had taken his final breath. It was what the curse had become, over time. No longer a man, but a figure made of fog. A shape you couldn’t strike. If you swung to hit it, you’d fall right through. How could he explain all that to the other man?

Matteo was running out of time. It was why he was here. Hung on a promise, that wasn't even that, it was yet another thing Lazkano dressed as something gentler. When the sensei approached, Matteo placed his mug down and rested his hands by his body, that familiar twitch, the one he was sure had been noticed before, gone for maybe a couple of hours. It should be enough time for the wolf to focus on whatever task Miyazaki had planned to challenge him with. Dark eyes traced over his attire, then his feet — bare. Right. Matteo kicked his shoes to the side. He wasn’t sure what they were doing, staring at him from the other side of the tatami mat, half-curious, half-uncertain. Like standing in the middle of a bridge, unsure whether to cross or turn back. But he answered, truthfully: "Yes."

When his body was still and his mind quiet, the wolf found it easier to slip into his werewolf senses, to capture the essence of those nearby. The buzz of electricity from a witch like Tetsuya was like a pull between magnets.

"My brother's the only other living relative I share this with. I don't know why, but I've always had an easier time controlling it than he has. We share the same blood. I’ve always wondered why that is." But as those thoughts rose, darker ones followed — What if his daughter had it worse? What would happen if she killed a man, and allowed the darkness inside? Would it be the same as his, or something worse, and unknown?

At the rear of the dojo, Miyazaki's tsubo-niwa is being tended to by scarred hands carrying the weight of centuries of blood. They're gentle against azalea as they trim the leaves, guiding the water up the shoots and down into the soil. Tetsuya would like to offer them the patience they deserve, but time is not his ally and taking shortcuts in bursts, does no harm to the garden. He hoped it would be here in Akina's capable hands, long after he was gone.

There are no public classes in the dojo today, but he does have private appointments; only one until late this evening. Tetsuya has a personal interest in challenges and creatures that show him something he's yet to see — in his years, that's impressive.

Tetsuya doesn't hear the door open and close. Not from this far back in the building. But he knows when there's a shift in the air. A visitor that the witch suspects is lost— not in direction, but in oneself. There'd been little doubt he'd come. The sensei had left all the pieces for the man to follow; a curious, desperate thing and Tetsuya has seen many of the same.

A wolf with a deep-rooted magic simmering within is something he's not seen up close. Miyazaki wonders if it boils in rage —

It's too early to have the hot cup of tea spill down a hand, just to see the man's temperament. There's no children here, to witness a wolf untamed but there's a part of him that yet believes he might be wrong. He's humble enough to gather knowledge before he goes in blind; he had enough time for that. Patience is always a long road to take, often people walk it their entire lives.

He finishes tending to the plants in the niwa and makes his way back into the training hall, feet glide over the tatami and finds the figure with a mug in hand. There's a light aroma that Tetsuya draws through the air, towards himself.

Black tea.

There's a lengthy silence between the two men as Tetsuya acknowledges the quiet and the tremble of magic that does not belong inside Lazkano's body. It's peculiar, unwelcome even. Parasitical. He cannot know more, without driving air down his throat and seeing what plagues the wolf. He's tempted. But they'll get there.

Tetsuya considers Matteo's very acceptance, and entertainment of being in the dojo this early. It's not for him, he knows. The girl he has had the same, faint tremble in her actions. Miyazaki's bare feet skirt along the bamboo flooring before he stops, and addresses the man, finally: "Is it hereditary?"

[matteolazkano]

He walked with her, moving at a pace that was almost leisurely—at least until they reached her destination. Then, he could retreat to the quiet of grading papers, where the world faded into something small and manageable. Boring, yes, but it helped him focus. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if normal afternoons like that were still possible for him. Probably not.

"So you're following in your mother's footsteps, then?" he asked. It must be nice, to carry on a legacy that left something meaningful behind. Her mother had enlightened young minds, and so did she. Matteo only hoped he could pass a passion like that on to his daughter—something good, in the midst of all the bad.

A laugh escaped him— genuine, and rare around the campus. It felt like a shift from the dozens of fake laughs he'd given as Professor Lazkano, simply to be polite. “I don’t know if I’m up for competing with a class full of eager students—" because surely, hers didn't fall asleep mid-lecture. "— but I’ll do my best to impress. If nothing else, then I guess my true talent lies in grading papers." a beat, "Which you're welcome to observe, too. My students would argue it's the same amount of boring, as my lectures."

Atalanta let the warmth of her smile spread to the corners of her mouth—genuine. She loved to learn new things and 4 hours in the presence of higher learning was worth the time. She enjoyed education more than her duties to the Brotherhood. “You see, coffee is a great start, but students’ thoughts are not indicative to my own. I am a woman not a young adult preoccupied with social norms that distract from Academia.” Her only vice was alcohol and an extreme sense of guilt, but she was able to shelve that for later

“6 to 7 months, I been here less than a year full time. I have visited briefly over the years as my mother traveled for some guest lectures in my youth.” The Hunter shrugged, more at ease than she should have been with a stranger in Port Liery.

“I’ll say a good word if you are worth the good word. You must earn it.” The words were almost teasing, dripping with anticipation. “Perhaps you may allow me to earn a good word in one of my classes.” It wasn’t a question as much as an expected exchange of professional courtesy. She was very much looking forward to it.

[matteolazkano]

No, she was far from being the answer to his prayers (the ones uttered in desperation before sleep that rarely came anymore), but she was here, offering a helping hand and he'd be a fool to turn the woman away. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw his wife's pale face, forcing a smile on full lips that had long since lost their pink, urging him to trust her kind, her people— the ones that held their hands together and blessed their marriage. Brennan, still brought him potions, whenever he could. And the wolf still drank them, without a second thought. He trusted that coven, maybe even more than he trusted his own pack (not a thought ever spoken aloud) But the Warwicks only took, and took, and they rarely gave anything back.

A cold and still hand extended in her direction, the veins beneath his skin blackening and pusing with a new kind of urgency. Each surge, felt like the ticking of a clock— a grim metronome. Matteo was quiet in his internal fight, trying to slay his doubts, put them to rest underground, while keeping himself composed, and there— letting her touch him, like no one else has.

"I'm starting to." understand, and trust her. His own eyes narrowing down to observe what she was doing. "Have you seen anything like this before?" He didn't know what she was seeing, or feeling, but he suddenly felt wary, that somewhere underneath her calm, collected face, might be a spark of doubt that this was irreversable. "I know, there's probably not much you could tell me, without taking my blood," he said, "But I want to know what you feel, when you touch me." Did that sound ridiculous? Probably. Pathetic, maybe?

"I understand that you've been searching for a long while." She does. She's been briefed on this very issue. "I'm not saying that I'm the answer to your prayers, only that I have a very specific skill set." Probably the only useful thing, according to her mother - Maybe she can't cure the bloodline, but maybe she can identify problems. It's a long shot, she knows. But it's a goal to work towards.

"I also understand that you're worried about your family." Estela is trying to choose her words carefully, not wanting to find herself in a room with an angry werewolf with a blood curse. She doesn't want to upset him, either, if she's unable to do much of anything.

It seems that he's willing to play ball, though, and she takes a deep breath. "Maybe in a bit. Could I see your hand, please?" She holds out her own, fingers twitching towards his skin as if she can feel the magic that thrums through his veins. She can't, not without touch, but she can imagine it.

"I'm not supposed to tell you why they've picked me to visit. But I will, so you trust that I'm not trying to pull the wool over your eyes -- I don't have magic of my own, hence the reason I introduced myself as a scholar." When her skin touches his, she can feel the lycanthropic curse easily, that's a different type of magic, but she probes deeper -- not pulling, not taking, feeling. "I can only use magic or cast spells by draining magic from other creatures or objects. Do you understand? There is a very real chance that I may be able to pull from the curse -- But I will have to study it, first."

[matteolazkano]

There was a specific scent that tickled his senses—something magical, a faint tinge that sparked curiosity in Matteo. His dark gaze traced over the woman, searching for the source. Maybe a mark laced with a certain kind of spell he’d encountered before. But they were still on campus, and she was the first person who hadn’t looked at him with pity in their eyes. He wasn’t about to drive her away. Not yet.

So, he snapped his stare back to attention. If she noticed and questioned it, Matteo could always pay her a compliment. Say she had a lovely set of features—without sounding like a creep.

“Oh, a long time. Around six or seven years,” he answered, though the dates had started to blur. Some memories were slipping, and he feared the day he might forget his daughter’s birthday. What a devastating thought.

Then he laughed, as if the sound alone might chase those demons away.

“If you ask some of my students, that’s four hours of your life you’ll never get back.” He’d definitely like to see her in the crowd. Maybe even have her give an honest review. Maybe she’d find a newfound passion for Latin. Maybe— “But if you don’t have anywhere better to waste those four hours, you’re very welcome to come join us. Can I bribe you with coffee to say a good word in front of the kids for me?” Maybe that would finally get them to stop yawning.

Atalanta was not one to argue with that. She had no doubt that her lecturers were all too aware of the trials and tribulations of those under their wings. “It’s wonderful to meet you Matteo.”

She was thrilled to have a potential friend in the workplace. She had come to this place for revenge and work, well it was a cover, a means to maintain a place in this hub of supernatural existence. Her mother’s frequent trips and even Atalanta’s occasional hunting expeditions had put this place on the map. Now, with her mother missing or… she didn’t want to even think about the other possibilities, she didn’t want to leave without answers.

With her resume, the job wasn’t a hard one to nab. “How long have you taught here? Perhaps I might sit in on some of your lectures? Of course, if you don’t mind. I do enjoy learning new things.”