my life has been much colder

Set the night/next morning of this and this

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The stars were already winking out of sight when Kincaid finished out his night. He was exhausted from playing and hunting and stalking through the dunes, but would not rest until he had his coyote resting beside him. He set a paw over the still-living white iguana he'd caught and tipped back his head to sing for @Shiloh.

They had been finding each other at the oasis for several days, now. Kincaid had half a mind to make their residence a little more permanent than a prolonged waystop.

Song finished, Kincaid picked up his offering once more and set off, large ears swiveling this way and that as he awaited answer.

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A stretch of silence preceded the response, which came from a distance in the form of two yips and a shrill yowl. Then the coyote appeared from the west, moving toward him in a zigzagged path before he stopped and lifted his head and sniffed. He thought at first Kincaid must have had a something, but it was only a food. Which was good — a relief. He liked to be the one in possession of the something.

His bushy tail wagged and he padded forward again, dropping his knife on the way. His ears laid flat against his head, which lowered between his shoulders as he approached the wolf solicitously. He whined to say I’m happy to see you, but didn’t acknowledge the wiggling iguana before he stuck his nose into the fur on Kincaid’s neck and investigated his many smells.

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These calls pinged on Kincaid's radar and he changed his trajectory, so that they met sort of in the middle of where they had been before. Likewise, Kincaid dropped his own burden, and the still-living iguana rested where it fell, too injured to make much of an escape. And again likewise, Kincaid dipped his head to bury his face in Shiloh's scruff, his tail wheeling in idle pleasure at the ritual.

"You got a new girlfriend," he commented, not quite surprised. Shiloh was a good-looking coyote, in his opinion, and also he had the shiny stick, which seemed to attract bitches like flies to honey.

But while he was interested in meeting the latest addition to their growing harem, that could wait for another time. He wanted Shiloh to himself for what was left of the night, and for the rest of the day if the coyote could be convinced to lie in with him while they waited for the heat to pass. Thus, he did not step away when he had finished cataloging the scents that Shiloh carried with him, and instead began preening along his sharp shoulder blades, pulling at the shedding fur that the coyote had been unable to reach with claws or teeth or blade.

"I brought you a lizard," he remembered, looking toward the still, traumatized iguana.

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Shiloh was more interested in the wolf smells on Kincaid than he was in disagreeing about the white stranger he'd run into. She hadn't taken too well to him, and the cholla burr coyote's motive was clearly to amass a collection of somethings. But that was a lot to report to his wolf, who was pulling chunks of soft undercoat from his hackles. His hind paw lifted to cycle behind his ribs a few times, then he play-growled and turned on Kincaid to lick and bite at his muzzle. What have you had to eat, today, anyway?

His attention was redirected to the wolf's offering to him. He stopped and looked at it, head cocking to the side, ears standing forward. The wolf got another growl before Shiloh pounced on it, scooping it into his toothy maw before flinging it straight upward. Before it could hit the sand again he attacked Kincaid with a hip-slam; it did not register he might be tired after his busy day of collecting scents on his pelt.

The iguana hit the ground with a dull thump, and Shiloh grabbed its tail in his mouth.

“It's good,” he decided, speaking more clearly around the reptile than he could with his shiny stick. Obviously Kincaid deserved a reward. “You can carry the shiny stick,” he offered, as though this were an enormous honor. Then, voice lowered, “It won't bite you if you take the chewy end.” And of course, he had to add, “And I'll take it back when my teeth are free.”

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This abuse was endured in good humor by Kincaid, who at first opened his mouth obligingly and then, and then investigation went on for more than half a second, began trying to fit Shiloh's whole head into his mouth with moderate success. He followed a few steps after the other canine, grabbing for his scruff with his teeth and for hip that'd just knock into him with a long foreleg.

Shiloh slipped harmlessly from his grasp, however, and immediately began to abuse his gift. Kincaid's tail spun in anticipation of a game as he watched it fly high in the air — but it seemed as though Shiloh had something else in mind.

“Oh, is that the trick?” Kincaid asked with a bark if incredulous laughter. How stupid did Shiloh think he was? “Just don't touch the sharp, pointy part. Got it.” He picked up the knife by the hilt and gestured with it in Shiloh's direction.

Lead the way.

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Shiloh fixed Kincaid with a look that said he'd better take his shiny stick responsibilities seriously. Then he flung his lizard again, and had to wander backwards a short ways to pick it up again. He gave it a good, growly shake before a few long strides put him back at the wolf's side. He led them closer to the oasis, but not too close. He wasn't an apex predator like his friend, and while he'd trust in his implicit protection if he was the one following, he selected a reedy spot with a view of the water and plopped down. He immediately tore into his iguana, holding it in his forepaws while he pried off a strip of scaly skin.

“I met somebody,” he told Kincaid. But he already knew that, didn't he? “A white coyote. She had something. I never saw anything like it before. It was blood colored and soft and it had a smell like...” He chewed the skinny tail, head canting to the side while he ruminated. “I don't know. It looked like a dry tongue and she wore it on her neck. Her name is Lucy.”

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The item in question was unfamiliar to Kincaid until Shiloh said it was on her neck — and then he thought he understood. “A collar,” he supplied, not knowing he was a little bit off. “Man gives it to dogs — and I guess to her. It means she's been one of them, and lived with them in one of their packs. She must have good stories; they always have good stories.”

But there were no human settlements anywhere nearby. The scent that Shiloh carried was fresh and young and free of other influences. Just Shiloh and Lark and Lucy. No Man-scent. Not motor oil.

He said, “She must be real far from home.”

They all were, he thought. They had all been brought to this strange place, away from their home ranges and families. It was good that Shiloh had been sent to him. It was good that the women had been sent to Shiloh.

He said, “I met a wolf even smaller than you. Her name is Oryx. She's going to stay with us. And another named Aplomado. She smells like strange plants. I think she'll stay, too.” He set his head on the knife, which was balanced overtop his paws. “Four women between the two of us? That's not bad.”

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“I call her Lucy,” Shiloh said with his coyote brows knitted together. But wait, that wasn’t what he said. He cocked his head to the side, listened, then gulped the iguana tail down like a thick piece of spaghetti. He repeated, “Man gave it to her,” quietly to himself, then eyed the knife. The knife. He knew the shiny stick’s name, now!

He whipped his head toward Kincaid, but then found himself listening again with more interest than he’d had in talking as he described his wolf friends. Oryx, who was smaller than he. A pup? And Aplomado, who smelled like plants. Shiloh liked plants. He liked eating them, but that wasn’t done in polite society and he did much of his shameful berry eating in isolation. He could probably share his shame with Kincaid, but they weren’t there yet, just now.

His head tilted in the other direction when it was implied they could just share all these women. Part of him wanted to argue with this. Part of him could almost just vaguely remember that he’d had one mother and one father, and one day they had begun to bite him until he could not enter the den. It didn’t even feel like his own memory; it was as if it had happened to some other yearling in some other lifetime. The point was, a coyote had one mate, didn’t he? (Shiloh didn't count his one-off encounters.)

Shiloh ripped a leg off his iguana thoughtfully and swallowed it whole. “They’ll let me stay?” And the littler coyotes, too, for that matter. He had better luck with lone wolves than packs of them.

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Kincaid felt a wild stab of envy deep in his chest. He wondered where Shiloh had grown up, to not know the things Kincaid was telling him. His mother had liked to tell him of the last wild places on earth, sometimes, when she was not busy looking into other worlds. (He wondered if she could see him now, and the idea left him feeling prickly and uncomfortable.)

If Shiloh had come from a place like that, Kincaid would surely have liked to see it, the same as he expected Shiloh might like to see one of Man's settlements, and taste the strange foods that grew there, and chase the strange prey and dance with the strange, beautiful canids. But, he supposed they were in a wild place now, and that was quiet enough to be getting on with, in his opinion. There was no point in wishing for things to be different when he had all he needed right in front of him.

“Of course they will,” he replied, ears pressing forward in suspicion. “You belong with me, where I am. If they want to argue, we'll just run 'em off. But Oryx already knows I'm with you. She didn't mind. Don't mind that I'm part 'yote, either.” He eyed Shiloh keenly, apparently still looking for signs he was about to run off. “I'll introduce you,” he said. “To both of them. But Oryx first, and then Aplo all together — your girlfriends, too. And if she don't like it, she can scram. Alright?”

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The coyote gazed fixedly at Kincaid, then his tail began to wag. You belong were important words, but easy to take at face value when you only had a small coyote brain to second guess with.

“Alright,” he agreed, evidently content with this agreement. He was touched, in fact, but that was less readable. Once again he didn’t argue about the two young lady-yotes, because it seemed like bringing them around might make him more valuable. (He already thought he was pretty worthwhile, since he came with a shiny stick, but backup never hurt.)

Then he worked on the remaining edible pieces of the iguana, buried what was left in the sand — which was not good for burying, really — and returned to the wolf to flop against his side with a sigh. He used Kincaid’s shoulder to scratch an itch on the side of his face, then gave him a lick for good measure.

“And if they do like it,” he said well after his companion had spoken earlier, “then we’re a pack?” Not two, but many. More than he could count — though to be fair, that was not very high.

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Kincaid had eaten his fill earlier, so he did not mind watching Shiloh have his supper. It was satisfying to bring food to someone and see it eating — he'd liked doing that for Moor, back when they'd been courting, and during the cold winter while he'd been trying to get back into her good books. But he was already in with Shiloh, and that made things simpler. Better, be thought.

Besides. He liked being bigger than his companion.

Shiloh was invited into his space and quickly took full ownership of it. This was fine by Kincaid, who laid flat to give the coyote access to the backs of his ears and shoulder blades, where he most desired attention.

“I reckon,” he agreed, although he had not yet thought of it in quite those terms. “I had me some kids, in the place I was before. I never appreciated that, 'til I realized they weren't there for me to visit no more,” he explained, keeping his voice low just in case someone else happened to be listening in. He seemed sorrowful and nostalgic in turns, but hopeful, for the most part. “They're all grown, anyway, and it's that time of year again. I reckon I should try stickin' around for the whole thing, this time around. See what it's like.”

Kincaid flopped over, reaching out with his long forelegs to try and pull Shiloh close. “Too bad I can't have you have my babies,” he said, craning his neck to chew on one of Shiloh's ears. “They could have your big ol' ears. Those pretty blue eys. My charming disposition, of course.”

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The coyote was happy to gnaw behind Kincaid’s ears, then worked down to his shoulder as if preening him. He said, “Hmm,” as the wolf talked about his children, whom he had apparently only visited before losing track of them. That would have been frowned upon where Shiloh came from, but Shiloh did not come from wolves. And, in the end, his parents had chased him away nipping his heels — so he didn’t have any good examples, really, by which to judge Kincaid.

“Uh-huh,” he agreed, giving an admonishing bite to the wolf’s ear once he was done nibbling on his shoulders. Then he got pulled in close, and drooped like a ragdoll while his big plush ear was gnawed. He ruminated for a spell, unfazed by the absurd come-on.

“I’ll do it,” he agreed, sounding very serious. “I’ll give you a pup.” A whole litter didn’t sound feasible, but surely he could manage one. “But you have to appreciate it, and not lose it.”

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While Kincaid had only been half joking, he certainly hadn't expected agreement of any kind from Shiloh. He hadn't exactly expected him to be offended either, because Shiloh was sweet like that, and because he didn't really seemed to mind Kincaid laying claim to him, nor his increasingly frisky advances. Still, the coyote had to know that things didn't work that way, right?

He decided that it must be a joke. Shiloh was good at deadpanning like that.

“I'm sorry to say that not even my prolific jizz is gonna get the job done,” he said, just in case it wasn't a joke. “As wonderful and talented as I am, I ain't ever knocked up another man.” Nor had he ever been knocked up, despite giving certain folks from his past ample opportunity.

“Unless this is one of your angel powers, I think we're shit outta luck.”

Which was sad, a little, because he really did think Shiloh would make pretty babies. But there were, as he'd said, plenty of women to go around. One of them was bound to be as partial to Shiloh as he was — although hopefully, not quite so particular about him.

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The coyote rolled onto his belly so he could lift his head and stare incredulously at Kincaid. His damp, gnawed ear slouched, perhaps making it difficult to take him seriously. But he was serious, or at least the look in his eyes was.

“You just have to try harder, then,” he suggested, as if that was the ticket. As if there was nothing in particular he needed to do to make this work; not even alter his own biology. “If you can believe in angels, you can believe in puppies.”

But probably just a puppy. He was still not convinced of a litter.

Shiloh must not have wanted to be argued with, because he stuck his pointy nose under Kincaid’s foreleg to try and nudge it up and over his back again. Then he rolled over, twisting until he was looking at him upside down and his flashy white teeth were on display. From this angle, he could groom the front of the wolf’s neck and chest, and seemed intent on this task. Kincaid was a terrible sleeper, and he thought perhaps a good grooming would help him. Besides, “You’re scruffy.”

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“Try harder!” Kincaid gasped, affronted. Even so, he could not help but laugh. “Boy, I think you got me confused with someone else!”

Try harder — as if it was really that easy. Alright, so, he sounded pretty convinced. Did Shiloh know something he didn't? Kincaid was still dubious, but it didn't sound like something Shiloh was open to discussing. He wondered if he'd maybe hit a sore spot and decided to carry on.

“It's a fashion statement on me,” Kincaid claimed, but he appreciated the effort to clean him up all the same. He pointed his nose up to give Shiloh his throat. And then, unable to leave well enough alone, he asked, “You got any kids out there?” He was plenty old enough for it, Kincaid thought.

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“I don’t think so,” Shiloh said through his teeth, then turned his head to the side to try and tongue some ginger fur out of his mouth. Truth be told, he was having trouble remembering where he had been and what he had done before he got here. Pieces of the past were coming to him in fragments, beginning too far back to be useful on that front.

“Because if I did, I would have a pack,” he reasoned, “and I woulda spent a whole season in a den.” As much as his instinct mandated he should do this, he had to wonder if it was something he really wanted. Going after lonesome stags like this one was easier, but it didn’t seem wise to put it that way. Besides, Kincaid was offering an opportunity to belong to a pack. A weird, mismatched one, but they probably had one another’s backs all the same.

He pawed at either side of the wolf’s face in a lazy, look at me attitude.

“How many have you got out there? Hundreds?”

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Was that the way things worked in the coyote world? Kincaid remembered he hadn't been allowed near the den 'til the girls were nearly to his elbows, and that even then, Moor had preferred to watch them play outside the den rather than in. But then, abruptly, he remembered that Shiloh had spoken of giving him pups, and he had to second-guess all over again if it was the coyote men or the coyote women who did the pup-birthing and pup-rearing. He'd never thought to ask.

"Could be," said Kincaid, although he sort of doubted it. He hadn't been with that many women during the right time, and even if every litter would've had three, all surviving to adulthood, he'd still be in the low dozens. But, since he only knew his girls, the number of children didn't seem too important to him.

He turned his face back down toward Shiloh and took another turn at grooming his handsome face. There was really no one prettier than Shiloh, he thought, with his big ears and his long, snipey nose, and his strange blue eyes. Kincaid thought he would've loved him even if he hadn't been made for him. How could he not?

"I guess if you're gonna give me a baby, I oughta make an honest man outta you," he said, still testing the waters on whether this was truth or fiction. And also, on what exactly Shiloh was willing to put up with from him.

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Seemed possible enough. The coyote was pleased to think there were a hundred or so little Kincaid pups running around out there, because what else was there in the world but reproduction? Sometimes he thought he wasn’t focused on it nearly enough, when his brain seasonally caught fire and made him aggressive.

His tag wagged unconsciously and his paws froze in the pale fur on Kincaid’s chest. He felt much the same, except Kincaid had littler, daintier ears and a broader, more regal muzzle, and his squinty dark eyes made him seem primed for violence in a butterflies-in-Shiloh's belly kinda way. Well, maybe pretty wasn’t the word he was thinking, but it was something akin to it and just as smitten.

The bushy tail fanning the sand slowed down after the wolf spoke, and after a beat, Shiloh opened his eyes and stared up at him. The silence was heavy and palpable for a few silent beats, then he said, “We can practice making puppies. All you want. As hard as you want to.”

He didn’t want to get Kincaid’s hopes up that there’d be a pup prior to pup season. Even he couldn’t work that kind of magic.

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That certainly hadn't been a yes, but it wasn't a no, either. Kincaid was sure he could get the answer he wanted if he kept asking. But Shiloh had picked a good answer — one that had him instantly and thoroughly off track, standing and dragging Shiloh up along with him in one jagged, abrupt motion. He kept ahold of the coyote's scruff, after that, because he liked things best that way, and then he did the things that wolves do when they do the things.

Probably the whole morning and well into the day was spent in this manner, with breaks to drink water and follow the shade. Which meant he was late getting to sleep in the heat of the day, but he slept much harder for it — the sort of deep and complete sleep that one didn't wake from easily. The best sleep Shiloh had ever seen him get for sure.

And, he'd come back to the whole commitment thing. There was plenty of time, and it seemed like he could get a whole lot for free, anyway.

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Well, maybe that was a bold proposition, Shiloh thought as he was plucked out of his repose by the scruff of his neck. But he’d meant it, and was more than happy to go at it for a couple hours in between lulls to lie panting in the shade or treading ankle deep in the shallow water. He found the energy to bother a milk snake while they were ‘on break,’ then he was underneath Kincaid again, and the sun climbed up toward the peak of the bowl of the sky.

It was hot even in the shade, so he did not curl up under the wolf’s legs in the usual way but put the crescent of his back to Kincaid’s, paws stretched out on the sand, tail wagging with the listlessness of a cat’s. He could feel the wolf’s deep, slow breathing and knew he was asleep —  and if his legs remotely worked in that capacity he would have patted himself on the back for that.

A while into their sleep his eyes cracked open wide and his head shot up and his ears pricked forward, because he had left the shiny stick where he’d dropped it earlier. He almost jumped up to hunt for it, but willed himself to be still. Kincaid would wake up — or he wouldn’t, and he’d leave him dead to the world and exposed. So he waited, anxiously, eyes on the sunny side of the oasis, until he had a good opportunity to retrieve it.

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