THE IRC ☀︎ Lysander Tolberry

Late afternoon light, thick and heavy as old honey, bled through the grimy windows of Nuts and Bolts, illuminating swirling dust motes and the deep, stubborn rust eating away at the frame of a ‘96 Ford Ranger. The air was a familiar soup of hot metal, burnt coffee, and the sharp, acrid tang of penetrating oil. From beneath the truck’s skeletal undercarriage came a steady, guttural stream of curses, punctuated by the loud crack of a breaker bar on a frozen bolt.

“Fuckin’... piece of... shit!” Lysander’s voice was a gravelly growl, muffled by the truck’s chassis. He gave one final, brutal heave, his entire body straining. A metallic ping signaled victory as the bolt finally surrendered. He slid out from under the Ranger on his creeper, his dark blonde hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, his t-shirt damp and clinging to the thick, coarse hair on his chest and arms. His Barbary lion’s tail, the same messy gold as his hair, lashed once in irritated triumph against the oil-stained concrete.

Across the shop, Varian flinched at the noise, his own pangolin tail curling reflexively around his ankle. He was carefully cleaning a carburetor, his pale, grease-smudged fingers moving with a delicate precision that contrasted sharply with Lysander’s brute-force approach. He watched from under his overgrown bangs as Lysander sat up, wiping his brow with the back of a grimy forearm, leaving a new streak of black above his perpetually grumpy brow.

The relative quiet was shattered by the tinny, aggressive ringtone blaring from Lysander’s phone on the workbench. He scowled, a deep furrow forming between his eyes as he heaved himself to his feet with a groan. He snatched the phone, his calloused thumb smearing grease across the screen as he answered.

“What.” It wasn’t a question. He listened, his scowl deepening, brown eyes narrowing. “Side of Pine Ridge Road? Yeah, I know where that is. Sounds like the alternator took a shit. Or the fuel pump. Could be a dozen fuckin’ things.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Yeah. I’m on my way. Don’t touch nothin’. You’ll just make it worse.”

He ended the call and chucked the phone back onto the bench with a clatter. “Goddamn it.” He muttered to the empty air. He turned to Varian, who was now staring resolutely at the carburetor as if it held the secrets of the universe. “Kid. I gotta go play roadside hero for some dumbass who probably didn’t check their oil since the Reagan administration. Don’t break nothin’. Don’t set nothin’ on fire. If you get bored, the Ranger’s rear diff needs new fluid. The stuff’s in the back.”

Varian gave a small, jerky nod, his voice a quiet mumble. “Okay, Lys.”

Lysander grunted, snagging a relatively clean rag to wipe his hands as he stalked towards the door that led to the small, cluttered parking lot behind the shop. His own truck, a durable, no-nonsense pickup that had seen almost as much action as he had, sat waiting. He yanked the driver’s side door open, the hinges protesting with a loud squeak, and hauled himself inside. The engine roared to life with a throaty rumble that shook the vehicle’s frame. With a last glance at the shop, he threw the truck into gear and pulled out onto the quiet main street.

The drive to Pine Ridge Road was short, taking him past the community park and towards the more wooded outskirts of the IRC. The tall chain-link perimeter fence, a constant but necessary presence, glinted between the trees. As he rounded a bend, he saw it: a car, its hazard lights blinking a dull, lazy rhythm on the shaded asphalt shoulder. He pulled up behind it, the grumble of his diesel engine dying as he cut the ignition.

He sat for a moment, just looking. Assessing. It was always an assessment. The make, the model, the way it sat, any visible leaks or damage. His professional eye catalogued it automatically. With a resigned sigh that was mostly for his own benefit, he shoved the door open and stepped out, his boots crunching on the gravel shoulder. The late day air was cooler here under the pines, carrying the clean, damp smell of earth and pine needles. He approached the driver’s side, his shadow falling long and lean across the hood of the broken vehicle.

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Saturday morning sunlight, harsh and bright, baked the asphalt of the IRC’s community parking lot, which had been transformed into a bustling farmers market. The air was thick with the smell of fresh bread, ripe berries, and the earthy perfume of vegetables, cut through with the occasional waft of sizzling sausage from a food truck. It was a symphony of cheerful chaos that grated directly on Lysander Tolberry’s last nerve.

He stood like a grumpy monolith amidst the flow of people, his arms crossed over his broad chest, his dark blonde lion’s tail giving an occasional, irritable flick that made shoppers give him a wide berth. He was sweating in his old band t-shirt, and the whole scene was, in his considered opinion, “mid as hell.” He’d muttered the phrase under his breath twice already, each time earning a barely-suppressed snort from Varian, who was hovering a few feet away, examining a basket of strangely shaped gourds with intense focus. The pangolin demihuman had absolutely dragged him here, something about “community engagement” and “needing greens.” Lysander was here, a bodyguard for his kid and a beast of burden for whatever organic nonsense Varian decided to purchase.

His bored, scowling gaze swept over the crowd, dismissing clusters of chatting neighbors and children chasing each other around stalls. Then it snagged, and stuck. A familiar figure was examining jars of honey at a stall a dozen yards away. It was them—the person from Pine Ridge Road a few days ago. The one with the fucked up car and the... presence that had lingered in his shop’s air long after the repaired car had driven away. He’d been curt, professional, charging them for the part and an hour of labor, nothing more. He hadn’t allowed himself to look for too long. But here, in the messy vitality of the market, he looked. The way the sunlight caught in their hair, the line of their shoulder as they reached for a jar. A low, unfamiliar tightness coiled in his gut.

He was so focused on them, on that unwelcome and specific pull, that he almost missed the other movement. A beat-up blue pickup truck, parked on the slight incline at the edge of the lot, gave a sudden, shuddering jerk. Its parking brake, old and worn, failed with an audible snap. For a heart-stopping second, the truck simply settled. Then, with a slow, gathering menace, it began to roll. Directly towards the honey stall. Directly towards them.

Time didn’t slow, it combusted into pure, white-hot instinct. “Move!” The roar was ripped from his throat, raw and guttural, but it was lost in the market din. He was already in motion, a powerful surge of muscle that shoved shoppers aside without ceremony. His boots pounded the asphalt. The truck, an unstoppable two-ton mass, was picking up speed, its path a terrible, inevitable line.

He didn’t think. He dove. His body, all six-foot-five of solid, frantic force, collided with theirs not a moment too soon. One massive arm hooked around their waist, the other came up to cradle the back of their head. He wrenched them backward, spinning his own body to take the impact as he hauled them clear of the truck’s deadly trajectory. They crashed together into the sturdy wooden side of the neighboring flower stall, a cascade of petals and soil raining down around them. The pickup rolled past, missing them by inches, before crashing with a sickening crunch of metal into a stack of empty crates, finally coming to a stop.

For a long, suspended moment, there was only the sound of his own ragged breathing, loud in his ears, and the frantic beat of his heart hammering against his ribs. He was pressed against them, his front to their back, his body completely enveloping theirs in a protective cage. The heat of them seeped through both their clothes. The feel of their waist under his arm, the softness of their hair against his jaw, the way they fit against him—it was all immediate, overwhelming, and utterly electrifying. He could feel the fine tremor that ran through them, or maybe it was through him. The sharp, clean smell of crushed chrysanthemums and overturned earth filled his nose, mixing with the warmer, more intimate smell of their skin and his own sweat.

He didn’t let go. His body a rigid shield. Around them, the market erupted into shouts and screams, people rushing towards the crashed truck. But in their small, shattered pocket of space, there was only the pounding aftermath. Slowly, carefully, he loosened his hold just enough to turn them, his hands shifting to their shoulders. His brown eyes, wide and unguarded for the first time in maybe forever, scanned their face, looking for injury, for shock.

“The fuck.” He breathed out, his voice a rough, shaken scrape. “You good? You hit?” His thumbs moved almost unconsciously, rubbing small, rough circles on their shoulders through their shirt, a gesture of reassurance that was as foreign to him as the terror still chilling his blood. Varian appeared then, pale and wide-eyed, but Lysander’s world had narrowed to the person in his hands, the ghost of the truck’s grille imprinted on his vision.

Lysander Tolberry’s apartment had never looked like this. The usual clutter of tools and car magazines had been ruthlessly shoved into corners or hidden in the small hallway closet. The air, normally carrying notes of motor oil and takeout, was filled with the rich, savory aroma of a slow-cooked pot roast and the softer perfume of the small bouquet of wildflowers he’d guilt-tripped Jacob into giving him from the cafe. Two plates, his least-chipped ones, sat on the small kitchen table, flanked by lit candles that made the whole scene feel fragile and dangerously hopeful. He’d even poured some fizzy juice, a replacement for the wine he didn’t drink. He stood there, shifting his weight, feeling like a bull in a china shop wearing his best flannel.

The knock on the door had made him jump. He’d smoothed down his hair, the dark blonde strands tied back in a neater-than-usual bun, and opened it. Seeing them there, the soft light from the hall catching their face, had sent a bolt of something warm and sharp through his chest. He’d grunted a greeting, stepping aside to let them in, his hand brushing the small of their back in a gesture that was becoming familiar.

The dinner was... quiet. Not the tense quiet of the shop, but a thick, comfortable one, punctuated by the clink of cutlery and the low crackle of the candles. He wasn’t a talker, but he listened. He watched the way the candlelight danced in their eyes, the way their mouth moved when they spoke. He’d reach across the table to refill their fizzy juice filled glass, his large, calloused fingers brushing against theirs, and a low, pleased rumble would vibrate in his chest. His tail gave the occasional slow, contented swish. For a few stolen hours, the fortress he’d built felt less like a stronghold and more like a home, warm and shared.

He was just clearing the plates, a domestic act that felt strangely right, planning to lead them to the couch where he had a blanket ready and maybe, if he could work up the nerve, the intention to pull them into his lap, when the peace was obliterated.

The door didn’t just open. It burst inward with a crash, the lock giving way under frantic, panicked force. Lysander spun, a dish clattering into the sink, his body instantly coiling into a defensive stance, a low growl building in his throat. But it wasn’t an intruder.

It was Varian and Caspian, stumbling over each other in the doorway. Caspian’s kind face was etched with profound concern, his lion’s ears flat. Varian looked pale, his blue eyes wide with a frantic mission. They were both breathing heavily, as if they’d run the whole way.

“Andy, oh my god, we were so worried!” Caspian blurted out, his voice thick with emotion. “Varian said you kicked him out, told him to stay with me, and you’ve been acting weird and closed off all week, and we thought—” His green eyes finally swept past his brother, taking in the candlelit table, the drinks glass, the person standing frozen by the kitchen counter. His words died in his throat. His ears twitched upright in dawning, mortified comprehension.

Varian’s gaze followed Caspian’s. He took in the scene: the flowers, the soft lighting, the intimate table for two. The reality of the situation crashed over him. His already-pale face went ashen. “Oh.” He whispered, the sound barely audible. “Oh, no.”

Lysander stood perfectly still, the dishwater dripping from his hands onto the linoleum. The warm, humming contentment of moments before had been flash-frozen into a solid block of pure, unadulterated rage and humiliation. He could feel it burning up his neck, heating his face under his scruff. His tail, which had been relaxed, now lashed once, violently, against the cabinet door with a loud thwack.

He stared at his brother and his kid, these two idiots he’d move mountains for, who had just smashed through his door and his carefully constructed evening like a pair of wrecking balls. The growl that had been building finally escaped, a deep, visceral sound of pure frustration.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.” He ground out, his voice dangerously low. He pointed a dripping finger, first at the shattered door lock, then at their horrified faces. “You two. You absolute... menaces. I am not depressed.” He said the word like it was a curse. “I am having a date. Which is now fucking ruined.”

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