when push comes to shove

champagne, cocaine, gasoline; and most things in between

"Well I am glad to hear that I make some part of things easier for you," Mateo says with a sunny, dimpled smile, trying to keep his eyes ahead so he can focus on the dull thud of their footsteps and the way his breath huffs out of him in pace with their running. And, just as the other man has just internalised, he is happy to let the silence stretch between them for as long as is necessary; not feeling the need to poke at Ever's thoughts or to pick at emotional wounds that have just started to scab over.

It's not a difficult thing to do, granted, when he's starting to have to push himself to keep jogging, and by the time Ever does speak again, Mateo is slowing a little bit. Even so, he nods cheerfully to the aviator. "Please, by all means," he says. "Go as fast and as far as you like. I will keep to the route so there is something to follow. And you should not lose sight of me that way."

Everest

With a short, clipped nod, Everest angled off the path and—mid-stride—let the change ripple through him. Bones compressed, coat spilled outward in inky black, and by the time his forepaws hit the gravel he was a rangy German shepherd, ears pricked, tail carried low and cautious.

At first he trotted a neat circle around Mateo, head turning left–right–left as if redrawing the map of the Plaza from this lower vantage. The noise of his own breathing, the drumming of paws, the sharper mosaic of scent—that was the whole world, and it was blessedly simple. Once the route settled into his senses, the tension dropped from his shoulders. He slipped into an easy lope, swinging out ahead of Mateo by a dozen metres, then drifting back to heel; a second later he surged forward again, claws skittering lightly on the paving stones. With every loop his stride stretched longer, hind-legs coiling and releasing like springs. By the third pass he was flat-out running—ears swept back, tongue lolling, tail flagging behind him in a dark ribbon of motion.

For a minute or two he let the pure, thoughtless speed carry him: bounding past empty enclosures, banking around a corner, doubling back in a playful flank before darting ahead once more. The zoomies took him then—an erratic zig-zag that kicked up little puffs of dust, as far from his usual measured precision as a comet from its orbit.

Reaching the fountain Mateo had drunk from, the dog splashed paws-first into the shallow lip, sending water in bright arcs before shaking vigorously—droplets scattering like rain. Then, breathing hard but loose, he padded back to Mateo’s side and matched pace, head lifted, tail giving one, two satisfied wags.

The contrast was startling: the coiled, hyper-controlled aviator replaced, for these moments, by an animal who could simply exist—ears flicking to sounds instead of flinching from them, eyes bright instead of guarded. He fell into step at Mateo’s left knee, tongue still hanging, and trotted on as though this were the easiest thing in the world.

If I told you that you'd do nothing with it
I'd still be that cigarette that you couldn't finish

champagne, cocaine, gasoline; and most things in between

Always finding it fascinating to see Ever seamlessly go from man to dog - physically as well as mentally - Mateo is able to forget about the fatigue starting to burn in his muscles as he watches the canine lope around him. Scoffing out a musical laugh to see instinct begin to take over - first a gentle jog, then a spirited run, then straight-up zoomies, the botanist does as he's promised and sticks to the path ahead, glancing every now and then at the black blur weaving around corners or through a burst of trees.

He's just circling to go back the way they've come when a somewhat soggy shepherd lopes back at his side, heeling as if its the most natural thing in the world. Grinning down at him and swiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, Mateo finds a second wind as they head back for the fountain, and he bounces his eyebrows down at Ever. "I hope you do not take offence when I say this," he says playfully, "but good boy. Do not shift back on my account - if you have some tennis balls back at your place, I will play fetch with you when we are done."

Everest

Ever’s tongue lolled; a quick puff of air served as a canine huff that was almost—almost—a laugh. He angled his head, ears pricking toward the word good, tail swishing once in indulgent acknowledgement before resuming its steady pendulum.

Falling into the return loop, he padded just ahead of Mateo, matching the botanist’s renewed bounce with a loose, easy trot. At the fountain he hopped up onto the rim, front paws dripping as he leaned forward to lap twice—slosh, slosh—then splashed down again, sending another spray across Mateo’s shins.

Rather than shift back, he dipped his head, muzzle nudging the runner’s calf as if to say rest. Then, tail still wagging, he trotted a few steps away and spun in a compact circle, dropping into a play-bow: forelegs stretched, hind-quarters lifted, bright gaze locked on Mateo before barking brightly at his friend's offer.

If I told you that you'd do nothing with it
I'd still be that cigarette that you couldn't finish

champagne, cocaine, gasoline; and most things in between

More than content to follow after Ever's loping pace, the fountain comes back upon them in no time at all, and Mateo allows his friend to both lap at the water and spray him with it without complaint. (It all works to cool him down, right?) Pausing at last to splash his face with water and take a few grateful sips from the fountain himself, the nudge to his calf is heeded, more or less; knowing better than to stop outright straight away, the botanist slows to a restful stroll for a minute or so, taking slow, deep breaths and finally slumping down on a nearby bench.

"Oh? I take that as a yes," he says, huffing out a laugh to hear the shepherd's bright bark fill the air, gaining the attention of a few passers-by, most of whom smile indulgently towards the pair. "Alright - I did promise we would walk back around the Plaza, but you do not have to keep pace with me. I should ask for an item that would let me turn into a dog as well. Perhaps I would not be so out of shape, mm?"

So saying, he rises back to his feet, stretches out his hamstrings for a few moments, and then heads back for home.

Everest

As Mateo settles into an easy stroll, the shepherd keeps pace at his left hip, nails ticking lightly against the paving stones. Every few steps Ever noses at Mateo’s dangling fingers, giving them a quick, grateful lick before trotting ahead a metre, then drifting back again. When Mateo reaches down, Ever ducks obligingly, sliding his head beneath the botanist’s hand; soft strokes ruffle black fur, earning a slow wag that thumps once against Mateo’s calf.

For once, the gentle rise of conversation and the creak of carts don’t set Ever’s nerves on edge. In this shape the sounds sort themselves into simple categories: safe, familiar, unimportant. By the time Mateo turns onto Ever’s street, the shepherd has fallen into a contented silence, padding so close he brushes the hem of Mateo’s shorts. He waits at the apartment steps, tail sweeping the ground, then hops up each rise with a lightness wholly different from the tense pilot Mateo had fetched an hour before.

At the door Ever pauses, looking back over his shoulder, tongue lolling in a bright dog-smile that says thank you far better than words. With one last nudge against Mateo’s knee, he trots inside—no anxiety in the set of his shoulders, no frantic flick of ears—just a loose, easy gait that, for the moment, feels like peace.

~FIN

If I told you that you'd do nothing with it
I'd still be that cigarette that you couldn't finish