Even curled up in a hidden alcove on the opposite side of the hotel from his room, Brai still couldn't get to sleep.  It was only midnight, but the parties raged on and on.  Thumping music from at least four different rooms combined with any number of raucous voices to create a din outside of his head that still couldn't quite silence the voices inside his head.  Every once in a while, the elevators would open and spill out another ten or fifteen people, most of them drunk, who would amble around the corner, blissfully ignorant of the raccoon in the fading makeup trying to stay out of the way and get some shuteye, using his satchel as a pillow.

And it was only the first night of the con.

It wasn't just one thing, either.  There was the anxiety that had been plaguing him for the past three months, which had appeared seemingly out of nowhere and overwhelmed his every waking thought with paranoia and insecurity.  But that hadn't been the first time.  It had been the sixth time he'd had to deal with the shit, and Brai would be goddamned if he was going to go on the pills again.  Not unless it got worse.  There was always that.

But he had brought all that baggage with him, knowing the mere fact that he was at CrossCon—his fourth—would only exacerbate the matter.  Nevertheless, it was the one time every year he set aside PTO and money for a vacation, and he would also be goddamned if he was going to skip it and stay home because of some stupid voices in his head.  

Brai could have dealt with that by himself, but a series of hotel fuck-ups—and a series of flaky roommates—had forced him to reach out to the fandom and basically grab at straws for a room, or at least space in a room.  And he had gotten the space, in the form of a fold-out couch in a king suite on the party floor.  But then...the snoring.

Oh, the snoring.  In all honesty, the coon should have done his homework and researched DarlWolf and Rav0tt3r beyond their screen names, but he had been so relieved to have a place to stay that he figured he would just tough it out.  But the guys (who were actually a weasel and armadillo, respectively) had turned out to be...bigger than he expected.  Not that that was a problem in itself, not at all.  Darl and Rav (Brai had never learned their real names) were nice, a cute couple, and didn't mind the coon watching while they made out and groped at each other after getting up to the room.  

But the first sign of trouble was when the twin CPAP machines had come out of the suitcase.  Brai convinced himself it couldn't be that bad.  Until it was.  It woke him up, grating and constant.  Not the machines, but the snoring, unlike anything he'd ever heard before.  And when Brai was awake, especially when he was tired, there the voices were, gently trying to convince him he was doing everything wrong.  Everything.

The noise drove him, and followed him, into the bathroom, where not even the spare blanket and two pillows could make the hard, cramped surface comfortable.  The door was a weak barrier, and Brai had stared into the darkness, his tail curled up between his legs and tears forging twin trails through opposite sides of his mask, smearing what white makeup remained.

And now he was out in the hallway, which was much too bright for anyone to fall asleep in, and he seemed to be the only person at the entire con, besides his roommates, who wanted to get some shuteye at a semi-reasonable hour.  His phone was in the pocket he wasn't laying on. He thought of the few people he had talked to online, about meeting up with them later on in the weekend.  He hadn't communicated with any of them yet, not even texted, so it would be rude to ask for some last-minute sanctuary.  Plus, he didn't feel he was “in” enough to warrant the question anyway, but one of the voices was behind that.  Brai was miserable all over again, and out two hundred dollars to boot.  

There was a soft ding from around the corner, followed by two drunk suiters and their handlers, who looked equally intoxicated.  All laughing, all lighthearted.  As they turned the corner, one of the handlers, a fox, dragged his paw down the back of the pink husky suit and clutched its rear beneath its sewn-on tail with a sureness that told the raccoon someone else would be getting lucky in a few minutes.  Again.  Brai considered going back to his room for all of ten seconds before he remembered how bad of an idea that was.  Maybe another floor, further down, would be quieter.  Even then, he couldn't just sleep in a hallway for the next four nights.  If he could ever get to sleep, he would worry about that in the morning.

Picking himself up off the floor and shouldering the satchel, Brai walked down the hall and past the elevators, toward the staircase.  He didn't feel like dealing with anyone right now, especially anyone having fun.  He passed two room parties before he made his first turn, seeing the signs with various fandom names denoting who was rooming with whom.  There was even a sock on one door.  How tactless was that?  Well, someone was going to come back from the dance and be pissed off that they couldn't get into their—

Brai didn't get to finish the thought.  He didn't even see the impact coming, and when it happened it didn't even register as pain, per se.  His vision blacked out, then brightened in a sea of impossible colors as he heard his own procyonic squeak of surprise.  Then he was on his back, his paws at his nose, warmth flowing over his lips and onto his shirt.  His satchel was trapped beneath one thigh.

“Oh shit, Jesus Christ,” Brai heard, and then a paw was behind his shoulder, rolling him over so his muzzle was suddenly inside an ice bucket, judging by the coolness and the smell of frozen tap water.  The ice, he knew, was scattered all over the carpet around him, not that it mattered.  He was starting to feel the pain now, as a throbbing that stung whenever he tried to breathe in through his nostrils.  Opening his mouth only resulted in blood draining into his throat, and he coughed it up into the bucket.  

“Oh, my God, I'm so sorry,” said the voice that—after Brai blinked away his fresh tears (caused by something worthy of crying, for once)–had come from an arctic fox dressed in business casual:  khaki slacks, aubergine shirt.  Inside, the raccoon was tickled by the irony that he was currently made-up as an arctic fox.  He'd done it before going to the dance, having no fun, returning and making a half-assed attempt to take the color off before giving up and deciding to do it in the morning.

“Ow.”

“Yeah, ow.  Shit, it's all over you.  I was on the wrong side of the corner, I didn't even hear you coming.  I think your nose is broken.”  Brai thought that if his nose was broken, it would hurt a hell of a lot worse than it did.  Then again, that was a lot of blood in the ice bucket.  The sight of it, and the ferrous smell, was starting to get to him.  “Can you get up?”

“I...think so,” replied the coon, keeping the bucket between his teeth painfully while he pushed himself up with one paw, the fox pulling the other.  Once he was vertical, though, the blood started anew.

“We need to get you to your room and get you cleaned up,” said the arctic fox, who appeared to be nearing forty, but in a good way.  He spoke as a man who realized his culpability and was trying to make up for it after the fact.  

Brai shook his head.  “I can't.”  There was no way he was going back in there, not with this guy, not with his roommates.  It would just be too much struggle to explain what he was feeling, like he wanted to anyway.  

“Why not?”

“I just can't.”  His tone was more forceful than he'd meant to sound, but he couldn't help it.  He was bleeding out the nose, he was miserable, and he was tired.  And for one second, Brai thought the fox was going to tell him to fuck off and walk away.

“Okay, come on.”  Putting his arm around Brai's waist to stabilize and steer him, they walked as one down the hallway, made one left turn, and came to a corner with two doors nearly adjacent.  “You doing alright?”  Brai nodded as much as he could with his muzzle in the bucket, watching droplets of red paint the plastic sides.  The fox dug in his back pocket for his key card, swiped it through the lock, and opened the door.

Even with his nose in the bucket, Brai could still see well enough to make his own way down a long interior hallway that eventually opened into a standard king room with windows on two walls.  A corner room, a change from the usual cookie-cutter architecture of damn near every other room he'd seen at this or past cons. 

The fox sat him down on one corner of the bed, sliding the satchel off his shoulder and onto the floor.  “Okay, look at me.”  Brai lifted his head up, saw the brilliant light-blue eyes and looked away, knowing he must be a sight.  Gentle fingers with warm pads tilted his muzzle this way and that, applying pressure in places until the raccoon said it hurt.  The fox seemed to have calmed down some, no doubt because he was playing the caretaker, never mind the fact he had caused the damage in the first place.  “I think the bleeding's stopped, and I retract my statement about it being broken.  I'm gonna go grab a washcloth.”  

“Okay.”  

“I'm Phil, in case you decide to sue me.”

“Heh, Brai,” the raccoon chuckled wetly, the sound weak but heartening because it was a chuckle at all.  Phil took away the ice bucket and carried it into the bathroom, where he rinsed it out and set it upside-down to dry.  Brai watched as the fox took a washcloth from the rack to the right of the sink, his white tail flitting agitatedly from side to side while he got it wet.  Looking around the room, he saw a suitcase and overnight bag on either side of the flat-screen TV, a small pile of what he assumed was dirty laundry in a corner behind a chair, and a half-empty bottle of Johnnie Walker Swing on the nightstand next to an entirely-empty glass.  Brai now knew the reason for the fox's ice run.  

Phil came back to the bed, taking a knee in front of the raccoon and bringing the cloth to Brai's snout.  “This might hurt,” he said, as if it needed saying, and dabbed at the bloody places, gently at first, then more thoroughly when Brai didn't wince or shy away.  The cloth wasn't just warm, it was hot, but just hot enough that it first stung and then immediately soothed the pain away.  While Phil worked, Brai tried his best to remain still, secretly enjoying the attention.  Compared to the alcove, he thought, this was a better place, despite the injury he'd had to endure to get here.  He wondered what would happen once things were sorted out, but stopped when the eventualities started to bother him.

Phil had to go back to the sink once to rinse off the combination of blood and makeup, and by the time the raccoon's face was clean (Brai imagined he looked like an arctic fox who's just stuck his nose in a pile of greyish dirt) the washcloth was an attractive shade of pink...at least, it would be attractive if it wasn't pink from blood.

“Housekeeping isn't going to like that towel,” said the arctic fox.  “I might just buy it from the hotel to save them the trouble.  As for you, I think you're good to go.”  Phil smiled wanly when he came back from the bathroom, his paws smelling of ubiquitous hotel soap.  

“Thanks,” the raccoon replied.  “This was a lot easier than going back to my room.”

“Occupied?” Phil asked, sitting in an armchair catercorner from the bed and lacing his fingers.  His expression was neutral, but his eyes smiled and his swishing tail gave him away.

“Snoring.”

“Oh.  That bad?”

Brai remembered how miserable he'd been, and how tired, feeling his face fall before he could catch it.  “Not even the bathroom door could block it out.”  He paused before continuing.  To hell with it.  “I was actually on my way to a non-party floor to find a corner to sleep in, and then decide what to do tomorrow.”  As soon as the words left his lips, though, he heard what he could have meant by that, and amended it.  “I have some friends I can call,” he lied.

“This may be my own opinion,” the arctic fox said, “but I don't think you should be sleeping on the floor, having just had your nose smashed in by an inconsiderate bastard.”  He paused.  “Plus, I think it's illegal to do that.  At least, inside a hotel.”  When Brai looked up, Phil was smiling a little, but his vulpine muzzle somehow stretched it into a smirk.  No amount of makeup could do that to the raccoon's blunter snout.  Not even with contacts to make the ensemble more convincing.  “I can take the floor.”

Brai just stared.

“It's the least I can do.  Now shut up and nod your head so we can get past all this nonsense.”  Brai was blushing, but it wouldn't show well through his mask.  Even though Phil had tried to cut any awkwardness with his candid words, it didn't stop the raccoon from feeling it.  But then he realized how rude he would seem if he kept rebuffing the offer, and promptly nodded slowly.  “Alright, good.”  Phil leaned back and closed his eyes, thinking.  The new silence was an oppressive shadow over the dimly-lit room.  It was a quarter to one in the morning, and even in this far corner of the floor the thump of bass was still a dull thrum.

“How long does this usually go?  The partying, I mean.”  As if to accentuate the point, loud voices came from the long hallway, tendrils of words slithering under the door before receding down the other side of the hotel.  

Brai lay on his back, carefully.  The pressure in his nose abated as some residual blood drained into his throat.  After he swallowed, he realized he hadn't been able to smell since the collision.  Raccoon, iron, fox.  Fox everywhere, actually.  Phil must be on an extended stay.  

“Two or three,” he sighed.  “That's tonight.  After the dances, though, some people don't even go to bed.  They just party until they see the sun, and then what's the point of sleeping?”  

“I'm just old,” the arctic fox replied.  “I guess I value sleep over important things like getting drunk and revelry.”  

Snickering, his smile cracking open the dried blood in his nostrils, Brai said, “Try convincing all the teen ravers down there tomorrow night, around ten o'clock.  I'm sure you'll get through to them with no trouble.”  He sniffed.  

“Not one for dancing?”

“Not really.  You go down there to be seen, or with friends or to hook up.”  Although he was just trying to explain, it still sounded bitter.  Maybe he was.  

“Hooking up, huh?  And putting socks on doors?”

Brai groaned, palming his face—just the top part, no muzzle.  “That too.  Unfortunately.”

“So, you people go around looking like other species and have sex?”

“Oh, God.”  There it was, finally.  Brai supposed it was only a matter of time before The Question of Doom came up.  He'd already been asked once, at lunch today, by a nice middle-aged otter lady who had taken his vague explanation with a smile and a nod.  He didn't think he'd convinced her.  Not by a mile.  Now, there wasn't really any point in trying to gloss over any of the ugly truths with Phil able to hear most of it right outside his door.  

“Have you ever watched MTV?”

“Back when they had music videos, yeah.”  Alright, strike that one.

“'TLC?  'My Strange Addiction?'”

“Heh, nope.  It used to be The Learning Channel.  Now it stands for Tiaras, Little People and Cakes-slash-Cops.  I do respect 'What Not to Wear,' though.”

“I can see that,” said Brai, looking over to the fox again.  He really was a smart dresser.  Then again, when you had white fur, damn near anything looked good on you.  Especially an aubergine shirt that was buttoned just enough to be tasteful.  “Heh.  What about CSI?”

“Oh, I see where you're going,” said Phil, getting up and walking over to the nightstand.  He took the bottle of Johnnie and poured himself a couple fingers, and drank it back.  Winced.  Coughed.  “Christ, it's always better over ice,” he struggled.  “Never again at room temperature.”

“Sorry.”

“Ah, forget it.  This is more entertaining than whisky, though that's a damn good whisky.  You like whisky?”  Instead of going back to the table, the fox just grabbed one of the other chairs and dragged it over to the bed, turned it around backwards, and straddled it.  As flustered as he'd seemed earlier, this was both a surprising and welcome change.  It put the raccoon more at ease, though he was toeing the line between a vague explanation and an admission of guilt.  

“I'm okay.  I like Midori, sweet things like that.”

“You're out of luck.”

“I figured.”

“So, CSI,” the fox said, his chin on his fingers on the back of the chair.  “Do you, by any chance, mean the one where that coon is out wandering on the road, hopped up on ipecac and civet oil and made up like a coyote, and gets shot by that rancher?”

Brai didn't even have to cover up his derision.  “Ugh.”

“It was entertaining,” Phil admitted.  “I didn't even know it was a real thing, until I checked into my room here.”

“Set the fandom back a few years, is what it did,” replied the raccoon.  “Every time someone goes to the media or sells out, it takes a lot longer to repair than it did to destroy.”

The arctic fox's ears twitched, the light behind them suffusing them with a warm, apricot glow.  “So, you guys don't use ipecac and civet oil to get dates?”

“No!”

“But you go to the dances to hook up.”  Phil chuckled.  Brai bit his lip, which was a mistake, because it hurt a lot more than it normally would.  

“Are you tired?”

“Nope.  I'm a light sleeper.  I can stay up a bit.  Don't think I'm trying to back you into a corner, because I'm just curious.  In fact, going out earlier tonight and seeing the people walk around, I really have no idea what it is that you people do.  I mean, CrossCon?  What does that even mean?”  Those light blue eyes on his, brighter still because of the white fur surrounding them.  That long tail making lazy arcs behind the chair.  

Brai bent over and massaged the toes on one foot.  “I don't know where to start.  I mean, it's a gathering of people who're into Cross-species roleplay?”  It wasn't supposed to be a question, though.  “That's not a very good explanation, 'cuz we don't all roleplay.”

“But the key thing is looking like another species?”

“Or another version of your species.  Like you painting yourself like a red fox.”  Phil rolled his eyes up, and at first Brai thought he was being incredulous, but realized when the arctic fox clicked his tongue that he was actually thinking.  

“You know, I'd never thought of myself as a red fox until this very moment.  Wouldn't be too hard to pull off, though.”  The raccoon studied the fox's face, imagining the auburn that he would apply at the tips of his cheekruffs and the back of his head, not to mention the bridge of his muzzle.  If they were going for purity, a little black at his eartips, and a pair of “foxpostrophes” over his whisker beds.  Phil didn't even have those.  It made him think of his Tunisian friend Maru, who had parents of mixed canid heritage and who honored his father's legacy of carrying on the family's “yotation marks,” as the raccoon had jokingly dubbed them.  The name had stuck.  

“I'm not as into it as some people,” Brai admitted, shrugging.  “I'm a makeup artist, but some people go as far as bleaching and dying.”

“Isn't that bad for your fur?”

“Yeah, but don't try to tell them that.  You'll be interfering with their inner whatever-they-wanna-be.”  

“Nah, just let 'em have their fun,” Phil said.  “So, you carry all your makeup in that satchel?”

“That, and my necessities for the con.  All my clothes and stuff are in my duffel in the other room,” said the raccoon, reaching to the side and grabbing the bag, which was festooned with various and sundry buttons and hastily sewn-on patches.  He opened the flap and deposited the contents onto the bed with practiced ease:  powder, brushes, makeup kit, conbook, sketchbook, badges.  

Phil got out of the chair and knelt beside the bed, picking up the kit and turning it over in his paws.  “Oh, so stage makeup.  For some reason, I was thinking cosmetic.”

“It would cost a fortune if I used the good stuff,” Brai replied, opening his powder base to show the fox.  “You don't need to go that far if you're just covering up somebody's color.”

Opening the makeup kit, Phil swiped a pad over an attractive shade of grey-blue and rubbed it between his fingers.  “Wow, this stuff doesn't come off easy.”

“Husky blue,” Brai said.  “And it does, but you just need soap and water and a nice, long shower.”  The fox was a bit distracting, being so close, and it was compounded by the fact that the raccoon's nose had stopped throbbing and cleared out, so the scents in the room were clear as day.  

“Pex...Pex Atero.  This is you, then?”  Brai set the makeup down, looking over to the fox, who was holding up a very suggestive badge showing a lean arctic fox with green eyes in a position that would turn to sexual if he moved an arm or leg just an inch.  Phil turned the badge over in his paw, smiling.  “Cute.  I like the play on the genus.”

Brai blushed.  “You found that quick.  It's not the most imaginary name.  Then again, I know of this tiger who paints himself black and grey and goes by 'Lobo Lupinus.'”

“When your parents drill Alopex lagopus into your skull before the age of five, you damn well better remember it.  I guess the name doesn't matter if you're having fun doing what you're doing.”

“True.  You know, thanks for being so open-minded about all this.”  

Phil rolled his eyes, setting the badge down and picking up another with the same character on it, but drawn by a different artist.  “Oh hell, this is pretty tame compared to a lot I've seen,” he said.  “Like I said, this is cute.”

“That's what we want people to think.”

“You don't want them to imagine you getting all freaky in hotel rooms and scaring the maids out of their wits?”

“No,” Brai deadpanned, then broke into a devious grin.  “Though, they're asking for it if they don't say 'housekeeping' before coming in the damn room!”

“You got caught once?”

“Yeah,” was all the raccoon said, though he was thinking fondly.  Two years ago.  Bull terrier.  Straddling that stubby, thick length.  Tying just as the door opened.  The scream:  “Oh dios mio, lo siento, lo siento, I come back later!”  When he looked back at the fox, he realized he'd been caught.

“That's cute, too.  Sounds like there's no shortage of good times at one of these things.”

Brai sat back and sighed a bit.  “It depends.  Sometimes you have people dragging you all over the place, sometimes you can't get in touch with anyone you want to talk to.  It's really hit-and-miss, especially at a big con like this.”  The raccoon smacked his lips; his mouth was suddenly dry.  That moment of reminiscing had...done things to him.  Things he should probably stop unless he wanted the arctic fox to smell it all over him.  “Gonna get some water,” he said, heading toward the bathroom and shutting the door.

He was half-hard.  Not the best time.  There were two cups next to the sink, and he took the one that still had the plastic over it, ripped it open, and turned on the water.  The first cupful went down quickly, the second much slower, and he barely got through half the third before he had to come up for air.  It was then that Brai got a good look at himself in the mirror.  

You look like shit, he thought.  What makeup he hadn't been able to get off before was now smeared into places it wasn't supposed to go, and the end of his muzzle was a kind of greyish-pink.  He took a closer look at his nose, and despite the dried blood, it appeared worse than he felt.  The tightness in his sheath subsiding, he took the washcloth that Phil had used before and rewet it with hot water, cleaning what little remained from the collision until there was no more red in his fur.  He wet another clean cloth and ran it over the rest of his head to smooth down the fur and make himself more presentable.  At least, as presentable as he could manage without a proper brushing.  When he'd dried off, he looked more coony than foxy, a return to something close to normal.

After relieving himself, he shut off the light and came out of the bathroom and returned to the bed.  But when he saw what the fox was looking at—turning the pages this way and that, intently studying the contents—he blanched and let out a small squeak that didn't sound like it could come from a raccoon in his twenties.  Phil looked up and grinned lopsidedly, as if he'd just found something endearing.

On the page—just one of many—were an arctic fox much like the one on Brai's conbadges, and a lion.  Not just any lion, though; this lion was built like a tank.  A tank with an oversized barrel between its legs and a black fleur-de-lis on his left cheek.  Phil had found Lafayette.

Brai felt his cheek ruffs prickle as he came over to the bed, seeing the image the fox was looking at.  Pex, the Brai-fox, on his back, legs spread wide, and the lion on top of him, pounding that impossibly monstrous length forward, snarling with ecstasy.  Somehow, the art wasn't so attractive now that a “mundane” was looking at it.  All the attraction it had held now seemed misplaced, even wrong.  Brai's embarrassment shifted toward anger, though, which was a more comfortable place to be right then.

“You know, I appreciate you taking care of my nose, but...I didn't say you could look through my stuff.”  

“It was open,” the fox replied, still grinning a bit.  “I kept waiting for you to notice it, but you were too busy showing me the makeup.  It was kind of calling out to me, 'Look at me, I'm porn!'”  Phil's ease was more flustering than Brai's shame.

“Well, but still...”

“Did you draw any of these?  They're all quite good.”  Phil flipped the pages.  Pex and Lafayette in a lover's embrace.  Pex in bondage gear.  Lafayette being sucked off by Pex.  Pex covered in cum...

“I can't draw to save my life.  That's why I do makeup.”  The raccoon's face burned.

Phil kept flipping, mumbling here and there.  Saying, “Wow,” under his breath at something that was just a sketch, even.  “So, who's this lion guy?  Your boyfriend?”  Brai bristled at the vulpine's bluntness, wondered where the fox got the balls.

“Would you be asking that question if you hadn't seen my art book?”

“Not unless it came up in conversation.  That's untoward, even if most of the people at this convention seem to be interested in the same sex.”

“How could you tell?”

“Just got a vibe.  That, and congoers seem to like their PDA's.”  Phil shrugged and tucked a foot under his thigh.  “Whatever.”  The raccoon's heart was still on its slow descent to a normal rate, but the adrenaline had drained away, thankfully.  

“That's Lafayette,” Brai said as he pointed to the lion on the page to which the book was currently open.  “Not my boyfriend.  He was an alternate character at first, and then I kind of got fond of him, and he just grew into Pex's boyfriend the more I had them drawn together.”

Phil looked over at the raccoon, narrowing those bright blue eyes, his tail swishing slowly off the edge of the bed.  “This fandom thing is pretty big, isn't it?  It sounds like some people make it a lifestyle.”

Lifestyle.  “It depends on the person,” the raccoon replied.  “I like it because it's not reality, and the makeup takes me to that fox, and I can be something else.  It's a hobby to some.  I have some friends, though, who can't tell the difference.  They flaunt it, and can't understand why life is so hard when they insist others accept it right off the bat.”

“Sounds dramatic.”

LOL, Brai thought.  “There're three thousand people in this hotel right now.  You have no idea how dramatic,” he said, and giggled.  

“It also sounds fun.”  Phil closed the book and set it to the side.  “I'm sorry for going through your things.”

“It's okay,” the raccoon said, still chuckling, massaging his temples with two fingertips.

“Hm?  Headache?”

“Oh, no.  It's just...I've never spent this much time explaining the fandom to someone outside of it.  Most of the time, people nod and smile and walk away, but I don't think they ever really understand.”

“ Well, it's my hotel room, so I can't really walk away.  And, for the record, I think it's pretty damn cool to have something that makes you so happy, despite the drama.”  For a moment there, Brai thought Phil had said “someone.”  Lafayette was an eyeful, but far from practical.  

“It is,” the raccoon replied, but Phil didn't look like he was convinced it was the truth.  Well, right now, it wasn't the truth.  Ever since check-in, it had been one long downhill slope.  The dance had been moderately fun, a place where the music could drown out the creeping thoughts, but the snoring had burst that already thin bubble, letting the whole mess right back into his head.  And then the alcove, and then his nose...

“Brai?”  Brai looked up at the fox with watery, jittery eyes, realized he must have zoned out, mentally flogged himself for doing so, and forced a weak smile.  It didn't work.  Phil was older and smarter, with his business casual and  his briefcase in the corner and his bottle of nice whisky on the nightstand.  “You look tired.”  The fox's paw was on his knee, and God, it was so much nicer than sleeping in a hallway.

“Not yet,” he replied, and it was the truth.  He might be miserable, but even after considering how he felt, or even how he should feel, he didn't want to sleep.  

“Me neither.  Johnnie isn't doing his job.”  Phil nodded to the bottle, then looked toward the larger of the room's two windows, where the skyline of the city twinkled from seventeen floors up.  He patted the coon's knee resolutely.  “Wanna do some fucking?”

“What?”  Brai's head shot up.  Both of them, actually; one looked at the arctic fox while the other split his sheath open just enough to feel really, really awesome.

“Do you wanna do something fun?”  Okay, well, that was more realistic.  Brai was almost relieved he'd misheard.  Almost.  

Shrugging, the coon said, “Why the hell not?”  And a foxy grin spread across Phil's muzzle.  He seemed genuinely pleased with himself, and Brai thought for a moment that he'd misheard his mishearing.  Probably not.

“Okay.  So, do you really think I'd look good as a red fox?”

“I was just throwing out an easy makeup job, since traditional fox colors come standard in the kits, and there would be relatively little coverup or blending to do.  I mean, you're like a blank canvas.  Doesn't get any easier than that.”  It made the coon smile to talk about something he knew, for a change.  Weight lifted.  

The bed shook as the arctic fox shifted his body and stood with his arms and legs spread, much like da Vinci's Vitruvian Male, except not quite as...equine.  The smile remained.  Gears were turning inside the fox's head, Brai could tell.  Whatever it was, it was meant to keep the coon out of the dumps, and Brai appreciated the gesture immensely from someone he barely knew.  “I dunno...I'm feeling a bit more predatory than that.”  Phil bent slightly and thrust his arms outward, claws bared as much as his fangs.  He was trying, but it still looked like a plain old mouse-pounce.  “Kinda...leonine.  Sound like a challenge?  A lion with, say, a fleur-de-lis?”  

Brai's first reaction was incredulity, his head snapping up, brows furrowed, almost blurting out, “Nobody but Lafayette gets to be Lafayette.”  But he saw Phil in that ridiculous position, looking ready to capture nothing more wild than his next stock option.  A regular Joe Schmoe from the mundane world who actually cared enough to clean somebody up after nearly breaking his nose while on a late-evening ice run for a nightcap.  And now the fox was two lukewarm drinks down—no doubt just another sacrifice—and making a fool of himself trying to cheer up that same person.  

And Phil was a blank canvas, after all.  There was nothing easier to put color over than white fur, and the arctic fox's fur was the whitest he'd come across, save for that of a Samoyed, but good luck finding one this side of the Arctic Circle.  Or at least this far south.  

“You wanted to paint me anyway,” Phil continued.  “I like the character design.  I bet he's from New Orleans, right?”

Blush.  “Born to a tavern-owner on Bourbon Street.”  Obviously.  It sounded juvenile when the coon said it, but it made the fox chuckle.  

“Laissez les bons temps rouler, eh?” The Cajun accent was terrible, but it didn't matter.  It made Brai giggle, and his whole spirit lifted with it.  The fox continued, “Eh, see, I make ze funny words, and you make wit' ze happy, ah gah-rahn-TEE!”  Brai broke out, genuinely tickled, trying to hear Lafayette saying things like that.  He wondered what the big, buff lion sounded like when he was splitting Pex open from behind, and just couldn't correlate one with the other.

“You got it,” Brai replied.  “Not quite that bad, but close enough!”  And then Phil was laughing with the coon, laughing at himself, and it just felt great.

“See, all I had to do was make a fool of myself to get you to smile.  I knew I could do it.”  The fox waited until the raccoon had caught his breath before asking, “So, what do you say?  Do you think I would make a good lion?”  

“I think I can make you a good lion,” Brai replied.  

“Oh, snap.  That's what the kids say, right?”

Brai snerked, even though it hurt his nose.  “Or something.  So, just so I know for sure, you're saying you're okay with me making you up.”

“Well, hell, I'm not going to bed, and it might be the most interesting thing I do on this business trip.  So, yeah, that's what I'm saying.  I'm also really curious to see how you guys do the painting.  This whole convention thing is new to me.”  The fox untucked his shirt and unfastened the top two buttons before stripping it off over his neck.  All, pure white.  Easy to apply, with relatively little color.  Phil definitely didn't have Lafayette's washboard abs, but the slight paunch was cute, pushed out slightly by the fox's belt.  Brai tried not to stare before realizing that he was pretty much going to be staring for however long it took to apply the color.  “So, where do you want me?”

“Uh...hold on.”  Digging around in his satchel, the coon cursed under his breath when he remembered what he'd left in the other room.  “Shit.  I left my airbrush and my paints behind.”

“So you can't do it?”

“Oh, no, I can.  It might take longer, but I have the makeup for it.”

“It's looking like we've got all night anyway.”

“Oh...yeah.”  Brai set the satchel down and pushed it to the side, leaving his manual application kits on the bed.  “Unless you want to stain your pants, you should probably take those off too.”  Brai was talking in his business voice, but thought about how that must have sounded and bristled slightly.

“You're gonna make a whole lion out of me, huh?”  Brai didn't think the arctic fox had had enough Johnnie Walker to make his decisions for him, but he couldn't discount the possibility.  He considered—for only a split second, though—calling the whole thing off for fear that, at some point during the painting, things would start to get weird.  But then he thought of how weird things already were, and decided he might as well just go with it.  

Phil had his pants open, down and off in a matter of seconds, and they joined his shirt on the floor.  The black silk boxers he wore complemented his pads and nose, which were practically the only black things on his body apart from the 'postrophes.  He didn't have much muscle tone, but not bad for a white-collar guy.  After Brai had laid out his kit, he motioned for the fox to have a seat in the one chair pulled away from the table.  

“You just want me to sit here?” Phil asked.  His ears perked this way and that.  Definitely not drunk.

“For now, yeah,” replied the coon.  “We'll do the head first, then work our way down.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Brai took a sponge, dipped it into his ochre and, with a deep breath, went to work.  

Even without his air kit, Phil's white fur took the color well.  One of the hardest things about body painting was the need for a coat of “primer” on models whose fur color was a far cry from the color or species they wanted to be.  A raccoon who wanted to be an arctic fox, for example, was easier than a tiger who wanted to look like a golden retriever.  Oranges, bright yellows, reds and auburns showed through too easily, and instead of half-assing over the natural color of the fur, Brai would spray a white undercoating to at least make blending easier.  The only thing the coon hadn't tried yet was dyeing, just because he didn't know a thing about it.  Plus, he would have to bleach his entire body to look like Pex, and he might end up bald in the process.

Phil remained still and silent as the coon applied various hues to his head, starting at his ears.  A shade of saffron ran from the top of the fox's muzzle out under his eyes and under the middle of his cheeks, where it blended into a darker ochre at the cheekruffs.  This “mane” also covered the rear of Phil's head, neck and a diminishing line down the center of his spine to about mid-back.  A lighter coat of the same color was applied to the underside of the muzzle and mixed with a bit of taupe to give a dirty-underbelly look.  Brai had Phil stand up when he could no longer reach, and it took almost no time at all to make up his arms, which were basically the same overall body color.  

“You know,” Phil said while the coon kneeled behind him to paint his tail, “I've always found it interesting to watch people work who are masters of their craft.  I notice that while the amateurs second-guess themselves and aren't sure in their strokes, the pros go into their zone and rarely say a word.”  The fox chuckled and Brai had to hold the tail taut to counter its natural tendency to wag.  “Sorry.”

“S'okay.”  Brai didn't notice until the moment after Phil had stopped talking that he was one of the people to whom the fox had referred.  In the zone, indeed.  But, instead of responding, he just smiled and continued to stroke ochre along the bushy length of the fox's tail, leaving the tip blank so he could blend it into umber.  Even under the makeup, the coon could still make out the pleasant vulpine scent, but then again, it was the underside of a fox's tail.  Except it had the colors of a lion's tail.  Lafayette's tail.  And he was hard again.  Dammit.  “Here, could you...”

“Hmm?”

“Nevermind.”  The first foot of the underside of Phil's tail was still white, but he couldn't quite let himself get that close just yet.  He was having too much fun and he didn't want to spoil it.  He hadn't felt this good in a long while—not since before he'd started being depressed—and he wanted it to last.  “Just spread your legs a bit.”  

“Getting frisky, eh?” the fox asked in Lafayette's voice, and if the coon hadn't been reaching for a clean sponge his full-body shudder would have been noticeable.  Even so, sitting on his calves between the fox's legs, he could smell his own musk mingling with Phil's.  He might as well enjoy it while he could, lifting up one foot and brushing color between the soft, black pads.  He could swear he heard something approaching a moan.  No, you wish.  Do your job.

But Brai was trying to do his job, and though the colors blended well and easily, he couldn't keep thoughts of Lafayette out of his mind.  Perhaps it was because he was practically creating the lion as he went.  Perhaps it was something else, but he couldn't help but be excited about seeing a character of his creation actually coming to life at his paws.  Granted, the body type wasn't even close, but the intent was there.  

His friends back home, and the few commissions he'd taken at past cons had been business as usual.  And the one time he'd done a nude model—a red fox buddy had wanted to surprise his boyfriend with a new pet “skunk” for a birthday romp—it had been platonic, and not even close to what the coon was feeling now.  Yeah, his sheath felt pretty damn good pressed up against his clothing, but...oh well.  At least the scent of musk was better than nothing at all.  

“There we go,” Brai said, putting the finishing touches on the fox's upper thighs, as close as he dared without messing up the silk of Phil's boxers or risking touching something fuzzy and soft and yielding.  “Are you ready for the mirror?”

“Oh...I guess so, right?”  That hesitation, that slight hitch in the fox's words.  It could have meant something, or it could have meant nothing at all.  It certainly wasn't just standard.   

“Close your eyes.”  There was a full-length mirror between the television dresser and the wall across from the bed.  Brai stood up, stretched and took the fox by the shoulders, leading him over to it.  He wondered what he would do if Phil didn't like what he saw.  Well, Phil would have to just suck it, because he asked for it in the first place.  “Take a look.”

“Oh, my God.”  The fox's paws went to his face before he took them away again, afraid to smear the color.  His expression was equally painted, albeit with disbelief.  It was a few long seconds before he broke out into a silly, lopsided grin.  “Oh, my GOD!  Omigod, Brai, this is amazing...”  Phil turned around and around, his tail following in graceful arcs in either direction.  “And this is just something you happen to do.”

“Yeah,” the coon replied.  “It makes people happy.”  Hell, it was making him happy!  For once.

“I would think so!  So, you're gonna do the rest, right?”  Phil slid his fingers into the waistband of his boxers, pulling them away from his fur to reveal a very unsubtle contrast that looked like the exact opposite of a summer sunfade.  Then he just...pulled them off and threw them on top of the rest of his clothes.  Brai stared, agape, until the fox turned around to face him.  “I mean, this looks kind of silly, doesn't it?”  If a half-hard sheath with an inch of black spreading it open could be called silly.

 Oh fuck, he has a black cock.  Lafayette had a black cock.  

“You have a point.”  The coon silently thanked DarlWolf and Rav0tt3r for having sleep apnea, and forced his eyes to meet the fox's, his smile coming more easily than he thought it would.  Well, he was a professional, and this wasn't anything he couldn't handle, or hadn't handled before.  His sponge back in paw, he got down onto his knees, trying to ignore everything suggestive about it and focus on blending the color he was putting down into the color that was already there.  Starting as far away from certain places as possible.  

Unfortunately, the fox's upper thighs and hips were large, easy areas to do, since the expanses of fur were low-contact and therefore smooth, plus there was minimal blending until Brai got to the inner portions.  He dawdled there, making as if he were doing minor adjustments, until he couldn't justify it anymore.

“I...guess I need to get you onto all fours.  If you want.”  

“Alrighty.  Can't have a white rump, can I?”  Now Brai could hear it:  the slight quaver, from discomfort or nerves.  Indistinguishable, and touchy either way.  Even so, the fox got down, lowered his front onto his crossed arms, and spread his legs while his tail traced a long arch above his back.  The classic fox position.  Brai had to just sit there for a moment while he took in the view:  the pair of bubble-round buttocks framing a small black hole, the dangling sac between those still-unfinished thighs, and the hint of sheath beyond.  Then the musk hit him and he sneezed, twice.  It had struck him like a truck, and his head spun.  Taking the opportunity to gratuitously adjust himself, he grabbed his bristle brush and started to apply ochre to the still-white underside of Phil's tail, which kept trying to wag slowly.  

The coon got all the way down before he was forced to use his fingers to bend the tail even further, switching to his sponge again to get the places where powder wouldn't apply well.  This put his muzzle within rimming range, too, which was pretty much the only thing he could think about while stroking the sponge along the sensitive inner areas of Phil's rump.  It wasn't just a smell either; it was definitely  musk, the essence of vulpine, and it was doing exactly what it was supposed to be doing to Brai's sheath.  The mere fact that the fox was okay with taking the paint job this far gave Brai license to feel more secure with the intimacy of his position, which in turn let him enjoy the ride.  He blended all the way down to the edge of the black flesh, watching it clench in response.  It was probably the best ass-painting he'd ever done.

“Okay, turn over, I guess.  I'm all done back here.”  

“I'm not sure you're going to want me to.”  The words were still a little shaky, but any levity was good levity.  

“It's a con, Phil.  Give me a break.”  Brai was just short of goosing the fox into changing position.  But Phil obliged, bringing into view what the raccoon was hoping he would get to see.  It jutted from between the fox's legs, fully hard, dark and beautiful.  Not Lafayette's massive meat, but that hardly mattered since that particular cock was a figment of a fruitful imagination.  With the darker color covering his ears, Brai couldn't tell if the fox was blushing or not, but he was fairly sure.

“I'm sorry...you'll understand if I couldn't help it.”  For being sorry, though, Phil wasn't making any effort at modesty.  “Not even a prostate exam at fourteen could do that!” he said, and chuckled, though his ears were now folded flat.

“That's probably because he was poking around, not putting makeup on your ass,” replied the coon.  “It's kind of the same as a massage.  Most people get that way.”  

“You don't have to finish if you don't want to.”  

Oh, hell no, I'm going to finish this.  If you're going to get hard like that and not even try to cover it up, I'm going to enjoy it as long as I can.   “Are you kidding me?  If I don't, you'll look even sillier than you did before!”  The coon dipped the sponge into the ochre again and started in on Phil's inner thighs, not even bothering to ask if it was okay to move the fox's sac this way and that while he worked.  Yes, he was copping a feel, but at least he was being stoic and professional about it.  Phil was being a sport, too, though the black shaft tensed and twitched with each stroke of the sponge.

The fox fairly jerked when Brai finally started to color his balls, the application made easier because of the shorter fur there.  Though smaller that the lion's would be, any set of balls was a good set of balls if the raccoon could  get to feel them roll around in his fingers.  It was over too soon, and there remained only one more place.  

“That looks awesome,” Phil murmured.  “Guess I'm good to go.”  

“Come on, we've come this far.  I can't leave you like this.”  Hearing himself say the words, Brai could feel the tension rise between them, even though he hadn't meant it like that.  The scent of the arctic fox filled his nose, and somehow he knew something was going to happen, though the likelihood of that something being bad was just as likely as it being good.  

“You did a pretty damn good job,” Phil said, offering a half-smile.  Forced.  

“Yeah, but an incomplete one.  It doesn't reflect my skills well as a makeup artist.”

“Who's gonna see?”

“I can see.  And I'm going to know, and I'm going to remember.”  Brai loaded up again and started applying the same belly color onto the bunched-up sheath below the fox's length, and his own cock stirred when he saw the fur there matted and sticky.  It emboldened him, probably past the point of decorum, but even if it were to end badly, at least he would know he completed the damn job.

“You're being silly...please, okay?”  Even so, Phil wasn't standing up, or pulling away, or making any effort to indicate he actually wanted the coon to stop.  Brai had the sponge as close as he could get without contacting the fox's flesh, which would cause a lot of irritation.  He was probably taking more time than he should, but needed to see this through to the end.  “Brai, I need you...”

The coon paused.  “Huh?”  Whatever he was going to say was roughly cut off when a paw at the back of his head pulled him against the base of the fox's knot, smearing pre over his snout and sending a bolt of fresh pain back between his eyes.  

“Fuck.  Fuck,” the fox whispered to the room as the coon felt fur bristling and poofing up against his arms and nose.  The knot twitched, then spasmed, and then came the flood.  The first one on his neck, barely registering as liquid until the second one splattered over his left ear, and Brai had the presence of mind to close his eyes before the rest of Phil's load coated his muzzle, seeping into his fur and warming his skin.  The smell of fox exploded into the room, much like Phil himself had.  Brai took it all in until cum dripped down into his nostrils, and then he just sighed, wagging, happy to stay just where he was.

Whether or not the fox had regrets, he didn't show it.  His paw moved down to Brai's right shoulder and stayed there, loose.  Brai felt the racing heartbeat through Phil's flagging knot, pulsating into his seed-soaked nose.  Pulling away just enough to lick the stuff off, he ended up taking a few swipes over Phil's length.  When the fox did and said nothing by means of protest, he continued, his eyes closed because of the mess on them, going by feel until he had cleaned the entire thing.  

“Do you have a towel?”  Phil finally moved then, his footsteps padding to the bathroom and back quickly, and then Brai was being wiped off by shaky vulpine paws.  

“I'm sorry,” said the fox.  He sounded wounded.  

“Why?”

“Well, I shouldn't have done that.”

“I don't think you could have helped it.”  The coon yipped when Phil pinched the still-sensitive part of his nose, but mostly it was no longer bothering him.

“You could have pushed me away.”  

The towel withdrew, and Brai ventured to open his eyes.  The left stung slightly, but it wasn't enough that he couldn't blink it away.  Phil kneeled before him, painted like a lion.  Oh shit!  But he wasn't done.  “Hold on.”  

Back to the bed, and the rest of his makeup.  Grabbing an eyeliner pen, he motioned for the fox to come over, which he did, wordlessly and with some hesitation.  Brai took the pen to the fox's left cheek, and though he'd never drawn it himself before, it came with no problem.  Two minutes later, the coon threw the pen down on the bed and pushed Phil over to the mirror, pointing.  “I almost missed the most important part.”  He watched Phil recognize the fleur-de-lis, and smile despite his now withered appearance.  

“Now, you're a whole lion.”  Phil didn't seem to be as thrilled as the raccoon was.  His demeanor had changed, and Brai knew they could both dance around it for only so long.  And even then, it would be tortuously awkward.  This was a convention, dammit...it was supposed to be awkward, yeah, but Brai was never one to put up with that kind of bullshit.  He could have stayed back there in that noisy hotel room, but fuck that.  He would control his own destiny.  If he was going to share this room with Phil, he wanted things to be okay.  So he put his arms around the arctic fox and held on.

Phil flinched bodily for a short second, but when the coon held firm, the fox relaxed.  Out went the slight belly, down went the tense musculature.  Brai knew he was probably getting makeup on his clothes, but they already had blood stains anyway and were headed for shop-rag duty.  Then the coon hugged him about the middle, stilling the wagging vulpine tail so he could press his hardness between the fox's cheeks.  And yes, he did hear Phil groan.

They stayed like that for a few long minutes, Brai too afraid to say the wrong thing and Phil too relaxed to object.  Finally, the fox put his paws on the coon's and disentangled the fingers, only to turn around and put his own arms about Brai's chest, renewing the embrace.  This time, they stayed that way for longer.  The party noises had died down, leaving the gentle hum of the air conditioner.  

Brai couldn't get his mind to shut up.  This time, however, it wasn't the voices that were bothering him.  It was the serendipity of the whole damn night.  His muzzle didn't even hurt anymore, and he found himself thinking the very odd thought that if he hadn't almost broken his nose, he wouldn't be here, now, in the company of this very awesome fox.  A fox who, for some reason, had let him rub a makeup-covered sponge all over his body until he'd busted his nut on the coon's head.  A fox who was now painted like the object of his hottest fantasies.  A fox who was still holding him after he had made moves bolder than he thought were possible.  

A fox who was now nuzzling him ever closer to a kiss, and who covered his lips when he attempted to ask if Phil really wanted to or if he was just trying to assuage some of the tension.  Well, after the raccoon closed his eyes and let the fox guide them both, the tension was pretty much gone.  A paw on his rump held him close as they swayed together in the middle of the hotel room, and they stayed that way even after the kiss turned back into a nuzzle, Brai's muzzle tucked under the taller fox's.

“I've never done that before,” Phil murmured into the coon's forehead.

“Done what?  There's kind of a list of things, now.”

“Kissed a guy like that.”

“I was surprised when you did.”

“Good surprised, or bad surprised?”

“Good,” Brai said, smiling into the fox's chest ruff.  “Very good.”  

“I have to tell you, when I got off my plane at the airport, I wasn't expecting my business trip to include body-painting and make-out sessions.”  The fox pulled back to look into the coon's eyes.  “But this is pretty cool.”  And this time, Brai saw it coming, except Phil was tilting his head to one side and parting the coon's lips with his tongue.  Not eager, but firm just the same.  The paw on his rump gripped harder, and he ground against the fox without trepidation.  He eagerly accepted Phil's tongue into his muzzle, fighting back little squeaks here and there.

Phil kept the contact going even as his paws made their way forward to the coon's belt buckle, working it open quickly and following with the button and fly.  Then Brai's pants and boxers were down at his knees and that soft paw was pressing up against his hardness, cupping his sac and stroking his bunched-up sheath over the base of his shaft.  It trembled something fierce, but the motions were purposeful.  Brai wanted to say how good it felt, but he only managed a half-muffled murr into Phil's mouth.  Evidently, that was enough.  That, and the fact that the fox was hard again and humping up into his chest.

“I've never done this before, either,” said the fox between swipes of his tongue, “but you probably already knew that.”

“Coulda fooled me,” the coon panted.  

“Bed?”

“Yeah.  Okay.”  They moved as one the few feet over to the bed, where Brai fell onto his back and stretched this way and that.  Looking up at the yellow-and-brown fox who was watching him with hungry eyes, as if something had dawned in his mind in the past hour that hadn't been there before.  Maybe he was just a horny businessman, but Brai didn't think so.  He threw his shirt up toward the headboard and pushed his bags against the pillows, and spreading his legs to welcome the fox when he leaned down to touch nosepads.  Using his feet, he pulled Phil in closer by digging his heels into the fox's backside, and another deep kiss was born.

This time, however, Phil was more forceful.  His breath came less reservedly, and they shared it along with their tongues.  This is how Lafayette would kiss me, he thought, and he tried to imagine the lion's broad muzzle engulfing his (would-be) vulpine one, making him yip in bliss, his whisker beds tickling the sensitive fur of his lips.  But all he felt was Phil's muzzle, and all he could think about was the way Phil's body ground down into his, the way Phil's cock slid along his hole, and how much he wanted Phil's leaky tip to catch there and slip in.  The fox was certainly acting like he wanted the same.

Brai used the fox's momentum to spread his legs further, arching his back until gravity drew his knees down beside either side of his middle.  Phil now humped along the coon's crack, his tip sliding smoothly along the taut flesh, eased by his own fluid.  Perhaps not enough to get it inside, but Brai was going to try.  He had to break the kiss and bend a little to grasp the hard length, but Phil didn't complain.  

Unfortunately, Phil was already too swollen to attempt a tie, but that didn't mean he couldn't use the remaining shaft just as well.  Grasping the head with two fingers, the coon guided it to his hole and held it, as well as the fox's gaze, while looking as sure of himself as he could manage.  Though Phil was trembling, Brai felt the shaft advance, the pressure building as it slowly spread him open.  The fox watched him closely while he sank in, both of them surprised at the ease of it. 

“You okay, mon chou?” Phil asked in an affected Cajun accent.  Brai suspected it was an attempt to channel Lafayette for his benefit, but somehow it didn't fit.  And somehow, he didn't want Lafayette right now.  As cool as it would have been earlier, perhaps in a different situation, Phil still looked like a painted fox, not a lion.  And he preferred a real fox to a fake lion any day.  

Brai giggled softly, clenching around the warmth inside of him.  “It's cute.”

“What is?”  Phil appeared to be trying to maintain some sort of composure, but the coon could tell his hips were losing the battle.  Brai clenched again, making the fox grunt and splay back his ears.  

“Trying to act Cajun.  Except you're using Parisian French, and you're calling me a cabbage.”

“I know.  That's not right?”

“For Paris, not N'awlins.”  Phil pulled back some—just enough to make the coon clamp down again—and this time bottomed out at the swell of his knot.  “For that, you call me 'boo.'”

“Okay, then, boo.”

Brai shook his head with a sly grin, and licked the fox's snout.  “I don't want Lafayette right now.”

“Oh?  Why...oh...”  Seeing the understanding dawn on Phil's face had to be the best part of the night, at least thus far.  Seeing mild confusion turn to a hot flush, and that flush give way to a lust the fox had evidently been hiding all this time...it made him infinitely glad he was there right then, to be the recipient of all that emotion.  He didn't know if Phil had a story beyond this business trip, but for now nothing mattered except for his very full rear, into which the fox had begun an eager thrusting.

Brai clutched at the bedsheets to keep himself from hitting the headboard.  He watched the fox strain, his eyes screwed shut, the muscles in his arms and thighs twitching.  Every so often, Phil would withdraw almost completely, and the coon would get a glimpse of the spot where their bodies were connected.  The sensations threatened to overwhelm him, and he found his paw going to his own length before he had to force it away.  Instead, he settled for stroking the side of the fox's muzzle, at first just a touch, then a caress.  And he meant it.

“Nnnghh...”  Phil tried to say something, but cut it off with a choked gasp.  He held his breath, then let it out raggedly, only to hold it again.  Shifting his hips, he sped up and forced his eyes open, seeming to look to Brai for some sort of confirmation.  The coon just smiled around his lolling tongue, grasped his own shaft, and began to work himself to the end.  It wouldn't take long, and he wanted to time it right.  Only a few strokes in and he was already edging, his tail thumping the sheets below.  

For a man of his age, Phil wasn't ashamed to whimper when it came to humping things.  Every part of his body shook as his thrusts slowed down, but just when Brai began to assume it was over, the fox collapsed onto his chest and jackhammered through his climax in short bursts.  The coon hoped for a bite to the shoulder, but strained high-pitched panting was just as good.  His paw had just enough room to carry him over the edge as well, the shots wetting the scant space between their chests.  Pretty perfect timing.

Brai rested his calves above Phil's tail as he waited for the fox to gather his breath and thoughts.  The  shaft still pulsed, mini-thrusting though Phil had stopped moving his hips.  Now it was the coon's turn to ask if the fox was okay.

“Yeah,” Phil whispered.  “Gimme a sec.”  

“Just don't pull out.”  The fox nodded into Brai's neck.  Outside in the hallway, the party music had all but stopped.  Brai still heard voices, but they were the voices of tired people struggling to get to their rooms so they could get a few hours' sleep before the convention officially started.  

It hasn't even started yet, he thought.  That little bit of reality gnawed at him suddenly, bringing with it a multitude of questions, the answers to which he didn't want to think about.  Not in this moment, when he stroked his paws along the painted fox's still-heaving sides and felt the last few shots of seed before the fox started to soften up.  It withdrew of its own accord, both of them groaning when the head popped free.  Phil flopped over onto his back.

“That was different.”

“Welcome to CrossCon,” Brai said, smiling.

Phil rolled onto his side, propping his head up on one elbow.  “I doubt that's a fair thing to say.  I walked around this hotel all day seeing people decked out in costumes and harnesses, and I still wouldn't assume it's all about sex.”

“Guess I wasn't as sarcastic as I meant to be,” Brai replied.  “For some people, it's the only reason they come to the con.  Other people try to avoid it altogether.  I...like it when it happens.”  That was about the scope of it, too.  Except it happened more often with fellow congoers rather than mundane hotel guests.  Not that he was complaining, not one bit.

“Nah, I get it.”  Phil's paw alighted upon Brai's chest and rubbed, the fox apparently unaffected by the presence of cum there.  He lightly traced his fingers over the coon's navel, brushing along the ridge of his sheath.  “Never thought I'd be the type to wanna do that.  Any of it.  Do you get that a lot, or am I the first one?”

Brai flexed his sheath against the fox's fingers, firming up a bit when they grasped him.  “This is kind of a first thing too.  Not...not a first time, but you know.”  He hesitated, then decided he couldn't avoid the Big Question forever.  “You don't snore, do you?”

“Yeah, you can bunk with me for the con,” Phil chuckled.  “Thanks for taking the pressure off me to ask.”

“You were really going to ask the same thing?”  

“I guess I was.  I think it would be interesting to find out more about this fandom thing.  Looks cool, from what I've seen.  And not because of this,” Phil said, squeezing Brai's covered cock.  “More curious than I ever thought I would be.  Go figure.”

Brai stared down at his sheath, and the bit of pink he was showing again.  “I've never converted anyone before.”

“I wouldn't call it conversion, at least not yet.  You're just one person.  Though, by some standards, this already makes me gay.”  Then he licked the exposed tip to prove his point further.

“Pretty gay, yeah.”

“Oh well.  Just a word, anyway,” said the arctic fox.  “I just know I'm having a lot more fun than I ever expected to.”  

That made Brai feel just awesome.

Not long after the “conversion” talk, Brai began to doze.  He had been meaning to suggest a long shower, but when he felt the fox pull the sheets over them both, he opened his eyes to a dark room.  That was all it took to make up his mind that sleep would feel better than hot water and soap, at least for now.  He spooned up against Phil, who cradled him with an arm, and slept quietly.  Blissfully.

He woke to the same silence.  The morning sun was on the opposite side of the hotel, but plenty of light still streamed in through the cream-colored curtains.  Warmth flowed from the air conditioner mounted under the window, and Brai was content to lay and bask in the pleasant quietude.  He only realized he was alone when he spotted the key card on the side table with a Post-It note attached:  “For you,” it read.  The awesome feeling returned, and with it, an honest-to-God churr.  How embarrassing that would have been if he hadn't been alone.

The Dealers' Room didn't open for another hour and a half, which gave Brai time for that long-overdue shower and scrounging up something for breakfast.   While he worked the shampoo into his face fur to wash away what remained of his fox makeup, he thought about a lot of things.  Foremost among those was getting to the tables he'd circled yesterday for his banzai commission run.  After that, going back to his old room and gathering up the rest of his belongings, and explaining his situation to Darl and Rav if they were there.  If not, well, they still had their money.  Brai doubted he wouldn't see them a single time the rest of the con anyway.

And then, it was pretty much an open schedule.  Maybe go to the “Canids for Dummies” panel in the afternoon.

After drying, brushing (he would have to apologize to Phil for getting raccoon fur all over) and cologning, he dressed, borrowing one of Phil's T-shirts.  Shouldering his satchel and clipping his badge to the hem of his shirt, he took his key card and left the room.

Those who straggled down the hallway and into the elevator with Brai smelled like a mix of old alcohol, strong cologne and hotel shampoo.  All looked hung over.  It was almost as awkward watching people sober up as watching them get drunk.  Brai was glad when the doors opened up onto the Ballroom floor.  Seven minutes to opening, but when Brai turned the final corner he couldn't help himself.  “Oh, fuck me.”

It wasn't Pre-Reg, but it was close:  the line at the door was just a mass of people, and beyond that those arranged in single file stretched around the opposite corner and for God knew how long.  If any of those people were going to the same tables as he, the coon stood no chance of snagging even a badge.  Brai ambled closer, trying to mask his disappointment.  Four cons down, and he didn't know any better?   

“Pex!”  At first, he hardly heard the word, but as he turned around his ear pivoted and caught it again.  “Pex Atero!”  

Oh God, people flagging me down already, he thought, but when the coon turned he saw a goldenrod arm waving above the huddle by the double doors that led into the Dealers' Room.  That arm was attached to a black Polo shirt, and that shirt was on a lion.  At least, a fox that looked like a lion.

Brai rushed over to the fox.  “Phil, what are you doing?” he asked.  “I thought you were at a business meeting or something.  You left me a card!”  The coon shook the plastic in Phil's face for emphasis.

“ In case you hadn't noticed, boo,” the fox replied in a deep Southern drawl, “I don't know nothin' 'bout no Phil character.”  He pulled the hem of the Polo up and showed Brai a registration badge.  CrossCon 2011.

“Registrant name, Lafayette,” mumbled the raccoon.  “Unbelievable.  You registered?”

“Lahn was short, did it about nine o'clock.  Was out grabbin some eats while you slept in, decided to take a look around.  This con thing might be fun after all, if'n ya know what I mean.”  Several people around them snickered, and Brai's poofed to twice its size.  He leaned in close.

“Okay, you can quit the Bayou talk.”

“What, I thought you liked a little of that,” Phil replied.  

“Not here!”

“Oh, I get it.”  More snickers, and a few looks.  Brai would have been mortified if he wasn't so surprised that Phil had not only registered for the convention, but left his makeup on and was parading around as if he were the lion.  Best of all, Phil was third in line for the Dealers' Room, which brightened the coon's mood exponentially.  

Phil said, “I'm sorry if I embarrassed you.  I thought it would be a nice gesture to get into the swing of things, as long as I'm putting you up for the remainder of the weekend.”

“When do you have to work?” Brai asked.

“A small meeting on Sunday, and another on Monday.  The rest of it is free time, really.”  

“Wow.  I want your job.”

“Believe me,” chuckled the fox, “you don't want my job.  It's far too boring for a creative mind like yours.  You wouldn't last a day.”  Brai felt the fox's arm on his shoulder, pulling him in, and then his muzzle rubbed up along the collar of Phil's shirt.  Not an affected gesture, but a genuine one.  He was happy.

“One minute to opening, people!” cried the chubby tiger guarding the doors.

“Thanks for putting up with me.”  Brai felt the fox grin, just by the movement of his whiskers.

“In my line of work, you get used to it.  There are very few things up with which I will not put,” said Phil.  “Like hanging prepositions, for instance.”  

“Wow...just wow.”  

The tiger gripped the large brass handle on one of the doors and turned it.  “Ladies and Gentlemen, CrossCon 2011 is now officially open for business!”  A flurry of cheers rose up throughout the hallway, and the doors came open.  Brai paused for Phil to show his badge, then grabbed the fox's paw and dragged him to his first stop, the fox asking bemused questions all the way.

“Was...was that a tentacle?”

“Most likely, yeah.”

“Hey, what does Silicone Solutions sell?”

“You don't wanna know.”

“What the hell is this 'Thor' I keep hearing about?”

“Oh my God, you really don't wanna know...”

1/23-3/17/11