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A Lot Crazy

He's always a little crazy with the full moon. Always. Maybe not just a little crazy, maybe a lot crazy. But Peter is determined not to let it get to him. He's sitting in his chair determined not to let it get to him. Determined. Crazy. But determined.

Lucius loves the full moon, Lucius feels powerful and savage and pure when the full moon shows in the black night sky. Peter doesn't understand. Lucius says it's because he's not a pureblood, but Peter thinks that's bullshit. Peter thinks Ma and Pa O'Conall did a good job brainwashing their son.

He is sitting in his chair clutching at the arms while Lucius all but howls at the full moon through the wide glass doors leading to the balcony.

"Just... stop. Sit still," he says, through clenched teeth. Lucius is driving him crazy. Maybe he's not crazy, maybe Lucius is crazy. "You're driving me nuts."

Lucius sits. Immediately. It's weird and sort of scary. Lucius looks angry, but that's not what's scary.

"No wonder. We should be out there, not in here."

No wonder. It's the full moon, and he's a werewolf. No wonder at all. "I said I don't want to argue about that any more."

He's grinding his teeth, and his jaw is aching because of it. But he won't let go of those chair arms. He's scared, you see, of what he'll do if he lets go. He gets scary. Even Lucius, he thinks, would have reason to be scared, even though Lucius wouldn't ever say so. He's scarier because he's crazy, and Lucius is not. Lucius may rip down a stag as easily as a big dog kills a baby rabbit, but Lucius never is out of control, except maybe when Peter's got him all worked up. And then Peter's in control, so maybe that's why Lucius can lose it. Just a little. Who's to control Peter now, though, now that he's going crazy while the full moon burns him?

"Can you close the curtains?"

"You'll still feel it." Lucius is scowling. Closing the curtains is sacrelige to him. To him, the moon is a good thing.

"Just close them." Repeating himself. Doesn't like repeating himself. His left eye twitches. He's losing grip on the right chair arm. "Lucius."

Lucius jerks the venetian blinds shut with a series of angry, short pulls on the controlling chain. Peter can tell that he's getting ready to rant. The very tops of his ears are slightly pointed, and the little point is turning just a little red. Plus, he stinks of anger, a spicy smell, like crushed peppercorns, anger.

Peter licks his lips. Underneath that, there's a hint of something else. Slightly sour... making his nostrils flare, his nose wrinkle just a little. Lucius is going to challenge him again. Lucius is slightly afraid. The chair arms are sweaty under his palms, and his right hand feels like it's going to slide off if he grips any harder, like squeezing a slippery melon seed between his fingers.

His teeth are clenched so hard he can't separate them to talk. "Don't do it," he just says, between his clenched teeth. "Don't say it."

"I just--"

"Don't."

"But--"

"Lucius."

"Fuck that, Peter. I'm saying it. Let's go. Outside, it's in your blood, Peter... Stop hiding. Or I'm going outside, by myself, wolf, the way it should be."

Before Lucius, Peter never wanted to control another person, never cared to give orders, was happy enough getting them. He trailed after his old buddy Jackson Rayne long enough, didn't he? And listened to whatever Jax said. Hell, he still does.

But with Lucius, it's different. Alpha, Lucius calls it, calls him, when he's not too busy being pissed off about it. When they first met, and Lucius said, "Of course, the strongest of the Pack is Alpha," implying that Lucius of course would be Alpha. But they fought, and Lucius lost, and now Peter cares about Alpha. Something in his blood cares. Lucius is his, his to look after, his charge, his Pack.

There are always challenges, in a Pack, and the Alpha has to teach the challengers a lesson. Lucius learns the lesson a lot, these days. Lucius wants to be Alpha.

Peter's hand is slipping off of the right chair arm, so he squeezes harder.

"You're not going anywhere." His teeth are still locked together. "Neither of us are."

"I have to go." Lucius is full of nervous energy, watching Peter like he's preparing for an attack. He takes two more steps towards the door. "Have to. So do you. You know..."

"Lucius." They argue like a couple, he thinks, and sure enough the next words out of his mouth are, "You walk out of there and you're not coming back."

Lucius flinches. Peter knows the words hurt. Lucius could leave, anytime, but he never does, even though he hates Peter being Alpha. Lucius lost his family, he has no friends. Peter is frustrating and easy to hate, but at least he's *something*, at least, that's how Peter always figured it had to be.

"That's pretty shitty, Peter," Lucius says. "Pretty fucking shitty." But he hasn't stopped walking, he's still moving, eyes on Peter but his mind on the door.

Fear. Is that fear he feels? Lucius is still walking and Peter feels afraid he might actually do it, might leave and not come back. Over something so silly, something like the moon.

But Peter shakes his head, and realizes, no, it's not that. This is just more challenge, more posturing. Lucius is the one who's afraid, who's pepper-scent anger is streaked with an increasingly sour taint. Lucius doesn't want to be forced to leave. Peter sees Lucius's reflection in the glass, between the still-swinging slats of the blinds, and sees how slowly he stalks towards the door, how each step is dragged by conflicting thought.

Then he sees himself, and he recoils. He thought he was watching this calmly, but in the moment before he registered that he was seeing himself, there was anger and possessiveness, almost poisonously so.

Also, his hand. His hand has slipped into his lap. He has let go of the chair arm. It's making him panic. The moon glimmers at him from between the blinds and he panics. He lurches to his feet, spins, sees Lucius's hand on the door.

And then he is across the room, lunging, spitting, some emotion gripping and lacing through his body like cold fire, slamming Lucius into the door, face against the wood, claws dug into those bony shoulders.

"Don't you dare," he is roaring. "Don't you dare."

Lucius is shaking, but the hot smell of anger overrules the sour smell of fear. He is angry. "I'll do whatever I want."

"I am your Alpha," Peter growls, and he realizes he's never really said it outloud before, never cared so much about it.

"Fuck that," Lucius says, trying to shove back, to shove him off. But Peter fights for a living and Lucius has been half-starved for months now, and it's futile.

Peter is laughing, and then Peter is snarling, and then he has a mouthful of Lucius, he is biting the back of Lucius's neck, his mouth full of the hot rich blood of Lucius, spicy with anger and sour with fear. Lucius cries out, mostly in surprise; Peter knows instinctively that what he has done is a pup thing, a humiliating thing, but with his teeth half-changed and their bodies pressed together, it is something else too. It is exhilarating, it is delicious, it is sensual. He wants more, wants to rip Lucius apart, bury his nose into the heat of his insides. He is lapping at the oozing wound his teeth have made before he realizes he has forced Lucius down on to his knees. There are five heavy scratches in the door's paint where Lucius tried to resist, one hand clawing feebly for some purchase.

"You're a crossbreed." Lucius sounds so hateful. "You don't know how to be Alpha!"

"Then, you my friend," and in his own ears, Peter sounds hoarse, unlike himself, a little (or a lot) crazy, "are nothing but a crossbreed's bitch."

He grabs Lucius by his wounded neck and flings him back face-first against the door, moon-crazy, his blood burning hot, traps Lucius with his own body, his own face in Lucius's coarse dark hair, inhaling deep and hungry: scent of copper overlaid with sweet and sour, like lemons. "Oh no," Lucius is moaning and Peter doesn't know if he's disagreeing with the comment, or merely disagreeing. But his body is as primed as Peter's, hard against his hand, but Peter's not interested in that. Peter merely has his hand there to tug down Lucius's zipper, to make it easier to pull his pants entirely down.

"Will you leave me now?" Peter is saying, "Will you leave me?" He is regretting what he is doing even as he is doing it, but it doesn't matter, too late, already done. He is buried in Lucius, hurting Lucius, and even though he knows he has to hurt Lucius he is regretting it. Lucius is gasping against the door, not fighting back any more, and the little noises he makes are so confused that Peter can not be certain if he is crying or pleased or both or something else entirely. They have mated before, but always nicely, pleasantly, never on the full moon. Because everyone knows, when the full moon is out, Peter goes a little crazy. He is not pleasant or nice now, his nails gouging pale skin, his hips slamming Lucius's up against the door. But the smell of Lucius's sour fear is so nice, so nice, and he finds himself lost in it, rumbling deep in his chest.

A gasp and moan disrupts him; Lucius shudders, and for a moment Peter thinks he has achieved some great pleasure from this. But Lucius has merely banged his arm too hard against the doorknob, and clutches at it even as Peter ruts mindlessly behind him. The sight of it makes Peter stop, and for a moment they freeze like that, joined body to body in dominance play while Lucius nurses a hurt elbow and Peter nurses a hurt sense of right and wrong.

Peter wants to run back to his chair, to clutch the chair arms, to pretend that his mouth is not full of his friend's blood and that he has not just violated him in the most intimate of ways. But he cannot make himself move, either to finish them both off, or to flee. He merely stands behind Lucius, who clutches his arm and makes the softest curses under his breath.

"It's alright, Peter," Lucius says then, even though he is hurt and hurting, even though his cheek is turning quickly purple. "'M not going to leave. I swear." He hesitates, then adds, "Alpha."

Peter's face goes hot, and he pulls away, pulls up his pants, runs. It's a small apartment so there's not much room to run, but he runs, he runs until he is in his bathroom, locking the door, staring at his face in the mirror. He squinches shut his eyes, covers his ears, blocks out thoughts of the bright silver-dollar moon. Silver. He throws open the medicine cabinet, sends bottles all over the floor, moans when he finds it. It burns on his hand, burns when he fixes it around his throat, makes him feel so ill that he immediately crumbles down to his knees and throws up into the toilet. Silver, a silver cross, to ward off the devil inside. He's never been Christian, but it reassures him all the same.

He hears Lucius outside the door, knocking, pacing. "Peter," Lucius is saying. "Peter..!" He does not sound angry or even afraid. He doesn't even sound hurt. Peter is confused; Peter clings to the silver cross even as a fresh wave of nausea comes over him.

"Peter, stop being so fucking selfish!" Lucius screams, hammering the door with both fists, but Peter will not go out because he is afraid to hurt Lucius any more.

Eventually Lucius goes, and Peter is afraid he has gone for good, but he cannot make himself go out and see. He lays on the bathroom floor and moans, regretting that he cannot see the silver moon with its full belly up above him.