The Proof – part 1

!Explicit mature content!

A film school student learns that werewolves are real and one of them is living in the same city. He decides to study him and use him to make a documentary about them. So he rents a flat and the equipment and sets himself up in the flat across his, where he can easily observe without being seen.

000

First time Storm heard the term werewolf was, of course, in a children’s book. They all read the stories of this and that and throughout our short lives they went through metamorphosis from ugly monster to compelling champions of the good. There was so much fiction among the reality, that to take one as a research object, proved to be easier to film than to put together the accompanying informing material.

Storm found one – Abramov. At least he thought he did, but Abramov… Well, he wasn’t really hiding. He lived like every other man in his small flat with his boyfriend and watches TV after work. Storm thought his boyfriend never learned, who Abramov truly was, there was always some sort of a wall between them.

Storm knew from the start how disconcerting this entire en devour was, so he did all the preparations in silence. He rented a flat for three months, for he guessed a quarter of a year would make the ideal time frame, and it would also be the utmost time for post-production. He got the equipment and set it up and at first he guessed this would be all. And for two weeks it was. He spent the time sitting there, observing his movements and waited something to happen. He knew it was hardly enough when after fortnight he was still waiting. It was then that he had to tell someone, had to get at least few of his friends involved, because he needed someone to go and on whatever excuse get the cameras installed in Abramov’s apartment as well.

Abramov’s boyfriend was home when they arrived. The boy, and that’s how Storm would think of him after that encounter, was too observed in his own phone to look up or even check their IDs. It was disappointing how easily they were let in to check at the smoke detectors without any fuss. His friend had worked with installing firm couple of years back and had no trouble removing and replacing the detector with extra features. Storm felt bold and set a small figurine he’d hid in his pocket on the bedroom corner shelf where a lot of similar figurines of different abstract forms were already taking up space and another similar one in the living room by the TV, looking straight at the sofa. He had prepared the figurines, but he never told his friend about those.

When everything was set, his friends joined him for about a week to check on him every now and then, but then they all returned to their own projects and he was left alone. At first they tried to make him see reason that what he was doing was delusional and his obsession with werewolves was ridiculous at best. That if he got caught, he’d face jail.

He decided soon that Abramov had quite fixed routine. From bed to breakfast to work and back, dinner, cuddling with his boyfriend, routine sex and then sleep. Sometimes he’d jack off in front of TV without his boyfriend when the “boy” had already gone to bed. Those scenes he watched at first with his face hidden behind his fingers like a teenager before realizing what he was doing and forcing himself to take a step back, not get hard by the peepshow and take it as part of documentary movie. Like the ones in animal channels – and without more input the Bloodhound Gang began echoing in his head.

Except everything wasn’t fixed. If Abramov was caught in the routine, then his boyfriend had flexible schedule which often included another man coming to their apartment and them having long conversations. The man was gone always by the time Abramov returned. In those times Storm was glad he’d not got audio. He hated to think on what he couldn’t hear and although he knew he had no connections to the subject, as he sometimes still called Abramov, he imagined it to be hard to look him in the eyes if he did. Those were the nights he spent alone in front of the TV and they were increasing in number. Storm knew, for he kept a diary in his laptop.

He nearly had the chance two days later when he’d gone to sit on the balcony late in the night to get fresh air. He knew by the clock that they’d be up for another four hours and since he had gone to classes from early morning, he was exhausted. Coffee wasn’t helping, but chillingly cold weather would do the trick he hoped.

He was leaning over his balcony’s edge, his hands behind his ears as he stretched his neck when he heard their balcony doors open. His eyes shot up and without thinking he sank behind the edge of his, failing to notice the obvious – it was made of toned blue glass. He watched, mesmerized how the sounds echoed in the almost silent playgrounds between them.

Abramov had opened the door, as if searching a moment away from the fight they’d began inside. His boyfriend followed, still listing off reasons why their relationship didn’t work. He leaned on the balcony edge and observed the small bushes below instead of looking at his man standing only inches away from him. He looked tired, but oddly quiet, like accepting whatever the man landed on him.

Storm felt sorry for the wolf. He found it odd he still called him that despite having not a single proof to state otherwise. Full moon had come and gone and he had returned later than usually, but that was the only change in the routine. He listened quietly, waiting for the screamer to finish.

Suddenly he saw Abramov take a deep breath and his face turned, searching for the source. He stopped on Storm crouched behind the blue glass. His eyes locked on him and no matter what his boyfriend said, he never looked back at him and let him get it all out. Eventually the boy stopped, he tried to get his attention for few more times, but failing, he turned and went back inside. Storm could see from his sitting place how he grabbed a big suitcase from the bedroom wardrobe, went through the living room and out from the front door.

His eyes darted back on Abranov, who was still staring at him up from the second floor to his fourth. His lips quirked upwards and he gave him a small jest of hand, waving to say hello. Cringing, Storm pushed up and forced an awkward smile, waving back. Then the man got up from the reeling and went back inside. Storm did the same, but he couldn’t lower his heartbeat as he returned to his computer to watch the incoming camera feed.

Two days later he found himself face-to-face with Abranov in the around the corner supermarket. He pulled out carrots one by one from the cart when he felt someone reaching over his hands and take a bag of them from the cart next to his. He jumped, recognizing the sleeve of his jacket, a long simple spring jacket tailored to go with his casual style.

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