Wainright Manor: Hunter R & Damian W
Hunter didn't think that much. He didn't have as much to think about. It was all bills and trying to make the money stretch, the question of heat versus water and rent versus dinner. He knew that his cousin was fucking rich, and he appreciated that Damian had tried to help him, appreciated with the kind of ongoing surprise that he still couldn't believe anyone would fucking bother, so Damian was in his good books and he, Hunter, didn't have to worry about him being out here at his mansion with Hunter's mom's last name.
Hunter appreciated the invitation to a neighbor's home, though, a neighbor who was family, and who had recently done him a favor. He brought with him a decent serving of beef stew that he had made the night before and was meant to last him at least three days. He had it in a throw-away plastic bowl was enough scratches to suggest he didn't throw it away, and in its turn the bowl was tucked into a canvas bag with the threads coming loose. This bag hung from Hunter's right wrist as he walked down the isolated lane, knowing where he was going and without wheels to get him there.
All three dogs were with him, and where he had started the journey with Cris' sweatshirt on, that was now in the plastic sack too, and Hunter was wandering in the center of his pack with a thin white undershirt that made him look like even more of the rangy coyote than he normally did, with the hollows between shoulders and collarbones deep and the lines of muscle clear across his skinny back.
He squinted forward across the driveway toward the elegant gate and slowed his step, detecting the silhouette waiting for him and reflecting Damian's exact feelings about the meeting just before it happened. Hunter couldn't clearly remember what his mother's face looked like, and so saw nothing he recognized in Damian's face, though he himself had something of the Wainright scowl in the eyebrows and the cheekbones. "Hey," Hunter said, when he was close enough to range close to the gate.