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There wasn't much reason for it in a house with only one child. Clawdeen was a very easygoing child, and rarely mixed her things up. Still, Apollo wrote her name across the bottom of her water bottle when she decided she wanted one just like his, and he sprawled it across the tag of her 4th grader coat since another girl in her class had one that was too similar.
That's where it ended, until she got older. Until her taste in extracurriculars shifted towards athletics. Suddenly everything was at a risk for loss; her cleats, her clothes, her everything. So he claimed them as hers, C-L-A-W-D-E-E-N-W, on tags and laces and the band of her prescription goggles. She never lost anything. Well, never again.
And then there was Clawd, a void neither of them could have fathomed, filled. And there was his taste in clothes, which was just as sporty as Clawdeen's. Apollo had little need to write on anything, though. Instead, he had Clawd sketch out the company logo for the pest control business he and Selena ran through the Beheme void, and he went to a seamstress Clawdeen recommended.
Skelita's Abuela created patches that Apollo sewed on wherever he could manage it. The edges tinged red by a new tailor with little clue how much force is appropriate for a needle, the logo stands proud on Clawd's shirts, on some of his jackets. Apollo managed to doodle it on the back of Clawd's athletic shoes when he picked out the same ones as Clawdeen for the new semester, and he made a human buddy of his make a golden keychain for his backpack.
That doesn't mean Clawd's clothes are devoid of his name, of course. His pajamas are still marked for him, and in an odd turn of events, Apollo starts labeling his own clothes after he realizes Clawd is wearing a shirt he was looking for. But for the most part, Clawd's things bear the name of himself and his mother. How else can he ward against losing it all again?
By gaining it back, of course. Selena: marching back into their lives, sliding right back into Apollo's arms, and staying put. Her name is sprawled across all sorts of things since her style is only slightly more fur-trimmed than her daughter's and her scent is too cling-worthy for her son and husband. When she notices, she just laughs, getting Apollo to write it across her gym equipment, too.
She doesn't laugh when night falls and she lays next to him, turning so he can see the writing on her upper arm. Apollo and Clawdeen, written one on top of the other in decade-old ink. Clawd written under them, barely healed.
"So I'd never forget what I was fighting to come home to." She smiles, and Apollo feels his heart shiver under the weight of her love for him, for their family. He'd gotten his own tattoo of her name when they were young; when he had just decided he was taking her last name after marriage, so why shouldn't he embrace her first name as well? And now they match, just like all of their shoes, their shirts. like they're hoping that becoming too similar will keep the world from tearing them apart again. Wishful thinking. Scared thinking. Treasured thinking.
And then, surprise surprise, Toralei.
Clawdeen brought home a stray, with a style all her own. But she has the same notebooks as Clawdeen and Clawd, the same basic gym bag, all branded for their shared Monster High. He sprawls all three names across them all; Clawd in an entomology notebook, Clawdeen on her dorm keychain, Toralei on the straps of her fearleading bag.
Toralei doesn't notice this development until she returns to dorm life. Until it's too late for her to hug Apollo over it. Until she's so unsure she'll return to the Wolf house that she doesn't feel comfortable calling him about it. But she traces her name with the tips of her claws whenever she's waiting for her turn in the locker rooms. She thinks about the effort it would take to track down all of these little things just to claim them as hers. And, of course, she thinks about the fact her mother would just buy her a replacement when she worried about losing her things as a child.
She returns to their house the next time Clawdeen offers, pouncing on the opportunity like a warm mouse. And when she shows back up, there's no need for her to muster up the courage to mention the writing or how much she appreciates it. They can all tell, and let her know by settling a fifth chair at their now-cramped dinner table.
She sits with them, and them with her, and there's nothing more to say.