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Under his skin, he can feel it. A prickling awareness that the moon is waxing. It's a feeling he can never scrub away, despite the urge.
It's coming—he's sick inside with dread, knowing the chaos that awaits, inevitable and eternal, every month like clockwork. The rest of the time, he tries to stay neat, clean, orderly. Under control.
In a few days, he'll be helpless under the inexorable pull of the moon.
But something in him anticipates it, longs for it. It's… an honor, to channel Her sacred power, to be Her vessel. To be something greater.
As She rises in her white and perfect glory, round and full in the ink-black sky, he walks through the silent field, and drops to his knees as he can't keep upright any longer.
He frantically unbuttons his shirt, folds it, and sets it in the grass. He knows he'll be upset to find it wet with dew and stained out here later, but right now, with the night breeze caressing his skin, he's less and less inclined to care about any of that as the seconds rapidly pass. At least he thought to leave his glasses inside.
He's giving himself over, slowly but surely, his breaths coming faster and harder. When he inhales, the rich scents of the night fill his nostrils; his mouth waters with his hunger for innocent blood. He feels Her light bathing his bare skin, feels his mouth changing, his teeth growing bigger, his muscles painfully expanding as he grows larger, more powerful.
But it's good, his body sings with it; he tosses his head back and howls to the sky, and as his thoughts streamline and distill into the instincts of an animal, a beast, he feels wild and free and pure.
Glorious.