SIGHS bc i have to listen to that song now
tag for ref
It's been far more difficult than he'd anticipated, resisting the urge to run off after Zamael. He's returned to his isolation with a vengeance. Sleep has been fleeting, and though it's only been about a week, it's already taken a toll. He tries to find solace in @Delight's company and to an extent it works, but he's wary of being clingy, so he doesn't often let himself have that.
Most of the time, he just stews in his thoughts. It's a bad combination, and he'd known that from the start, so maybe he shouldn't be wondering how he's found himself here. This isn't home, and it isn't keeping his promise to Delight either. But it's not far — he can always turn back, once he's sure Zamael isn't anywhere near here.
Except, Zamael is near. His scent drifts to him on the wind, and Alarian freezes. He doesn't know why, but he's rooted to the spot; he can't even turn to look, to see if he's somewhere in sight now. For some reason, it occurs to him to turn back. He still can — he can go back to the Sanctuary and pretend it never happened, and maybe Zamael will end up back over the borders or maybe he won't. Maybe it doesn't matter either way.
He doesn't turn back, but neither does he move to find his brother, caught somewhere in the middle and unable to wrestle himself one way or another.
He watches Zamael approach, watches his odd expression, and he doesn't move. His thoughts are tumbling too quickly for him to grasp any, so he doesn't say anything either, not until his brother comes close enough to speak himself. His ears pin back briefly, then slowly rise again.
Yeah. Sure,
He says dully, and turns away toward the Sanctuary. He's not sure if Zamael will follow; he's not sure whether he hopes he does or not. There's a deep, cold ache in his chest, and the words replay in his mind — just sort of got caught up in sightseeing. It's fine, then. It's all fine. Zamael was just sightseeing and it doesn't matter anymore — not the worry, not the fear and self-loathing, not the fact that he'd considered abandoning everything all over again, or that the decision not to had more or less launched him into a full-blown identity crisis.
No, it's fine. He'd just been sightseeing.
He'd half-hoped Zamael would at least follow in silence, but that's not the case. He persists, and as always, Alarian crumbles under the slightest pressure. But this time there are no flood waters behind the dam; he feels like a dried up husk, tired of feeling at all and sick to death of being wrong for it. He stops abruptly, pausing a couple beats to compose himself enough to face his brother.
I thought you were gone,
He says as he finally turns to him, finding his voice surprisingly level. That you'd left again or gotten hurt — or killed.
He pauses again, oddly focused on his own breathing now. The first time, I didn't think twice about leaving. I didn't this time either, until —
It doesn't matter. You're back now.
He starts to turn again, but a sharp pain shoots through his skull where the fresh scarring lurks under his fur. He pauses, sucking in a breath; it's the stress, he knows, but it's more than the stress. This will almost certainly trouble him more in the future, and the knowledge is just another burden he doesn't need.
He can't say anything as Zamael's words cut into him through the haze of pain in his head. His breath catches a little, and it takes all his effort to hold in the tears that finally appear, drawn up slowly as if from dry desert floor. He blinks and they're gone, if only because he doesn't have the energy to cry right now.
I — what. Delight has thought,
He says slowly, haltingly. That I've been avoiding him.
He swallows hard. I'm sorry, alright? I'm sorry I'm shit — that I can't pay enough attention to you, or anyone else apparently.
If his head would only stop aching so horribly, if he wasn't so tired, he could move — he could leave, run because that's what he does best, do some sightseeing himself. Instead he stays rooted, suffocating. I'm just tired — all the time. I'm sorry.
He doesn't know what else to say; he doesn't have the energy for anger or tears right now, but he knows this wound is deep. The blood will come later, he thinks.
Nothing Zamael says helps; maybe it's not meant to. But he can't quite comprehend his last words, and in his confusion he bursts out laughing. It's a tired, strung out laugh; humorless. The tribe? What?
He takes a breath, laughter suddenly gone. In its wake, a frigid tension permeates the air around them.
You can't be serious. You ass—
He can't breathe. He takes a step back, dizzy, then another — and finally he finds it in him to run, because he doesn't want to know and it's expected anyway. Old habits die hard. He doesn't stop until the familiar walls of his den surround him, and he doesn't care that it's an easy, predictable place to find him. Right now he just needs to breathe.