He doesn’t wake up.
Not once throughout the impossibly—inhumanely—long night does Frosty ever actually wake up.
He moves, of course. Because of fucking course he does. He follows Daighre like the world’s shittiest tracker, shifting, shuffling, and snuffling after him in his sleep like a puppy to its mother.
He wasn’t impressed.
Not when the sun was just starting to rise, and he had yet to get any sleep.
He gave one last pitiful attempt at moving away from the grey lump at his side.
Unfortunately for Daighre, the wraith is intent on sticking close to the source of warmth. When he feels the contact break, he immediately rolls closer, on his back now. The warmth has returned, and he settles once again, head turning to one side to bury his face in golden fur. The scent is all wrong, stirring him slightly, but he's not fully awake yet.
He felt movement beside him—
And tensed at the sudden, abrupt sensation of a cold wet nose being shoved into his shoulder.
He growled, then. A low, rumbling, warning noise from somewhere deep inside his throat. And for what felt like the umpteenth time that now fading night, shuffled away. His head rested on his forelimbs, and he turned pointedly away from Frosty, his ears pinned back displeasedly against his head. His hackles bristled along his shoulders and the back of his neck.
Fucking Frosty.
There is, sadly, no escape for Daighre. It only takes a few moments for the lack of warmth to register again, and another half-beat for the coywolf to end up glued to his side again. He shivers slightly as he presses closer, tail tucking against Daighre.
And just when he thought he found peace? Frosty went and fucking ruined it. Again.
“Oi!” He snapped. His tongue pressed tight against the backs of his teeth and he snarled, his hackles raised and bristling. “Frostfuck, fuck off.”
His demands didn’t fall on deaf—or sleeping—ears and Daighre watched as he shifted away, silent and shameful.
He rolled his eyes.
Rose slowly onto his haunches.
Tired did not even fucking began to describe how he was feeling.
And yet, here he was.
“You finally up now, Frosty?” He sneered. He did hit his head pretty fucking hard, just last night. And shit, maybe he should have at least tried to clean the blood now caked and crusted on his face. Whatever. It’s not like he couldn’t take care of his damn self.
Consciousness creeps back over him in stages, bringing with it a reminder of the ache in his head, the blood dried in his fur. He stirs to the sound of Daighre's voice again, still hostile. Why hasn't he left yet? Yeah,
He grimaces slightly, shifting. By the time he gets on his feet, his expression is as neutral as ever. Wariness of his own vulnerability drives the movement, along with a growing suspicion. He still doesn't remember how he'd gotten here, but he's starting to think Daighre had something to do with it.
He wasn’t acting right.
Why the fuck wasn’t he acting right?
He narrowed his eyes. Studied him for one second, then another, and then, finally, not a single second extra. He huffed. Looked away. Looked back.
“You gonna be alright, Frosty?”
Weird. Daighre isn't supposed to care — either today is opposite day and Zephyr missed the PSA, or something strange is going on. He blinks, glancing up with unfocused silver eyes, a far cry from their usual predatory sharpness. Yeah,
He repeats, sounding more than a little like he isn't all there. Truth be told, he isn't.
There it was again, that one word, that one spoken syllable. ‘Yeah.’ Spoken without inflection and without meaning and worth absolutely fuck all. And for some really strange fucking reason, he didn't believe it. Weird how that worked.
“Uh huh.”
He huffed.
Looked him up and down. Saw nothing but some too small, absolutely fucking annoying, now covered in his own drying blood, runt.
“You fucking sure about that, short stack?”
Not that there was anything he could really do if he wasn’t. Hope for a quick death? Fuck if he knew.
If he had more energy, he would wonder why Daighre cares — he might even have found the motivation to rage about it, to start another fight between them. But he's tired, and all he wants is to go home. Wouldn't change anything if I said no,
He answers, gaze drifting away from Daighre, toward home. I need to go tell my family that my mom is dead.
And then deal with them. That's all he has energy for — there's no room left for Daighre or this interaction.
‘Wouldn't change anything if I said no,‘
And—
Fair enough.
He tracked his eyes, for just a moment, watched their slow, sluggish, stuttering movement and his blown pupils. And then, finally, no more than half a beat later—
“You go fucking do that, Frosty.”
He needed to fucking sleep. Frosty dying be damned.
There's a pause between Daighre's words and his own response, a brief apathetic silence. I will,
He says when he finally speaks, settling again, realizing Daighre isn't going anywhere. And Zephyr isn't in any state to start traveling again yet — so he might as well rest. He lays his head down over his paws, closing his eyes again, and tries to ignore the blood dried in his fur and the chill seeping into his bones.
He stared for one long, unblinking second.
And then another.
Until, finally, he thought, fuck it.
He laid on the ground, curled up with his back to Frosty. And just as his eyes drifted shut—
“Don’t fucking try anything.”
Daighre's final words leave him unsettled, paranoid for some reason. He knows how the male had intended them, but it makes him worry about leaving him to sleep alone like this, out in the open. He isn't sure why he cares. He just does.
So he lingers, putting enough distance between them that Daighre won't be able to hear him pacing. But he keeps the blonde in sight, restless, waiting for him to stir so he can truly take his leave. It's a weird time to grow a conscience — or maybe it isn't that at all. Maybe, selfishly, he just doesn't want another wolf's blood on his paws, however scant and indirect.
Hunger gnaws deep within the feline, nagging, relentless. It colors each movement; perpetually the stalker, the hunter. It is not a hunger of the flesh that plagues Mania, but a hunger of the soul, one born with the predator. It will die with them, too — but first, it will take many with it. They remember their last trip into this land so clearly, the sweet parting of golden fur and fragile flesh, the scent of a pup on that unfortunate wolf they'd felled in the west. Sometimes they think about the young one, about visiting. They never do. Instead, Mania's endless hunger has driven them into the mountains, searching for an easy meal. They do not expect it to come in the form of a sleeping wolf — an unimpressive blonde figure, a pale imitation of their first kill in these wilds. The nostalgia is enough to draw them in. Silent and predatory, Mania approaches with a practiced precision, drawing up from the rear of the sleeping wolf. A pause, and the hunter leans down to sniff at their quarry, a chillingly casual inspection meant to both rouse the wolf and inspire fear. Yet for all their grandeur, Mania remains tense, light on their feet, ready to spring into action at the first sign of movement. Wolves are dangerous, after all, and that is what makes the hunt so thrilling.
At some point, Frosty left.
And at some point, Daighre fell asleep.
It was a shit sleep, too light and almost dozing. Somewhere between worlds and unrestful. And yet, he tried.
It was disturbed only when he heard the quiet, catlike movement of paws. Felt a nose, cold and wet and foreign, brush against his fur. And he felt the telltale moisture of breath on his skin.
He huffed, sleepily bared his teeth, a corner of his lip half raised—
And batted at the nose with his paw.
“Fuck off, Frosty.” He mumbled; his eyes still pressed resolutely—doggedly, determinedly—shut.
His paw touched something decidedly not wolf—
And it was then several things happened.
He heard the hurried movement of paws and dull nails on ground. His nose smelled the distinct, overpowering scent of not wolf but instead cat. And his eyes flew open. All in time for him to recoil and get the absolute shit smacked out of him by an oversized paw and sharp claws.
Fucking Frosty.
Pain blossomed across his face, sharp and stinging, and blood welled from the rivets.
He watched as Frosty—goddamn, fucking, Frosty—launched himself at the cat and caught it by the scruff of its neck, throwing it off its warpath for but a moment and in turn batting at him with a single outstretched paw. He stumbled, backwards. And in turn, Daighre, on his feet, dazed, angry, hurt—
“The fuck you go and do that for, Frostfuck?”
Because obviously it was his fucking fault for somehow getting them both involved in such a shitshow.
His hackles bristled and his stance was low, prepared, at the turning animal.
He doesn't even hear the words. His attention is centered on the fleeing cat, watching with bated breath. It turns again, and his heart stops for a moment. This time the creature goes for Zephyr, quick as a bolt of lightning, and he takes off. He simply picks some direction away from Daighre and runs. He isn't even sure which one. All he knows is that the hellcat is following — because he can hear it hot on his heels as he runs, gaining on him slowly. It will take some time for it to catch up, but it will, eventually. By then, they'll be far out of Daighre's line of sight.
Frosty took off running into the night, his short legs no doubt working fucking overtime, and behind him followed the hell spawn that was the cat, hot on his fucking heels.
“Oi! Shit-for-brains!” Daighre called, after them.
Was it directed at Frosty? Was it directed at the mountain lion?
It was a mystery, and it would be one for the ages.
“Where the fuck are you going?” Come back.
And when he didn't—Daighre left.