Swiftcurrent Creek Like a moth to the flame we become helpless

@Alessia ❤ — Outside of Swiftcurrent Creek's borders. Afternoon.

Jean-Pierre grew bored of this routine after the third time, but he admits to being stuck in his ways. Habits die hard, they say, and he is living proof. His most recent ousting is due to Mary keeping a tightlip over the fact she wasn't single. She loved the attention this cute little blondie gave her, so why ruin the fun? Of course, her husband turned red in the face the second he finally realized her little secret side-piece. Let's just say, Jean-Pierre is glad for his long legs. He's always been good at running.

So next stop on the list is this seemingly cozy plot of land; rocky, unstable—the footing, he means. Jean feels at home already. The sky is overcast, it's midday by the time he decides to wander close enough that it might irritate the owners. He sits pretty on their doorstep, and inhales a breath of winter air. Time to start the routine all over again.

It is a familiar scent on the breeze that draws her toward the borders, though she scarcely trusts her own senses. She'd only caught a hint of it, really, faint enough that it could be a trick of the mind — but the sliver of a chance that it could be true is far too tantalizing to resist. Stranger things have happened, she's certain; what were the odds, after all, of ever truly finding out what had happened to Lainie? So she heads for the borders, trying to keep her itching paws from moving too quickly in pursuit of the scent. Keep your cool, she reminds herself, feeling a little stupid about the whole situation, but —
But then she sees him.
And then she loses her cool.
JEAN — It comes out louder than she'd intended, and she halts in place, voice faltering as his presence registers fully. Her brother. Here. She'd never imagined he would leave Spiritlight Falls, let alone come this far — and what is he doing sitting at the borders of her home? What — what the hell are you doing here? As the last word slips from her, she's reminded suddenly of her condition, and her own gaze drops briefly to her swelling sides. She sucks in a sharp breath and turns her gaze back to her brother, swallowing hard as her eyes heat in an infuriatingly familiar way; tears. Of course she's crying — that's exactly what she needs right now.

All he has to do is release that breath into a call, learn about this place and see if the Alphas will accept—

Routine snaps. His heart seizes. All at once memories flood in from a different time; when getting up in the morning was easy, when teasing words of girlfriends lingered on the tip of his tongue. Rough housing and messing around and having fun were the only list of objects to worry about. He freezes where he is; sitting there with red eyes widened, staring down a figure so familiar and yet so strange. There are little features about her that are different, but he recognizes the others just as quickly.

Lungs fester, burning until he is forced to remember how to breathe. His name is shouted, she halts just out of reach. Jean-Pierre could, in theory, shorten the gap but if the man has forgotten how to function with air, then his legs he's so fond of are out of the question. Alessia? Ah, yes, vocal cords. Those work... sorta. I... 'Could ask you the same thing,' dies unspoken. 'I looked for you, for months.' Jean-Pierre wants to laugh. How ridiculous it is that the past comes back just when he's given up on finding it. The gap of their absence must have been too long, for before him, his sister who he's seen cry only so few times breaks down. (He won't question her current state, not yet.)

Borders be damned, legs find their feeling once more and Jean strides over to her with quick steps. His nose gently attempts to nuzzle her left cheek—his chin presses to his own chest—and he tries to brush his forehead to hers. I found you, he whispers, red eyes squeezing shut. I missed you.

Her racing heart stumbles frantically over itself as she watches recognition bloom over her brother's pale features, vision blurry with tears. She lurches forward as if to rush to him, only to find herself hesitating as her name cuts through the air, stopping abruptly with one paw half-extended. She sucks in a breath, finding the sound of it almost painful. The achingly familiar lilt of his voice hits her forcefully, sending her spinning briefly to a place long behind both of the siblings: Spiritlight Falls. Home. The sweet scent of summer flowers and meadow grass, the cool spray of the crashing falls, the sound of her sister's laugh and Rosalie's sweet songs.
The memory fades after a moment, but her brother remains, as real and tangible as the trees around them. Her own hesitation quickly becomes irrelevant as Jean chooses to close the distance between them himself, and she only has time to take another breath and close her eyes before she feels the warmth of his touch. The proximity clears the air from her lungs in an instant, and for a breath she almost feels choked by his scent, overwhelmed by relief and nostalgia and joy — and a deep, cutting sorrow. I found you, he says, and her eyelids tighten together against the stinging warmth of tears, because she knows that she cannot be the only subject of his search, that there is one wayward sister he will never find, and she does not want to tell him. She does not want to be the one to inflict this wound on him — not when she knows the way it bleeds and aches in the quiet moments, the way it nags and stings at the slightest touch, the way it threatens to unravel her in her most vulnerable moments. How can she put the same knife through his heart that had nearly been her own undoing? Jean, She repeats through her tears, voice thick and halting with emotion. She leans into his touch with a deep, ragged breath. Jean, I'm sorry. There's — there's something I need to tell you. Lainie — She can't make herself say the words at first, struggling over the confession until finally she forces it out clumsily in their father's native tongue, voice breaking and dissolving into a desperate whine. Lainie is dead.

Jean-Pierre finds himself suspicious of this fateful reunion; his distrust stirring underneath the surface, nipping at his ankles for attention that he ignores. It is only when she overwhelms his senses that he lays in the palm of Fate's hand. The silken feel of her coat; the familiar lit of her voice; the scent that is the same, yet different all together. Alessia. This is real. It is not his mind playing cruel tricks on him again; showing him images of his long lost family. He could always see them from a distance, yet no matter how much he tried to interact, it was as if they slipped right through his finger tips. His embrace dodged time and time again. Yet now, here they are; reunited against all odds.

The blond boy feels his heart clench, sorrow and pure happiness mixing to create such conflicted feelings. He feels guilt for not going with them when he had the chance. All he can do now is beg silent forgiveness with gentle kisses, trying his best to ease the tears she cries. Jean-Pierre balances on a tightrope, swaying in the wind above emotions he wishes to hide in a void below.

He is ignorant to the fact he is not alone on the tightrope. Behind him is his sister, grasping hands desperate to keep from plunging further into the abyss. Jean-Pierre hums softly, pressing into her just as she utters his name and leans into him. Of course his mind races, questions of varying from the life Alessia has lived that he missed to the innocent hope that this meant Lainie and Rosalie were here too, just behind the door of Swiftcurrent Creek. He knows something is wrong when she starts again, scrambling to hold the knife that hits him square in the stomach with. His ears fold, and the once Heir crumbles again. Body trembles in her hold, his hindlegs refuse to carry his weight and force the lone wolfdog to sit.

'You're lying,' he wants to accuse. No matter how cold Alessia can be, however, Jean-Pierre knows she would never joke about this. His lips part, hanging open with words he finds himself unable to say. For what can he? Nothing can heal the loss; nothing can bring her back. He hates himself all the more, because over the time they've been apart, he found himself struggling to remember his sisters' faces... Now he'll never see sweet Lainie's again. A choked sob escapes his parted lips and Jean-Pierre forces his mouth shut with an audible click of his teeth. There are no words he can say, so the boy does what he does best; he hides. Burying his face in the dense coat of his sister, he weeps.

'Lainie, I'm sorry.'

The conversation that follows is difficult, painful even — but it feels freeing in a way, after so long. The relief does not last long. Hours later, when all has been told, her brother flees, and she wonders if he will ever drop the habit. Regardless, she finds herself alone once again.