Silvertip Mountain i like your eyes wide

He wandered through the night restlessly, guided by the moon's pale dim light; the boy did not seek company. The gentle rustling of the wind called to him, sweeter than any song. The Mayfair desired the richness of silence, solitude. Feather-light, he drifted under the cloak of darkness with a searching gaze. What he sought, he didn't know just yet— perhaps that was the beauty of this night, in particular. Anything felt possible.
The mouth of the cave beckoned him as surely as any might have guessed. Ever a creature of intense curiosity and naivete, Cortland only hesitated a few beats; with that, he crossed into the darkness. To his relief, the cloak of shadow only seemed to surround the immediate entrance. Within, the light of the moon made itself subtly known. The cave glittered and glinted— he could not have known, but he witnessed only a ghost of the cave's daytime display. The discovery nonetheless dazzled the sunset boy.
Sucking in a breath, Cortland moved to delicately nose at one of the shallow crystalline pools. He watched ripples dance across the surface, silvery under the moon. The boy had never regretted his solitude before, but— oh, he wished @Phocion were here. Surely the male knew of this place, he thought, but still there was no other he wished to share the moment with.

He'd followed Cortland from a distance, a ghostly specter in the trees. He understood the boy had a right to privacy, and he wouldn't make his presence known unless Cortland noticed him. Tonight, though, he felt lonely. He'd shared this mountain once with so many others, and there had always been someone to talk to or hunt with; he'd never suffered for lack of company. Now, if Cortland wandered. . .he felt utterly alone.

It was with widened eyes, then, as he watched the golden Mayfair child slip through the mouth of the glittering cave. He'd been there several times, each time more magnificent than the last. He saw the place often in dreams, steeped in moonlight and rainbows. It was peace on earth, like nothing he'd ever seen before.

Unable to hold back any longer, Phocion trotted the slope to the cave and entered, giving a gentle chuff to Cortland as he stepped into the glow. He weaved nimbly around the pools, shimmering with silver, and pulled up next to the boy, eyes fixed on the crystals.

"I missed this place," he remarked softly, his gaze hazy as he saw things buried in the past. Niita, the beautiful snowy girl. He'd thought he loved her, once, before he'd yielded her to Steady. 'Course, Steady went on to marry someone else anyway, and then died. Grayday--so troubled, in the moonlight. The man led his own pack, now, and had a huge family.

Things had changed, but the cave remained the same, a stalwart reminder of where he had come from--and a promise of all that could be.

"I once said it was better in the sunlight, and perhaps to some it is," Phocion mused, mouth twitching wryly. "Those who do not know Fengari's peace are blinded by Ileana's fire." He dipped a paw into the pool, watching the ripples circle out, endless tiny waves, gleaming. "It is silver, here, and perfect," he murmured, looking up to Cortland. Staring into his face. "Your eyes hold the same shine," he breathed, the smile growing more genuine upon his lips.

As if conjured by his thoughts, Phocion's scent surrounded Cortland only a few beats later. He breathed it in, perfectly still, and his heart skipped. The boy turned his head with a faint smile, argent eyes searching his friend's face with unabashed adoration; if he was meant to feel shame at the open admiration, he was blissfully unaware. His gaze softened with the stark male's words, and briefly he reached to brush his nose along his jawline. The touch only lasted a moment.
The golden druid-child still possessed some hope of calming the strange flickering within his chest— he found that hope immediately dashed as his friend continued. Silver, and perfect. Heat spread under his fur, rising in his face and ears. Oh. Cortland breathed, tone betraying his shock and delight. For several beats, time seemed to slow; he met Phocion's gaze, parted his lips to say something— but nothing came. The cave glimmered around them, charging the air with an energy he could not describe. Words had abandoned him once again, and Cortland fell back on a language more familiar to him. He pressed his flank to his the ethereal priest's, nose finding the place where his jaw met his throat. The boy placed several brief, feather-light kisses there, breath catching slightly at their proximity.

The touch startled him. It wasn't as if Cortland hadn't touched him before, but this seemed different, more intimate, a far cry from the casual friendly brushes they'd given each other. He shivered, fur prickling, and bent his head to run his tongue over the side of the boy's ear, resting his chin upon the top of his head. He stood on the tips of his toes to do so, looking both at peace and slightly uncomfortable.

"Tell me a story," he murmured gently, throat vibrating against Cortland's skull with each hushed syllable. The words came without warning, and they weren't necessarily appropriate--but Phocion found himself spinning so many tales these days that he yearned for the days when others would speak, and he would listen.

He knew much about the moon and stars, and farther back in his history, the crash of waves against the sea and the dawning of a sunrise upon the mountain. He knew much about all these things, and he knew that Cortland must know about things he had little knowledge of. He wanted to draw that knowledge from the boy, and if the newfound trivia came wrapped in the honeyed voice of his dear friend. . .well, it would be all the better.

Heat spread through him again, wild and untamed and hopelessly electrifying; he closed his eyes, a muted purl falling from his lips as he pushed his muzzle gently against the slender hollow of Phocion's throat. He moved only when his friend made his request, turning slightly without breaking the embrace so that he might speak. If only the words would come to him, he thought. A brief silence fell.
I will... tell you my favorite, then. Cortland decided softly, self-conscious. The moonlit priest told stories with an eloquence and passion he feared he could not match— but he would try, as he recounted this tale, to do it some justice. Another pause, as he found the words to begin; In some places, the veil separating our world from the world of the spirits is thin. Fragile. Some say terrible things have happened in these places— or great things; some call it chance.
There are many stories about these places, but my favorite is of Zoran. A bastard, abandoned to the sea by his jaded mother; it's told he was saved by a spirit, some long-drowned soul bound to the ocean. Again, he lost himself to the story that had enchanted him so long ago. It felt strangely like being home. The spirit raised him for a time, and grew to love him, but it could not be that way forever— he began to wither, slowly becoming a spirit himself. So, the night of a vicious storm, his savior cast him out— drove him from the shores that had become home. And he was lost, for a time.
The boy paused, realizing with some excitement that he was coming to his favorite part of the tale. Zoran wandered, searching for his home— broken, bitter; for years, he was alone in the world. The child became a man, a druid of great magick and wisdom, drawn always to the ocean. After some time, he found love— bore children. He carried his emptiness with him always. The sunset Mayfair's tail twitched— so close! He was old when he found his home again; the same as he remembered, but different. The druid found no trace of his savior. For many moons, he returned each night— and found nothing.
Finally, his anguish became too great. He lowered his voice now, softly leading to the tale's conclusion. One clear, moonless night, Zoran cast himself into the waves, perhaps hoping his savior would appear once more. From the sea's embrace, he did not return; none can say if he found his beloved spirit again.

It sent a thrill through him, to hear Cortland acquiesce to his desire, and his ears cupped forward as the boy began to speak. A favorite tale. . .and those who told their favorite tales often did so with such fervor. He cuddled closer to his friend, their bodies sharing heat in the cool cavern.

"A bastard, abandoned to the sea by his jaded mother." Phocion shivered, a ripple moving down his throat as he swallowed. He was a bastard, and though his mother had not abandoned him--if one did not consider death as abandonment--he had found solace by the sea, after her departure. Spent his formative moons there, the hum of the waves constantly in his ears. He stepped into Zoran's paws quite suddenly, feeling every word drum against his heart.

And how dreadfully sad, to never find your soul. This story ended in tragedy, death before its time, a futile leap to the sea--and all you had ever wanted. But who could fault him? Who lived a fruitful life forever missing part of themselves, searching in vain?

"Zoran. . ." Phocion began, a few beats after Cortland had finished speaking. He closed his eyes, suddenly overcome with sorrow, his cheek sliding down 'till his face was cradled in the hollow of the boy's neck. "None can say. . .for sure. But what do you think? Do you think he found his savior again?"

The white priest drew back, looking at Cortland with misty eyes. "I would like to think so," he whispered, one corner of his mouth lifting in the barest approximation of a smile. The glittering walls caught his gaze, and he stared off absently, still transfixed by the story. "Thank you," he breathed, barely audible--though it was so quiet, you could have heard the wings of a butterfly.

It hadn't seemed possible, but his affection for his friend grew as he proved attentive, invested. The priest's touch kept him slightly breathless; he thought he might never get used to it. Ignoring the warm flutter in his chest, the Mayfair studied Phocion for a few beats before he answered him. His voice came soft, lilting; I hope so— but to me... that's the beauty of it,
He didn't know if he would find the spirit— if he would be saved again, or if they would be reunited in death. Maybe he never did. Cortland paused, slightly overcome himself. He knew he could only dream of such a love in his own life; he yearned fiercely nonetheless. But he was willing to take that risk.
The sunset boy sighed, distant and dreamy; Love is more beautiful in stories. There was no disappointment, no bitterness to his words; Cortland spoke not from experience, but based on assumption. And, well, the fact that he himself had yet to experience anything quite so... intense. He nuzzled into Phocion's cheek gently, breathing a soft Of course, before he turned from him, putting a couple of steps between them. Some unknown feeling drove the action— an unclear but strong certainty that something would happen if he lingered too near. Not something tangible, but within himself— something he wasn't ready for, perhaps.
Though... he shot a single glance towards Phocion, half-hoping the male would close the small distance. Whatever strange thing he thought would happen, Cortland knew part of him wanted it. His gaze fixed, then, on the glittering cave walls; he still remembered clearly the last time he had done something he thought he shouldn't.

He gave a gentle shrug of his shoulders to Cortland's opinion, smiling. "Yes, I suppose it does seem like that, a lot of the time," he murmured. "When I was younger, I used to think nothing would compare to the words falling from storytellers' tongues. Even the love I found paled next to the epics, the legends."

The white priest drew close to the golden young man, resting his head gently between the Mayfair's shoulder blades. He had never been this physically affectionate, with anyone else before. He didn't know what in Cortland brought it out in him. All he knew is that he wanted to be near him, to touch him--and he didn't want the touches to ever stop.

"There was an old wolf, in my past tribe, which was called Mikros, for the star that is small but mighty," Phocion said softly, his mind lazily wandering back moons. "But this man, he had no name, or at least no name he told us. No, the only one who knew his name was his mate for life.

"The nameless man told me that the first time he met her, he felt his heart leave his body. And every time since, he found it in her eyes. 'And who but the keeper of my heart,' he told me, 'has any right to my name?'" He sighed, feeling slightly weepy. "She died before him, of an illness that takes many in their old age. His last words were to her, after she passed; he left us just a few days later."

He ran his muzzle through the thick fur at Cortland's nape, stepping close to run his body along his friend's. Silver and gold, silver and gold. The moon and the sun, all at once. "His last words were, 'She has died, and my name with her. Now I am no one.'" Phocion swallowed a sob, the memory of the man as vivid as the day it had occurred. "It was then that I realized that life can be--and often is--even more beautiful than stories spun from fantasy."