Blackfeather Woods the more i feel, the more i feel

The distance between them was closed, but not closed as far as Cicero would have liked. He had missed Damien more than anything else in his absence from the Woods — in both their absences from the Woods. Cicero longed to lay his snout along Damien's neck and nuzzle the soft fur behind his brother's ear. Longed to fall asleep beside his brother and finally rest easily again, he hoped, with no nightmares of the dark beast that slumbered inside.

Upon Damien's question, Cicero thought darkly, Sheogorath. Of course, he would not say this, for Damien would instantly know that something was amiss if Cicero used a reference to himself to signify the problems. Some secrets were better kept, and Cicero preferred for no one to know of his second identity, the involuntary beast that at times reared its ugly head. Neither did he want Damien to know about his encounter with the white wolf, for shame befell him when he but thought of it. It should have been Damien instead.

"Cicero did not see his face," he said, which was the unfortunate truth. Sheogorath may have seen the wolf and might know of him, but Cicero had not seen anything of him but his behind as he walked away after casting Cicero (or Sheogorath, perhaps, if the two had ever even exchanged names) aside like a worn out rag. As for Damien's second question, he easily answered that one, for he knew what Sheogorath had attempted. "Cicero tried to gather Kove's daughters, but the one he found was too stubborn to follow him to Blackfeather." She had come or would come eventually, he knew, for she had said she was looking for the Woods, but had not wished for his aide in finding it. It did not matter much, and this was information that Damien could know.

Cicero longed to reach out and touch his brother, but he witheld from the physical contact. He had not touched anyone much at all since his return — since the white wolf — and this was the first time that he longed for it. But at the same time he feared it, still feeling touchy after what'd happened. Cicero did not want to roll into casual conversation, truthfully; he wanted to be close to Damien, lay with Damien, but where he had always been brazen and confident in his actions before, convinced of their true love, Cicero now found himself tip-toeing about, disgusted with what he had done, and disgusted with his fear for the touch he so craved.

Their conversation remained ever short, for soon Damien was off once more, leaving his brother hankering for his presence once again, left hanging, uncertain, the beast broiling inside and longing for the culmination of their love. Yet he would need to wait a bit longer and so he was left alone with nothing but his thoughts again.