The Sentinels alphonsine

The sobs which racked his body now came silently, and his face melted like smooth room-temperature butter. He held his face with his forelimbs at first. They grew damp quickly, and gradually the boy shifted from one coiled position to another, but could not find a comfortable way to lay and to grieve. Perhaps that was to be expected. He sighed in to his fur, breathed a fresh breath, and thought numbly of Lasher — which brought a new wave of sadness and weight upon him. Breath hitched in his throat when he felt the presence of another, and while Renoir was stilled for a moment, he tried to relax against that buffer of warmth and familiarity. He raised his head slowly, his eyes red-rimmed and filled with anguish, and he looked upon Deirdre as if she were the ghost of the man that he loved.

When seeing it was the girl, he seemed to startle. To draw back. He raised his chest and braced his torso above the flattened plant life that struggled to grow beneath him, fueled by his many tears, and turned away from her, ashamed and embarrassed by his very private display. Deirdre - he murmured through the thick sadness inside of himself, but could not find the energy to finish the thought and form further words. He watched the soil beside him and avoided her, intent on keeping his sorrow contained and distanced from her.