Phantom Hollow it's a dangerous business, going out your door

He melted into the touch, forgetting for a moment the newness of their friendship. Warmth coiled in his chest as he listened closely to the tale. Cortland had always loved stories— true or not. It wasn't the boy's place now to question the authenticity of this; the emotion was genuine, and he committed each name, each word to memory. Of course, he wasn't certain how he felt personally about endless night— his introduction to a nocturnal schedule had thus far been rough.
Cortland thought then that something must have happened to end the night— something terrible, because Phocion spoke of the time with such longing. How could a lovely thing end but in something terrible? He didn't ask then. Briefly he was frustrated, knowing he didn't know what to say again. He listened, though; he watched attentively until his friend admitted his own desires and quite suddenly there were words— without warning!— spilling all too quietly from his own lips. You will.
He could not say how he knew— perhaps he didn't know. Minutes passed; the Mayfair lifted his muzzle and turned his head away, glancing briefly at Phocion from the corner of his eye with an unreadable expression. Then his gaze was sky-bound, and he wondered at his own place among it all. Since he had left his family behind, the feeling of belonging to nothing had crept in until, almost overnight, it quietly dominated his identity; the emotion confronted him with piercing teeth as he considered his friend's story. It held a certainty, a peace in knowing he found himself deeply and intimately jealous of. Another sigh left him, and he turned back to Phocion to push his nose into the other's pale fur.