Sleeping Dragon Crackjaw

Crushes were frequent things for Alarian— he rarely acted on them, but honestly, guys were just really cute. Though he had not thought him particularly handsome at first, he couldn't help being taken in by the red-eared male's easy, if a bit youthful, charm. A shy smile curved his lips for a few moments before he tucked it away, chiding himself. If he still possessed the boldness of his own youth, he might have pursued the male. At his core, Ali was kind of a hoe; it was really a blessing that he had zero confidence.
That doesn't sound lame, He offered softly, resisting the urge to pry. Stories sounded interesting— and the drive to put the weight of experience behind them was kinda hot. Even if Ali knew that experience was just a measure of how many times life made you its bitch; from experience, of course.
Alarian was admittedly a little relieved when the male dismissed the idea of checking out skulls; skulls didn't sound appealing right now. Or ever, really. Briefly he wondered if his father's skull was still in that tree— wondered what it looked like, without the flesh and fur and blood. Probably less ugly. Patricide aside (heh), he just didn't want to know if they had really died up there. The invitation, though— that gave him pause. Of course, his first thought was that it meant something, because he wanted it to. He tempered the thought just as quickly.
Yeah, He agreed easily, unperturbed by the lack of name exchange; it would be nice to steal a little more time with the stranger. The boy rose and stretched briefly before he gestured in the direction of the river he knew ran through the valley and started that way. Have you had much luck, then? Putting faces to the stories.