The Bracken Woods don't look at me

zamael's approach goes unregistered until he is being shoved from alarian, a keening noise ripped from his throat in feeble protest. how it must look dawns on him in slow unfurling horror -- the sticky feel of blood (alarian's) feels suddenly like a vice grip, but he doesn't get a chance to try to correct as zamael wheels on him, talking about nightshade. nightshade? it's familiar sounding, bringing vague memories of warnings from past lives about touching it.

it's only when alarian returns to him with quiet apology that delight makes the connection. "of course," he says numbly to the brother, though he doesn't really need the instruction. he winds himself as close as he can around his -- around alarian, rooted in place by the terrible scene before them, by zamael's hysteria. he doesn't look away, nodding mutely, unable to process the sudden switch in tone. 

his gaze is forced back to alarian, expression collapsing into sorrow -- for his friend, for having witnessed this. and those words! under any other circumstances would they sound as sweet. "i'm here," delight whispers, "i'm staying, i'm here, i promise." things he wants to say, wants to ask bubble in his throat like acid, laying flat under his tongue -- not now, not yet, right now there is only alarian and holding him and waiting for the storm to pass.