The Bracken Woods it's better to burn than to fade away

He isn't thinking about Delight as he presses closer— he isn't thinking about anything but warm fur mingling with his own and teeth through his fur. A shiver races down his spine. This isn't awkward. He opens his mouth to ask for reassurance of exactly that, then pauses. Oh no. Maybe he is thinking about Delight.
Wait, He chokes out, frozen to the spot. Now he can hear his heartbeat, can feel it in his throat. The contact between them is suddenly suffocating. He swallows back a wave of nausea, instantly disgusted with himself all over again. I— I'm sorry, I can't— I shouldn't.
"Us is— us is good, I think." floats back to him, taunting, and he swallows again. He's slow to detach himself, eyes shining with rapidly-gathering tears; they do not spill. Fuck, I'm— I'm so sorry. It's all he can say; the rest of the words stick in his throat and fester there, and all he can think about now is Delight.