Bearclaw Valley of anthedon ◍

The cry of his kin vibrates through him, but he does not heed it. If anything it urges him to work his little mouth with more fervour. The wetness satisfies something on the tip of his tongue. He squishes closer and the warmth of his saliva liberally coats his brother's face. The suckling begins in earnest after that. Hunger does not drive him to this attempt of drinking but rather, comfort does. It comforts him to do the instinctual thing, to create that warmth, and to imagine the thick warmth of milk sliding down his throat. The curious noises of Astyanax are muffled by Glaucos' greedy gums, and he does not taste the sweet milk, it has been replaced by lukewarm brine-flavoured snot. Unpleasant.