Wild Berry Meadow yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,

A storm of emotions from the boy, bright at first yet quickly dimmed to deep thunderous grey-purples. Grief. His words are secondary to the emotions rolling off of him like dark clouds, though they register somewhere in the mix. Enough to know he's right, to learn the enchanting boy's name. Euros, He repeats, stepping even closer, into his personal space now. His voice drops even lower, barely above a whisper. You're upset. It isn't a question. He reaches out to touch him, to press his nose to the boy's cheek, then further, drawing his muzzle past his ear and then down into his scruff if the touch is allowed, embracing him as if that might chase away the grief coloring the air around him.