Blackfeather Woods thine azure sister of the spring shall blow

Zephyr was putting up walls. Maybe, if Taikon had been smarter, he would have been putting up walls too. Walls were the norm. Stay guarded, stay strong. Don't let anyone in. This just wasn't one of those scenarios. He remembered him, him when he thought he was a her, stranded, alone, confused, injured, bleeding. He remembered what he had said on the mountain in anger, in fear. He would not forget. He didn't want to.
Being faithful to Takiyok was easy. And some part of him knew that he just couldn't have it both ways. But when he had allowed Takiyok to choose him, to show herself and for him to see her fully, he hadn't meant to shut out the newcomer. Zooming out, it all felt silly. They didn't know each other very well. Zephyr knew so little about him, and Taikon knew only that Zephyr had been raised amidst a rough childhood and had seen horrors that none should ever have to go through.
"I'm just trying to protect myself."
And then, the truth hit him, and he stood there, dumbfounded, stupified.
What flashed before him was a future that would never be. The prince of nothing saw the silver boy, eying him not with caution and avoidance but kindness and glee. There was love in his cold, frozen stare. It was not what existed then, not really. But Taikon remembered that gaze from the mountain, he remembered the glimpse of warmth, of a summer's embrace and of devastating tenderness.
And so, Taikon nodded, slowly. The harm he felt surfaced as the welling of tears, but he refused to show them, turning his head away. We don't know each other, he said, trying to be cold, but his voice faltered as he said it. He wanted to say more, not to hurt, but to reconstruct the wall Zephyr seemed to want. Taikon didn't want it. It showed. So, what now? Do I call you Leader? Do I call you some title I can't pronounce? Do I never talk to you again even though I want to? He wouldn't look at him. He couldn't.
Takiyok meant the moon to him. But the moon was not everything. There were too many people to care about now, and one of them seemed to willingly reject such care. It burned. He felt it, harsh in his skin, breeding like a leperous anguish, deep within.