Phoenix Maplewood i've a notion that poetry is the highest form of self-deception

he takes the flower with him, and as the relief fades he chokes down more. he only needs a few more hours, he tells himself. it will all be okay once he's had enough; he'll find absynthe again, he'll apologize. he won't do this any more. just a few more hours.
he wanders aimlessly and nearly stumbles into claimed territory, awareness striking at the last moment and sending him scrambling away. as he retreats, he chides himself, his steps becoming directionless and robotic. anywhere away from the pack. he can't get into trouble again, not when he's so close to getting better. just a few more hours. he slows to a walk, and he walks until his head feels too heavy to hold and his limbs drag as if he's walking upstream. when he can't walk any more, he half-collapses against a tree and lowers himself to the ground, eyes clouded. he drops the flower, and all he can do is breathe.

Truth be told, he didn't know what he was doing this much south of the Sanctuary. Zamael's master said jump, and he said, How fucking far down the map, boss lady? Teekon Wilds was sometimes devoid of any physics or even common sense, so if there was a wolf that usually kept close to home that was found suddenly with a yawning gap between himself and all he held dear. . .well, you know--

Okay, fuck y'all, Zamael just felt like exploring today.

The grayscale man slipped through the trees, the shadows cool and refreshing on his sun-warmed pelt. Breathing slowly, steadily, he extended into a trot, enjoying the feeling of confinement after so much open space. Didn't it usually work the opposite way? No matter--Zamael had always felt safer, in a forest. Anyone could mess you up, out in the clear.

But safe was situational, and he soon felt considerably less safe as he nearly tripped and fell over a bulky brown form, hunched by a tree. "Fuck--" he spat out, trying to regain his footing with a series of scrabbling motions before coming to a stop. He turned, irritated, glaring at the stranger. "What the fuck--" His eyes then lowered, to land on the flower at his paws. A stark red, against the earth.

"What the fuck," Zamael said, in a completely different tone. He tilted his head. "You okay, man?"

he doesn't stir until someone nearly trips over him, and his response is slow even then. a grey stranger; he notes that his eyes almost match the poppy at his feet. the cursing draws a snort from him, but he doesn't meet the other's eyes until he asks if he's okay.
"does it matter," he wonders aloud, tone bored and a touch disdainful. "whether i think i'm okay or not, i'm here, fucked up out of my mind and getting tripped over by nosy strangers. never seen rock bottom before, i take it?" it's far more words than he's accustomed to, and he finds his voice rough with disuse, a touch of his old accent bleeding through. he studies the stranger expectantly, wondering if he'll decide to be smart and leave unlike the last stranger to stumble upon him in such a state.

They said that no good deed went unpunished, and the man's response to his concern was certainly evidence of that phenomenon in action. Zamael scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. "Well, fuck you, too, dude," he responded. "First of all, you don't know a thing about my life, so before you go off about 'rock bottom' with me--"

He narrowed his eyes, looking down at the stranger. "I certainly wasn't sitting against a tree, drooling and out of my mind on poppies," he said scornfully. "But, whatever, your call, man." He rolled his shoulders, trying to rid himself of the stiffness from tripping so suddenly. Fucking ingrate.

it's not the response he expects, but it's what he wants. a slow grin spreads across his features, but he's silent until the man has finished, and the expression drops from his face. "you're right," he tells him easily, relaxing and settling farther down so he's laying half against the tree. "i'm sorry."
"there's a reason i'm at rock bottom, after all," he adds, self-deprecating and full of dry humor but without a trace of self-pity. he's not proud, either; he's just accepted it. he yawns. "i was the heir to a royal bloodline, you know. in a past life. fucked it up, though; i'm just that good. what's your deal?"

"My condolences," Zamael sneered, rolling his eyes. Really, so sad this guy was born in a king's bed and managed to shit in it. Very impressive. With little scenes like this, no wonder the dude had fucked up his life. All of these thoughts rolled through his head, but Zamael kept quiet, staring down at the man as he pondered the question thrown at him.

"What's my deal?" he asked, a little incredulous. "I'm not at rock bottom any more; if I was, I wouldn't have asked after your welfare. Who the fuck are you, anyway?" He was certain he had never seen this mongrel before, or perhaps he had just blended into the scenery, drab as he was. Zamael canted his head, fixing the man with a gimlet stare.