Flycatcher Downs if i ever leave, i could learn to miss you

alamar? his voice is muffled by the weasel in his jaws, tight with pain but wavering slightly with relief at the sight of his companion. it feels odd, running to him for help; it's been a long time since he's done that, even with something as small as this. but he'd promised to try. he winces as he moves toward @Alamar, heavily favoring his bloodied left foreleg, and drops the twisted weasel at his feet. i-i tripped over a rock... asking for help — that's a weird one, awkward and unfamiliar, so he avoids it. this is already foreign territory, a tentative first step forward. and after spending so much time forcing this kind of care on him, surely alamar can manage filling the gaps here.

head lifts from the curled position the petite hybrid managed to curl himself into—uncharacteristic for him who prefers to stretch outward, awkward long limbs flexing and tossed in every which direction. the discomfort he feels reflects in the closed-in posture, yet alamar untangles himself soon enough.
he’d dozed off, missed the part of jaime’s lone hunting expedition that resulted in the blood that drip drips from his forearm. the drapery across his back bristles. an accusation sits on his tongue, facial expression pinched in what would’ve been expected to come—yet a breath is exhaled, a reminder stirring in the back of his mind.
alamar gets to his feet, stay still, a whispery tone passed, as he draws in near. blue eyes inspect the injury, and his cold nose a bare brush away. it is far from the worst of which jaime has dealt with—and despite the limb and agitation, alamar knows he’ll be just fine.
i’ll make a poultice for it, when they can find the herbs necessary, spring makes it easier than winter had, but these lands are new just like the ones before. for now, just… keep it clean and rest. blue eyes shift upwards, a silent command and plead all in one. he shifts forth to go about cleaning the tender wound, careful in the administration of his licks and gentle nips on the areas farthest that have been stained.

it comes so naturally for alamar. he's grateful, but jealous in an ugly, gnawing way, a way that makes it hard to keep his residual bitterness locked away in its little box. the lid jumps, loosened. why wasn't it easy when i wanted it? he smothers the thought, shoves it back in the box, sits on the top. it's time to move on. he's always been forgiving; it should be easy here, too, especially since it seems so easy for his companion. but maybe it isn't about forgiving anymore.
thank you, he tries to focus on alamar and his gentle attention, on the pain in his paw, anything to keep from wondering if he's defective. no matter how hard he tries, he can't make it feel natural anymore. it's always stilted and shy, half-reluctant and half-terrified. forgiveness might be easy, but closeness is hard, harder when you've been burned so many times you still feel the flames against your skin in the quiet moments between. it's overwhelming sometimes.
but that doesn't mean he doesn't want it. he presses his nose briefly to alamar's crown, letting the silence stretch. for once, he's a good patient; still and compliant, tolerant even when the cleaning stings. eventually, he remembers the weasel, glancing at it as he speaks again. the weasel is for you.

a magician—alamar hides his secrets; where jaime sees an ease as if adaption is a simple flip, the storming is shifted instead from the edges to the center. stored and blocked and ignored. denial a face that alamar is too familiar with—a friend, a lover, the intimacy of denial is kept close to his heart.
it would take one minor step to crack the fragility of their shift; the conversation that began with bellowing screeches that set the forest floor alive with the mirroring disturbance of a wave of birds had hushed into communication that alamar never thought he’d get from the boy. the boy who ought to not forgive the monster that fucked his life from the beginning.
alamar tosses for days after; desiring that he’d been better, that he could have come up with a finality that would have sent the lone, precious follower scrambling away from him forever—yet the broken look on his face, the shatter of rejection every fucking time he’d been too weak to see it crumble even more.
he hates that part of him more than anything. in the end he’s so wrapped up, so chained and twisted and sinking into denial that he shields it with words like responsibility. that even if forgiveness is never a possibility, maybe alamar could feel a weight lift from broken, tathered shoulders.  
Crack.
the touch to his crown brief enough that it oughtn’t have frozen him—but it does. alamar halts in his movement, a breath held, a tremble tempted to make itself known. composure kept by the sheer luck that the press is short. the ghost of it still lingers.
oh, he casually shifts, dropping a glance towards the corpse. cool, thanks. alamar goes back to cleaning the wound, until the worst of it is gone and the bleeding has slowed.

silence yet again, but this time jaime finds himself drifting. the touch is comforting, despite everything. his eyes close, and he relaxes — until it stops. unexpectedly dismayed, his eyes flutter open. can we... um, will you stay with me for a bit? um, stay close, i mean, it isn't smooth, but he never is, and this is another first. they've never been in a place for mutual affection; he doesn't even know if alamar wants it.

his jaw opens, flexing and clenching—it clicks shut a moment later. eyes pinch at the corners, eyebrows drawn up and then down. before the incident, this would’ve been a normalcy that alamar could reject without second thought. now it lays down on the table before him with nowhere for the morales to run.
sure, he settles on, swallowing the wad that forms in his throat. except they likely aren’t on the same page, nor chapter, perhaps not even the same book. you should get some rest anyway. alamar beckons with his muzzle, pointing towards the spot he’d been laying in just prior—likely still warm. his own attention fixes on the weasel.

his nerves fray again with the response, leaving him uncertain whether alamar truly wants this, or if he'd even understood. he complies silently nonetheless, knowing he won't have the courage to question it or try again. at least not right now. he curls up in the spot where his companion had been, trying to comfort himself with the lingering scent and warmth there. it's almost the same as being close to him.

he bends and licks at the fur upon the prey, going about deshedding to devour what little morsels he could from the weasel. more often the morales would fake eating his fill, to force upon the majority towards the younger—caring in his subtle ways that jaime remains oblivious to, to which alamar prefers.
blue eyes lift up, watching him follow the suggestion and curl much the way he’d been prior. except he goes about bending the leg he’d injured and alamar is quick to catch it; straighten out your leg though, he urges. discomfort could irritate it more.

he listens, but not without a soft huff. the pain of bending it hadn't bothered him much more than what he's already feeling, but he knows it isn't good for it. still, he hates when alamar gives orders like that; he usually listens, but he hates it. seeing him eating the weasel softens his annoyance a little bit, though; it's always a relief when his companion doesn't reject his gifts.

an instinct to rebel is something the two of them have in common, but jaime follows through—just making his annoyance known with the soft huff radar ears catch. alamar replies by sticking his tongue out at him, his nose scrunching up in exaggeration.
following the motion, he picks up the weasel and approaches, setting it in front of him—a common enough habit that jaime knows what to do after.

he can't help thinking that it's stupid, but the playful expression has an undeniable effect on jaime. his heart skips and jumps into his throat, cheeks heating. a moment later, his gaze drops, suddenly shy. the remnants of the weasel are a welcome distraction, despite the urge to argue that alamar should finish it himself. he's too flustered to deal with arguing right now, so he continues his uncharacteristic streak of obedience and finishes the weasel without protest. it's starting to wear on him a little, actually; he feels tired already.

maybe he would’ve given in to the urge of his lips to quirk upwards if it’d been easier between them, to actually wear a smile again after what’s felt like so long—but alamar is content to resist for now, and allows neutrality to mask him again as he goes about delivering the rest of the weasel to jaime, who remains oddly quiet and going with the flow of things. there isn’t any lip back, and alamar almost misses the bicker.
drawing away from jaime, alamar reclines to a colder patch, feeling the exhaustion settling in his bones again—he’d been dozing for a reason earlier. restful slumber continues to elude him, yet he doubts he’ll get much even now with the boy injured.

and then he finally finds out he'd been misunderstood. the realization settles on him like a brick in his chest, crushing his lungs in an instant. he tries not to let it hurt, tries not to let it show, but his heart has always bled easily and far too visibly. he'd been hopeful, despite everything — but he'd messed it all up with his awkwardness. his gaze settles on alamar for a few moments, sad and weary despite his efforts to hide it.

blue eyes meet teal after alamar finally settles into a position that he deems comfortable enough—far from his usual outlandish stretch. what he finds is an expression that reads “kicked puppy”, expressing hurt and sorrow beyond words. alamar stares back, eyebrows tucking downward again—dumbfounded why jaime is looking at him like that.
it takes him back to tossing the pup aside, a cold shoulder given and the shattering that fell after. he wants to ignore it, wishes he could, but his heart resides on the sleeve that jaime tugs at. a wordless pull—gentle enough that alamar knows he’s testing him.
what’s up? the long silence finally broken.

if wolves could sweat, he'd be sweating bullets as alamar looks over and frowns. he knows he isn't the best at hiding his emotions, but that doesn't mean he can't try — and fail, apparently. his eyes widen slightly when the other speaks, gaze falling. he has no idea what to say.
unfortunately, it's times like these when the boy is prone to rambling. i... i um, aaaaaaaaaa. it's just, before, i meant... um. it doesn't matter, though. i don't want to, uh, make you uncomfortable or anything. what he does want is to sink into the ground and disappear forever.

jaime has a tendency to ramble when he’s nervous, frantic and all over the place. the nervous energy comes off him in waves, thick enough that a knife would bounce off it. alamar can sympathize with the hatred of being backed into a corner.
he holds in a sigh, watching as jaime tries to become one with the ground. if you won’t get upset if it does make me uncomfortable, then i’ll hear you out—since it seems like it does matter. you’re giving me puppy dog eyes.  

honestly, it's his way out more than anything — so when alamar presses the matter, he feels only dread. he doesn't want to bring it up again, to face rejection directly, to lie and say he won't be upset while knowing full well that it would hurt more than anything has in a long time. but of course he can't get out of this easily.
when i asked you to stay close before... i meant, um, closer, it tumbles out all at once, without his permission, and his gaze flicks up again. he's embarrassed, but he doesn't take it back; he'd have ended up forcing it out anyway.

spilling out all at once, alamar is oblivious for a heart beat. then the light switch is flicked on, the understanding comes, and the canine feels a prickle of unease creep from his toes.
he’s in a tug-o-war, smashing back and forth like a war of soccer moms. alamar glances to the side, gets to his feet and approaches. they’ve been close before, alamar held him blood-crusted and crying, tucked him close and groomed ever hair until the exhaustion wore jaime into an empty slumber.
are you cold? he jests, an excuse that he decides is worthy enough of why he has to be so near. he circles about, until he reclines with his back pressing against jaime’s. an uncommitted noise comes from the younger, almost a squeak, and they ease into silence until the rise and fall of jaime’s chest slows—asleep sooner that usual. eventually, alamar gets some rest too.