Greatwater Lake roped up, rat in a cage

The lake keeps a firm grasp on his attention long after sluggish, earthen Riley departs. In some ways he finds it better company than his fellow wolves; silence, pure and sweet, and the endless beauty reflected in the blue-grey surface. He dares to draw closer, inkjet tail-tip dragging through the cold gritty dirt. Each little bump in the ground sends a twinge of pain through his spine, but he doesn't dare move it. Instead he settles nearer to the water's edge, though still not within splashing distance, sitting at an awkward angle to keep pressure off his aching shoulder and the swollen base of his tail.

It was by chance that he found her, then, on the shores of the lake’s edge. Was it happenstance, or was it nature’s idea of a sick, fucked up joke, that he just so happened to stumble upon her, of all people?
 
He didn’t know.
 
Didn’t care to know.
 
Instead, he stood there, his posture low and his head carried in line with his neck and spine—slouching—with his shoulders rolled forward. His tail dangled like dead weight behind him. Beneath him, his paws left impressions in the lake’s lapping shore, the sand cold and wet underfoot.
 
His eyes saw without seeing the injuries on her body, the wetness of her fur around her shoulder and neck.
 
Electricity crackled, hissed, and spat, and made the hair along his shoulders, back, and neck stand on edge.

He notices the other boy around the time he himself is spotted, though he doesn't know that. All he knows when his gaze settles on the golden-blonde figure is that this is the last person he wants to see right now. His ears flatten, posture dropping slightly — not in submission, but misery. Of course this object of his shame would show up now. He turns away after a moment, focusing on the water in silence. Zephyr has nothing to say to him, and he hopes the feeling is mutual.

She cowered, and—
 
The energy left him, suddenly, like a candle extinguished in the wind or left out in the rain.
 
He stood there, awkwardly, and woodenly, his posture low and slouched. His ears rolled back against his head before rolling forward again and his gaze followed the direction she turned out towards the lake before settling once more on the back of her head.
 
And, at long last—

“You fucked up.”
 
It wasn’t a question.

The silence is unbroken for several minutes, though the other makes no move to leave. Zephyr isn't sure what to think, but the clearly not-friendly presence leaves him a little tense. When the golden stranger finally speaks, it isn't any more welcoming than he'd been before — but at least he isn't spewing insults. Yeah, He responds after a few beats of silence, voice uncolored by any particular tone; flat, as is more typical of him. I usually do.

‘I usually do.’
 
It was at that Daighre let out a snort, all rough derision as he exhaled from his nostrils at her overwrought, overdramatic theatrics. His eyes rolled and it was with struggle he let himself settle onto the sand and back against his haunches, his tail curling tight against his backside.
 
“Whatever.” He huffed and looked out onto the lake’s rolling tides.

He doesn't see the eye roll, but he hears the derisive snort, and that's enough to set his hackles rippling faintly. Scoffing, he glances over as the other settles. You get off on being rude or something? This time his voice is tinged with acid, sharp around the edges yet largely as flat as ever. You can stick around if you want, I don't care, but I will chase you off if you're going to be an asshole the whole time. There's a hardened confidence to his voice, one that speaks to experience, though he doesn't elaborate. He might be fucked up right now, but he's killed wolves bigger than this guy, and in a worse state than he is now. This time he's rested, fed, and prepared — and he remembers all of his training.

She spoke—
 
And Daighre’s eyes flashed. A growl rumbled from the inside of his throat, pitched low and threatening.
 
Because what the fuck had he done? Existed in her general fucking presence for too fucking long? She was the one being fucking overdramatic and rude, throwing her emotions at him and playing the victim when he didn’t fucking care. What the fuck was he supposed to do, coddle her? Hurry over to curl up against her side and slobber all over her like she was some useless fucking puppy that needed to be comforted? She had been the one looking for any fucking excuse to get closer to him, before.
 
And she had been the one that got her ass fucking kicked to hell and back.
 
Not him.
 
Just her.
 
But maybe she just didn’t fucking get that.
 
He snarled. Narrowed his eyes. Bared his teeth.
 
“You need to make up your fucking mind, short stack.”

Another scoff, this time with more genuine amusement to it. That's one hell of a projection, He says, finding it all a bit ironic. From where I'm standing, it seems like you can't make up your mind. I know what I want from you, and if I'm not going to get it, I'm not interested. But you — you're the one who left, and you're the one who started this conversation. Take your own advice and figure out what the hell you want from me.

‘That's one hell of a projection,’
 
“Fuck you.” He snarled and snapped.
 
Because he didn’t want anything from her, and he sure as fucking hell didn’t need anything from her. She was fucking weak, and she was fucking useless. What was there to want? To need? Absolutely fucking nothing, was the fucking answer. She was delusional if she thought otherwise. Fucking crazy. And he let her know as fucking much, too.
 
“You’re fucking delusional.”
 
And in his mind, it was real. The undying, infallible truth.
 
“You’re fucking fucked up.” He rose to his feet, a snarl and sneer on his face, and he turned to leave.

It's an expected reaction by now, but somehow, it only makes him want the answer more fiercely. Something about this stranger is terribly off in a way that both repulses him and draws him in — and suddenly, he doesn't care whether he hates him or not. All he cares about is finding out what fuels all this dark, childish rage. It reminds him of himself in so many ways, he can't help his fascination.
You're not going anywhere, He murmurs the moment the stranger turns, not meant for anyone but himself yet loud enough to be heard. His wounds aren't a concern as he darts forward, teeth closing briefly around the other's tail tip and releasing with a sharp tug. Next, his forelimb, and then Zephyr disappears from his side in a wide arc around the front of him, blocking his path forward. He slows briefly as he passes, only long enough to make his intentions clear — but he doesn't stop. As soon as he clears the intersection of paths, he goes around and back in for another stinging nip, this time along the opposite side.

She spoke, mumbled and muttered to only herself, just under her breath, and Daighre ignored it with a well practiced, well oiled ease. Apathy was a familiar emotion to him. Anger was a familiar emotion to him.
 
They were two opposing ends of a sliding spectrum. Two opposing sides of the same coin.
 
It wasn’t until he heard her—the sound of her footfalls, small and fast and quick—did her start to care.
 
It was when her teeth, thin and needling and pricking over biting and tearing, found the end of his tail did he really start to fucking care. He snarled, snapped, and whirled around to face her, her teeth already finding his forelimb. Too slow. He was too fucking slow.
 
It only served to piss him off further.
 
“You fucking—” He snarled. His ears pressed back against his head and his tail tucked close between his back legs. His teeth mashed.
 
She was in front of him, before him.
 
He lunged, front paws raising, and his jaws parted, a snarl tearing through his vocal chords.

He doesn't expect the golden wolf to be quite as slow as he is; he'd anticipated the other turning again to follow his circling, but instead he finds himself face to face with his opponent. He ducks just in time to avoid a crushing grip around one tall ear, though the other's teeth catch it anyway, leaving deep scrapes as Zephyr pulls away and to one side. He considers darting further to the side, but opts instead for the unexpected. He lunges forward, aiming to nip the stranger's nose and simultaneously push into his chest with one paw — and hopefully use the momentum to fling himself away and back around, making another lightning-bolt circle around the other wolf.

Teeth met flesh.
 
Brief and fleeting.
 
He snarled. Snapped.
 
Her paw found his chest and she lunged, suddenly, forwards and upwards. Daighre lunged in return, his jaws parted and gaping, and one front leg raised to bore down on her shoulders and spine and take her to the ground.
 
She aimed for his face, his nose.
 
Daighre aimed for hers.
 
His mouth met hers—his aiming low, and hers aiming high—teeth scraping teeth.

Weight on his shoulders, the harsh click of teeth against teeth. Pain shoots through his jaw, and he whips his head away, crumpling purposefully under the stranger's weight. Yet he doesn't allow himself to be pinned; instead he darts forward as he drops, hoping to bolt between the other's legs as he (hopefully) falls forward with the sudden drop in resistance and sweep his balance off entirely, while Zephyr emerges on his own two four feet behind him.

Their teeth scraped and clack, gross and disorienting, and his paw found its mark over her shoulders and back. Except—
 
She gave way too easily, crumbled abruptly and suddenly from underneath the pressure of his right front leg, and her muzzle tore away from his as she went. He fell, forward and bodily, thrown off balance by her sudden disappearance. He felt the brush of her fur against his neck, his chest, his ribcage.
 
He lunged.
 
His neck bent at an awkward angle as he tried to follow her, the curve of her back and tail, and he overbalanced, in his haste.
 
And like David and Goliath—
 
He fell, his shoulder crushing into the lake’s coarse, sandy shores, his legs following suit.

He hears success behind him in the form of a dull thud against the sand, and promptly spins to gloat for a moment. His tail would be flagging now if he could move it, but he can't, so he settles for a victory strut back toward the other with head held high. His pace is leisurely as he waits for the other to regain his footing — but when he's almost up again, Zephyr darts in for another nip-and-circle routine.

He moved to stand—
 
And she was there, again, just like that, grey fur and the scent of something cold, all nipping, prickling teeth. His own jaws snapped shut on empty air time and time again, and his hackles bristled, stood tall and stiff along his shoulders and back. He could hear the jagged sound of his own breathing in his ears, every rough exhale and drawn inhale.
 
Until finally—
 
“Fucking, fight back.” He punctuated it with a lunge, his voice breaking on the syllable, his movement sloppy and clumsy and unrefined, his jaws parted and a snarl tearing through his vocal cords. Quit fucking playing—

Murder Tag continues, until his opponent is panting hard; sharp, fast breaths that tell him the end is near. When the words reach him between each harsh intake of air, he laughs, prancing out of reach. So this is what you get off on, He says, tone simultaneously a taunt and a challenge. Too bad you're too much of a coward to handle a guy like me. A few more steps back, in case he lunges again — but Zephyr isn't scared. He's having fun.

She spoke—
 
And the pieces fell into place.
 
He stood, suddenly, then, his body quiet, still, and tense. He could hear the blood inside his ears. The air inside his lungs. His eyes narrowed; his brow heavy.
 
“Why the fuck are you so obsessed with me?” Freak.

In reality it's a rather fair question — but in Zephyr's mind, it's anything but fair. The words are met with a scoff. Obsessed? It strikes him as a rather outrageous assumption. I was interested before — and then I wasn't, because you're an insufferable asshole. And now I just want to know what the fuck your problem is. You're the one who walked over here. You're the one who was a dick from the moment you saw me. You keep calling me crazy, but maybe you're the crazy one — you don't even know how to interact with people properly. Okay, maybe he's projecting a little here. But as far as he's concerned, it's the truth. This guy has been nothing but a dick — maybe he even deserved what Zephyr did to him at the river.

“So, let me get this fucking straight,” Daighre started. His tail lashed and his ears rolled back tight against his head.
 
“You’re the one who decided to throw your shitty fucking emotions at me, when I didn’t fucking ask.” Seriously, she fucked up and got the absolute shit beat out of her. Big fucking deal. “And you’re the one who decided to throw a shitty fucking tantrum when I didn’t, what? Come running over to kiss your fucking booboos and tell you everything was gonna be okay?”
 
He thought she was tougher than that, but clearly fucking not, with her stupid woe is me bullshit.
 
“And you’re the fucking psycho who decided it was okay to attack me when I had my back turned.” Like a shitty fucking, snivelling coward. “And you’re the one who threatened to let me fucking drown if I didn’t promise to follow you and do whatever you say.”
 
He stepped back.
 
Sneered at her, his eyes full of unbridled hate and the corner of his upper lip peeled back, his white teeth on display while he looked down at her from the bridge of his muzzle.
 
“And I’m the fucked up one? I’m the one who doesn’t know how to interact with people properly?”

Throughout the tirade, he remains stoic; unflappable. There's cold feeling growing in him, like his insides turning to stone. Everything else seems fuzzier past it, muted, as if all his feelings have been flipped to 'off'. When the stranger steps back, he steps forward, stiff and imposing in posture. I know what kind of life I lead. I know what I do is fucked up, His voice is almost a snarl, contrasting his expressionless features. The difference is that you don't. You think you're perfect, the only one whose shit doesn't stink. And that's why you're pathetic. That's why I'm not interested anymore. You're an oversized child with a nasty mouth — you wanna know why I was obsessed? He spits the word. Because you remind me of myself when I was a kid. A raging idiot who would set fire to himself just to watch someone else burn. Except you're not going to grow up, are you?

“Whatever.”
 
She didn’t fucking know him. She didn’t know a goddamn fucking thing about him.
 
He left.

But Zephyr isn't done with him yet.
He pursues again, this time without a clear goal in mind until he's slamming into the man with a force he wasn't certain he possessed until now. It sends them both tumbling, and when he finds an opportunity to regain his footing, he does exactly that, looming over the other for a moment with a snarl on his features. Why are you so fucking infuriating and pretty? It's rhetorical, of course, and full of venom. Another snarl rips itself from his jaws, and he whips away, leaving the other to stew in his immature rage.