Sunbeam Lair baby, i do what i like

He leads @Daighre to one of his favorite places in the valley, the massive cavern to the west of his birthplace. But he doesn't know how the man feels about caves, so he halts at the entrance with a glance back to his companion. There's light inside. It's a big cave, with holes in the ceiling, He explains, gaze wandering briefly past Daighre to check for any unwanted company. I haven't explored the whole thing yet. If his companion doesn't protest, he leads him inside, blinking a few times as his eyes adjust to the dimmed light within.

The walk between them was silent. The only noise the sound of their breathing and footsteps, Daighre’s heavy and almost plodding, and Zephyr’s quiet, almost catlike and slinking—light.
 
The latter stopped at the mouth of the cave, and the former didn’t.
 
Daighre brushed past him, physically and bodily, shoulder against shoulder and side against side, already heading deeper into the depths of the cave’s mouth. The only sign that he was listening was the movement of his ears, a single ear flicked back towards the boy still standing at the cave’s entrance.
 
His posture was low and slouching as he peered into the depths, red eyes blinking as he adjusted to the lighting.
 
‘I haven't explored the whole thing yet.’
 
His movements came to a stop, suddenly, from several feet away, and he peered over his shoulder.
 
“Why?”

His companion continues on without him, and he starts forward after the golden figure with only a moment of hesitation. The contact had startled him, left slivers of golden fur in silver and vice versa. He can still smell Daighre on him even as he trails a few paces behind him. It's so distracting, he almost runs into the golden rump he's watching a little too closely when the other male halts suddenly. He looks away a little too abruptly when Daighre turns, stepping back and around to come up alongside him before he's able to meet his gaze. I didn't have time. I was looking for a place to settle — and it's too warm here in the summer, His nose wrinkles slightly at the thought. The place I chose has ice year-round. But I can't live there anymore. It has too many memories.
With that, he starts forward again, moving toward one of the tunnels that had intrigued him on his last visit here. He tries not to think about Kratos — and fails.

‘It has too many memories.’
 
Another person—maybe, perhaps—would ask.
 
Another person—more sociable, empathetic, and sympathetic—would care.
 
Daighre, however, wasn’t that person.
 
Instead, he grunted, and watched as Zephyr moved forward. He fell into step behind him then, letting him take the lead as they walked deeper into the cave.

Another person might be offended, even hurt by the silence.

Another person would keep explaining, would give context to the statement, maybe even pour their heart out into the empty spaces.

But Zephyr isn't that person any more than Daighre is. He doesn't react at all. If anything, he finds it comforting; familiar. The silence makes it easier to dismiss the nostalgia, write it off as weak sentiment and tuck it away somewhere deep in his mind. Eventually it will fester, rot into burning anger — but for now, he puts it out of his mind. He continues to lead his companion through the tunnel until it branches out into a cavern again, this one much smaller and more luminous than the first, yet cast in deeper shadows at the edges. Brilliantly verdant and painted in the muted colors of nature, as if the changing of seasons cannot touch the depths of the mountain. A fine mist hangs in the air, lending a mysterious glow to the place. It feels dreamlike; ethereal. He steps further in to leave more room for Daighre to enter, noting the shadowy dip on the opposite wall that leads into a smaller, narrower tunnel. Zephyr might fit through it, but his companion seems a bit too large around the chest, so he dismisses the thought. Instead he takes in the beauty around them, for once more focused on that than anything else.

He—Zephyr—stopped just beyond the tunnel’s end and the cavern’s entrance.
 
Daighre brushed past, uncaring in his personal space. He felt his hipbone, bony and sharp, jutting from beneath silver fur, and the similar sharp angle of his shoulder as he passed.
 
And maybe, there was beauty inside the cave, in the mist and the plants and the open skies above.
 
But he saw only stone and rock and dirt, no different from anything else.
 
He settled, a handful of feet away.
 
Sat back against his haunches.
 
He looked towards Zephyr, tired, bored, waiting.

The silence stretches on between them, and each quiet moment increases the draw he feels toward the other boy. A few steps closer as Daighre settles, idle, casual. He's still inspecting the cavern, gaze drawn upward slowly until it reaches the sky. He settles beside his companion, far into his personal space now, fur brushing. His tail comes to rest over the top of Daighre's, silver covering gold and spilling over the top. After a moment, he glances to him. Thank you for staying, There's no emotion to the sentiment, at least none that can be easily discerned. But he means it.

The other boy approached—
 
And a growl rumbled inside his throat and chest. Not an outright snarl, but a warning, the beginning of one. His hackles bristled along his shoulders and back. And he expected the worst. Braced for the worst.
 
But instead—
 
He only sat. Obnoxiously close and undemanding. He felt his tail come to rest over his. Heard his words.
 
Daighre grunted. His ears rolled back against his head and he leaned away, tense, uncomfortable. His shoulders hunched towards his ears and his posture slouched. He looked away.
 
“Whatever.”

Rejection — it burns, in the way these things always do. He turns away in a smooth, sweeping motion, as if he'd never meant to settle for more than a moment to begin with. He's halfway through the tunnel before he realizes he's leaving, apathetic to whether Daighre follows or not. Regardless, he doesn't stop until he reaches the center of the main chamber, where the light hits brightest. He feels safer there, somehow; further from his emotions, from the tempest locked away inside of him. He'd buried all of that with his mother, and he's determined to keep it that way.

The other turned and pulled away entirely—quick, abrupt, messy, clumsy, emotional—and Daighre watched in equal parts annoyance and disgust as he retreated into the tunnels they just came from.
 
His ears pressed back against his head and his hackles bristled. A corner of his upper lip peeled back, and he sneered.
 
Because didn’t get him. He didn’t understand him.

And maybe—
 
Maybe, there was just nothing for him to understand.
 
His shoulders dropped impossibly lower. Defensive. Reactive. Uncomfortable.
 
Whatever.
 
He sat in the cavern, then, silent and alone and brooding, his ugly thoughts his only company.

He takes a few moments to breathe, to be certain that his feelings are well boxed before he allows himself to relax. By the time he does, he feels cool and collected again, free of the burning feeling of rejection. Movement catches his eye in the cavern; a weasel, snuffling around, oblivious to his presence for now. He takes in a breath, stills himself — and then goes after the creature. It's a quick little thing, but so is he. Zephyr makes short work of the weasel, deciding that his moment of violence should have a use in the end. A gift to Daighre, an apology for his abrupt departure. He heads back through the tunnel with it. I'm sorry I left so quickly, He apologizes without inflection, voice muffled slightly by the tail. He drops it near Daighre. You seemed uncomfortable. I thought it'd be best to give you some space. It's a lie, but how would Daighre know? Zephyr has never been expressive, has never had any true tells save in his worst moments. If he were human, he would definitely slay at poker.

He left—abruptly and inexplicably and frustratingly—so of fucking course it would only make sense he would come back the same way.
 
He appeared, for lack of a better word, at one of the cavern’s many entrances and tunnels, something small and brown and dead hanging from his jaws. His words fell on deaf, senseless ears.
 
Daighre growled as he approached. His body moved in preparation; a single front paw half raised, and his body tensed. He could feel his tongue where it pressed tight against the backs of his teeth.
 
He watched as the corpse—a weasel—was dropped at his feet.
 
Annoyance itched. It poked and prodded at him from within. Born from a lack of understanding and nurtured by miscommunication.
 
He didn’t move to accept the gift, the offering.

He's met with a growl, stiffened posture; it's all rather baffling. He can only assume he'd offended Daighre deeply with the contact. I won't touch you again, if you don't want me to, He offers, voice the same monotone as ever. It doesn't seem like enough, so he adds, I can leave if you prefer. It doesn't matter much to him; he's already accepted that he likely won't get anywhere with this man. The only thing that keeps him trying is a lack of anything else to do, and an inexplicable fascination with how every interaction with Daighre seems to go wrong for the most baffling of reasons.

‘I won't touch you again, if you don't want me to,’
 
Except it wasn’t about the touching.
 
No, it was about how he didn’t make any damn sense. How one second, he was pressing close, and then storming off the next, all to return with a fucking weasel, of all things. He didn’t make sense.
 
And Daighre?
 
Daighre was getting sick of it.
 
But that felt a little too much like feelings. And so, he kept silent, frustrated, angry, and wary as he sat.
 
‘I can leave if you prefer.’
 
“Whatever.” He huffed. And then—
 
“Do whatever you want.”
 
He was over it.

Daighre isn't the only one who doesn't understand what's going on — but unlike him, Zephyr does not respond to the confusion with anger. He feels nothing at all about it. Aside from the confusion itself, of course. What about what you want? He questions, wondering why the other's response is to shut down any possibility of getting what he wants. When the conversation ends in whatever, there's no hope of fixing the situation. But maybe Daighre doesn't care about that. It seems clear to Zephyr by now that the blonde boy will only accept things that are absolutely perfect by his standards, smooth without a hitch. That might be less baffling if his standards were anything close to the norm. Frankly, Zephyr has little investment at this point. He just can't pull himself away — like watching a car crash, knowing full well you have no desire to see the mangled aftermath.

‘What about what you want?’
 
Daighre huffed, at that, dark and sardonic. Because he wasn’t fucking stupid. He knew a trick question when he heard one, and this time was no different. He just expected better from fucking Frosty.
 
He bared his teeth, in defense, in smile. It was all the same in the end, anyway. The corner of his upper lip peeled up and he sneered, his chin raised in defiance.
 
“Nothing.” He said, finally. "I want nothing."

He's getting nowhere. Out of options and caught in a need to see how this ends, Zephyr defaults to what he knows best. The one thing he knows soothes the anger of most wolves; deference. His ears slick back in silent submission, head lowering, shoulders sinking slightly. He reaches forward slowly, through any growls or snarls, to press a few tentative licks to his chin. A soft whine accompanies the movement, a formality more than anything. There's a chilly note to the gesture that marks it for what it truly is; not an action born of fear or a true desire to submit, but of a desire to placate Daighre, to reassure the blonde of his intentions.

He watched—in silence, in stillness—at Zephyr’s little display.
 
His ears rolled back tight against his head and a growl rumbled in his throat, first quiet, then progressively louder at the other’s closeness. He allowed the licks to his chin. He endured it like one does any unwanted behaviour that they know they have no escape from. Which was to say, silent, stony, and stiff-legged.
 
And when he finally pulled back and settled into his own personal space?
 
“Are you fucking done?” He growled, his teeth on edge.
 
Was it over? Was he fucking happy and pleased with himself? Was whatever fucked up little show of appeasement done with? His hackles bristled along his shoulders, neck, and spine.

Yet even his last resort fails. He frowns as he steps away, finally letting his confusion show in his expression. This guy is absolutely insane — or there's something Zephyr is missing. No, He answers. Not until you tell me what your problem is.

‘Not until you tell me what your problem is.’
 
He didn’t have a fucking problem. That was the entire fucking thing. His entire fucking problem.
 
No, it was everyone else that had a problem, Zephyr fucking included. From sitting beside him and placing his tail on top of his to storming off for no fucking reason, and returning with a fucking weasel of all things, with said weasel still sitting cold and dead on the ground beside him. And now, twenty fucking questions where he kept asking what he wanted. (What was wrong with him.)
 
His ears rolled back, and he gritted his teeth.
 
“I don’t have a problem.”

Well, that makes no sense. Zephyr rolls his eyes slightly, trying and failing to avoid acting derisive. There's just no logic to it. Then why are you acting this way? He asks, posture lifting subtly into something more typical, more fitting. Why can't you just — be normal? It's ironic, really, though Zephyr doesn't know that. As far as he's concerned, it's a valid question.

‘Why can't you just—be normal?’
 
It was then Daighre went quiet and still. He glowered. Dared—fucking dared—for fucking Frosty to do or say something. He knew he wanted to. Knew he fucking would, sooner or later.
 
Because he was normal. He was.
 
It was just everyone else that didn’t understand him. That always changed the goal posts and end game just to keep him moving, scrabbling, on his feet. And while normally it would piss him off—
 
Now?
 
Now it just made him bone tired and weary.

He sighs softly, regretting the outburst. It's unlikely to get him anywhere, if Daighre's expression is anything to go by. Which leaves him back at square one. Another sigh, and he speaks. I just want to... be friends, His voice is low, soft. Tell me what I have to do for that, and I'll do it. Every time he thinks he's found the last possible door to such an outcome, it closes in his face, and he finds another. Maybe there are a million ways he could try this; maybe if he tries enough, he'll find the right one, and he'll finally get the outcome he wants. The most fucked up part of it all is that Zephyr has gone through this entire interaction with no attachment aside from passing boredom and a desire for physical company. It's all the excuse he needs, really.

Frosty spoke—
 
And Daighre remained silent.
 
He was tired. He was done. He was past the point of caring and beyond the point of no return.
 
Instinct told him to tell him to leave. Experience said nothing was ever that easy. And so, he remained, stony and stubborn, waiting for Frosty to do whatever the fuck he wanted, whatever he was gonna do.

Silence. There is nothing here for him —

So he leaves.