Kildeer Rest cigarette daydreams

It had been a week of restless, aimless wandering, but it was time to come home. The clarity he had sought upon leaving the Sanctuary had not come. Everything was just as muddled as it was before. Now, it was tinged with the guilt that he had left--for a week--without word.

God, Alarian. He must be sick with worry, if he hadn't set out to find him already. His breath hitched in his throat; he hadn't meant to alarm the boy. Truthfully, he had wanted to return sooner, but being alone. . . It felt so good. No obligations, no bad feelings, just Zamael and his thoughts, and whatever odd stranger he happened across. But that selfishness came at a price.

He could see the Bracken Woods up ahead, a dark mass in the distance. He swallowed thickly as he realized that he might have to go find Alarian, if his brother had engaged in a search mission for him. He'd fucked up, really. This was his fuck-up. He'd have to explain it to Delight, Eris, Lily, Korei--they would all hate him for this. Alarian had been through so much already: he didn't need this on top of the shit pile.

Heart heavy as a stone, Zamael forged on, terror mounting within him as he considered each and every possibility of what was waiting for him back at Broken Boulder.

@Alarian

SIGHS bc i have to listen to that song now
tag for ref

It's been far more difficult than he'd anticipated, resisting the urge to run off after Zamael. He's returned to his isolation with a vengeance. Sleep has been fleeting, and though it's only been about a week, it's already taken a toll. He tries to find solace in @Delight's company and to an extent it works, but he's wary of being clingy, so he doesn't often let himself have that.
Most of the time, he just stews in his thoughts. It's a bad combination, and he'd known that from the start, so maybe he shouldn't be wondering how he's found himself here. This isn't home, and it isn't keeping his promise to Delight either. But it's not far — he can always turn back, once he's sure Zamael isn't anywhere near here.
Except, Zamael is near. His scent drifts to him on the wind, and Alarian freezes. He doesn't know why, but he's rooted to the spot; he can't even turn to look, to see if he's somewhere in sight now. For some reason, it occurs to him to turn back. He still can — he can go back to the Sanctuary and pretend it never happened, and maybe Zamael will end up back over the borders or maybe he won't. Maybe it doesn't matter either way.
He doesn't turn back, but neither does he move to find his brother, caught somewhere in the middle and unable to wrestle himself one way or another.

It was not the rushing, thrilling embrace of the past, when he'd first come across Alarian. All of his bad feelings were etched clearly on his face, and he trudged rather than floated toward his brother, mouth set somewhere between a smile and a frown. A grimace, he supposed. All the while, his heart pounded in his chest, drumming hard in his ears.

"Hey," Zamael murmured, when he'd come close enough for Alarian to catch his words. "Sorry I was away for so long. Wasn't intending to--just sort of got caught up in sightseeing."

It was the truth--he had never wanted this to happen. Or perhaps a part of him had, and it was only due to obligation that he returned now. Whatever the case might be, it had happened, and it was his job to remedy it. His brother was in equal parts strong and fragile; capable of handling crises yet, the moment one arose, he fell apart. It was a dichotomy that had fascinated Zamael for seasons.

He watches Zamael approach, watches his odd expression, and he doesn't move. His thoughts are tumbling too quickly for him to grasp any, so he doesn't say anything either, not until his brother comes close enough to speak himself. His ears pin back briefly, then slowly rise again.
Yeah. Sure, He says dully, and turns away toward the Sanctuary. He's not sure if Zamael will follow; he's not sure whether he hopes he does or not. There's a deep, cold ache in his chest, and the words replay in his mind — just sort of got caught up in sightseeing. It's fine, then. It's all fine. Zamael was just sightseeing and it doesn't matter anymore — not the worry, not the fear and self-loathing, not the fact that he'd considered abandoning everything all over again, or that the decision not to had more or less launched him into a full-blown identity crisis.
No, it's fine. He'd just been sightseeing.

He thought that Alarian would have given him an over-the-top response--whether that was joy for his return, sorrow at his being gone so long, or anger at being gone without word. Maybe all three. But Zamael received only two words, spoken flatly, and before he even had a chance to respond to them, Alarian was walking away.

Somehow, this unexpected result provoked a sort of seething anger that simmered, just beneath the surface.

"Look, I don't know what you want me to say other than 'sorry,'" Zamael called out, doggedly following his brother back toward the Sanctuary. "You know I like to travel; you know I can get carried away. I got bored, and decided to look around." He knew this wouldn't absolve anything, that Alarian would continue this silent temper tantrum. But it was worth a go.

He'd half-hoped Zamael would at least follow in silence, but that's not the case. He persists, and as always, Alarian crumbles under the slightest pressure. But this time there are no flood waters behind the dam; he feels like a dried up husk, tired of feeling at all and sick to death of being wrong for it. He stops abruptly, pausing a couple beats to compose himself enough to face his brother.
I thought you were gone, He says as he finally turns to him, finding his voice surprisingly level. That you'd left again or gotten hurt — or killed. He pauses again, oddly focused on his own breathing now. The first time, I didn't think twice about leaving. I didn't this time either, until —
It doesn't matter. You're back now. He starts to turn again, but a sharp pain shoots through his skull where the fresh scarring lurks under his fur. He pauses, sucking in a breath; it's the stress, he knows, but it's more than the stress. This will almost certainly trouble him more in the future, and the knowledge is just another burden he doesn't need.

He let out an astonished snort as Alarian began to speak, swinging his head away, unable to meet the champagne gaze in front of him. There was the Alarian he knew and loved, and god, he hated him for it, right now. Always tugging at the heartstrings, trying to make him feel bad. Not that he didn't deserve it, but fuck if it didn't get under his skin.

"So, like, am I supposed to just hang around at the Sanctuary and watch you and Delight cuddle?" Zamael said, his tone decidedly nasty. "Fucking goddamn it, Alarian, I told you when I came back that I wouldn't leave. Not again. I know I left you hanging once before, but that was a different time. Even if I wanted to run away, I wouldn't."

He noticed the wince and made a mental note of it, pointing his muzzle toward the border. "C'mon, let's just go," he said sourly, forging ahead. "Get you something for your head and back to your boyfriend, instead of out looking for your shitass brother." There was a burning in his throat that he couldn't ignore; it must be the bile in his words, stinging with every syllable.

He can't say anything as Zamael's words cut into him through the haze of pain in his head. His breath catches a little, and it takes all his effort to hold in the tears that finally appear, drawn up slowly as if from dry desert floor. He blinks and they're gone, if only because he doesn't have the energy to cry right now.
I — what. Delight has thought, He says slowly, haltingly. That I've been avoiding him. He swallows hard. I'm sorry, alright? I'm sorry I'm shit — that I can't pay enough attention to you, or anyone else apparently. If his head would only stop aching so horribly, if he wasn't so tired, he could move — he could leave, run because that's what he does best, do some sightseeing himself. Instead he stays rooted, suffocating. I'm just tired — all the time. I'm sorry.

He doesn't know what else to say; he doesn't have the energy for anger or tears right now, but he knows this wound is deep. The blood will come later, he thinks.

"I'm tired, too," Zamael countered, turning to face his brother. "Exhausted. But somehow restless, at the same time. You know what, I wish I could just. . .fucking. . .run. Leave. Go away, leave you in peace." He let out a sobbing breath, head bowed. Piece of shit, you total piece of fucking shit. His psyche was, as always, no help, berating him at every turn. And the devil on his shoulder egged him on, urging him to spew words like a volcano does lava.

He shook his head, slowly, a silent metronome. "I don't care about you and Delight--god, I'm happy for you." The pair of them reminded him of his tryst with Carvel; a bolt of pain shot through his heart, squeezing, digging well and deep. For all that love was pure, it always ended in catastrophe. Fortune did not smile on the Keils. "I look at you two, and I just--god, I--"

Zamael broke off abruptly, turning his gaze onto Alarian again. Feeling his stomach sink down to his toes. "I'm not upset over your life here because I'm jealous," he murmured, voice hollow. "I'm upset because I have to take it away from you. The tribe sent me here to bring you home. To bring all of us home. Eris. Me. You."

Nothing Zamael says helps; maybe it's not meant to. But he can't quite comprehend his last words, and in his confusion he bursts out laughing. It's a tired, strung out laugh; humorless. The tribe? What? He takes a breath, laughter suddenly gone. In its wake, a frigid tension permeates the air around them.
You can't be serious. You ass— He can't breathe. He takes a step back, dizzy, then another — and finally he finds it in him to run, because he doesn't want to know and it's expected anyway. Old habits die hard. He doesn't stop until the familiar walls of his den surround him, and he doesn't care that it's an easy, predictable place to find him. Right now he just needs to breathe.