Morningside Cuesta your ex-lover is dead

AW. Will close after a week with no response.

He had left Alarian once, and left half of his heart behind. He'd never really recovered it, even after reuniting with his brother, living incomplete instead. With this second departure, he'd left the rest of it, too. He was heartless, now--

But hadn't he always been?

Zamael's stomach was tight and hollow as he left the Sanctuary, not daring to look back, even once. If he did, he'd return--and that would do no good. They all needed time to heal, to reassess. Most importantly, Zamael needed to remove himself from his calamitous place at his brother's side. With the poppy-seed incident, he had finally learned his lesson: he was no good for Alarian.

What next? The world was his fucking oyster, as some might say. The silvery male trotted across the cuesta, looking uneasily around. Freedom was usually a treat; now it felt like a chore, compared to his duties back at Broken Boulder. If not a chore, then at least a challenge. This land was vast and empty; there was little chance of finding anything fun to do here.

He slowed to a stop and settled down on his haunches near a small hillock, the late summer breeze ruffling his pelt. Orange eyes more pained than usual scanned the horizon. But all the while, not looking north. Commanding, no, begging himself:

Don't look back. Don't look back. Don't look back.

staying vague, tagging @Mona for visibility

The sun-touched ghost is reluctant to part from this piece of his past, found so simply, so perfectly — but he knows now that the melody leads him true. When the keening song drifts to him on the breeze again, he knows he must follow. He calls a promise of return, but he does not know when; tomorrow, a week from now? The music will guide him when the time comes.
His path demands vigilance of him for a time, until he comes to the gentle slope of an open field. The song begins to fade, and briefly panic spikes in his heart. He closes his eyes, and in his mind he sees:

Silver and black, a deep shadow cast across him.

The moon looming close, a bright silver eye always watching.

A million stars blinking, blinking, blinking — until they flicker out.

He opens them, and he sees a wolf; a stranger in the distance, a splash of grey in the midst of the field. He lets out a long breath and draws nearer, argent eyes sharp and hollow.

The golden boy approaching reminded Zamael of a sunrise--no, scratch that. A sunset. There was something beautiful but sad about him, just as there was when the day faded to night. He saw it in his eyes and in the lines of his face, and his mouth twisted, caught in the throes of unexpected sympathy for a stranger.

Finally, he was within speaking distance, and he cocked his head, brows raised. "What's up?" he asked, trying to shove the misery down for his usual flat tone. Perhaps the boy was perceptive enough to catch the faint note that lingered behind.

It was strange; he didn't really want to talk to anyone right now, but he wouldn't say no to a conversation. There wasn't really anywhere to run to, either--what was he gonna do, hide under a fucking rock? He was trapped in this interaction, anyway, so he might as well make the most of it. And the boy was cute, after all. Cute but sad.

Kind of like his brother. Zamael pushed that thought to the very back of his mind.

He catches the flash of sympathy across slim grey features and lowers his head slightly, but he lingers to hear the man's words, tinged with the faintest melancholy. A slightly wry smile curves his lips as he lifts his muzzle briefly in a skyward gesture, silver eyes sparkling with sarcastic humor. The expression fades after a few beats.
The ghost parts his jaws just enough for a perceptive eye to see what he lacks. Whether he thinks the stranger catches it or not, he closes his mouth and tilts his head a breath later, gaze inquisitive. He cannot speak, but he can listen — and he senses stories behind those fiery eyes. Perhaps he will never hear them, but the golden Mayfair is ever hopeful; the song has led him here for a reason.

He was cute. Zamael watched his face bloom into a sly smile as he lifted his head, then began to open his mouth. Was he gonna howl or some--oh, what the fuck. "Dude," Zamael burst out, his face going from charmed to flabbergasted in record time. "I. . .jeez. Sorry about that, I guess? I'd ask you what happened, but. . ."

He broke off awkwardly, looking away. Where there should have been the salmon pink of a tongue between sharp rows of teeth, there was only darkness. Gums, yes, and scar tissue, but nothing else. What torture had he been put through, and by whom?

Zamael's problems suddenly paled in comparison.

"Do you live around here?" he asked, trying to shift the subject to something more palatable (no pun intended). "Don't worry, I'll only ask yes or no questions." This last statement dangled in the air, sardonic but accommodating, in its own twisted way. He didn't have much to talk about, but perhaps the boy would drag it out of him. Somehow.

The stranger's reaction isn't unexpected, but it startles him a bit anyway. He can only offer another smile when (if) the man's gaze returns to him, reassuring and a little sad this time. He's accepted what fate has dealt him, though it remains a mystery to him still.
To his question, he shrugs, then nods a little uncertainly. His situation is still in doubt, but — sort of? He gestures with his muzzle to the place the flame-touched girl had taken him, then glances back to the stranger, laughing softly at his next assertion. He has his own questions; they sparkle behind his eyes, formless and destined only to swirl aimlessly within him. With no other clear path forward, he flicks one ear and raises an eyebrow, head tilting slightly again as if to ask and you?

Aw, man. Now he looked sad. Little wonder, as Zamael had reacted like a complete and utter dumbass douchebag. He tried to look contrite, waiting for the boy to answer. Finally, he got a. . .nod? An uncertain one, at that. Zamael let out a nervous chuckle; he felt much the same way about his current living situation.

"I used to, but now I'm traveling," he answered the other's silent but obvious question. "Don't really know where I'm headed except away." Well, away from both the Sanctuary and his old home as well. Wouldn't do to head there, either. They'd just give him the third degree about Alarian and Lana-Eris. And he had no patience for that now.

"You traveling, too?" he asked.

Oblivious as he'd been to his initial effect on the stranger, it seems it's his turn to be charmed now. Something softens in his expression with the other's nervous laugh, then further with his admission. Away, he understands, and he tries to convey this with his gaze.
It's difficult, not having a single word to say. To his question, he nods — only for now, but he can't tell him that either. He glances briefly to the west, then back to the grey wolf, gesturing slightly with his muzzle: walk with me? His expression is ever-curious, and warming with each passing moment — he wishes he could ask for his name.

He took only a few beats to think on it before nodding. What the hell else did he have to do, anyway? "Sure," he said quietly, rising to his paws and falling in step beside the golden wolf. Might as well make some friends, while he was out here. Even if they were fleeting friends.

"I'm Zamael, by the way," he added, looking over at the boy. It was sad that he would never learn the other's name, not unless they bumped into a friend of his who happened to have their tongues available. And the chances of that seemed slim. He'd just have to come up with his own name, and even then, would probably have to keep it to himself, depending on how crass it was.

Prince Charming. Hmm. That kinda worked. He gave his new acquaintance a lopsided smile, unwilling to explain what had brought the expression to his face.

He's pleased when the grey wolf agrees to accompany him, the hint of a smile tugging faintly at the corners of his mouth as they walk. He keeps close to his new (temporary) companion, but his gaze drifts along the landscape. It's too bright out for his liking, but the view is admittedly lovely.
As if hearing his thoughts, the man offers his name next. Zamael — it sounds so foreign, but there's little about the grey wolf that strikes him as foreign. Mysterious, yes — intriguing, no doubt, but he speaks simply and frankly, and there's something undeniably genuine about him. If a bit rough around the edges.
He turns his gaze back to Zamael, wishing he could offer his own name. Then he registers the other's expression, and his eyes widen slightly, ears flushing with heat. Oh, he's cute. He looks away after a few beats, down and then to the side — anywhere but at Zamael, knowing he wears his emotions on his face and instinctively a little embarrassed at being attracted to him. But there's a peculiar fluttering in his stomach, and he's more than happy to indulge the feeling a little longer.

He recognized the look that flitted over the golden boy's face, and smirked, moving on with a chuckle. So Prince Charming was smitten, too. He couldn't help but be surprised; while he had a lean, handsome face and a trim figure, he had never thought of himself as over-the-top attractive. Certainly not enough to rope in strangers. He had attributed most of his charm to his dry wit--perhaps that was what had done it, here.

"You got any family around here? Friends?" Zamael asked, tilting his head over at the still-officially-nameless young man. Missing tongue aside, he did look a little rough. Perhaps he was without a home as well; maybe Zamael could direct him up to the Sanctuary, if he needed a place to stay. He wouldn't take the chance of a warm bed away from this boy, even if he, himself, was trying to run from Broken Boulder.

He misses the smirk; a blessing in disguise, as his pulse is already slightly uneven hearing the chuckle. His gaze is trained out over the plains, watching the way the land rolls out before them. One ear flicks idly at Zamael's question, and he nods, glancing back to him and then pointing with his muzzle again toward the valley. Then he turns his gaze fully to the man, pausing.
There's something restless in his moonlight eyes, though not critical; he wants more than just small talk, chatter to fill the silence. He glances him over, taking a slow step closer — then another, so he could reach out to touch him. He leans closer as if moving to touch his cheek (if allowed), eyes sparkling.
Then, he nips the side of his neck playfully and dances a few steps away, tail waving. A playful grin spreads over his face, expression hopeful, though truthfully he's not sure how the gesture will be received.

Ah, so Prince Charming wasn't completely alone in this world. That was good. Zamael began to smile, but the expression faded into muted shock as the boy first kissed him on the cheek, then nipped at his neck and darted away. A flirt. A coquette.

There was a burning desire in Zamael's belly that swelled up fast, almost dizzying in its intensity. He didn't know whether he wanted to take or be taken; all he knew was that he wanted the golden man, and he knew he could have him, too. It was too much, and his toes curled into the ground as he struggled for patience, finally breaking into a watery grin.

"Aw, dude, I'm flattered," he responded in a tone that could have been considered coy, were it not for the hurt that simmered just beneath the surface. "I'm damaged goods, man. You're way too fucking cute to play with someone like me." It felt like he was trying to swallow rocks.

His confidence wilts somewhat, watching the other stand still with toes curling into the ground. He can feel the tension rolling in waves from him, and he's immediately sorry to have caused it. These thoughts are all but forgotten when Zamael speaks. He snorts the moment he hears the words damaged goods, rolling his eyes and shaking his head just slightly.
His paw lifts to touch his muzzle briefly, the other side of his mouth curling up a little wryly. I'm damaged, too. But his gaze is still soft; he's not unaware of the hurt beneath Zamael's words, and he regrets being the trigger. He moves closer again, gentle this time when he offers a more platonic, reassuring touch to the man's shoulder. It's brief, and then he steps away slightly, hoping his message is clear: I understand.

He was grateful that the golden boy seemed to understand, his touches becoming more innocuous, friendly. Zamael gave him a genuine smile, feeling more relieved than anything. He was too shaken by events of recent days to be intimate in any way; he wanted to close himself off, to be alone, to be silent.

He could be silent with Prince Charming. He pretty much had no choice.

"Walk for a little while with me," Zamael offered, the vulnerability clear on his face. "Keep me company. Maybe you'll get me rambling again." Probably not, but there was always the possibility. You never really new when Zamael would go off on some tangent. It was just his way.

He's more than content to oblige the request, relieved that the odd moment hasn't put Zamael off entirely. He hasn't encountered many since losing his ability to speak, but already he's aware of how rare it is now to find an easy connection, lacking words. They are such bittersweet necessity in a world where they are easily commanded. He finds it far too easy to feel sidelined, a mere spectator unable to influence the world even when it has made a victim of him so easily. But here, now —
Just for a fleeting moment, he feels real; and then it's gone, carried on the wind in the form of faint sweet song, and he knows he must follow. But... not yet.