Fox's Glade My silent lips

What should he expect? Anger, disgust, sorrow. What did he expect? What did he want to see, standing face-to-face with someone he once trusted—someone that he still trusted, even after everything, even after he’d surely broken whatever trust she may have once placed in him. He didn’t know and he didn’t care to wonder, not when she was there—now—and staring back at him. Her eyes lacked any warmth, a hardened gaze turned upon him and he, well… he knew he deserved it. He was ready for it, even. For the yelling, the screaming—even the attack, should it be taken that far—but there was nothing.

No words. No shouting. No jaws around his throat.

Perhaps that was what made it even worse.

As her posture fell, so did his own—and as tears slicked down her face, his expression fell and he swore he felt his chest tighten beyond what was congruent with life. “Indra?” he croaked, uncertain, able to say nothing more. Something told him to shut up, what sliver of a conscious he had, and that was the end for him. Between the mindset he’d already driven himself into and seeing her as broken as she was, he couldn’t prevent what happened next: when the walls he’d built so long ago finally came crumbling down, each piece of life having chipped away at them until there was hardly anything left to hide behind. Without even realising it—without knowing why—his own face grew wet with tears. Tears that he, if allowed, would try to hide in her scruff.