Overture Downs make your peace

set right after this thread
@The Wayfarer

His stomach is churning violently by the time he stumbles to a halt, coughing and retching. I just ate an eye, he thinks, a wolf's eye. Not that he'd eat any other kind of eye either; the wolf part just makes it more horrifying. Finally, the eye in question comes back up with a wave of bile. He turns away from the half-chewed eyeball abruptly, distancing himself with a few quick steps that bring him to the top of the hill.
He focuses on steadying his breathing as he surveys the area. Snowy hills, the same as the rest of the area. The taste of bile lingers in his mouth, leaving him with a sour feeling overall, but he does his best to ignore it. I'm not weak, he tells himself, though he doesn't really believe it. Nor does he recognize these particular hills.

The Wayfarer roams on, traversing the Valley further, sliding away from the marsh and towards drier ground—if only to get away from wolves who seek “friendship”. A strange feeling still bubbles at the thought, boiling over if he thinks too much on the word. It is a strange desire, one he’s never heard until now.

Alas, while he ponders the meaning of friendship akin to a cartoon antagonist, his attention is gratefully distracted; drawn to the spewing and familiar stench of bile. That is comforting. Blood, vomit, piss, and shit. The Wayfarer knows those the way most know a warm bed and meal.

He hones in, body moving without thought—wandering aimlessly towards the scene of the crime. A popped eye lingering in the mess, and not far from the trail… well, lets call it destiny that they run into each other again.

Ghost.

You’ve been busy.

The familiar russet figure catches his attention quickly as he turns to check the area behind him for any sign of familiarity. He tenses slightly at the sight, though his fear is muted this time. He's keenly aware of the cooling blood in his neck fur and the deep throb where the woman had bitten him, but he can't help feeling a little more confident after the encounter. Obviously he'd won; he'd left the woman blind, as good as dead surely. The thought further slows his breathing as the other approaches, and he's grateful for it.
A brief, faint smile tugs at Zephyr's lips when the other greets him, but his expression is solemn again when he speaks. Demon, He returns, pausing for a moment as his gaze sweeps over him. Fight me. The words are level, more invitation than challenge. He knows he's likely to lose, but the adrenaline hasn't quite faded yet, and it seems like a great idea to him regardless. Surely this will help him become stronger.

How frantic one might be, if they were anyone but the reaper’s son, who gazes upon the wounded mix. A smile curves across Ghost’s slender muzzle. An eyebrow quirks on the Wayfarer’s.

“Fight me.”

Not a barked command; not a challenge. The tone holds something else, as if the suggestion is for this elusive ‘fun’ many speak of. Dark ears swish forward, head tilting right and then to the left.

It clicks. A bulb lights above him, charging a spark that courses through his veins. Adrenaline pumps, muscles itching to flex.

Twisting across his dark muzzle lays a grin of his own, macabre, gruesome. Far from a pretty sight as it curves irregularly across untested muscles—as if he’s never been taught to smile proper.

He takes a step forward, and then another, picking up momentum akin to a freight plowing over a hill—steady yet picking up enough speed to be fearsome. Each step he lengths his stride, stretching thick limbs—the stretch of still healing wounds stinging along his bulk.

There is no need to play feints, nor to attack robotically like a good little soldier. Barbaric best describes him.

He goes to Ghost’s left, attempting to slam into him—bowl him over—while jaws unhinge and teeth go for the scruff.

He doesn't expect the other boy's wordless approach any more than he'd expected the unsettling smile, though in hindsight he realizes he should have. He takes a deep breath, muscles tightening almost painfully. He's perfectly still for a few moments, until Demon is almost upon him. Then he ducks low in an attempt to avoid his jaws, snapping at the other's limbs without any intent to cause real harm as he tries to dart past him. He knows the best outcome for him is one without any true bloodshed, so for once he's willing to let someone else make the first move. Hopefully the other boy will take the hint instead.

Bloodshed is home for him. The adrenaline rush comes so easily, and he is set back into the battlefield; into the training pits where they fight to the death. The only prize is living, if you’re lucky. Even then, it isn’t much a prize when it’s laced with the trauma.

Ghost is swift, side-stepping from his charge—the Wayfarer follows, shifting hind-end as teeth scrape fur across his left limb. It strikes him odd at first, yet he ignores it—focusing on the battle instead.

As Ghost is ducked down, the Wayfarer plants his feet, raising his right leg to press it down over the silver’s back. Teeth once more lash out for Ghost’s scruff.

He feels proud of himself briefly — until the weight of Demon's leg comes down across his back, and he finds himself unable to rise. He struggles against the hold, but his already-sore legs scream in protest, and the feeling of teeth in his scruff startles the last of the strength from him. His ears heat in shame as he realizes he's already lost, but he doesn't give up his squirming just yet. He's not ready to admit defeat, even when a mortifying soft half-whine slips from him in the midst of his struggles and nearly shames the fight out of him.

Teeth scramble to catch as Ghost thrashes away from the hold—dark ears flicking forth, capturing the half-whine and answering with a low growl in return. He pushes forth, attempting to secure victory and squish the Ghost down. Teeth edging the skin, tempting to sink and shake, a death roll as flesh is torn asunder. Yet, the Wayfarer does not go for the kill—against instinct, he strives to let the silver live. Already, Ghost has given him much, and despite not acknowledging it, he wants to see what comes next.

For a moment it seems like everything goes still, and Zephyr follows suit, slowly releasing the tension in his limbs and trying not to think too much on the other's growl. He stays that way for a few seconds, breath held, hoping the other will let his guard down a little. Regardless, he doesn’t let it last too long. It feels like an eternity to him, though. He gathers his strength, and without warning he pushes himself up with all the force he can manage, then abruptly to the side. He shakes his head fiercely as he tries to roll away, hoping to break the other’s grip and spring back up to face him again.

There is silence. An ease of tension akin to steam releasing outward a machine. Ghost surrenders, yet does not fall. Victory tastes like blood and bile; of frost and cedar trees. The Wayfarer relaxes his limb, and it is then that Ghost strikes. A trickster criminal that lights the smoking flame.

He quakes.

Twisting from his jaws despite the Wayfarer's urge to clench down, the beast at least manages to keep with the momentum, a messy and tangled dance filled with tripped limbs and a manic smirk. Champagne eyes burn bright.

In the end, the Wayfarer manages to halt the rotation, freezing Ghost on the back roll and forcing the slender coywolf to stare up and down the barrel of a gun, or perhaps the reaper's scythe stolen from dear dad. This time he won't fall for any tricks. He looms over, tail high.

Relief and pride wash over him for the briefest moment as he feels Demon’s grip on him loosen and fall away, and he feels emboldened for that single heartbeat. Then he’s rolling, and the other is moving with him like a heavy shadow, and then he’s not rolling. His heart leaps into his throat, limbs stiffening and automatically bracing against the other wolf — but he knows he’s stuck. Defeated. A long, frustrated breath escapes him, and he pushes a little harder against Demon; he can at least make his victory uncomfortable. It’s not fair, He complains breathlessly, ears flat to his skull. You’re so much bigger — and fat.

Legs press against his chest, thin and twig-like. Easy to snap, if the Wayfarer chooses to roll his own weight the wrong way. He exhales, chest expanding against Ghost’s pressure with each breath—

His lips release from their curved prison, and back with the mask of neutrality he stands. Each harder struggle makes the Wayfarer crush his weight downward, the sharp complaints of pain ignored—far from the worst he’s suffered.

Then eat, he says as if Ghost’s dilemma is easily solved, get fatter.

A snort escapes him at the response he receives. That won’t help, He says, clearly unimpressed by the idea. Eating more won’t make me like you. His own weight has fluctuated enough in his short life that he knows eating more won’t make him bigger in the ways he wants, just as eating less has, thankfully, not made him any smaller than he is. At least, he’s pretty sure it hasn’t. Regardless, he isn’t about to show Demon any of his doubts.

Right, he says. But it was part of what made me like this. The tapering of thick chest to stomach thinner than it has been in his lifetime, due to his status. He often went hungry, and the Wilds haven’t been much different than the road here.

On occasion, he’d go hungry in the pits, too, when he’d made the wrong person mad—stare at the wrong person, you got beaten and no food for days.

Champagne eyes flicker to the blood still seeping on Ghost’s neck. He rolls to the right, shoulders sliding and bulk hitting the ground next to the smaller wolf with a thud. He rotates a second later, laying so his stomach touches the ground, and does what he often did with battle brothers; grooms, even if Ghost is a sore loser.

A sharp, quiet breath slips from him at Demon's response, but he stays silent. A part, but not the most important part, he thinks, though he feels it best to keep that to himself. Then the other parts from him and plops down on the snow, and suddenly Zephyr is too baffled to care about their conversation. His attention is focused entirely on the other's movements as he shifts into a more upright position.
At first, it'd been easy enough to avoid the strange feelings that came with the interaction going the way he'd wanted; he'd been a little more prepared for it after meeting Phillip, and distracted by their brief fight. But as Demon shifts and reaches over to groom him, he realizes that this is a new mess entirely; one he hadn't known he'd wanted until it happened. And then the tears start to sting his eyes, and shame floods him. Weak. He blinks, leaning forward abruptly to groom the other boy in a similar manner; it seems like the right thing to do, and hopefully it'll hide the emotional shine of his eyes.

He isn’t gentle in the way he ought to be, digging rough with nips across Ghost’s fur; tough in the spots where the silver is stained red, growing darker and transforming in coloration the longer it sits to dry. Ghost reaches over, grooming him in return.

Expected, but it flashes back to the moment when the Wayfarer laid with Ghost’s lookalike—breathless giggles under each stretch as they played in secret.

A sigh of contentment escapes his lips.

Part of him wonders if the connection is truly there, or if it is this falsity that the Wayfarer sinks in. Nonetheless, he moves enough to lick across Ghost’s cheek, over an eye that leaks. There’s no comment about the tears, just an aid to hide them from the rest of the world.

He doesn’t halt there, however, as he goes to snag a tall ear between his teeth with an eyebrow quirking upwards.

At first, he doesn’t quite understand the harshness of his companion’s ministrations, his own touches hesitant and featherlight. But he swallows any questions or protests he might have, too desperate for companionship to complain — and after a few moments of adjustment, it starts to feel comforting. Almost enjoyable. He even starts to mimic the nips, albeit more lightly than the ones he receives.
Demon's sigh seems to expel the last of the tension from Zephyr's body. By the time the other's tongue swipes across his face, he's feeling too mellow to react as he normally might. He blinks once, pausing, and immediately finds himself grateful for the sudden distraction of teeth against his ear — but still a little offended. He nips at the other boy's neck, letting his teeth rake and catch in the fur just enough to sting a little.

A grumbled growl rumbles in the demon’s chest—a huff soon to follow as he tugs on the ear he’s got latched between his teeth. This time, the touch isn’t nearly as damaging as the others. It’s soft enough to keep from breaking skin—unlike the chomp so evidently taken from his own right.

Teeth raking across his neck leave a flurry of fire in their wake, a feeling that the Wayfarer has become accustomed to, yet something about it is unique to the situation he shares now with Ghost. There are no intentions to kill, no intentions to be good and certainly no talk of friendship blossoming between them.

They’re just two broken boys living in the present.

He releases the ear, raising his leg closest to Ghost and resting it across the other’s chest. His head follows after, tail raising in a half-hearted wag until it flops useless again at the Wayfarer’s hip.

The growl doesn't scare him; Demon doesn't scare him, he realizes. Not anymore. He feels almost safe in the silence between them, warmed by their proximity. And when the other boy embraces him, a foreign feeling swells in his chest.
I like you, He murmurs, words unbidden yet firm, and shifts closer. It's the truth, despite their strange first meeting and the odd mix of feelings Demon provokes in him — or maybe because of that. He doesn't care to figure it out now. All he knows is that he doesn't want this moment to end. He doesn't want to rise again to face the world and himself and the perpetual uncertainty of tomorrow. He likes it here.

He’s keen to stay where he is, even blinks champagne eyes close. He finds he doesn’t care if Ghost goes for his throat in the moment of vulnerability. It’d be a better way out like this than what he’s known death to be like. This would be by his own terms.

With the soft thump, thumps of two hearts, of the each rise and fall and stutter of Ghost’s lungs, with the smell of blood, bile and frost. Sounds quite nice. He can’t argue with that.

He feels the words curl up in Ghost’s chest. A dark eyebrow lifts, and slowly a champagne eye blinks open. “I like you.”

Why’s everyone here got the strangest taste?

But the Wayfarer finds that he doesn’t quite mind it; not in the way he minded the blurt of friendship. He feels like Ghost knows him, and their connection? Hell, it seems like it wasn’t a fantasy that the Wayfarer’s mind conjured up after all.

Yeah? He huffs, burying that much closer into silver fur. I like you too.

His breath catches when Demon starts to respond, and he finds himself suddenly nervous, resisting the urge to shift restlessly. Thankfully, the feeling only lasts a moment. He exhales softly when the other echoes his own admission, lips curving slightly as he realizes how much he enjoys hearing those words. It's simple and nice, and he likes that. For a few seconds, he says nothing, silently enjoying the closeness of the moment.
But when the words start, it becomes difficult to stop them, or even take a moment to breathe between. I've been traveling — with my friend, we're looking for my brother and his friend. They're missing. You could come with us, He swallows, ears heating. His heartbeat is suddenly fast, but it's not from fear or anxiety; he can't imagine what else it could be. He's already starting to regret saying anything, but he still can't help adding: I'd like it if you did.

Should it be a strange phenomenon to admit such feelings? The Wayfarer says it casually, as if admitting that deer is his favorite meal, or that the weather is nice. Ghost reminds him of what he’s left behind, he likes how he feels when they interact. A simple conclusion for a complex web.

He finds the glee curved across Ghost’s lips attractive.

The Wayfarer rests his eyes again, content now to doze off into this world where they are the only two who exist. A moment where he isn’t quite the person he was raised to be.

Yet eventually, he hears Ghost start to talk again. Slumber is chased out, yet at first, he doesn’t hear what the silver is talking about. He tunes in to talks of finding someone—two someones?—and then an invitation, served up on a platter with a fancy envelope and a swiggle where his name ought to be.

He’s not sure why he should go with them, but he’s got nothing better to do with this stretch of freedom. He can do whatever he wants. Why not travel around the Wilds with Ghost for now?

“I’d like it if you did.”

And who is he, to argue with that?

Yeah, sure, he says, gruff voice growing light as his jaws break into a yawn, I’ll go with you.

Relief washes over him as Demon answers, followed by a wave of excitement. Let's go then, He says, delivering a series of frenzied nips as he clumsily disentangles himself from his new friend. He might have licked his face a couple times, too, but if asked he'd deny it forcefully. He's not far. He adds a little breathlessly when they're both on their feet. And with that, they're on their way — off to start a new chapter in their strange lives.