Broken Boulder the sweet far thing

Finishing what remained of the robin with a crunchy crunch-crunch, Ico swallowed the meagre bird meat and tried to feel satisfied. But as he continued on through the grey afternoon, his delicate paws leaving light prints in the fallen snow, he knew he couldn't go on like this much longer. But! He had to remain positive. At least a little.

What was this, for example...? The curious youth trotted up towards the great boulder than had become visible through the conifers, and raised a forepaw as he hovered near the spectacle. "Split in twain? But how?" he murmured softly to himself.

It's nothing other than the crunch of small bones that perks his ears up. Our young detective stirs and grabs his weasel from the floor. Before going on, he turns it upside down and gives it a good shake, because old habits die like cockroaches, which is to say, they don't. 
His mind's backtracking, back to Merrick, Merrick. He tries, but he can't remember his face. He supposes that he should keep his memories organized but he's already drowning in paperwork as it is.

Oh, there's the boy. White-haired, thin as a rail.
Taylor approaches. His face turns into an expression of concern. A portrait of him right now could be titled Anxiety, Still Life. The weasel's limp head bobs, bobs, bobs, skitters over the ground. "The cold, maybe," the weasel falls to the floor, sprawling.
He's surprised by his voice, still rusty from disuse. Had it gotten deeper? Was that a crack? "Looking for something?" If he had hands, they'd be shoved in his pockets. Everything about Taylor now screams nervous young man, as it usually does.

Such was the direction of the wind and his attention, Ico's first indication of the stranger was his voice, and his heart lurched so hard it might've moved in his chest. Perpetual hunger demanded that first he notice the dead weasel, but the wolf very easily drew the eye.

He was as tall as a horse, slinky and shadowy, sunlit and sea-eyed but seeming to wish he was the same colour as his surroundings. But such was his presence, a silly thought sprang to mind —

T'was he broke the boulder!

Or the cold, but Ico did not understand how that was possible. Head now a little lower, ears a little flatter, Ico blinked nervously at his fellow loner, trying not to look at the juicy dead weasel. "Somewhere to stay put", he replied. "I don't suppose... I don't suppose you live here?" he asked uncertainly, apology preemptively threaded into his light voice.

The first thing he observes (and records) as the white stranger turns around is his face: narrow, a straight nose, dark eyes that looked more like an artistic suggestion than organs of an animal.
Something stirs in the back of his head. It approaches the front. It's that familiar teenage urge to take something beautiful and ruin it. Taylor tamps it down with a steel-toed foot. He tries not to stare, but he can't help it. Stop already, idiot.
He notices that the boy is staring at the weasel. Nah, I don't. he replies, as amicable as anyone can be with a corpse next to his foot. It doesn't take a genius to find out that the stranger's a loner. He can see it in his eyes— refugee's eyes. Hungry eyes. A sudden vision of him playing the xylophone on his ribs. He blinks, shakes his head.
Take it, he says, pushing the weasel forwards. I live south of here, with some friends. Ursus, he thinks. At least that's still fresh in his memory. It's difficult to forget even for someone like him.
Taylor could not give a less of a shit about who was going to eat the weasel in the end.

To Ico, the other's stare suggested dominance, which of course the smaller roamer readily accepted, blinking away as if once more to inspect the broken boulder. In doing so, he barely noticed that the stranger was lost in his thoughts — in much the way Ico often was.

But he looked back up at the sandy fellow, alarmed at the sudden generousity. Ico's brown eyes said really? But it would be foolish to utter this outloud; he should instead be gracious, and not risk this rare and golden opportunity. "Oh, thank you so much..."

Ico edged forward, low to the ground, then the first bite of dead prey flooded his conscience with relief as he realised his lifespan had just stretched a little longer. This was so much nicer than the bird. Careful not to speak with his mouth full, Ico asked meekly; "you run with a pack?" Something about the way the horse-wolf had phrased it — "living with some friends" — made him seek confirmation. Besides, to Ico, who'd been rejected from one border to the next, a group of friendly wolves was an exotic thing indeed.

Those russet eyes were flickering on and off, to and away, like lightbulbs in an air raid. Any other day, he would've found this amusing, maybe even charming. But he was too tired to feel much of anything. Everything felt so far away. Now he'd give anything for sleep.
What a skittish guy. Taylor could yell something now, really yell something, and he could have a heart attack. He imagines a gravestone. The epitaph of it reads: Here lies ___. Died of fright. He supposes that there are worse ways to die.
With nothing to do, he sits down, crosses and uncrosses his legs, tries to get that nervous energy back into his hands. He watches him tongue the food to one cheek and speak out of the other. Taylor thinks he's too tired to smile, but he manages one anyway, fighting gravity.
A characteristically long pause later, Taylor answers. Sort of. We have a claim, but it isn't official, I think, he raises an eyebrow and congratulates himself inwardly at not messing the process up. What's your story?

The pause made Ico anxious that he'd said something troublesome, or at the very least odd; but it transpired the situation was simply more complicated than young Ico had assumed. He couldn't even begin to imagine how one forms a pack, but he supposed it couldn't be as basic as howling skywards and planting one's haunches. You needed packmates, strategy, territory, water sources, abundant prey... alright, perhaps Ico could begin to imagine how a pack was formed.

"Story?" his ears perked up. Ico swallowed another juicy mouthful of weasel, then gave his meal a break as he was confronted with the only thing more sustaining to him than food: storytime.

"Well. My name's Ico. I hail from three weeks thataway, a low packland called Walnut Grove. It's a smallish group, and they get by well because they're rather choosy. And if you're choosy, why choose a boy like me? I haven't any skills. I was born into the pack, but that isn't a free ticket to permenant residency, which... good for them, I suppose. They don't want scroungers. So I was, erm, asked to leave, and..." he shifted his weight, and flopped one forepaw over the other. "My story goes on a bit, as I wandered out into the world and sought a place to stay put, but there is no satisfying conclusion to the story, not yet anyway. So it may be better to end it here, by this mysterious broken boulder, where I found a nice fellow who helped ensure I'd be alive to keep chasing that satisfying conclusion."

Glancing down at the weasel, and to the curve of Ico's small, fox-ish mouth, Taylor is only half-listening, because that's all he knows how to do. He does notice, however, that at the mention of a story, Ico has unfurled and awakened. 
If Taylor knew how a big brother usually was, then he'd say that he was feeling like one right about now. That wasn't the case. Obviously.
He thinks that stories are just another breed of small talk. Small talk that's been allowed to roam free and mutate for a couple generations. Walnut Grove, ...good for them I suppose, conclusion, conclusion, conclusion. This reminds him of the one time his mom ever told a bedtime story to them. She would change her voice, turn into every character, and Taylor would ask, How?
How? How how how how—
He blinks, hard. The appropriate face he should be making is a pensive one with maybe a dash of pity. So he frowns thoughtfully like it's his job. You're not half bad, if you've survived for that long. Then, with an apologetic laugh, a sorry, I think I'm going insane laugh, I'm Taylor. But everyone calls me Fields. 
The thing about stories was, that you could just make them up. Wanna know mine? I can do voices for all the characters. His mind is full of silt, like seafloor that's just been mussed.

Ico managed a sheepish smile, but it was far more one of gratitude than agreement... for he didn't truly think survival was an impressive skill. To survive and thrive... now that was something else. That was something that this fellow was doing. This Taylor — no, Fields. The name suited him, but Ico had no idea why. Something to do with the largeness and freedom of the word.

At the offer of a story in turn, Ico piped up; "very much!", as if he'd only told his story so he could hear Fields's. And that, in all honesty, was really very true.

In a rare moment of recalling the childhood he'd so recently lost, Ico felt quite pupish as he watched the tall hunter, eager to hear the offered voices of the various players in his tale.

In a rare moment of non-resentment, Taylor almost feels bad for Ico. Almost can't bear to look at him anymore. He feels pulled apart by horses. He shakes his head to erase the thoughts, but he knows they will regroup, a swarm of vengeful insects.
I was born in the fall. In a forest. I forgot the name. My mom, she would always tell me, you didn't cry at all. Not even when you hit your head or lost your milk teeth.
Mom sounds weaselly, squeaky, irritating. It's a good impression. She deserves less.
My dad, he was the tall one of the family. I mean, I look just like him. He'd always say, I'm busy, I'm busy. Just a second.
Dad sounds reedy, thin, anxious. He doesn't exist.
My brother, he would tell me— let's try this, Taylor. —I mean, he was, an interesting guy.
Brother sounds, well, he sounds like Taylor.
He's very smart. Scary smart.
Oh, what the hell. This is getting too close to the truth. What was it about Ico, and his stupid flighty eyes, and his stupid permanent slouch, his prettiness—
I left because I wanted to see the world, he lies. I'd just learned to hunt, and to fight, and I ended up here. And I met someone... Merrick. A boy with one eye. Taylor fidgets with the hem of his sleeve. More and more, the acting is getting easier. He wonders if he is really being himself, right now. More and more, it's getting hard to tell. And then I met you.
Another long pause. 
His voice is softer, thoughtful. You're looking for somewhere to stay put, right?

You don't look like an Autumn fellow, Ico mused thoughtfully; but then what fellow did he look like? Summer? Perhaps. But a different kind of Summer, a flip on the lazy warmth and yellow glow you'd expect. But then, Fields is an unexpected sort, Ico contentedly decided, letting forth a soft giggle of amusement as Mrs Fields was voiced with squeaky enthusiasm.

What a family. Someone too tall, someone too smart... what wide, great characters; Ico couldn't really remember anyone like that at Walnut Grove, though they'd all been unique enough. But not as unique as... a boy with one eye. Ico's own eyes widened at the picture, unsure what to say to that, but eager to learn more about the cyclops.

"Somewhere to stay put", he confirmed with a nod, but his mind was still on Fields's story. "And somewhere with, you know... characters. Like the ones you describe. Tall, smart, one-eyed characters."

A snicker escapes him, only because he's incompetent and unable to keep check of all the fine muscles in his throat. Characters. Taylor wants to grab Ico by his thin shoulders and shake him and laugh for being so goddamn intellectual. That was it! Everyone was a character. Not one of his finest eureka moments.
In a blink, he turns calm and intense, and he fixes Ico with a questioning look. Not a stare— he's careful of all that. What was it? Blinking every few seconds? Looking away for a bit, then looking back again? It was so much work. How did other people do this so easily? You can come with me back there, if you want. This is the second offering he's made, but it carries more weight than the half-eaten weasel. Even Taylor knows that.
You don't have to stay either, he says with a toothsome grin, Just long enough to meet some characters. Maybe put them in your stories for the future. 
Characters. He's really struck gold with Ico. If they were humans, he'd be giving him a big pat on the back, ruffling his hair. 

The weasel was juicer than the robin, but Fields's story had been juicer than both. And now here Ico sat (or lay, the remaining food still sitting expectantly next to his forepaws), with something even more satisfying and vital in sight. Somewhere to stay put... Fields was careful to note that he may not wish to linger there forever, but the youth was too moved to notice; moved by the welcoming hand extended by a smiling knight.

Ico had enough imagination and wherewithal to wonder in a creeping manner if Fields had some ulterior motive here — after all, he had been so kind for what felt like no reason at all. But the boy was too taken in by said kindness. He took him at his word, and beamed. "I'd love that, Mr Fields. I mean Fields. And I'll think of some way to repay you, I'm sure of it."

Though even as he said it, he wasn't sure how. Ico's traditional skillset was meager, and it was all he could do not to mutter: are you sure you'd want to take in someone like me? Nobody else has been foolish enough.

we can fade here and i can start a thread for him in bearclaw valley^^

Mr Fields. That was funny too. As far as he knew, they were the same age, many a few months apart. Did he really seem that old? Was it the height?
It was the height.
Good-naturedly, Taylor waves away the prospect of repayment. Checks and balances— all that stuff was a nuisance if you really got down to it. Though he supposed if you really got down to it, there were no rules at all anywhere. Well then, onwards, he says, enjoying the feel of being in a story, despite himself. The intrepid explorer and his faithful partner! He'd be adjusting his hat if he had one, and putting a stalk of wheat in his mouth.
On the fairly long trip south, he would share stories of the Valley with Ico, talk about the mysterious one-eyed boy king, talk about bears in the shadows.