backwritten GOOD WILL HUNTING ♡ DANDELIONWISH

[DAWNGLARE]

Unthinkable. Unfathomable. Unbelievable.

He's hardly forgotten about him. Snake amongst the reeds, ankle-biting leech. A cold rage sits over Dawnglare's shoulders, not yet envigored into flames, for he still could not believe– plainly and simply– the thing that lies within his den. Amongst his things, begrudgingly accommodated by a haphazard nest of grass and nettles. Lips sealed shut, eyes soul-searching, he can only find it in himself to look at him. If he looks hard enough, oh, maybe he'll disappear and leave them alone. All of them– He may never see a WindClanner again, and it would be too soon.

Of course, that is not even a possibility now, not when one lies pathetic and broken below him. It's a scrap of satisfaction that he may allow himself to feel. That he is only here on the terms that Dawnglare helps him. The illusion of choice, there– even if he knew Blaise would fix him with a sorrowful little face if he did. Stiff-still as he is watching over him, there are a million little niggling things– bright-flashing lights in his mind. Brew of emotions, incessant screeching, squealing. He grits his teeth further with each and every second.

Close too, he cannot stand to let the beast out of his sight, not now. Too many of his bones remained unbroken, to do such a thing. He'd have to snap every one of his wrists before he allowed him out of his sight. Unable to run, unable to reach...

The light that seems into his den is entirely blocked by his hulking form– man-made eclipse. Crystalline eyes are barely so, shrouded in dark. His tail betrays the anger he feels; furious whipping, stirring the other herbs into restlessness. They did not deserve his apologies. Neither did this one. He is lucky he did not slit his neck. "I should kill you," finally, he says.

[ AT LAST... @Dandelionwish ]​

 

[Dandelionwish]

Dawnglare loved his company, you could tell in the way the other walked around stiffly and with his head low; muttering to himself madness and obsceneties and probably trying to figure out if Dandelionwish would notice poison in his poultice plasters. He would, if the red velvet tom wanted to ask, because the ex-WindClanner knew his poisons well.

The threat, if you wanted to call it that, is responded to with a chuckle that shakes his form where he lounges in his makeshift sleeping place; tucked as far from the SkyClan healer as the other could shove him without putting him outside the den itself.
"Ye can wait yer turn." The chocolate limbed tom says with a partial smile, half of his face still buried in nesting and regarding the other with only his lone green eye visible and watching. He held no ill-will to the other, even in his insane ramblings of murderous intent he knew would not be carried out. The chimera tabby was perfectly content with being in this den even if the scent of herbs swept over him like a noxious cloud of bad memories and uncertainty. He had no fear of Dawnglare and even if the other tried anything he'd thrash him easily enough, powderpuff of a cat looked like a strong wind might take him down.
"Ye don't like me and tha'salright." Dandelionwish knew better than to poke and prod cats who had no interest in him, the grudge could linger for a lifetime for all he cared so long as it didn't turn into petty squabbling and nitpicking. "Ye don't have to like me ever, but let me make it up to ye somehow." He lifted his head finally, gazed around the den and propped a paw upward to his maw in a thoughtful glance, "Ye know what tormentil is? Ye ever delivered kits proper? I have...twice."
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[DAWNGLARE]

Oh, this one. The audacity to laugh is held captive within those venom-dripping jaws, however invisible it may be. If a look could kill (well, his life would be much more pleasant, indeed) Dandelion would be an oozing pile of flesh within his nest, stripped of all that made him living and reduced to bubbling blood and eyes that floated within it. Too engrossed in his most joyful of daydreams (most joyful barring one), he nearly misses the misplaced mumbling. Oh, he does not though. Namesake in this way, a scowl crosses his face. "You've crawled your way into my den. First pickings go to me." And strangely, the thought of anyone else having this one's skull brings him to near-agony. His jaw ticks at the thought. The insolence still, to regard him like a common kit. He nearly flays him, then and there.

Ye don't like me and tha'salright. He hardly pays attention to the words he's saying. How could he when even his speech is hellfire to the ears. Grating and nonsensical; abhorrent butchering of words. When all was said and done, he could only hope he would never have to hear it again, even better, perhaps if he prayed, Blaise would send him into another territory to commit atrocities by.

Blankly, he woulds stare at the prospect of equivalent exchange, the scowl dying completely to regard him as such. Snapping him out of stupor would only be the movement of gangly limbs, reacted to with the flattening of his own red-singed ears. He is only stark coldness for a moment, slitted glare, and then. "What, is it poison?" Specialty of his sort, Dawnglare may only assume. The frown upon his face only deepens. "I was there the day Blaise's kits were born," he deadpans​