private I COULD BE A WOLF FOR YOU ✦ sandpaw

[CICADAFLIGHT]

He does not like that Sandpaw had sparred with his sister.

Which is strange, because Beepaw is his sister. His own flesh and blood, one of the three living remnants of Cicadastar on this earth—four, if you counted RiverClan. His only real friend, who since kithood has voluntarily subjected her own friends to his presence for the sake of his getting out more. Although, in recent moons, his sister has grown almost as stony - faced as himself. It's strange, though, that he's displeased with Beepaw over anything, but of all things, for sparring with a tom he vehemently hates and has since they were small.

Beepaw is the lesser subject of his displeasure, though—Beepaw is relatively inconsequential, merely the accessory to Sandpaw's crime. Fire bristles behind his teeth as he stalks across camp, ugly head held low and ears only just starting to rise from their faux - permanent slump. His black - and - white pelt bristles into spiky curls, poorly kempt and tangled with dried water, and his crooked tail taps a furious staccato against the sand as he seeks out a pale - furred form.

" You sparred with someone else, " he spits accusingly, rancor peeling dark lips back from bared fangs. Bent tail lashing with a strange fury he can't place, his forepaws dig at the sand beneath him, mismatched eyes alight. Why is he so angry about this? Angry not just at Sandpaw for being so infuriatingly normal, so infuriatingly Sandpaw, but for daring to spar with someone else. Sandpaw is his sparring partner. Not Beepaw's, and not anybody else's. " Now spar with me. "

// @SANDPAW !!

" speech "

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[SANDPELT]

ꕀꕀ Sandpaw spots the loathsome figure of gangling shade from across camp, and attempts to make himself seem busy—anything to avoid having to interact with the tom he despises, anything to ward off that unsettling mismatched gaze. But even as his paws set to work acting as though he’s occupied with patching up a woven den wall, yellow eyes shift and catch on Cicadapaw. He’s coming for me. There’s no escape now, even if he tries to run. So he greets the other apprentice’s glare with an unimpressed look, eyes dull and cold.

He isn’t expecting to be snapped and snarled at, and so the words spat at him don’t register at first. The accusation that drips from bared fangs is lost for a moment, tan ears pinning back against his head with confusion. "Huh?" He asks, eyes narrowed and head tilted. The other tom’s ire billows off him like wildfire smoke, threatening to choke if he breathes in too much. His chest is caught still, breath held for a number of heartbeats and only released when Cicadapaw speaks again. Now spar with me.

Yellow eyes fly wide at the challenge—because it certainly isn’t a request—and at first he wants to deny it. Bad idea. No. Cicadapaw already seems angry. But his own anger surges forth, and Sandpaw takes a step forward. "You’re seriously mad ’cause I sparred with your sister? Come on, I’m allowed to spar other apprentices than you," he huffs, silken tail lashing. Why is Cicadapaw so mad that he sparred with someone else? Shouldn’t he be glad, because that means Sandpaw is trying to be a better fighter without him? Besides, Beepaw is—well, she’s Beepaw! She’s tough and strong and has nice, curly smoke-hued fur. She’s everything that Cicadapaw is not, and Sandpaw likes it that way.

The tortoiseshell adopts a stance low to the ground, stocky body hunched down so he can dodge Cicadapaw’s first strike if needed. "Fine. Let’s do it, then." He knows how this ends—just the same as it always has, the same song and dance that they’ve been doing since they were both kits. He knows the futility, and he knows his own desperation despite it. He knows the feeling of river-matted fur pressed into soft silken strands, ruining what was once pristine. That is all that comes of sparring Cicadapaw. Sandpaw would be better off denying this, denying him entirely, and yet he still can’t deny the temptation of possibly, finally, beating the other apprentice.​

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