private i guess i want you more than i thought i did

[RAVENSONG]

Not a volunteer, but chosen.

Ravensong feels strange, as if he had something ripped away from him. Clasped between this claws, finally, and he will lose him again. The medicine cat does not want half the cats for this journey to go, but somehow Dovethroat's departure hurts the most. He struggles to understand why. The ache in his heart when he looks at Dovethroat is different from the ache he feels for Hazecloud, and during their preparations the night-pelted time finds himself simply staring at the tabby.

Dovethroat had gotten bigger. He had "filled out" so to say. It was hard to believe underneath that mass was a soft, begrudging heart. He tries to not speak to him too much before the journey is up, but now the moon is rising high and they are on the outskirts of Fourtrees before the gathering. Ravensong pauses and hangs back as the rest of the RiverClan cats push forward to mingle with the other cats.

"Dovethroat." He calls gently, waiting for hazel eyes to turn back to him, probably stupid and wide-eyed, that look Dovethroat always used to wear. Ravensong stares at his face, committing it to memory. It will be all he has when he is gone for who knows how many.

"I've seen the place you have to go to." He started, glancing up at the stars, then back to him. "It's beautiful." Ravensong pauses and inclines his head to the left to cough and the thought trails like that.

He turns his head to pull something from the feathery fur lining his neck and reveals it to the other cat. It is a raven's feather, unblemished and preened. It shines in the moonlight and Ravensong's exhausted seafoam eyes soften. This is tooth-rottingly sweet and Ravensong has no grounds, no precedent on which to stand. His skin burns underneath his fur. He feels his heart quicken.

"Maybe if you keep this with you, at your tail, you'd be able to take me with you."

@dovethroat.

☾₊ ⊹ темная ночь — dark is the night

•  
• 
  RAVENSONG of RIVERCLAN
  — LH BLACK POLYDACTYL MALE (CARRYING CINNAMON, DILUTE) a tall, slender creature with pitch-black feathery fur, large ears, and a sharply angled skull held up in an aloof manner. smells of dried herb, speaks with a low and rumbly accent and walks with an elegant slinking gait.
  
  — born in twolegplace and orphaned at a young age, he joined riverclan at its inception and began training as a drypaw warrior known for a bitter temperment until beesong made him his medicine cat apprentice. after his mentor's untimely death, he had been named ravensong at the moonstone, young heart revitalized with anger and guilt. he is a somber and thorough medicine cat that guards every word spoken in the confines of his den.
  
  — secretly loves "the stars but not so much what inhabits them"
  — openly suffers from chronic migraines
  — single, but "it's complicated"

​

 

[dovethroat.]

Since he was chosen, singled out by Cicadastar, the past few days felt like they have gone by impossibly quickly; as if they were not days at all. He feels tight in the chest, like he cannot breathe. As if he is being pressed down upon by the world, by StarClan, by everything. Eyes cast to the sky for a moment, and a whimper very nearly leaves his throat. Whatever is up there, he pleads—StarClan, or nothing at all, or some other godly force—at least let me live. Better yet, reverse time and make Cicadastar change his time entirely.

Looking up at the all-encompassing sky, Dovethroat begins to feel panic set in. His breath quickens. The only thing stopping him from entirely collapsing in on himself is the sound of a voice calling his name. Wide-eyed and bewildered, he whips his head to face Ravensong. His breath stills for a moment, similarly studying Ravensong's face as if it is the last thing he will ever see.

"H-Have y-you?" Whereas Ravensong in this moment has a sort of resigned sereneness to him, Dovethroat looks moments from falling apart. His breathing is short and ragged, and each sentence is gasped out like a dying fish. "In—in d-dreams? Or s-something?" He feels like his entire body is itchy. He twitches awkwardly.

Staring at Ravensong as he presents the gift, Dovethroat gapes at it for many moments longer than one would need to take in the details. A pause between them passes, and Dovethroat's eyes track from the feather to Ravensong's eyes and back again. He swallows. It is an unusually sentimental gesture by Ravensong; unusual in every regard. And yet, he does not feel unusual. Taking a few shaky steps, he accepts the gift and does as Ravensong suggests—the feather is tucked into his into the fur near his tail. There it will stay; he will not let it leave. He cannot.

When he turns back from placing the feather, their faces were uncomfortably close to each other.

He takes in a shaky, creaking breath. "I w-want to run away," he blurts, whispering hastily.

[⋆]​

​

 

[RAVENSONG]

The response to his question is a simple nod. It had been one of the many signs the other medicine cats received, and only Ravensong was allowed to see this part. It was beautiful but again, the warning of how disaster could hide behind beauty came to mind. There was a real danger in this journey—some of these cats never left their own borders, much past the Highstones.

Dovethroat is panicked, and rightfully so. It does not soothe the ache in Ravensong's heart any further. If things were different, they could have gone together. But this was not his path to take. And he knows Dovethroat knows better than to disobey Cicadastar's orders.

Ravensong feels some weight leave his shoulders as Dovethroat accepts his gift, as silly as it is. He chastises himself mentally as the tabby busies himself with fixing the feather to the fur of his tail. And why, he wonders with a pain in his heart, that such a simple and silly gesture makes warmth bloom in his chest. For a moment he can believe that Dovethroat is his—and what a strange feeling that is. He is scared of it, scared of how much he has come to silently admire his peer.

Ravensong takes in a deep shaky breath when Dovethroat faces him again. Their whiskers are close to touching. "Don't do that." It's a simple reply. "You don't know where you'll end up. And... you promised me if it were to ever happen, we'd do it together, remember?"

☾₊ ⊹ темная ночь — dark is the night

•  
• 
  RAVENSONG of RIVERCLAN
  — LH BLACK POLYDACTYL MALE (CARRYING CINNAMON, DILUTE) a tall, slender creature with pitch-black feathery fur, large ears, and a sharply angled skull held up in an aloof manner. smells of dried herb, speaks with a low and rumbly accent and walks with an elegant slinking gait.
  
  — born in twolegplace and orphaned at a young age, he joined riverclan at its inception and began training as a drypaw warrior known for a bitter temperment until beesong made him his medicine cat apprentice. after his mentor's untimely death, he had been named ravensong at the moonstone, young heart revitalized with anger and guilt. he is a somber and thorough medicine cat that guards every word spoken in the confines of his den.
  
  — secretly loves "the stars but not so much what inhabits them"
  — openly suffers from chronic migraines
  — single, but "it's complicated"

​

 

[dovethroat.]

He spends a great deal of time preening the feather, making sure it is placed in such a way that only a strong tug would be able to dislodge it. The vast majority of it ends up covered by his fur, but he almost prefers it that way. Not necessarily out of embarrassment—though, with how Dovethroat is so often wont to act, probably at least a little out of embarrassment—but it is nice, to think, that this is just for them. The two of them. Betraying some of his more uncertain beliefs, he pleads to some power on high; StarClan, why not; that some form of magical intervention will allow them to speak, or see each other, or something. If Ravensong is allowed to see flashes of prophecy, can they not do that?

It still inspires a tug of envy, of anger. Why has Ravensong been afforded this gift, when all Dovethroat has been given is misfortune? Missing parents, an exiled mentor, a forced departure. Bitterly, he wishes he could at least get some of the benefits. Is it wrong to feel like he deserves that? And yet, he does not even know if he feels like he deserves it, per se. He does not have that much ego. Maybe he just wants it. His pettiness, his pity for himself—it infuriates him even more. It is his worst quality, and he knows it. But still, he cannot help but argue that the worst thing about him is his sheer lack of luck: something that does not even exist.

Ravensong does not scare him; he knows exactly how he feels, even if it is sometimes overwhelming. Perhaps that is a key difference in them, in spite of all their similarities. He fixes him with another look, his breathing shallow and rapid and very audible. In the first stages of coming to terms with this, he cannot help but try and bargain. "And—and... y-you won't—you c-can't—you c-can't run... you c-can't run now," he whispers with defeat, his throat tightening as he feels like he is about to begin sobbing again. Everyone has left. His mother, his father, Hyacinthbreath. He had just gotten Ravensong back, it felt like, and now he was the one who was going to have to leave. Even with the roles reversed, it stung the same; gnawed at the same wound. "Y-You... you h-have to h-help... help—p-people," it's clear that talking is beginning to be hard for him. He sucks in a shaky, wheezing breath. His words sound like crying.

"R-Right. Yes. Y—...y-yes. I r-remember."

He doesn't know what else to say.

[⋆]​

​

 

[RAVENSONG]

"Nobody else can." He replies. It is the truth, but it is delivered softly and without judgment. And although those childish desires of running away had been younger imaginatiosn, he wonders how much truth is in them. When it came down to it—would Ravensong abide by his vows of service or follow Dovethroat? The decision is easier to make when he has an apprentice to pass it down to. He needs one, eventually. And as outcast as he is, he still found some cats to pin down to in the island RiverClan called home.

Ravensong breathes in slowly and listens to the rising and falling crescendo of Dovethroat's voice. He is falling apart, and if he is this worked up now, he could never survive what was beyond Highstones.

Ravensong lets the silence pass through them. The leaf-fall breeze ruffles his fur and his hollow eyes dip down again to Dovethroat's paws and then back to his eyes. He moves closer, mechanically, and not of his own volition. Even before, being so close, they had never broken a touch barrier as severe as Ravensong's attempt now. His slender muzzle dipped low to slot under Dovethroat's chin. He paused, seemingly having second thoughts as their fur started to brush together. His breath halted and his heart stilled, waiting for Dovethroat's reaction.

☾₊ ⊹ темная ночь — dark is the night

•  
• 
  RAVENSONG of RIVERCLAN
  — LH BLACK POLYDACTYL MALE (CARRYING CINNAMON, DILUTE) a tall, slender creature with pitch-black feathery fur, large ears, and a sharply angled skull held up in an aloof manner. smells of dried herb, speaks with a low and rumbly accent and walks with an elegant slinking gait.
  
  — born in twolegplace and orphaned at a young age, he joined riverclan at its inception and began training as a drypaw warrior known for a bitter temperment until beesong made him his medicine cat apprentice. after his mentor's untimely death, he had been named ravensong at the moonstone, young heart revitalized with anger and guilt. he is a somber and thorough medicine cat that guards every word spoken in the confines of his den.
  
  — secretly loves "the stars but not so much what inhabits them"
  — openly suffers from chronic migraines
  — single, but "it's complicated"

​

 

[dovethroat.]

It has hardly been long since they were hostile toward the other, at least passively; yet that all felt so far away. Like for the past moons they had been actors, reciting lines that had been fed them out of some duty or obligation—ones that they felt but did not believe. Right now, the oath is all that he can think of. Why won't you run away with me, he almost wants to say. He wants to be childish and make Ravensong feel guilty. You said you would. You said you would not betray my trust; but he knows that he cannot.

Staring at him with wide, almost crazed eyes, Dovethroat is silent and still only in the most physical of terms as Ravensong starts to approach him. Somehow, when he feels their bodies make contact, the silence seems even quieter. It's like his ears have never worked at all.

Just as Ravensong, Dovethroat acts without his mind interjecting; or not succeeding to, anyway. With Ravensong's head slotted beneath his chin—it's a wonder he can do that with such a tall, lanky tom—Dovethroat practically collapses immediately. His weight falls onto Ravensong's shoulders, his muzzle nestles itself into Ravensong's scruff; his quick and shallow breaths doing their best to steady and soothe themselves.

More silence. Dovethroat does not know what to say, and somehow feels like he does not have to.

[⋆]​

​

 

[RAVENSONG]

Dovethroat's weight is added to the pile that rests over his shoulders, but he relishes in the support he has to provide here. For a second, he can believe they are in another time and place and it feels closer and more real than anything he had known before. His heart aches. He counts the breaths and the heartbeats of Dovethroat's skittish nervous system. He counts them until they subside and calm and then he knows, with a pang, that it is time to go.

Ravensong closes his eyes tighter, pressing the side of his muzzle underneath the soft fur of Dovethroat's ear. Things can never go back to the way they were, he realizes. But the time and distance they would have to spend away from each other might tear down everything they built up.

The other cats have sprawled into the gathering. His ears twitch when he hears SkyClan leader call out for the journeying cats to depart. Ravensong breathes out shakily and steps back. He looks up at Dovethroat, framed in moonlight. Maybe he feels a little less nervous now, Ravensong hopes.

Then Ravensong abruptly falls back down to earth and he remembers himself. He clears his throat and averts his eyes. "Come back in one piece." His voice is stilted and performative, afraid to lose more of Dovethroat should he continue with this kitten-like affection.

☾₊ ⊹ темная ночь — dark is the night

•  
• 
  RAVENSONG of RIVERCLAN
  — LH BLACK POLYDACTYL MALE (CARRYING CINNAMON, DILUTE) a tall, slender creature with pitch-black feathery fur, large ears, and a sharply angled skull held up in an aloof manner. smells of dried herb, speaks with a low and rumbly accent and walks with an elegant slinking gait.
  
  — born in twolegplace and orphaned at a young age, he joined riverclan at its inception and began training as a drypaw warrior known for a bitter temperment until beesong made him his medicine cat apprentice. after his mentor's untimely death, he had been named ravensong at the moonstone, young heart revitalized with anger and guilt. he is a somber and thorough medicine cat that guards every word spoken in the confines of his den.
  
  — secretly loves "the stars but not so much what inhabits them"
  — openly suffers from chronic migraines
  — single, but "it's complicated"

​

 

[dovethroat.]

Perhaps he knows that the vulnerability they are showing should, on some level, "embarrass" them. This was not how two adult cats, adult toms acted. "Adult". He hardly felt like one at all. Even though the weight of pointless societal expectations, biases—they should have been plaguing him, and yet he found himself hardly thinking about them at all. He isn't counting his breaths, or the beats of his heart; he is not in the proper headspace to be doing that at all.

He tries to fool himself and say that, just maybe, the time apart will make any lingering resentment fade. They will know how terrible it is to truly be apart, that such juvenile attempts that they had drawn out for so long before would seem insulting to even consider. Maybe there is a kernel of truth to that, but he knows that such would be an act of self-soothing, even denial. Additionally, he simply is not that optimistic, that positive of a soul. Dovethroat wishes that he was.

Ravensong is the one who has to break contact—not him. He noticeably wilts when he steps away, and he looks him meekly in the eye. He can vaguely hear the sounds of orders and commands and everything else, but mostly all he hears is his own heart. Now, he feels like he can count the time of it.

"I... I'll t—...I w-will," he breathed shakily, hoping that would be a sufficient answer. Dovethroat did not know if he believed in himself. But he wanted to believe. At least in Ravensong. They would not send them to their deaths. Not willingly.

He hoped.

[⋆]​

​