private if she's gonna go [ robinheart ] then i'm going with her

[brookstorm]

What does love feel like? She wishes she once asked her father that. A man such as he would've thought love a dangerous weapon, a knife poised over an already bleeding heart. He would've warned her to stay far from infatuations because they would tie her to someone weak, they would make her weaker. Having Buckgait by his side was both his greatest strength as well as his most profound fragility. Losing her lessened him. Stay away from love, he would have said. But how can she avoid something she knows not what it looks like? What it feels like, tastes like, smells like? If she must bar her senses from falling helplessly in love then what tools could he have given her to save her? The truth is, he couldn't.

For, hours and days at a time, she understands what love may be. What love is.

It's growing aware of her appearance, grooming unruly blue fur only for the chance to be seen. It's breathing out a sigh of relief when another is released from the medicine den, with a clean bill of health - and then refreshing their nest for them before they return to the den that night, so they mustn't worry about it. It's watching them sleep, watching their chest rise and fall before deciding to fall asleep herself. It's in the way they walk, the way they talk, their manners towards their superiors and their ability to entertain kittens and - StarClan, it's the way they forgave her. With grace, with a smile, Robinheart freed her of her sins despite begging to be put down like a lame horse. Robinheart freed her... only to cage her so desperately in this useless, overpowering sense of love. She's stuck and she's alright with that.

Robinheart, your eyes are like sunflowers, she could say. She spends daylight looking for such blooms around the territory, nearly tempted to scout out WindClan or ThunderClan land for a better shot. But she cannot find anything more than small bushels of flowers - of which she plucks a few and holds the stems in her mouth. Robinheart, your voice is lovelier than your namesake, alas, that would mean another caught robin, and perhaps that's still a sore spot for the both of them. She stubbornly watches the water as she strides past it, the sun dipping down behind the horizon line. Robinheart, Robinheart, Robinheart...

She sees her - night fishing, beneath the moon and stars. Her attention is so focused on the ripples of the river that Brookstorm does not so quickly capture it. She's allotted moments of watching russet and coal fur shimmer with the light reflecting off of the water. The way Robinheart's nose wrinkles slightly in her focus, her golden eyes even while narrowed are so kind and warm. She's poised, and she nabs a fish straight from the waves, dispatching it nearly in the same second. Is it then that the mottled molly notices her? Yellow eyes flick to her eventually, surprise maybe in them, and her mouth opens to say something. Brookstorm speaks partially through her greeting.

"Be mine," she demands, but her words are weak, pleading almost. "You and I - we should -" she stumbles, but catches herself as soon as she notices. Her paws draw her closer to the other warrior, ears twitching. "Be my mate, Robinheart. Don't make me ask again," again her tone is quiet, and the demand shakes into something far softer. Brookstorm doesn't think she can watch the face of the other, only pressing closer, brushing her cheek against Robinheart's and murmuring a subtle, "Please."​

 

[robinheart]

What does love feel like? Robinheart is not entirely sure herself. Thirteen moons she has experienced love in different forms with different names. Familial love - the tender grooming of kitten soft down as she nursed alongside her siblings, the romping and wrestling to strengthen little limbs and hone basic skills, the gently spoken affirmations only a mother could offer her child. Friendly love - the coaching of her mentor as she practiced her stance and strikes time and time again, the shared stories among the elders as she picked ticks from their pelts, the look of pride in the eyes of her peers and superiors as she started proving her worth. But what about love love? Romantic love?

When she thinks of what her future holds, what romance she may find with a fellow RiverClanner, all too often eyes the color of emerald flash across her mind. Stone colored fur, like ashes compared to the embers of her own coloration, intertwines with her pelt in her dreams. It is… confusing at best and perhaps disheartening at worst. Brookstorm has lost all she has loved and who was Robinheart to try and claim what remnants may still cling to the other’s bleeding heart?

But oh does she find herself constantly drawn to the she-cat named for the powerful waters of their home.

She would be a fool not to have noticed Brookstorm’s nest pulled a bit closer to her own. She would be a fool not to have noticed the fresh moss and reeds in her own nest the night Ravensong released her from the medicine den. She would be a fool not to have noticed Brookstorm grooming regularly after a period of mourning, sometimes catching herself admiring the shine of the molly’s coat. However she would be a fool to think it all for herself.

Love, in the eyes of her den mate, was dangerous and unpredictable. Robinheart simply doesn’t see herself as one who could be desirable enough to overcome danger and unpredictability - not while the wounds of loss have yet to scab over on Brookstorm. Their last interaction may have given her a crumb of hope, a scrap of hope for a future, but Brookstorm had been quick to sweep it all away. Love did not seem to be what the other was after so Robinheart fought hard to extinguish the flickering flame sparking behind scarlet breast.

She finds ways to keep her mind and paws busy in the days following their last encounter. It’s fairly easy at first - injury and seclusion to the medicine den helped keep her mind from straying to infatuated thoughts and daydreams. With her release and clean bill of health came a redirection of attention to the nursery. She could fetch feathers for nests and help look after the kits should the queens need a break (or a moment to defend the nursery from a wayward rogue). She could practice fishing as it was a weaker skill and the river was finally warming up with the impending newleaf. That is where Brookstorm finds her as the sun melts below the horizon and the moon breathes to life.

Be it a stroke of luck or fate itself that Brookstorm witnesses Robinheart catch a fish on her first try. It is enough to surprise the multicolored molly, who finally spots her den mate and in the name of being friendly and excited begins with, “did you see that? On my first tr-,”

“Be mine”

Her words dissolve on her tongue and Robinheart blinks in something akin to confusion. Brookstorm continues, stumbling over her words but recovering with determination. “Be my mate, Robinheart. Don’t make me ask again.” The distance between them disappears faster than Robinheart can process what is being said. She is sure she looks like a statue - body stiff and mouth slightly agape. It isn’t until soft fur brushes her cheek and the other she-cat utters a soft “please” that the tortoiseshell comes back to herself and shakily exhales a breath she didn’t realize she was holding in.

Brookstorm was asking, nay gently demanding, to be mates. Something Robinheart never would have envisioned despite her daydreams and desires wishing it to be true. Had she somehow manifested love to bloom in the stony she-cat’s heart? Was this another prank? No, she wouldn’t do that to me. So it had to be true. And facing that truth meant internally accepting she had been a fool for thinking Brookstorm’s recent behavior wasn’t meant for her. She was a dangerous and unpredictable fool.

But love belonged to fools, didn’t it?

“It would be unkind of me to make you ask again, wouldn’t it?” Robinheart whispers as she presses against Brookstorm for a second, two seconds, three… then pulls away to gaze upon the she-cat. “I will be your mate.” She almost wants to add a playful ‘took you long enough to ask’ but decides against it as everything feels rushed yet at the right time all at once. It is confusing and exhilarating. Robinheart wonders what made Brookstorm want to be mates, what acted as a catalyst, but the moment doesn’t call for such a discussion.

The moonlight is too silvery, the river’s song too much of a lullaby, and her mate’s eyes too bright to think of anything else. So she doesn’t think, she merely leans forward and presses her forehead to Brookstorm’s forehead with gentle affection.​

 

[brookstorm]

She's not a romantic. This world is not afforded a version of her who dreams of being a partner, who plays with the idea of flirting and courting all the same. Brookstorm is as her father was - stoic, sturdy. She hardly made friends in her youth and the few that she made are... questionable at best. Even the moment she's gifted Robinheart is littered with issues, stutters and uncertainties, and she hasn't even given the other the flowers, and - yet, Robinheart whispers, and there's static in her skin. She accepts the demand, the offer, the plea, and suddenly all at once, breathing is easy again.

She hardly notices the exhale as it leaves her muzzle, shaken at first and then regular thereafter. Robinheart looks at her and she aches only for the other to hold her once again. She pains for she does not believe herself good enough for the tortoiseshell she-cat. She yearns for their forever after to be as it is right now - just then - and then seconds before. It's slipping away before her eyes and Brookstorm cannot help but fear that now she's loving another... they will be taken from her, too. She's cursed in some fashion, she knows it - and she fears it desperately.

"Stay with me," she requests further. Her tail lashes behind her - it's awkward in its action, bending and twisting in order to simply twine with that of Robinheart's. Her attempts with affection line up with the aforementioned ideals and behaviors. Which is just to say that it is not something she is used to whatsoever. StarClan, her from mentor was nearly banished from seeing her partner whilst she was pregnant, and Lichentail simply accepted that fate with hardly any recourse. Robinheart takes something of a lead (thankfully) and leans forward, pressing their foreheads together. Her fear does not dissipate, it does not die with the silent reassurance; it grows, compounds, and wriggles in dread in the pit of her stomach.

"Newleaf will keep us warm tonight, I'm sure," she says. When Robinheart speaks, it's as if the waters beside them lend her her voice - it's soft, bubbly, ebs and flows. Brookstorm is still rough at the edges, and though she's more than excited, more than relieved, she cannot help the frown etched into her muzzle, the fear that rips into her chest. "We'll return to camp before dawn patrol leaves. No one will miss us, I promise." Just one night, just them. Tomorrow may take Robinheart away from her and tonight may be all she has. But even if it's just them and the moonlight, it'll be worth it. She hopes, at least.​

 

[robinheart]

“Stay with me.”

Alabaster tipped tail awkwardly intertwines with her own and Robinheart can think of nothing more than staying with Brookstorm. She is bound to the blue molly physically and emotionally. It is a request that requires no forethought and will yield no afterthoughts. Fear does not reside in the chest of the multicolored she-cat - there is nothing urging her to take all she can tonight for there is no promise of tomorrow. Her motivations are driven by romantic dreams and hopes and desires. She is as much Apricotflower’s daughter as Brookstorm is Lightningstone’s daughter. Cut from different cloth but patched together on the quilt of life. “I’ve already promised you that I am not going anywhere,” Robinheart whispers as she gingerly pulls away so that she may touch her nose to Brookstorm’s cheek. She hopes to provide constant reassurance that she is to be a steady presence in the stone hued molly’s life.

“Newleaf will keep us warm tonight, I’m sure. We’ll return to camp before dawn patrol leaves. No one will miss us, I promise.”

Oh. Lost in a sea of emotion Robinheart had misinterpreted Brookstorm’s request to stay with her. Not just emotionally staying but physically staying. A night spent out of camp where their relationship could take root without prying eyes or unintentional distractions. She doesn’t consider potential dangers or repercussions. Robinheart sees the etched frown on her mate’s face and all she can think to do is remedy whatever fear festers in birdcage ribs. All she has ever wanted to do, she realizes, is make Brookstorm happy. “A night like this is too perfect to be spent in camp,” she reaffirms, shifting closer to Brookstorm until their flanks brush against each other, “we can stay for as long as the stars allow us.”