private make room for me — hound

[CLAYFUR]

Everything in Clay’s life has been knocked off course, like he’s trying to cross a river after a rainstorm. Floodwaters, rushing rapids, sending him tumbling through the dark. He’s lost without his mate, his best friend, his warrior. His Clearsight. It’s not fair. Life isn’t fair, sure, but isn’t there supposed to be some kind of get what you deserve logic to it? It just isn’t fair, and he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He can’t bring himself to try and sleep in his cold, empty nest for long. The scent of his beloved still lingers, but it’s fading quickly—the last tangible piece of him, and Clay can only cry as he curls up to spend yet another sleepless night curled up in a nest that’s quickly losing the smell of its former inhabitant.

It’s the middle of the night when he finally drags himself from his nest, groggy but awake. He can’t… he can’t take it anymore. Everything hurts, endless shards of ice lodging themselves in his chest, his throat, his eyes. Nothing is okay, and nothing will ever be okay again. His love is dead and there’s nothing that can bring him back. He stumbles on tired, stiff legs over to the nearest warrior’s nest, taking only a brief look at the sleeping form curled there before he presses himself as close as he can to the other cat, not quite fitting in their nest but gently trying to arrange himself to fit.

It takes a moment for him to recognize just whose nest he’s sliding into, but fluffy fur and a familiar scent tell him that it’s Houndstride. He doesn’t speak as he settles in against the sleeping warrior’s side, seeking comfort in the press of another’s flank against his. It’s not the same, could never be the same, but the warmth of a body at his side is better than facing the cold on his own.

He feels the other warrior shift, obviously not as asleep as he had hoped. Hazel eyes go wide, big and shining in the low light, and he freezes against the other’s side. This is different from casually slipping into his nest with Clearsight, or with one of his siblings—he hadn’t asked Houndstride for permission, isn’t absolutely certain whether the tom will put up with this. "Please don’t kick me out." His voice is small, sounding dry and cracked. Please don’t make me sleep alone again.


// @HOUNDSTRIDE.
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[ YOU ARE THE STARS TO ME ]​

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[HOUNDSTRIDE.]

Steady a creature as Houndstride may seem to some, he's known more than his fair share of troubles. There'd never been a love to lose, no once-full nest to find empty the next night, but he'd had his world shatter just the same. Flint's teeth mark still mar is leg in an inescapable reminder of that night. All the ones that'd come before it, though– most of 'em, at least, he's lucky enough to have no scars for. And with all the ones he does have... it's something like a miracle, or a curse, that there's something worse in his life than all that violence.

They've all got their horrors, he supposes. Their burdens to bear.

Even if he'd hope Clayfur could forget this one, set it down in some coming moon and never pick it up, he knows there'll be no such luck. Even if he lived to see this world 'til the stars finally die, love doesn't leave so easily. He'd remember this loss. Nothing he could do would ever ease it from him. There's some thought to softening it, though, but– such things aren't his place. Charismatic as he may be when the world calls for it, Houndstride does not see himself as a comforting soul. Too distant and prickly for that, never quite warm enough.

It still bothers him as he tries to rest. Restless still, the warrior walks the line of sleep and wakefulness. Closed eyes can envision the den, but the rest of him is stuck on the battlefield. Or before even that, when Wolfsong's claws had torn into his ear. He can smell the blood so clearly it must be fresh, even over the scent of the warrior den and the river and the muck. His clanmates are far off in comparison to that horrible stench. He only realizes it'd been a dream when he begins to stir once more. Torn between relief and exhaustion, Hound goes to shift and twist in his nest in search of a more comfortable spot– that's when it finally dawns on him that he'd not been saved from that battlefield by his restless mind. His paw brushes fur.

Green eyes, halfway between a sleepy hood and a bewildered squint as he lifts his head, find...Clayfur. Pressing into his own nest looking like he's half afraid of being struck for it, speaking softly and brokenly between them. He'd been an only kit, raised alone. Sharing a nest had never been all that familiar to him. Even on those awful nights when the cold had bitten into his skin, Hound (just Hound, then, little lost Hound) had been small enough that it was less sharing a nest with Flint and more using him as a nest. He instinctively shifts, first as if to get away from him, but then to–

To make room for him, without sneer or judgement. His head rests back down on his paws, and in a voice roughened by sleep and disuse, he mutters, "Get yourself settled, Clay." Despite the rasp, it is somehow kind.

﹥ˏˋ〘  OOC NOTES INFORMATION 〙ˊˎ﹤

• ooc: —
• ──── houndstride. trans male, he - him - his pronouns.
  ──── over three years old. born late december of 2020.
  ──── bisexual but with a heavy masc preference; single.
  
  ──── a chocolate tabby with ( stylized ) low white and intense lime eyes. lean and lanky,  with whiplike musculature and a long, quick stride. hound's notable features include his impressive height, the long scar across the left side of his face from nose to jaw, his very deep, dense fur, and the confident manner with which he conducts himself.
• "speech"

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[CLAYFUR]

His heart lies shattered in his chest, but still he has hope at least for this. For Houndstride’s mercy, for the other warrior’s acceptance of Clay into his nest. Maybe Houndstride will smack him and run him off, or gently ask him to leave. And he’ll respect that, if the other tom decides not to share his nest. But Hound doesn’t move to kick him out; instead, he shifts away, an offer of space for Clay to better curl up in.

His gaze catches on Hound’s ear, tattered and torn, and he wonders when he’s gained that injury. During the fighting? He hadn’t paid much attention to the wounds of his clanmates, too consumed by his own loss to extend his care much further than himself. He’s been selfish, he thinks for a moment—but is he allowed to be? He managed to come out of the battle relatively unscathed, with a few scratches but ultimately no wounds worth Beesong’s herbs.

He should check on his clanmates more, before he loses them as well.

Houndstride’s voice is gravelly, gruff from his sleep, and Clay feels a bit guilty for waking him. But the other warrior only tells him to get settled—he does so as well as he can. "Thank you," he whispers, shifting to fill the space that Houndstride forfeits. It’s an awkward shuffle for a moment, long legs folding beneath him until he’s somewhat comfortable.

It’s different, but not uncomfortably so. He’s always been tactile, and it never mattered who he was curled up against until he met Clearsight, started sharing a nest with him. (In hindsight, it really is absurd that Clay didn’t realize they were practically already mates sooner.) Houndstride is a suitable substitute, especially given that Clay will never have his chosen nestmate again.

And that—that’s still too much to imagine. Every night is going to be like this, now. And empty nest, no soft laughter as he cuddles into white-streaked fur. He swallows a sob, turns his head in attempt to hide it in the warrior’s dark pelt. He’s quiet for a moment, since filled with sniffles and gasps. "You’re a… a really good friend. Sorry I’m… like this."
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[ YOU ARE THE STARS TO ME ]​

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