- Jun 17, 2024
- 21
- 5
- 3
Twolegplace is growing fruitless. Are his looks fading with age? Surely not . . . he likes to think he's retained a certain rough - around - the - edges roguishness, even through all the scars. And up until quite recently, most of the cats in Twolegplace had wholeheartedly agreed with him. Maybe he's finally been out here long enough that more cats around here know him as an ex than a potential lover? That seems more likely, given the way he's gotten several hiss - and - spit reactions, even when he didn't really recognize the cat doing it.
He stands on the fence, just as he had over a full turn of the seasons ago. The house he had hoped to see aglow with lights, a door propped open to let a friendly not - so - stranger in—it's dark, empty, cobwebs hanging long from its corners. He pins his bottom lip under his fangs and then leaps down, creeping close to the warm wooden door, as if the place might suddenly animate with familiar meows upon his approach. It doesn't; it stands dark and empty, even when he breaks its cold silence.
" Champagne? " he tries, his voice immediately gaining a pleading sort of quality. He'd sworn he'd never come back here, but—something's been calling him, maybe something more than the hunger in his belly. Maybe it'd been that strange fae - child on the border a moon ago, with her round bright eyes, so frightening in their sage - verdancy ( whose child is that? ). Maybe it's just the memories, nostalgia blurring his lens—long days sprawled in the sun, paws tangled in fur, a set of soft green eyes meeting his own burnished copper. Things had been good—things had been really good, actually, until she'd gone and ruined it all.
Does he miss her, even for all her shortcomings? His muzzle rumples with concern for the integrity of his lifestyle, an assured freedom these intruding feelings seem prepared to interrupt. He's always loved the freedom, the chase, he'd thought. Maybe it's the hunger talking, the many nights of sleep on hard ground, but he—he misses it. Misses her.
She'd been so—so secure, so safe, so assuredly there. No matter what he did, no matter how long he was gone, she'd always be there—waiting for him to come home, greeting him with a smile. Not even begrudging him his absence. No matter what he did, he could be safe in the knowledge that she'd take him back without even thinking about it. It'd been nice, really nice.
" . . . Bobbie? " he calls lowly. Nobody answers him. Of course nobody does. He scoffs and jumps back over the fence.
He stands on the fence, just as he had over a full turn of the seasons ago. The house he had hoped to see aglow with lights, a door propped open to let a friendly not - so - stranger in—it's dark, empty, cobwebs hanging long from its corners. He pins his bottom lip under his fangs and then leaps down, creeping close to the warm wooden door, as if the place might suddenly animate with familiar meows upon his approach. It doesn't; it stands dark and empty, even when he breaks its cold silence.
" Champagne? " he tries, his voice immediately gaining a pleading sort of quality. He'd sworn he'd never come back here, but—something's been calling him, maybe something more than the hunger in his belly. Maybe it'd been that strange fae - child on the border a moon ago, with her round bright eyes, so frightening in their sage - verdancy ( whose child is that? ). Maybe it's just the memories, nostalgia blurring his lens—long days sprawled in the sun, paws tangled in fur, a set of soft green eyes meeting his own burnished copper. Things had been good—things had been really good, actually, until she'd gone and ruined it all.
Does he miss her, even for all her shortcomings? His muzzle rumples with concern for the integrity of his lifestyle, an assured freedom these intruding feelings seem prepared to interrupt. He's always loved the freedom, the chase, he'd thought. Maybe it's the hunger talking, the many nights of sleep on hard ground, but he—he misses it. Misses her.
She'd been so—so secure, so safe, so assuredly there. No matter what he did, no matter how long he was gone, she'd always be there—waiting for him to come home, greeting him with a smile. Not even begrudging him his absence. No matter what he did, he could be safe in the knowledge that she'd take him back without even thinking about it. It'd been nice, really nice.
" . . . Bobbie? " he calls lowly. Nobody answers him. Of course nobody does. He scoffs and jumps back over the fence.