beesong can't remember a time where he'd been truly at peace; even in the shelter of his old twoleg's home, his days were spent worrying that his father would find him, perched on a window sill or curled in a lap. (he tried to avoid the windows, for that very reason... despite the siren's call of birds chattering or sunlight streaming through the trees in the garden- the transparency of windows spelled danger for him.)
they've lived their entire life on tiptoes, watching for danger even when surrounded by those they consider safe. their muscles ache from the constant tension, but they dare not relax; they couldn't be caught off-guard. especially now, when they've been cursed with this burden of importance. riverclan is their home only by formality; beesong has made friends here, but those friendships do not deafen the call of the pines. they could almost swear that they'd mistakenly left their heart behind in that forest. (sometimes they wish it's true. in this line of work, a heart only gets in the way.)
it is here that they'll stay, though. for rain, and for those who now depend on them to survive. maybe when gloompaw completes her training, they tell themselves sometimes, only to laugh. they don't think they'll live long enough to see the day they're free of these shackles.
beesong follows clearsight on this outing, his good ear swiveled towards the warrior while his eye scans the territory for any herbs that have survived the freeze. his companion recalls a greenleaf day where two cats end up soaked after an unexpected dip in the river. the healer hums in lukewarm amusement, but their jaw does not unclench with the sound. no herbs anywhere, beesong thinks to himself with growing agitation, the image of smokethroat laying motionless in his den and willowroot's ever-growing stomach coming to mind.
the walk lapses into silence for a short while after. beesong can't tell if it's the comfortable kind or not, but they don't bother to break it. too preoccupied with herbs and the lack thereof, they almost miss clearsight's murmur. a lone cinnamon ear strains to hear the other's hushed voice, head turning towards clearsight to watch the warrior carefully. "hm?" beesong's response is instinctual, automatic, despite their lipreading that fills in the gaps. you're doing so much, for all of us. they think they must've deciphered incorrectly. what they're doing isn't enough. smokethroat clings to life by a thread, the sickly sweet smell of infection surrounding his missing eye. they'd almost lost him on that forsaken twoleg bridge. apricotflower had collapsed, feverish and weak, and beesong hadn't noticed her deteriorating state until that moment. one by one, riverclan's numbers are falling ill, and they fear that they won't have enough herbs to help everyone.
"it's not enough," beesong repeats aloud, just in case he had read right, spoken so factual that he hardly leaves room to argue.
clearsight goes on to ask how he's been holding up. beesong shrugs, pretending to be nonchalant as he responds, "i've been holding, that's for sure." he levels the warrior with a questioning stare, ignoring the way that he has to tilt his chin ever so slightly to look at the taller tom. "why? you've got a bleeding heart for me, or something?" beesong tries to pass it off as a joke, but the rigidness in his shoulders and the unconscious narrowing of his eye suggest otherwise. he doesn't distrust clearsight, considers the warrior to be a friendly acquaintance at the least... but he doesn't fully trust him, either. especially not with something as fragile as his weaknesses, which could easily be exploited. to be emotionally prodded at by the blue tabby... it's a little uncomfortable.
"'cause if that's the case, you don't need to worry about me. i'll be fine." a hollow promise, yet they smile like they mean it, anyway.
