For all the times that Thriftfeather clings to the muffled sounds of camp that filter down into the nursery is a time when Thriftfeather tries to block it out as if he could pretend the world is truly as reduced as to be only the confines of the nursery. It isn't until the cool slant of light that falls into the nursery is interrupted that Thriftfeather looks up from his folded paws. His eyes need to move over Periwinklebreeze twice to understand his presence, and then a third time to flick over the only available point of exit.
Not that Thriftfeather is going to attempt retreat; in these little moments before thought has the time to catch up to him, he is guided more by instinct.
The whole of Thriftfeather shifts in an aborted attempt to stand—nothing more than a half-movement that fails back into a return to his previous position. His attempts to not think of teeth around his neck are what remind him the most. His ears flood with the staccato beats of his own rabbit-heart, but it is a wary mistrust that clenches over his ribs rather than the kind of fear that demands immediate action.
Periwinklebreeze speaks and sounds exactly as Thriftfeather remembers him to. It feels unsuiting, somehow. After everything, Periwinklebreeze should sound different, or his uncertain voice should land differently in Thriftfeather's ears.
Instinct is what tucks Thriftfeather's chin to his chest and thought that forces him to right his posture, to think: I'm in no more danger now than I was in moments before. Periwinklebreeze had taught Thriftfeather that he is just is vulnerable to death as everything else, and Thriftfeather puts that aside, or tries to, because the wavering conversation that Periwinklebreeze offers up is far to casual to say, you were going to kill me, back then.
"Fine," Thriftfeather says in answer. It sounds far more clipped than Thriftfeather had intended—he looks down and away, ignores the prickle of unease that cools the loose skin on the back of his neck, and searches for a correction.
He wants—what? To ask Periwinklebreeze what he had been thinking, pulling even more lonerborn kits into WindClan? To ask for forgiveness, to be begged to be forgiven? The thoughts are too tangled to unravel; Thriftfeather finds himself incapable of giving voice to any of them.
"It feels like the kits are doing something new every day. It's... I'm lucky, to be able to see this." This is supposed to be the easy topic—never before has Thriftfeather needed to force his words when speaking of his kits. He doesn't think he is angry, despite everything. Thriftfeather doesn't understand why his words try to leave his mouth short.
Finally, Thriftfeather's green eyes return to Periwinklebreeze. He is just as unchanged as the last time Thriftfeather had looked, just as achingly familiar.
Thriftfeather swallows if only to remind himself that the action is painless, that it has been for some time, and wonders if Periwinklebreeze feels the same contrition that Thriftfeather fears he may choke on.
"Ghostwail didn't like me—she didn't want me speaking with you," It is an admittance without an apology; the start of an explanation that Thriftfeather doesn't know how to finish. Anything to ease the sharp tension in the air.
He doesn't wonder about his age at the time, doesn't try to think about if he would have still been considered a kit by the standards of today's WindClan or if he would have been newly an apprentice, doesn't stall himself in the dredging thought that it may have changed nothing, regardless.
"That's why I—back when I confronted you like that, that's why," It's shameful, how beholden Thriftfeather had been to her whims. He shouldn't have done that, and he had been so young—more knots to add to the tangle of his thoughts.
