private UNBECOMING OF US // foxglare

[cottonsprig]

@FOXGLARE

It happened.

For many days she has felt this upset in her stomach and she's been able to suppress it. With a smile and laugh, with a grimace and a firm swallow. Sometimes she's even gone as far as to eat something that makes her feel worse in a feeble attempt to squash the rising feeling beneath the weight of a new meal. But this time, she cannot stop.

By the time Foxglare finds her, her heaving has ended. Her head hangs with defeat and tears crest her eyes. Her throat hurts, predictably, and she stares at her sick in disbelief. His pawsteps snap her tired blue gaze up to him, like a feral creature fearful of being discovered, before her tense shoulders relax upon realizing who it is. She swallows, a white paw swiping across her muzzle to clear her of any sick. She does not make a motion towards him - in fact, she nearly makes a show of kicking loose foliage over her sick and stepping away from it.

"... You didn't see that," she says. And with a more defeated tone, she murmurs, "I wish you didn't see that."​

 

[FOXGLARE]

⁀➷ Foxglare blinks when she meets his eyes, the despairing flash of something like fear making him forget whatever shallow excuse he had to approach her. The medicine cat hangs her head in shame beneath the glaring spotlight of the greenleaf sun, and he gets that throat-closing feeling that comes when he knows that he should probably say something helpful, but at a total loss of what that would be.

Instead he plods further forward, disregarding her withdrawal and standing at her side to help kick some dirt squarely over the mess. Her hoarse murmur makes him pause again, the palpable misery of her tone so unlike her, and he’s almost exasperated when he replies, “There’s plenty worse to see than some stomach-ache in the dirt, don’t worry about it.”

Foxglare takes a step back to take a cursory glance-over at her. Yup, she looked real sick. She was the one with training on all that sort of stuff, though, not him, and he wasn’t about to tell her something she already knew. “I’ll go ahead and grab ya some water,” he decides, knowing that the sun-warmed pool had to be over the next ridge or so, “Sit tight. Or- come with if you’re not feelin’ too wobbly anymore.”

WE CAME FROM DIRT ⁀➷☾⁺₊ WE HAVE TO SWALLOW IT.

• OOC:
• 
• 
  
  — meztli . sun . fox . foxpaw . foxglare
  — he/him. 19mo moor-runner of windclan. Mentored by shalestripe. currently mentoring frightpaw. formerly mentored sunlitpaw.
  — a scarred, hulking white and golden tabby tom with gray eyes
  — taciturn, vigilant, reserved, self-righteous, restrained, independent, humanitarian, unyielding
  — “speech”, thoughts, attack
  — penned by eezy

​

 

[cottonsprig]

Despite the solemn, forlorn feeling in her chest, Cottonsprig cannot help the partial smile that flickers onto her face as he helps hide her sick. Compassionate he may be, beneath the gruff and detached persona that he holds fast to. Perhaps that's why she's clung to him thus far. He's a weathered stone, certainly, but one that has not rolled away yet. Her smile fails her, however, as she realizes that he does not understand as much as she wishes he would.

"... I'll come with you," she says, pushing herself to stand. Pieces of her do not want to linger alone any longer. They're not anything more than friends, she knows, but the possibility that more will become of them keeps her steady. She thinks of Junco, the incredulous too many? and she cringes inwardly. "I... I need to talk with you about something, anyways," she decides to say. She would hold herself to it too, now that the open air has heard of her grievances. She just has to... find the right words.

Regardless of how ready he is for a simple chat, she doesn't linger on the topic immediately. Cottonsprig keeps herself upright as they wander the moors, listening to the rustling in the wind and the quiet bird song that litters the far off forest. Only when she sees the sun-warmed pool does she speak again, and this time, it's clipped, cold - fearful in every reach of her tone. "I think I'm pregnant, Foxglare." A pause, only for her to look at him long enough to guage his expression, before her eyes glance down again, "No. Rather, I know I'm pregnant."​

 

[FOXGLARE]

⁀➷ He’s followed by the soft sound of paws in the dust, and a quiet admission that the other had something she wanted to talk about. “Sure,” he says, and nothing more. Foxglare wonders if it might have to do with a friend or a sibling… or about the sick kitten she brought in, rescued from a lonely, watery death in the summer rain. He knew shit-all about handling any of those subjects, though, so he’d soon enough come to the conclusion that she’d wanted to talk about him, or them, whatever that entailed.

He ignores the burr that digs its little prickles between his ribs. It was over the crest of this hill and then there would be nothing more to wonder over.

They reach the bank and he listens to the wind as it sweeps, ever-loyal, across the moors, and he glances back at Cottonsprig, wondering if she wanted him to prompt her to speak again. She doesn’t.

For a second, Foxglare only stares back at her. There’s fear in her voice and he’s concerned she thinks the look on his face is one of judgment. He doesn’t know what he looks like. She thinks—knows—she’s pregnant and she’s telling him because they’re friends and because…

“Oh. Okay.” He responds quietly, and there probably should be more words but he can’t find them. And it’s silent again and he realizes that he’s still standing between her and the pool so he makes a show of moving out of her way, “You should… drink some water.”

The wind blows again, parting the soft silver of her fur and rippling across the pool and she’s turned toward him again. “You’ll make a good mother,” he says, and it’s the truth. But then there’s something in her face that makes his stomach sink, “...You’re upset. Sorry.”

Foxglare had never put more than a second’s consideration on the news and gossip of the clans outside of his, he would admit as much. Even more than that, he made a personal point to tune out talk of Starclan and their will whenever the subject came up. The image of Snakehiss shouting and hissing like a madman attempting to evoke the will of silent stars over Sunstar, of many a starlit sky hanging over them as fire licked destruction over their land. Of course, it wouldn’t be until this moment that he would witness the power of their will manifested clearly.

“You can’t…” he murmured slowly. He didn’t get it, he didn’t think he’d ever grasp the unseen paw of judgment everyone else seemed to see so clearly.

Again, he felt like he was treading in the middle of a vast pool with no bottom and no shore to be seen. He imagined looking up and saw them. The stars. Cold and bright and watching them tread water. Were they really the ones judging them? The feeling that bubbled up inside him left him achey.

The question of his involvement in this brushes upon the back of his mind. Their relationship was based more upon their individual liberties than something that called for exclusivity. His position in this as anything more than her friend didn’t really matter, though, not now.

“...What do you need? From.. me.” He asks finally, pulling out of his own thoughts to fix himself by her side once more. More and more he was beginning to get the feeling that there would be less he could do than he wanted. For now, though, he could do what he often did. He could sit with her.

WE CAME FROM DIRT ⁀➷☾⁺₊ WE HAVE TO SWALLOW IT.

• OOC:
• 
• 
  
  — meztli . sun . fox . foxpaw . foxglare
  — he/him. 20mo moor-runner of windclan. Mentored by shalestripe. currently mentoring frightpaw. formerly mentored sunlitpaw.
  — a scarred, hulking white and golden tabby tom with gray eyes
  — taciturn, vigilant, reserved, self-righteous, restrained, independent, humanitarian, unyielding
  — “speech”, thoughts, attack
  — penned by eezy

​

 

[cottonsprig]

Foxglare looks at her. His half lidded gaze looks at her, mild surprise hiding in their depths, before he side steps and asks for her to care for herself. Shame burns in her ears as she slinks forward, deciding that if she must have any conversation to this degree (and she must,) she can do so without the sour taste in her mouth. She kneels over, lapping up a few sips of water whilst he digests the news.

Cottonsprig thanks the stars that he does not ask if she expects him to father them - or worse, if he's the only one. She cannot handle another incredulous look if she dares to mention her own freedom. But somehow, he finds a new way to break her heart. "You'll make a good mother," he says. He apologizes soon after but the damage is done - in his slow fought perception, Cottonsprig is forced to face the mortality of her own motherhood.

The dots don't seem to connect for him, and as Cottonsprig rights herself and straightens her spine, she debated whether she had the energy to explain it to him. Foxglare tries - by StarClan, he tries. She can almost see the hummingbird flapping wildly behind his eyes. But either he doesn't quite get it, or he gives up, thinking something too outlandish to be real. Despite having a drink, her mouth is dry and she struggles to talk once more.

"I..." she starts. Her head hurts, but she doesn't prod at it. She feels his fur brush against hers and she flinches for a second, merely surprised by the action, before accepting the warmth and leaning into him. "Just... wait a minute, here, with me?" The tears are slow, but they don't seem to stop. She lets out a shaky breath, blue eyes closed whilst she tries to recenter herself. What does she even say to him? Where does his knowledge begin and end? At what point does he actually care, and she's not somehow just wooed a tom into following her around for a short bit?

"The... the medicine cat code says I'm not allowed to have kits," she stutters at first, but eventually relays the problem to him as if she's a petulant student telling someone why they're being punished. "I told Bluefrost that I would figure it out, but I - I don't know what to do...! I can only think of -" leaving. The time wherein her voice ramped up is quickly squashed when her personal reality is challenged again with strife of reason. Her tail twitches, and if he allows it, she buries her face into his fur. "I don't want to leave, Foxglare. It's... it's not fair."​