lack of passion, leave the dumb boy alone

Set after this thread. Come look at what the cat dragged in.

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His sleep was restless and fitful.

His dreams nothing, and strange.

Nebulous.

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He awoke to the cooing—clucking—of chickens.

The sound of dirt, grass, and twigs underfoot.

He closed his eyes.

His ears pressed back.

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“Fine.” He grunted. His voice hoarse. Low, with sleep.

He swallowed.

Licked his lips.

His mouth and throat dry. His stomach no longer cramping.

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He watched him stretch. The line—the angles, and curves—of his white-lined spine juxtaposed with the shadows and the darkness of the surrounding stone. Branches—overgrown roots—grew. He saw the curve and swell of his ribcage beneath the black of his fur.

He heard—and he saw—the snap, crackle, pop of his jaw as he yawned.

He kept himself flat.

His stomach against the dirt.

His head—his jaw—draped over his foreleg.

His ears matted back.

He wanted to roll over onto his side, his back, belly-side up, and paw at him for attention.

He didn’t.

‘I'm going to see if I can make that crowing rooster my breakfast. Would you like to join me?’

“Whatever.” He grunted.

He stood up.

His own stretch a meager, paltry imitation of his.

He shook his coat, to follow him.

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He was led.

And he followed.

Slow, at first, with bruised, tender ribs, muscles stiff with disuse, weak, in a post-recovery state, but then faster as he moved.

His shoulder brushed—caught, dragged—against his. Brief, accidental movement. Blond against black and against white.



He kept his distance, after that.



His shoulders—broad, sloped, and slouched—tensed.

‘I don't believe I know your name. What is it?’

His ears pressed back against his head. His tongue against his lips. His voice still hoarse with disuse, with sleep, with the phantom press of teeth and jaw around his neck.

“Daighre.” He said.

His name was Daighre.

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He watched him, from the corner of his eye.

His name whispered in fervent prayer. As a quiet whisper, between his teeth, against his palate, against the ridges of his mouth. The soft, quiet sound of tongue and lip and cheek and gum, all in mid-movement. A white muzzle, outlined by black.

His gaze turned outward, when he spoke.

His eyes to himself.

He grunted.

Wound tight.

His ears still pressed back, tight, against his head. His shoulders hunched and furrowed around him.



He stumbled, when he touched him.



He followed him down.

His jaw clenched. His tongue useless, in his mouth.

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The flash and flurry of mismatched feathers, airborne in their hurry. Clucking, cooing, and crowing put to an abrupt end between sharp teeth.

He dropped to his belly.

His head on his forelegs.

His tail brought close.

He watched him. A limp broken neck, wrung between his teeth. A pink mouth, white fur, and black fur, too.

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His voice was hoarse, again.

He straightened his neck. He cleared his throat.

“Not hungry.” He grunted, when he came near, the chicken dropped between them. Its head at an angle different than its body.

‘Do you have any particular interests?’

He watched him.

The crunch of little bones between teeth and jaw.

“No.”

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‘Nor do I.’

He snorted.

His head rested on his paws.

His vision finally turned away.

He looked at the shadows of the looming surrounding stone. Its structure overgrown with moss. The once stone floor chipped and broken. Smashed and destroyed. Leveled dirt left in its wake. Twisted tree roots, misshapen and bent, growing down the walls.

He listened.

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The drag and rasp of his tongue between his ears. His muzzle—his body—close.

He stayed still.

His body tensed.

Flat, against the earth.

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He watched him depart.

The corner of his eye.

The drag and press of his feet.

His footfalls fading.

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