Tower of cows only rabbits instead of cows

 Kevin held his breath.
 Ever so delicately, he moved in close to his masterpiece, holding the body of a long-dead and mummified lizard atop what had taken him two days to create. Drooling from anxiety, he felt a trail of saliva land atop the jackrabbit closest to the top. Slowly, he released the lizard, and it sat there, dead as before. When he pulled back with a dumb grin plastered across his face, the saliva pulled with him like cheese on a shitty gas station pizza slice.
 It was early evening and beginning to cool down from the heat of the day. The Oasis was almost always cooler than the surrounding desert, thanks to the leaves of the palms and the consistent water. Kevin took in a deep and pleasant inhale through his nose, releasing it slowly through his mouth as he closed his eyes and bowed his head.
 Standing back to look upon his creation, he yipped with joy.
 Beneath the shade of a tall palm tree, a small but sizeable pile of dead animals lay piled upon one another, meticulously placed for maximum height. In total, there appeared somewhere between twenty and thirty jackrabbits, most of which were juveniles. Unbeknownst to onlookers, Kevin had stuck a rock in the center of the heap to give the illusion that there were closer to fifty rabbits.
 The ones toward the bottom were half-eaten, half-mummified, or altogether falling apart. The ones on top were freshly caught.
 “'Wow, lookit that Kevin!'” Said Kevin, in a voice and a face that clearly meant to be... not him.
 “Oh, no, you know, it's no big deeeeal, really.” Said Kevin, in his normal, luscious tones.
 “'How long did this take you Debonairess? It's sooooo pretty!'” Said not-Kevin. The conversation between not-Kevin and Debonairess continued while he danced around as though in a heated and wonderful conversation with his fans.

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What. The. Fuck.

Okay, so, the tower of dead animals he could sort of get behind. He would've ended up chewing on them or rolling in them long before creating this masterpiece, of course, but he could admire the finished product (likewise beginning to drool).

And the dancing around, talking to himself thing? Yeah, that made sense, no question.

It was the both together part that was sort of confusing him.

Kincaid padded closer, a little reluctant to break up the party because it was kind of fun to watch. But these questions (mainly wordless gestures and confused looks) needed answering, so approach Kincaid did. "That's, uh," he said, nodding at the tower. "That sure is somethin'." He was not sure what it was, but it was certainly something. "Where the hell'd you get all them rabbits?"

Every single one of them belonged to Kincaid, he was pretty sure.

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“EEK—” Kevin twisted around to find the man of the hour. The master blaster. The kingpin cool kid.
 But mostly he was just startled. He damn near swallowed his tongue as the golden wolf inspected his grand piece. Kevin had, as it happened, created the monument to be enjoyed by the terrible hunters of their strange little group. While he didn't exactly feel strong ties to any of them, they were enough of something that it was worth trying to make sure that the ones who put their fists readily into piles of bees didn't starve to death from sheer inexperience.
 Kevin tossed his weight to one side and wiggled his scraggly tail. Fur had never quite grown back the same in a couple spots after... mishaps.
 “Why thank you, dear,” he tilted his head in a little curtsey-bow. “Oh, you know, here and there. Some were caught fresh, some I found,” he beamed at his work. It was a lot of food.
 “Okay maybe I stole most of them. But their previous owner never would've used all those rabbits. They were better for here,” Kevin admitted, sitting down and looking up. He took in a big breath and sighed audibly, like he had fallen in love with its majesty.

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The coyote being startled startled Kincaid in turn, who reeled back a few inches before he made himself stand his ground. He was used to being both the oldest and the biggest canid around, so meeting Kevin was like the world was trying to knock him down a peg. Well, fuck you, world! He's still the boss!

But, his ears did fall flat for a second when Kevin called him dear. Not that he minded, really. Okay, he minded. But it was also fine, and maybe sorta nice, and mostly he was just not sure what to make of this coyote or his weird ass modern art. He wanted to bristle about all these rabbits being stolen from him, because he was definitely going to use them, at some point. As, y'know, food. But they were still here in his territory, and being looked after by a weird coyote who also clearly belonged to him.

Kincaid plopped his ass down beside Kevin's and likewise beheld his work. It didn't make him want to sigh or anything, but it was nice to look at. He tilted his head, and then stood and moved around to the other side of the monument, and then came almost full circle again to the side that he liked best.

"That lizard really ties the whole thing together," he decided. What he meant was, That lizard looks very crispy-chewy. Real eye-catching. I want to eat it. "What's it for? When do we get to chew on it?" he asked, getting down to the important questions.

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 Kevin beamed as the tawny bro circled around the mound. His ragged tail flopped on the ground a few times as his guest of honour judged the work like a proper expert of exhibition. He had hoped that it would please the residents of the Oasis, and that seemed to be the case for now.
 “I thought so,” he agreed to the lizard commentary. The mound had felt empty without it.
 “Think of it as a housewarming gift to us,” Kevin grinned wider, standing so that he could shake out his fur. “Us being the gorgeous residents of this heaven on hell.” His words and voice were silky smooth, running through the air like peaches and cream.
 Kevin trotted up to the mound, selected one of the fattest jackrabbits (most were quite thin by nature of their desert climate), and plucked it carefully. The rabbit settled above it moved, but the Jenga move was practiced and the structure held nicely. He backed up from the mound to check that it was stable, then abruptly spun around to gingerly place the meal in front of the man. “For you, ma cherie,” he nudged it with his nose.
 Settling back onto his bum, Kevin introduced himself. “I am Kevin the Debonairess, my fine feathered friend,” he lifted his head high. “But you may call me Kevin.”

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The coyote had a way about him that instantly put Kincaid at ease. He reminded him of someone, but no matter how he searched his memories, he could not pinpoint a specific individual. Rather, he remembered distant and musical cacophony and a smokey back room, and a stranger who pushed the hair out of his eyes and called him honey in a kindly but pitying voice.

(Kincaid did not like to be pitied, as a rule, but it had felt nice in that moment, with that man. Even if he couldn't properly remember it.)

Anyway. Hazy memories aside, Kevin was handing him a rabbit, which was always a good way to make friends, in his hook. Even if it was his rabbit already.

“Feather Kincaid,” he replied, “But you can call me Kink.” He settled a paw over the rabbit, unwilling to eat in front of a stranger; even a very nice one. “You do a lot of stuff like this?” He gestured vaguely to the tower.

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 Though the wolf didn't eat, Kevin took the gesture as acceptance and was pleased enough with that. Relaxed, he itched at his side with his back foot for a second, sticking his tongue out slightly as though it were a great deal of physical effort to do so.
 Tilting his head, Kevin regarded Kink with a more scrutinous eye. Kinky, he thought, but didn't voice it for fear of insulting his guest. He had a compact loveliness about him. The muscles that lined his body reminded Kevin of someone far more stocky and firm. The wolf looked like you could throw a boulder on him and he would emerge unscathed and ready to rumble. This of course was not a theory that Kevin himself ever planned to test.
 Oh to be a young and unabashedly handsome wolf of the desert. 
 “I have been known to dabble in the arts at times,” answered the coyote, feigning an obviously fake air of modesty. “Particularly when there are beautiful people to observe it, of course,” he teased, putting out feelers for something that was not quite innocent.

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Kincaid was picking up the vibes Kevin was laying down. He'd sort of made an art of picking up vibes and properly interpreting them. Sometimes a mistake could cost you — at best, a fun night, and at worst, your sorry hide — so it was prudent to develop a good instinct for that sort of thing, if, uh,

“I've been known to dabble myself,” said Kincaid, suggestively, as he glanced around as if looking for these beautiful people Kevin must be talking about, but really he was making sure there was no one else around, and especially that Shiloh was not around.

Not that it was wrong or anything, because they hadn't really lined anything out, and because Kincaid was his own man, alright? And any possessiveness he felt over the coyote was a one-way street, no question about it. And besides, he was beginning to think this might be a coyote thing. Maybe that was why he'd been born this way and his brother most definitely hadn't. And, shoot, if these coyote hoes were just gonna go around throwing themselves at folks, someone had to be around to catch them.

Might as well be Kincaid, right?

But, despite his vehement attempts to convince himself otherwise, he was still feeling a bit too guilty and uncertain to jump in without reservations. He said,

“You met some of the other folks 'round here, then?” very transparently fishing for a more direct compliment.

im sorry for this gross hoe T_T

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---

 If Kevin was a musical instrument, he would be one of the most obnoxious and loudest. The ones that nobody likes. The ones that don't even make particularly good or interesting music, that are just naturally loud to be that way.
 He had met many, many people who were different from him. There were girls he had met whose music track was a flute, or a sweeping violin concerto with gorgeous notes, dotted with placements of cello throughout. He had met trumpets and drumkits. He had met and loved basses and, among his favourites, the bassoon.
 But Kevin was none of those things. Kevin was a child with a combination bagpipe and accordion, perhaps with oversized symbols attached. Kevin was too old to fuck around, and yet fuck around he did.
 So, when his most handsome guest of honour decided to test what flavour of music Kevin most enjoyed, the Debonairess emerged ready and willing to share. He rose from his sit to step in lengthy, attempted-sensual-but-actually-fucking-awkward motions toward his new favourite boy. “Oh you know,” he flitted his eyes down and he licked his bottom lip. “A couple of young ladies, very sweet peaches,” he nodded, stepping closer.
 “But the boys, well,” his eyes led up to gaze upon Kinky Kincaid, very un-subtley.

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The mere attempt at being sensual was sensual enough for Kincaid. Kevin was not exactly his type, aside from being smaller than him and possessing some very nice ears. But he'd always viewed attraction as a luxury in these situations, and kindness even more so. It seemed like enough for one of them to feel attraction. Enough that, apparently, Kincaid was someone that Kevin wanted to attract.

But, “They're mine,” he said, automatically. Everything was his, but the ladies most especially because he had promised to share them with Shiloh — and if he couldn't, that would look terrible. What kind of man would he be? Possibly the kind that Shiloh might not have time for.

“The boys, too,” Kincaid added, peering at Kevin in growing suspicion. The girls were his the same as everything else, but Shiloh — he wasn't going to stand for anyone stepping in on that. “What boys?” he asked, still squinty-eyed. Did he mean Condor? Lakhos? (Was Condor a boy? Was that a coyote thing, too?) Kincaid minded that a whole lot less, but he still sort of minded, just on principle.

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 Kevin stopped, immediately pulling back. What could have been a fun little excursion into the art world so to speak quickly devolved into Kevin feeling quite disappointed in what was supposed to be his new favourite boy.
 Kink seemed to miss all of it. Kevin just stared at him, frowning in that mothering "I am very disappointed in you" face. This had nothing to do with the absence of heat between them, as the Debonairess knew quite well that Kink was far out of his league in that department (though one could dream). Kevin had words to say, but it was clear that Kink was incapable of listening properly to said words, so Kevin had to think quite hard to say what he needed to very delicately.
 Instead of telling him what Kevin really thought, you can't fucking own people, he decided to phrase things as a question. He ignored the question, as Kink had failed to realize that Kevin had said boys to make it as obvious as possible he was gayer than a pink unicorn humping a rainbow.
 “Do they know they are yours?” It was a simple question, and one the old queen knew Kink would be unlikely to be capable of answering.

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Having never had a proper mother, the look was a new and powerful tool to use on Kincaid, who reeled back an in inch or two in uncomfortable confusion. He said, 

“Well!” and then floundered for a moment because his little pea brain could not keep up with all of this. “One of them does. The important one.” He waved this away with a paw. “This is my water. So everyone and everything hangin' around is mine. Like in a Taylor Swift kinda way.”

He had to stop and think about that for a moment, and the more he pondered the less sense it made.

“I don't know what kind of intentions you've got,” he added, a little self-righteously, but mostly sort of still really uncomfortable and scrambling for excuses. “I have a duty to these folks.” Or something.

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 Oh boy. Oh boy oh boy. This youngster was younger in the mind than Kevin had realized, and suddenly he knew he would need to be the guiding force in this scrambling gang of whatsits, be they wolf or coyote or in-between.
 Kink had someone special in his life — Kevin didn't miss that detail even as the golden wolf glossed over it. The inflated sense of self-importance was something Kevin had encountered before, although it usually wasn't quite so obvious. Kevin just sat there, nodding as though he was listening to a decent story or a long-form essay and agreeing with the core points, despite not agreeing at all.
 Who the fuck is Taylor Swift? Kevin ignored that unnecessary question.
 “Intentions?” He returned with a gentle smile, motioning toward the mound of rabbits once again. A vulture was starting to circle around it. “Do you think I made this for me?” He shook his head. “Ma cherie, you are not the only one who believes you own the world, but don't you worry. I'll take care of us.” His ragged tail flopped again, and a flea escaped from a fold in his skin. He twitched there, and shifted to nip at the itchy spot it had left behind.

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Kevin had a point — he was obviously a gem, but Kincaid didn't quite know how to get his fur to settle once something got his back up. Not without a fight, anyway. But he thought he liked being called ma cherie, whatever that meant. It was enough to puncture his bubble, if not quite burst it.

“Not the whole world,” he corrected, still in the process of deflating. “Just this water. And Shiloh.” He supposed if someone was going to argue with him about it, it wasn't worth trying to possess the girls also. Not all of them and not right at that moment, anyway. He wanted to say something about his rabbits also, but didn't think that this would go over well. He wished Kevin would go back to saying nice things about him, and so he scrunched himself down and made a high, solicitous sound as he made a half-hearted snap for Kevin's paw. He wasn't going to bite hard — he just thought the subject needed changing, and he couldn't come up with any actual words to get the job done.

But the shimmy of his tail was conciliatory, and the squint of his eyes said butter wouldn't melt in my mouth instead of MINE.

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 The initial feeling of positivity that Kevin had felt when Kink had first done a little circle around the mound of rabbits had long since waned. Replacing it was a familiar feeling of "not good enough" that had plagued his life since childhood. Expertly he shoved it down as far as it would go, focusing instead on the support of someone he barely knew.
 Kevin nodded, but soon after Kink snapped at him and he skipped backward. It wasn't fast enough, and the mild pressure from Kink's teeth made him yip noisily. He didn't like that at all. Shifting backward and standing up so that he could move away faster if he needed to, the coyote was left on edge, feeling himself deflated and rather unimportant in this world of things that Kink thought he owned.
 “You'd best eat that rabbit before that vulture takes it from you,” said Kevin, turning away to leave the Watermeister. He had nothing more to say to a man who wanted to be avoidant over things like this. Another day, then. “See you later, darling,” he dismissed, trotting away unless he was stopped.

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The whole encounter had left him with whiplash, feeling wrong-footed and rotten. Kevin trotted off to the tune of his uneasy whine where are you going whine — he wished the other man would come back and call him more nice things, but this happened to him often enough that he'd trained himself out of following the impulse. Instead, he tried to bolster himself by thinking rude thoughts about the other man — he wasn't worth it anyway, Kincaid didn't need the trouble, etc etc. But he could not quite convince himself that it was Kevin at fault, here.

He looked at the tower and felt very sorry that there was no longer a nice coyote enjoying it.

Kincaid picked up himself and his rabbit and went away to share it with Shiloh, hoping for a more predictable and mutually satisfying interaction. Shiloh could always be counted on to say nice things to him — a luxury he was still getting used to. And he'd think, later, on what had gone wrong, here, and brainstorm ways to fix it.

<3!

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