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this title is gayer than its meant to be my spotify playlist was on shuffle
As soon as he got close to the NightClan territory, he could feel dread start to prickle at his paws. When he saw the pine forest, for a moment, it was a year ago, and he was a young boy, first getting his sea legs under him. This was where he had grown up, and no matter what had happened between his childhood and this moment, there was still a part of him that still felt at home within the dark forest. It was so familiar to him, the smells, the sight... But, at the same time, it was completely foreign. There was a tension in the atmosphere. Perhaps it had always been, but the little prince had never come face to face with how NightClan would have felt to someone who wasn't part of the inner circle. At the same time as it brought him relief to be back, it also twisted his gut. The happiest moons of his life had been in the forest, but the forest had also broken his heart. NightClan broke his heart. The affective war he experienced, the homesickness partnered with an understanding that this wasn't his home and never really had been his home, not really, was almost enough for the SummerClan leader to turn back. He almost did, twice. But, each time he did, he reminded himself of why he was there. Kier needed help. No one else wanted to give him help. Foxstar needed to help him. Even if he wanted to smack him across the face sometimes(he was still a little mad that he had come on to Sunveins), he knew that Kier needed someone with a moral compass, and moral compasses were few and far between in NightClan. No one from within was going to save Kier, which meant the saving of the NightClan leader fell on Foxstar's shoulders.
He approached the camp, trying to calm his anxiety down. He was walking into enemy camp. He was probably considered a traitor (although NightClan had been taught that he was a prize, perhaps there would be a warrior or two who would be quietly amused that the prize had returned home). He wasn't even sure Kier liked him. What he was sure of, though, was that if SummerClan found out he was here, they'd be pissed, rightfully so. He felt her presence so much stronger here that he could almost swear that she was lurking behind every corner. Logically, there were a million reasons why this was a terrible, horrible idea. But, Foxstar was too much of a dumb kid to let logic guide his decisions.
So there he was. He got to the entrance of camp, glancing down at himself once. The two flower necklaces, matching, of course, hung loosely from his neck. They were huge, and they made him look even smaller. Maybe that was a good thing. The less intimidating the better (Foxstar almost laughed at that: him, intimidating? unlikely). He let out one last sigh, before resigning himself to his fate.
He entered the camp with a soft smile, instantly noticing that all eyes snapped in his direction. "Well, howdy there!" he sang, his voice nervous and awkward. "Nothin' to see here. Just looking for Kier, 's anyone seen him today? He should be expecting me..." Kier was absolutely not expecting him, but it felt like it was better to avoid admitting that to a camp full of cats who looked ready to shred him. "Heh.... Well... I'll just wait here for him, don't mind me..."
For the first time in a long time, Kier was tired of being Kier. He was tired of the theatrics, of who he was out there, of my dear and well, well, yes and nothing working out. It didn’t matter that everything worked out — it didn’t matter that he had a crown, a throne, absolute power. Suddenly, in the face of one disappointment, it was all irrelevant. It didn’t matter that he had triumphed over Bermondsey — in his current state, he’d convinced himself that the Nemesis had won. Everything he’d ever succeeded at was suddenly reworked into a failure: he hadn’t bested Aspenstar, he’d just seized an opportunity like a sewer rat; he hadn’t humiliated Moonblight, he’d just cuckolded himself in public; he didn’t have a throne, he was just keeping the seat warm until someone displaced him. He was prone to acute depressive episodes, where reason went out the window and he sat alone with his own sneering, hissing self-cruelty, and this was one of them. When I’ve been around the masses so much, he sometimes said, sheepish and apologetic, you know how I get. It’s hard to turn off.Kier — and here his name would become louder, and his voice would suddenly be the one everyone else knew, from trials and theatrics; and then it would change back, soft and homely, is insatiable. He talked about himself, about Kier, like it was a character he could switch on and off. It wasn't precisely true — he was who he made himself out to be — but he certainly played to the crowd. And it was unspeakably exhausting. When it went well, it wasn't — it was a delight; it only left him more energised than ever, like he could climb to the moon and back. But when it went poorly, everything that had ever gone wrong in his life sank into his bones and weighed them down, so that the grey of his very eyes became lifeless. He was melodramatic, he felt everything a thousand times too strongly, and disappointment, insecurity, the ruination of a fantasy that had been a daydream for months — they left him a husk.
After Moonblight had bloodied him, he’d laughed round at the crowd, blood dripping from his chin and bubbling between his teeth, and reassured them Moonblight was just a jilted lover throwing a little tantrum, and then he’d disappeared into his den. He hadn’t come out all night. His face had only just stopped bleeding, and it stung. There were no grins in his den; he lay in his nest beside Eris, tended to by his mate, silent and unresponsive, eyes open and unseeing and slowly blinking most of the time, only squeezing shut when a rush of pain burned through him. Sometimes a shudder ran through his body, like he was quivering against the imaginary cold; it was as close as he came to crying. His pain tolerance had been diminished since becoming leader. He’d become soft. And that only made the burning, miserable ball of self-hatred in his chest glow brighter — because what a thing, that a five-moon-old Kier should have been more resilient to the grown one. Moonblight’s threat added to it, and it made him want to sob, made him want to wail with helpless fear — because why did they always bring his mate into it? They hated him, fine, wonderful — but they always extended it to Eris. And after what had happened with Kate, the mere thought made his veins freeze with sick, frantic terror that far outweighed the initial incensed, desperate anger — because he had his lives, though fewer than cats like Moonblight thought; Eris only had one. Another shudder passed through his body. He drew her closer, burying his muzzle in her warm, familiar fur and closing his eyes like he could hold her in this moment, safe and alive, forever.
“Lord.” He didn’t respond to the voice echoing up from the entrance to his den, just continued to lie there in his numb, hollow haze. As soon as Foxstar had appeared, there had been a rush towards Kier’s den; it had quickly descended into a brief, screeching tussle — everyone wanted to be the one to bring him the news, to get their face into his head, to have one-on-one time with the leader, however short-lived. Kier blinked miserably against Eris’ fur; he couldn’t not listen, his ears rising slightly despite himself. From his nest, he wasn’t visible, and for that he was thankful; no one could see him like this, even if they whispered ideas among themselves. “Lord,” the voice tried again, now more nervous, like the alone time with the tyrant was suddenly more dangerous than appealing; it sounded terribly young, barely broken yet. But everyone in NightClan sounded like that. Kier’s voice might have sounded similar, if anyone knew what his real voice sounded like. “That SummerClan prince is here. Askin’ for you.”
There was such a lengthy silence that for a moment the messenger considered dipping their head, offering another apologetic “my lord”, and backing out. But, finally, Kier’s quiet, tired voice drifted over the edge of the stone mound, sounding so uncharacteristically soft, so woolly-headed and befuddled: “who?”
“Foxstar, my lord.”
There was another lengthy silence. And then, finally, Kier let out a half-sound, close to a sorrowful, unwilling, close-mouthed groan. It was an acknowledgement, a dismissal, and the messenger dipped their head low, heart pounding with fear, and hurriedly backed out. A few moments later, Kier appeared at the top of the stone mound and padded, tired and unenthusiastic and barely steady, down the smooth, sloping path. Moonblight’s scratches on his face had barely scabbed over; he looked wounded and exhausted and miserable. Why was this always the way when some foreign dignitary came to visit? He was never at his best. He barely made it to his den entrance and took a heavy seat, leaning heavily against the stone doorway. “Foxstar,” he greeted across the camp, leaning his cheek against the stone; the coldness of it was a relief against the hot nausea. He hadn’t eaten all night. He tried a small smile, but his eyes were half-closed and it looked floaty. After a few moments, long enough that it looked like he had drifted off, he suddenly opened his eyes and jerked his head towards the camp entrance Foxstar had just come through and stood. “Come.” He padded across the stone clearing to join him — “excuse my appearance,” he told him with that same hazy, tired-eyed smile and a rueful sort of laugh, stopping briefly — and then passed to lead the way up. “I need some… fresh air.” He sounded vaguely queasy.
As he waited, Foxstar awkwardly tried to make small talk with whoever came near him. Little mews of the weather's lovely here this time of the year and oh, I see that you all are looking well, how lovely exited his mouth, but the look in his eye suggested that despite trying to sound cool and collected and polite, he was damn near a panic attack. If he wasn't sure he liked being the center of attention in his own clan, the boy was certainly not a fan of being the center of attention smack dab in the middle of Enemy Central.
He was about to chicken out, about to leave the flower necklace with the nearest NightClan cat and make his hasty departure - this was a bad idea, he knew it - when the other cat approached. Relief flickered through his gaze as soon as his eyes fell on Kier. He shouldn't have felt safer with the NightClan leader; he was insidious and generally bad news. Still, he couldn't help but let out a breath, the very breath he hadn't realized he had been holding when not babbling to the NightClan cats around him, when the other approached.
"Kier!" he greeted. "Don't you worry about your appearance. You look... welll..." His voice trailed off slightly. Kier looked like a mess, so much so that Foxstar felt a little badly. "Well, actually, scrap that. Ma taught me never to bare false witness." He let out an awkward laugh, before watching the tom signal to the NightClan camp entrance. Another wave of relief flooded his stomach; going outside of the camp meant that if something was to go terribly, terribly wrong, at least it would be a one-on-one fight. The odds were still not in Foxstar's favor, but hey, it was better than his odds of surviving a fight in the middle of a swarm of cats clawing for recognition.
"Fresh air, of course!" he meowed, before following the other like a puppy. "The weather's been real nice today. The whole trip was nothing but sun and a nice breeze. I forget how different it is here," he meowed, before his eyes widened. He'd said too much, he realized. "I mean, not that I miss it or anything. There's nothing quite like the feeling of sand under your paws," he added quickly, his whiskers twitching.
"Oh!" he meowed. "Before I forget. Two necklaces is a bit of a fashion faux pax, so I brought you one. I uh didn't know what colors or anything to pick, I really was a terrible garden keeper, so I just went with the ones I thought were cutest. Hopefully the pink's not too girly, I thought it might look nice against your fur." That wasn't weird, right? "Oh, and the greenery is arborvitae. It's for unchanging friendship, so I thought it would be perfect for it."
At Foxstar’s enthusiastic greeting, Kier slowed and gave him a sort of quizzical, judgemental look, his mismatched pupils darting up and down in silence and his mouth wrinkled slightly like he’d smelled something unpleasant emanating from the tom. He wasn’t used to such cheerfulness, to kindness, so much so that it made him feel either it was a trap, or the SummerClan leader had something deeply, naïvely wrong with him. To the traumatised child, kindness is some distrusted flaw, and they feel all the smarter, all the older, for being above falling victim to it. Of course, that wasn’t true — his liaison with Pantherpaw was proof of his susceptibility to the faintest gentleness — but if he was presented with any more of his own weaknesses, he would never get out of bed. It also did make him feel a little self-conscious; between Foxstar’s off-putting enthusiasm and his cutting honesty, Kier wasn’t feeling very good at all. Like there was something wrong with him and everyone but him knew it; they were all laughing at him. Not replying, he dragged his frowning eyes away from him and hauled himself out of camp. He set off down a path between the towering, dripping pines. My mother taught me never to bear false witness. “Really? Mine taught me…” Kier laughed. “Oh yes, that’s right, nothing. Not a damn thing.” He swiped at a bank of ferns beside the path, so forceful and vicious that his claws ripped an entire sapling bush from the earth, its roots dangling in the air and raining dirt upon the damp ground before he threw it hatefully into the undergrowth. He wasn’t consciously aware of it, but he made a sorry parallel to the SummerClan leader — one so seethingly angry, so full of barely-contained murder and resentment and unhealed childhood hurt that quivered beneath all the theatrically polite ice, and the other so soft.
Fresh air, of course! Kier growled as he walked, pulling slightly ahead of the other leader, his head thrust forward and his shoulder fur prickling as it did so treacherously when he was annoyed; when he himself wasn’t putting any effort into acting nice, he couldn’t stand the other tom’s cheerfulness. He was the angry, angsty teen; the other was the sunshine one. And right now, it grated at him. I forget how different it is here. Despite his mood, his large ears pricked slightly; he always filed any little thing away, and Foxstar’s whole presence here was ammunition against him in SummerClan. He ought to have known better than to trust the NightClan leader. I mean, not that I miss it or anything. “No, whoever heard of such a thing,” he replied, so quiet it was barely audible, just a sly little half-whisper for Foxstar and the dripping ferns.
Oh! At the leader’s sudden exclamation, Kier slowed to a growling stop and turning around to face him, glaring him down with all the cheer of a bull. As Foxstar went on, he stayed silent, eyeing him with that earlier distrust, like the flowers round his neck were bombs. It made his chest clench with that all too familiar grief — acts of kindness always did that to him. If he didn’t look so paranoid and angry, he might have looked like he was about to cry. But then, he was just tired and emotional, and likely a little bit hangry. He always felt like crying when he hadn’t had anything to eat. Hopefully the pink's not too girly, I thought it might look nice against your fur. “My fur…?” he echoed, like he didn’t understand, giving his head a little shake and Foxstar a harmless frown. It's for unchanging friendship. “We’re not friends,” he muttered, eyes still on the flower necklace like he couldn’t look away, like the broken boy was so sorrowfully entranced. And it was true — they weren’t. Kier would raze his Clan to the ground; he would massacre them; he would keep Foxstar for a pet and make him watch the slaughter of his friends. He was nothing to him beyond something to make fun of today and use tomorrow. “What, you want me to wear it? Me? The NightClan leader, wearing SummerClan flowers?” As his eyes snapped up to him, his voice became biting, mocking, like Foxstar were an even bigger idiot for entertaining such follies than he had thought. Then, suddenly, he gave a crooked little half-grin. “I’m just kidding — what an honour, to receive one of those famous little flower things.” His voice was still mocking, but in a more harmless way. He slunk over to Foxstar and ducked low, slippery as a snake, to hook the wreath over his neck. Straightening, he looked down at it, brows raising. “Well. Obviously it’ll have to be burnt before I get back to camp, but it’s very nice. I do look good in pink.”
Then, suddenly, he was walking again, now with the flower necklace tapping rhythmically against his chest. “So,” he said, slipping a little more into his usual Kier routine; he was still tired, still hungry, still sore, but it all felt a little more bearable when he had that voice to hide behind. Nothing ever really hurt Kier; he was his saviour. “Have you made a move yet on your little vixen medicine cat? She-cats are famously flighty — she might like you today but all she needs is some other pretty thing put in front of her and she’ll be off before you can say—” he suddenly moaned, high and breathy and erotic. Breaking off, he snickered to himself, looking down at his flowers again and pawing idly at them like an errant, troublesome child would pick at the perfect Sunday church-wear their parent had put them in. It was like he'd been raised feral; his father would have been appalled at how his manners had decayed. And that was precisely why: he was nothing but a rebellious teenager, and whatever would have made his father balk, he had to do.
“Huh, well, that sucks,” he meowed with a nod. “If it makes you feel better, my dad didn’t teach me much other than how be ugly, how to ruin cat’s lives and how to torture cats I’m supposed to love.” He stretched slightly, before nodding down to his chest. It had been six months. Not a single one of the furs near the three, jagged scars had grown back. “See?” It was probably deeply unnerving for the tom to say something like that without losing even a single ounce of the pep in his voice. “So, I get it. Parents suck, and if they didn’t suck, life wouldn’t suck.” He was trying to show Kier that they had middle ground, that they weren’t all that different after all. “The torture thing, by the way,” he clarified, “was sort of a joke. I haven’t actually learned how to torture anyone, but I did get tortured, and it’s basically one in the same.” He let out a blissful laugh. If Kier hadn’t already been a little uncomfortable with him before, he now certainly had reason to be. Foxstar couldn’t help it, though. There was no reason to lie to Kier, and if he could connect with him, well, maybe everything would all work out in the end.
“Anyways, point is, sometimes our parents don’t do a good job at the one thing that they’re supposed to do. We deserve to be loved and cared for and taught how to do things and how to be an adult and that’s pretty…” his voice trailed off as he fought the urge to swear. “Pretty messed up that our parents were so bad at their one job that we ended up the way we did. That just is what it is.” He offered another shrug. As cavaliere as he sounded, Foxstar had certainly not gotten over his daddy or step mommy problems. “Nothing we can do about it. But, we aren’t completely helpless. We might not be able to change the past, but what we can do decide if we’re going to fix the problems they made for us, or if we’re just going to sit back and continue to let the world bash us in so damn hard that we go crazy homicidal or something.” As he spoke, his eyes widened a little bit. “I guess you’re probably the wrong crowd to be talking about homicide with, though, right?” He laughed again, the noise filling the momentary silence.
When Kier made his scomment, Foxstar knew that Kier now had a piece of ammo against him, but, realistically, the tom thought, what was he going to do? For whatever reason, he had a feeling that Kier wouldn’t actually do anything. If Kier wanted to take action against SummerClan, Foxstar simply figured that he probably would have already. Since he hadn’t, he figured he wouldn’t. There was a reason that NightClan hadn’t attacked again since their overthrow; there was a tacit understanding, there had to be, that NightClan had lost. NightClan had won the first battle, the second battle, but in the end, SummerClan won the war. They had only grown stronger since their defeat. If Kier would have wanted to hurt Foxstar himself, he probably would have already done it. The leader had had plenty of opportunity so far. So, for better or for worse, Foxstar considered himself safe.
We’re not friends. Foxstar pursed his lip in what was almost a pout. “Well, that’s where you’re wrong,” he stated with a shrug. His voice was no less perky than it was a few moments ago. “Unfortunately for the both of us, we are friends, whether we want to be or not. It’s easier just to accept it and move on than try to deny fate.” He let out a slightly loopy purr. “First rule of being friends,” he announced with a narrowing of his eyes, “is that when someone goes out of their way to be nice to you, to bring you a gift that they spent hours in the summer heat toiling on, you don’t act like such a piss ant about it and show some appreciation.” There was no anger in his voice, only a slight disappointment. He and Kier had so far to go to make Foxstar’s plan of saving the other’s soul work.
When Kier continued, Foxstar smiled. “See, there you go! You can do it!” His encouragement came with a soft purr, his silver eyes twinkling. “It does look good on you," he then decided with a nod. "Better than the matching one does on me, really. You’re welcome, by the way,” he then added with a wink.
And then, Kier brought up Sunveins. Foxstar found his ear flicking in dissatisfaction. He and Kier could be friends, he’d accept that, but what he wouldn’t accept is Kier ever coming within sixteen feet of her again. Still, he let him continue without interruption. “Second rule of being friends, whatever…. that noise was, please never make it again.” He offered Kier a squint, before sighing. “To answer your question, no, I haven’t. She doesn’t like me like that. It’s fine. I’m over it.” The only one of these statements that was true was the first. Kier didn’t need to know that, though. “What about you? Any… pretty she-cat’s catch your eye?” His nose wrinkled when he said it; it felt awfully objectifying. But, Foxstar figured that Kier was throwing him a bone, so if he wanted to talk about girls, well, fine, he guessed. Anything to keep the conversation going.
Kier had the opposite reaction to what might have been normal — any sign of weakness, of common trauma, and he leapt at it. He loved stories of childhood violence and grief; it was one of the only ways he could feel close to someone. Kier had been attracted to Eris for entirely different reasons, but her damaged childhood had been the thing that really made him fall in love. As the other leader went on, Kier padded on beside him, watching him in off-putting, staring silence when he wasn’t wandering his eyes around the gloomy forest like he was bored. Unfortunately for Foxstar, however, he shot himself in the foot with his patronising cheer, his ceaseless optimism, like he truly thought Kier was just some puzzle he could fix. It was insulting. The moment quickly soured — and then it curdled from sour to bitter. Kier hated to feel that someone else had gotten the better of him, that they felt they had unravelled him and gotten to the mushy centre. It would have been bad enough that Foxstar brushed off his comment with such a flippant that sucks, but it became unstomachable when he took the bone and ran, stringing trauma into some story he was meant to be grateful for. Kier’s eyes drifted down to Foxstar’s wounds as he motioned to them, gaze slow as a snake’s. “Yes, what a terrible thing. Your daddy gave you a little scratch. How ever did you manage to survive that, Foxstar?” He looked away dismissively, sniffing, unimpressed with his attempt at bonding. The last time someone had coaxed him into a therapy session, he had ended up with blackmail and a bastard litter. The wall around his heart had hardened. And on Foxstar went — on and on and on. I haven’t actually learned how to torture anyone, but I did get tortured, and it’s basically one in the same. Kier turned his head back to him, locking his eyes with his. “Is it?” he asked in a quiet hiss. Here was this perfect little thing, this thing who had faced one sad month in his life and thought himself versed in suffering, telling Kier of torture, of death, of pain. Foxstar’s life was a thing of sunshine and flowers and companionship — so his stepmother had been a tyrant; so his father had sunk his claws into his chest; so he’d been thrust into leadership, poor little kitten with his mixed loyalties. Poor little Foxstar. Kier’s chest seethed with breathless, pained resentment. His eyes were wild as he stared into the other leader’s — all the organs he had torn out with Eris; all the layers of skin he had stripped from his sister’s body while she was in prison; his mother’s teeth ripping through his jugular and tearing out his life; his own teeth ripping through his father’s throat; the poison trickling into Bermondsey’s daughter’s open mouth; all the trials, and executions, and beatings from his siblings, and the stiff bodies of his kits as he lowered them into their lonely grave; they were in there, and they asked we’re the same? You coddled little thing — we’re the same? “Yes,” he went on in that same hiss, “what a burden, to have a loving mother. You have my condolences.”
We deserve to be loved and cared for and taught how to do things and how to be an adult. The more Foxstar talked, the angrier Kier became, the sort of anger that was deep and true and vulnerable. He hated his pain being addressed, he hated it being so visible, he hated it being talked about. His claws curled into the damp earth as they walked. Nothing we can do about it. Every time Foxstar said ‘we’, something horrible jolted in Kier’s chest — pure fury. He felt sick with it, insane with it. His shoulder fur prickled up, up, up. If the other leader hadn’t been in danger before, he was now. Ordinarily, so utterly governed by his violent emotions, Kier would have turned volatile. This wildly personal, desperately pained resentment of Foxstar had consumed him ever since he had looked at him with pity when he strolled into the SummerClan camp. He hated being pitied — he hated being sympathised with, like he wasn't a monster. Like he hadn’t lapped eagerly at whatever Aspenstar had made him do. And if it haunted him, if there was a part of him still trembling and fracturing and buzzing with irreconcilable grief and fear, if there was a part of him that was still breaking, that was still trapped in the memory of that one dawn morning, sitting there on that back porch for the rest of his life, trapped there in those two minutes, reliving it over and over and over till it was nothing but numb punishment — that had been his choice. But for whatever reason, Kier wouldn’t snap around Foxstar — because then he would be right. And, stubborn, angry child that he was, he was determined that he would pass therapy with a low score, but an adequate one; Foxstar would head back to SummerClan thinking Kier was damaged and violent, but not screaming for help. He wasn’t some pitiful pet project. He was fine — he was a king. He had to push him away, he had to hide in his squalor. And so, he turned to look at Foxstar again and mustered a smile. “The way we did?” he echoed around that smile. “And how did I end up, Foxstar? Mm? Tell me — I’d love to know. What precisely is it about my personality that makes you think my parents did some sort of irreversible damage to my growing up?” The smile held, his eyes not leaving the other leader’s. He loved to make cats uncomfortable, loved to back them into the corner and watch them fumble and sing. “I hardly think we’re comparable, sweet little leader, chest scars or no.”
I guess you’re probably the wrong crowd to be talking about homicide with, though, right? He grinned at him. He was still shuddering on the inside, but he’d managed to get himself under control on the outside; his claws, his prickling fur, his eyes — all tamed. Really, if he pushed the rage away, it was all really very funny. “Why?” he asked, needling and warm, moving in closer towards the other leader. “Why am I the wrong crowd, Foxstar? Are you afraid I’ll dump your body in a ditch with the rest of the warriors you grew up with?” There was that at least, that glimmer of distrust, of uncertainty — Kier was still dangerous to Foxstar; at least he had that. Tittering to himself, he drifted away again.
See, there you go! You can do it! Kier flicked his eyes up, eyeing him in silence like the briefly-tamed psychopath, the villain, looking in poorly-socialised un-comprehension at the ray of sunshine. He wasn’t used to such encouragement, and as meaningless and condescending as it was, it still made something needy and desperate and childish lap up the empty words. Lip curling slightly at his wink, he looked away. This was all very confusing.
At Foxstar’s obvious discomfort, he grinned again. Second rule of being friends, whatever…. that noise was, please never make it again. The grin widened; he let out a little giggling sound, shoulders shuddering in lewd glee. At his squint, Kier beamed back unrepentantly, not blinking. To answer your question, no, I haven’t. She doesn’t like me like that. At the first sentence, Kier looked away and let out a frustrated, dismissive “ohh…” It only grew more frustrated as he continued — “ohhhh…” He shook his head like Foxstar was making some grave mistake, still padding along beside him. “Foxstar, you’re not serious. I only saw her for five minutes and she was panting her little heart out — she’s desperate for you. You have to put the poor thing out of her misery before someone else does. I expect you’re a little…” He looked at him again, looking him up and down. “You know, a little behind in that department,” he meant he still had his V card, “but there’s really nothing to it. Any idiot can fumble their way through — it’s pure instinct for the she-cat. When it’s two toms, you know, that’s when you need a little more inventiveness — but this? No, no, it’s pure nature.” Of all Moonblight’s insults, his most recent ones hadn’t made any sort of lasting dent in Kier’s armour, despite the initial sting; he was very confident in this area of his life. Too confident — he could have gone off on a two hour tangent, utterly oblivious to any horror. “Now, you know the trick with the scruff? Well…” Leaning in closer to Foxstar, he went on a ten minute, in-depth description of what he might expect with Sunveins — truly, he was just being friendly, out of the goodness of his heart. Kier had been very young his first time; he’d never had anyone to talk him through it.
Finally, perfectly pleased with himself like he’d just done the world a service, he pulled away. What about you? Any… pretty she-cat’s catch your eye? Kier had grinned back at Foxstar in pleased, hooded-eyed surprise when he’d first asked, holding his gaze like he was trying to unpick the attempt at crassness and let all the softness spill out, his earlier anger all but forgotten; now, he gave him nearly the same grin, made all the more lazy by his little lesson. “And to answer your question, no,” he purred around that grin, eyes still not leaving his. Finally, he looked away, still grinning. “I have a mate. I see others when I want to, you know, that’s our arrangement, but I don’t like pretty-pretty. Too feminine, I mean. All the she-cats in NightClan, they’re fine for a night, but they’re…” He pulled a face. “Bland. You know, like milk. Pretty enough, but no meat. I really don’t like them very much at all but,” he heaved a shrug, looking back at Foxstar with a lecherous, hungry sort of grin, “if they’re offering.”
Kier was determined that Foxstar would find no redeeming qualities in him, that he would go home thinking wow, this guy is awful and not wow, this guy really needs to be saved. He was pulling out all the stops. He'd caught onto the game and he was going to be the worst therapy patient Foxstar had ever had.
He flicked his ear at each of his snide comments, and his silver gaze never left the other’s grey. His expression did not change, did not waver. It took more than that to get under his skin. Of course, he was aggravated by the words, but not necessarily at Kier for saying them. A tantrum was perfectly expected, and he was sure that he could handle it. “Condescension isn’t a good look on you,” he meowed after his final comment about his mother. “I’m sure you know that, though, deep down. Silly Foxstar, just stating the obvious again.” He let out a soft sigh, before tilting his head ever so slightly. He could sense the bubbling resentment, and perhaps Foxstar couldn’t blame him. “But, you see,” he then meowed, his head tipped ever so slightly to the side, “I’d like to say we’re more the same than you’d like to admit. Not that I particularly blame you, it’s probably a little hard to admit.”
He paused again, letting Kier tire himself out. How did I end up? The question was simple enough. “Well, if I’m correct, and I think I am,” he glanced down as if to check a clipboard of notes, “you ended up not super great. You might think you ended up great, which, you know, is fine, but a little … dismissive of the truth, no? Not exactly sure what the face of flesh wounds is from, but I have a sinking suspicion your charming and cheery disposition probably at least contributed to it.” He paused, before offering an awkward sorry. “But, you see, even without knowing the specifics – you’re right, you know, my specific knowledge of your personal life is about as lackluster as your specific knowledge of my personal life -,” he paused here for a second naturally. There was a part of him that wanted to say more here, about how if Kier seemed angry that Foxstar was being a little presumptuous, Kier was also. He didn’t know about the way that everything that Foxstar loved was ripped from his grasp. He didn’t know about the way that there was blood on his paws, blood he never asked for. He didn’t know that it had always been like that: from the very day he was born, the only survivor of a bloodbath of a kitting, he had been a bad omen. No matter how kind or how warm he stayed, he couldn’t help but accept that reality, that everything he touched slowly died, that his entire life seemed to be a cruel punishment that was earned by someone else. It weighed on a child, the barebones understanding that he was the common denominator to all of the destruction he’d ever faced. “Without knowing the specifics of your life, I can make enough educated guesses to have a vague idea of how you turned out. Educated guess one, you’re the same age as I am. Educated guess two, you’re profoundly broken in ways that others will never understand. It’s why she chooses who she chooses. If you weren’t a little messed up in the head, you’d still be where ever it is you had come from. Even if I hadn’t had a chance to talk to you, even if I really did know nothing about you, the fact that you ended up here tells me about as much as I need to know, you know?” There was a surprising lack of judgement in his voice. He was just stating facts, or things that he believed were facts, at least.
Foxstar should have flinched when Kier continued, but he didn’t. Instead, he offered a wayward laugh. “You see, I thought it might be a little offensive, you know? Make a comment that is clearly anti-homicide to a cat who I’m nearly positive has been pushed to homicide. Thought maybe you’d think I was being a little too judgy, is all.” He let out a sigh. “As for fear, I mean, sure. In theory, you could probably slaughter me. Between you and I, it really couldn’t be that had to put me down,” he meowed, a giggle in his voice. “But, I don’t know that I’m afraid of that. If I was afraid of that, well, I simply wouldn’t be here, right? I can think of at least six cats who would beat the hell out of me for doing something so dangerous and reckless, and when you live on the edge like I do…” He let out a purr at his bad joke. “Sometimes, you just have to accept a little risk. If the mission objective is important enough, and I’d argue that this one is, it’ll all work out, or it won’t, and, well…” Well… what? He didn’t continue.
Foxstar frowned as Kier didn’t buy his story. Nothing about the interaction with the other leader was going to be easy was it? Still, he let Kier prattle on until he ran out of steam. “Rule three of being friends,” Foxstar for a moment considered that he should go to the local print shop and get the rules engraved in some wood or something so Kier wouldn’t forget. “Don’t make weird comments about Sunveins. Don’t talk about how pretty she is, or how her eyes light up and it feels like home, or how she is the warmest cat you’ve ever met, or make any comments about Sunveins and nature. Hell, maybe she should just be an off-limits conversation in the first place. As it turns out, I did go to Health Class. In fact, I’ve probably went to enough health classes to last a lifetime.” As if to demonstrate that, a large cough sounded from deep in his chest, making him turn away to hack for a moment. “Sorry ‘bout that,” he then added.
“Well, cheers, then,” he meowed when Kier spoke of Eris. It kind of felt like a slap to the face that Kier had a burning love life and he didn’t, but the smile that returned to his face looked unbothered. “Clarification, well, not cheers to the rest of what you said. I think we really ought to work on your opinion of the opposite sex. It’s pretty… lackluster, and, well, you know how she-cats are when they don’t feel valued. They’re worse than kittens who don’t get the attention they want.” He offered another small chuckle, although trying to find middle ground with Kier was hard. “But cheers to having a mate. Kids?” he then asked, genuine curiosity in his voice. Truthfully, Foxstar prayed that Kier said no – he probably needed at least a few sessions before he was ready to have kittens, in his professional opinion.
“Also,” he then added. “Have you eaten yet? I’m obviously not going to offer to get us anything in the actual territory, but if you give me ten minutes and promise you won’t go off running – I swear to all things holy I’ll find you again and then I’ll be irritated and then we will both be sour apples and that won’t be fun – I can find something for us.”
With every word Foxstar said — as he put names to all his wounds and aired them out in the open for both of them to see — Kier drew more and more in on himself, looking like a wounded, angry little boy completely out of his depth with his own vast emotions as he padded along at his side. The other leader hardly missed a jab — and what was worse, they weren’t meant as jabs. They were just honesty. And he was utterly a stranger to it. He didn’t look at him as he talked; he couldn’t. He felt sick with anger, with the knowledge that he couldn’t refute a thing he was saying — for the first time, Kier had found the one thing he couldn’t lie about. He wanted to, but he couldn’t even open his mouth; it felt dry like ash, like everything was dying in it behind his teeth, like he were a wild horse that had been corralled and finally been stripped of its spirit. Not that I particularly blame you. Kier’s ears pinned further back in sick humiliation. There was something about the way Foxstar spoke to him — like he had no fear in the world of him — that utterly subdued Kier, like he’d had half a tranquiliser put under his skin. With everyone else, his own danger being doubted sent him into a fit of having to prove them wrong, of having to hurt them. With Foxstar doing it, he just felt like a chastised child, angry and bitter but unable to strike back because everything was so honest. It was like an AA session where the addict went in expecting shock and horror at their bragging exploits, their bragging horror, and received ‘oh… you poor thing’ instead — worse: ‘sit down before I muzzle you’ — worse: ‘there’s no reason for a muzzle because nothing you can say will stick on me.’ It was baffling, and he was frozen in bewilderment. He could buck and kick and grin and spit and nothing would happen. Kier thrived on attention. To have it denied him — to have it denied him in the form of fearless, patient pity… It made him simultaneously so angry and so desperate for more that he was paralysed. And so, he walked along beside him in silence like a panther tamed and not understanding why or how.
You ended up not super great. Some of his fire rekindling, Kier opened his mouth and turned his head to give a snappish, smartass reply — but before he could, Foxstar was pre-empting him: you might think you ended up great. Kier growled and closed his mouth again, looking ahead. He did end up great. He was a king… But I have a sinking suspicion your charming and cheery disposition probably at least contributed to it. “But you admit I’m charming?” He grinned at him, all teeth and hooded eyes. “If you did want to know, one of your dear stepmother’s little pets went off and left his mate behind, and he was none too pleased when he came home.” The grin widened impossibly at the implication; it said all he didn’t need to say. For the first time since it had happened, he wasn’t bitterly self-conscious about the bloody scratches. But at the mention of his personal life, Kier soured again and looked down at his paws bitterly; he didn’t have a personal life. Everything was work. Work for 36 hours straight, then his head would just drop down next to Eris’ and someone would call nervously from the den entrance, sir… You’re needed again. Work for 36 hours, grab twenty minutes with some she-cat that looked at him with the right little smile, who had a thing for royalty or who had seen what Pantherpaw had gotten for herself, and then drag himself out for another ten. It ran far more smoothly now — it almost ran itself: his apprentices were almost warriors, which meant the warriors could die out; his nursemaids had enough experience that kits were being raised quickly and correctly; cat hunts, Inferior prey hunts, bodies tossed in ditches and graves dug — it all ran like a second skin, everyone now so used to it that he hardly had to oversee a thing. It was getting better — far better. Truthfully, he’d been obscenely happy these past few weeks. He’d gotten to spend time — real time — with Eris, too, instead of snatched moments or time made when he really couldn’t afford it and he had an unsettled lump in his stomach the whole time because he really ought to have been out in a meeting and he felt guilty for thinking that while he was with her; NightClan was truly good. He was deliriously content. But he was still in his depressive slump, and victories had become shortcomings. Yesterday, when he was happy, tyranny was what he was made for; today, tyranny was sick, joyful pleasure for two percent and misery for ninety-eight. He was drowning. He’d be fine soon enough. He just had to dwell in his pit for a night or two; then he’d drag himself out and put his grin back on and return to public life, everything tucked safely away.
Thought maybe you’d think I was being a little too judgy, is all. “Oh, no,” Kier reassured him with dripping pleasantness. “You, coming in here, throwing around your little psychological evaluation about how some brokenness in my childhood made me homicidal — no, you know, I think that’s perfectly reasonable smalltalk. Perfectly fine.” He was selfish; he didn’t ask the SummerClan leader a thing about himself. I can think of at least six cats who would beat the hell out of me for doing something so dangerous and reckless. Kier looked away again, down at his paws, feeling the stirring of sad, jealous resentment in his gut. He licked his lips like it would somehow dispel it. He didn’t have six cats who would care if he lived or died. Three, maybe, and at least one daughter, but she was obligated. Laughable, really, that Kier already had so many kits when this boy the same age as him had none; they were barely more than kits themselves. But it had been a thing of legacy and loneliness and the unfounded belief that to have blood tied to him, blood that was obligated to be his, would fix him. But it hadn’t. It just left him sad and afraid for them, and more insecure and lonely than ever because now he had the responsibility of keeping them alive on top of everything. “And what exactly is the mission objective, Foxstar? Why are you here? I know I said you could pop by any time you liked but I didn’t think you’d miss my company so soon.” He made an attempt at a smile, like he was unfazed and calm as could be.
And then they were back onto Sunveins and Kier was in familiar territory — here he could be comfortable; here he could excel; here he could wrangle some of his control back. He physically perked up, turning his head to give Foxstar a sly sort of grin, ears pinning slightly back — there were few things he savoured as much as being told off, especially when it was by a boy who liked a girl. He smiled, wry and amused, when Foxstar again called them friends, and this time didn’t correct him; he truly wanted to see where he would go with all this. That was what he told himself. Really, it was a far simpler sort of yearning: he wanted a friend. He just didn’t know how to make one. Seduction; he could do that. That was meaningless. Friendship… He had no clue, and it ached to child-like hollowness in his chest. Don’t make weird comments about Sunveins. Kier’s eyes widened, his mouth opening, wounded; he touched a paw to his chest. “Weird comments?” A second later, he tittered and the grin was back. He hurried on after Foxstar from where he’d stopped to have his dramatic little moment. Don’t talk about how pretty she is, or how her eyes light up and it feels like home, or how she is the warmest cat you’ve ever met. Kier raised his brows. “I didn’t say that, Foxstar,” he replied dryly. “My, but you really are whipped, aren’t you? Well — like I said, you really ought to hurry up then. Picture yourself, a little older than you are now, watching from across camp as she cozies up to some other tom —can you imagine that horrible little rot in your chest? When I say she’s pretty, Foxstar, I’m not only being sleazy — she really is. And I won’t have been the only one who’s noticed. I’m not there to make myself a nuisance to you. Other toms are.” If Foxstar couldn’t make him better, he could make him worse. “A harmless little crush sours remarkably quickly when the object —” he cast Foxstar a narrow-eyed, mockingly apologetic grin, “the she-cat — gets into its mind some feelings for someone else. Better to have it safely tucked away in your pocket. Just a word of warning.” He looked away at the pines with water streaming down their patchy trunks, the last sentence mock-disinterested and tired and haughty as he drifted off again from where he’d drawn nearer as he spoke. When Foxstar hacked, Kier turned his head to watch him, grinning. It was just his bastard lungs, but Kier liked to think it was also a bit of revulsion. Finally, he was back a little in the lead; he’d regained some ground with disgust. He loved a reaction. This whole conversation was a tug of war, and now he had the rope back in his claws. His smile held, tittering softly — he’d long since gotten over his allergies; Foxstar clearly hadn’t. Another thing to feel superior about, superior over this sickly sweet little boy king with the loving home, this little monarch who’d been groomed for a throne when Kier had had to claw his way up to one. Yes, he decided; he hated him. He knew he didn’t.
Well, cheers, then. Kier just stared at him unblinkingly in that way he had, eyes lazy and hooded and so off-puttingly alert, so watchful. He said nothing. As much as there might have been doubt surrounding it in any other circumstance — did he know it was uncomfortable or not? — now there was no question: he was doing it deliberately. When Foxstar brought up his opinion of the opposite sex, Kier finally grinned and pulled back slightly, sly and narrow-eyed and little, the slimy mirth alleviating the stare. He drew closer, their pelts brushing like they shared something as toms, or like Kier was forcing that mutual recognition on him, buttering it over him with every slide of their sides. “You know, you say that and then you go off and compare mollies to kits. Anyway, I’d have to disagree — I’d sooner trust a fresh-born kit than its mother. Maybe in SummerClan kits are poorly behaved, but here the toms are fine little soldiers from the second they slide out of the womb.” Then he was laughing. “But rest assured, Foxstar, the she-cats feel valued. I love she-cats! All I think is that they’re inherently untrustworthy, fickle, weak, unintelligent, and wholly undeserving of a place at the same table as toms. They have their little sphere — that’s where they ought to stay. Really,” he laughed again, looking at Foxstar with that intimate, companionable sort of warmth, like they were on the same page, “I’d say they’re perfectly happy to be there but it’s far more enjoyable when they’re not. It’s markedly sweet, though, that you’re trying to sacrifice your own morals to appeal to me, I’m liking it a terrible amount — really, I’m feeling rather spoiled by all the attention from so illustrious a leader.” He grinned at him. — Oh shut up, you misogynist, a she-cat had once said to him. I’M not a misogynist, he’d replied, the ‘I’m’ so breathy and calm and superficially, airily offended, brows raised condescendingly like she were just an over-emotional woman throwing around words she didn’t know the meaning of. That had earned him a backhand that had stung around his nasty grin. He laughed again. “But after all — who am I to judge a she-cat?” The implication was dripping: he was the only judge that mattered.
Kids? His grin fell. “Mm.” He looked away. “No, I haven’t eaten.” The ‘mm’ was all he gave to the question before moving on, glossing over it so deliberately that it was clear he wasn’t going to dwell on an answer. Fifteen moons old and already ten kits to his name; he felt bogged down by some inexplicable guilt. Except he could have explained it; he just didn’t want to. Kier’s tactics were moving at light speed, now less because he was in control and far more because the tables had turned and he was now evading Foxstar — at first they’d been level, now Foxstar had caught up and Kier was zigzagging and sidestepping to avoid giving a straight answer. He was used to cats he could lose somehow, with fancy talk and sweet nothings and such verbal laps around them, always changing, that they lost focus and let themselves be led wherever he wanted. Foxstar was so damned persistent, so unerringly merry, that it was proving impossible. Even with such different approaches, they were somehow evenly matched. Now Kier felt himself the prey, uneasy and slightly bewildered, slightly afraid, for the first time maybe ever, and he was desperate to lose him in the proverbial brush and get out from under his prying, too-accurate eyes and diagnoses. As the other leader went on, Kier let out an exasperated sort of breath and tossed his head. “Really, Foxstar, wise up — I’m not letting some traitor with ties to the old order go gallivanting by himself around my land. They’d all think it very fine, you know, back home, NightClan’s son returned to its king — but what if you went off and made some torrid little trouble for me? Mm? What if you’ve just been buttering me up with your blithe chatter and you’re really here to plot some foul treason? No — go make a little picnic of this, fine by me, but I’ll be there every step of the way.” And then he did a sort of irritated little double take. “But I don’t need feeding, you insolent little toad.” As if his stomach wasn’t hollow and aching, as if his legs weren’t numb, as if he didn’t feel sick; he was just stubborn. He’d sooner starve than admit someone could help him. “Maybe you get your own meals in whatever hippie commune you come from but I have cats for that. I’m perfectly fine — yes, better than fine.”
