You may not recall calling me

Noss · 01-30-2011, 06:51 PM

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"Going dum, dum, dum, dum, dum dum dum dum." ^w^ Alternatively, there's "It's all around the world; la la la la la la." Also, the last line in this post; take it as a cheesy compliment from a cheesy wolf -w-

As Noss watched the inebriated tailor, he was reminded of why he didn't like females. They cried, they gossiped, they were stereotypically weak at the worst of times; so much so that Noss had grown tired of having to tiptoe around their delicate sensibilities and treat them as if he were handling a fragile thread of glass. But Strel was different. Noss didn't view him as weak--quite the contrary, Noss often saw Strel as one with strength where he lacked it--but he knew that everyone had weaknesses. Even Noss; and Strel was painfully aware of them. Watching Strel, Noss took in his words as he asked for his promise again, as if he had to ask twice just to convince himself. But Noss nodded his head, connecting to that lavender gaze, marvelling that he had made even the slightbest breakthrough. With a very romanticized comparison, Strel was not a glass thread but cloth thread. He was strong when woven together and made a grand tapestry that drew your eyes, a silent banter that never made you tired or any less surprised when a stitch took an unexpected turn. While watching Strel create, Noss had taken notice and seen that Strel's hands worked the fabrics the same way. But alone, those threads were weak; easily able to unravel and cut. Strel had few of those loose ends, and Noss was oblivious enough to miss some. But since Strel had once willingly shown him a thread end, he knew not to pull on it, but instead wanted to tuck it back into the redhead's tapestry. What had love done to him?

He was unaware of the conflict concerning his insensibility to invite Strel with him and Ralla to gon on the scouting mission and the long trip south, but in his mind, it was simple and straightforward; Strel's place was in Cour des Miracles, and Noss didn't want to risk Strel's life on what might turn out to be a dangerous foray, despite how unlikely that seemed. But Noss knew his father; knew it would be unwise to present the man he loved before the Chief, risking the man's anger that he would never have a direct heir and that he was losing his son to a foreign pack. He would confront his father on the matter himself, and spare Strel the stress, humiliation, and danger. That was just how his mind worked, and once it had decided on that decidedly safe path, he saw no wrong in it or its logic. Moments ticked by, and Noss watched the change in Strel's demeanor shift as they kept tempo. Just like Noss had once done to him, Strel took one hand and stroked his face, and Noss imperceptibly leaned his cheek into the warm cup of his palm. There was no denying it; Noss craved the warmth--the intimacy--that no other seemed to have. But that warmth didn't only come from those hands or eyes; it came from a place that Noss was afraid to explore and try to explain, lest he become weak and be unable to guard himself against it or what threatened it. Instead, he was content to accept it as it was, for the time. Maybe one day the tailor would be able to craft a blanket to thaw his frigid heart.

He followed the trail of that hand as it pulled back, the moment suddenly turning surreal, as Strel invited him closer. He crept onto the bed, the guise of subtlety a lost cause on the large warrior, and he sat back on his legs as he looked down at the redheaded man who had seemingly so easily made Noss do the unthinkable. He tried to reconnect the touch, and so Noss reached out his arms to try and encircle the tailor, to draw him nearer. He remembered their first night together and how spontaneous it had been; how unplanned, how self-serving to the both of them. If Noss had insisted that he had repaid his favor and decided not to follow Strel, where would he be now? Probably carting his unwilling sister back to the tribe for a fate that neither of them agreed with or liked, Noss sentencing himself to an arranged marriage of some sort for the good of the pack and tribe. But he didn't want that anymore; not in the least. He had meant it when he said he didn't want to be there is Strel wasn't; it was like having the most delicious cake on earth--unsurpassable and only one slice to its name--and then tasting every other cake only to be disappointed that none of them could please him like that single slice. He could never forget.

Maybe Strel knew him well enough to know that even though he was trying to be serious, he was openly pleased that Strel had admitted, if even a little, that he wanted Noss to stay. It was pleasurable; being wanted. And maybe Strel knew that as Noss leaned in to hold him close, inhaling that distinct scent that had almost drugged Noss on their first meeting, he wanted to protect the man in his arms. And hopefully he knew that it was the best way Noss could show his true affection without bursting out with straightforward words that would embarrass them both, and honestly, Noss was afraid to push the buttons much further on a drunken Strel. But...

Noss found he didn't mind holding onto this thread at all.

Warrior walks. "Warrior talks." Warrior thinks.

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