There is no such thing as a lone wolf.
Wolves are, by nature, social animals, traveling in packs of two or more. The "lone wolf" eventually dies; indeed, its reasons are in its very title. Lone wolf. Lone...lonely wolf. Like the only comfort found in the world is the warmth of a packmate's fur, huntmates all around, hunting feeding sleeping dreaming drinking all around you. Because in a wolf pack, you are never alone.
And then there's the practical aspect of it: a single wolf can't bring down large animals, it's not fast enough to chase down rabbits and squirrels and there is no mate or friend lying in wait just ahead, and when some human injures the wolf, there is no one to bring food to it and protect it from those that would eat a wounded, defenseless animal.
Lone wolves rarely last long in the wild.
Which is, Toboe knows, why he's one of the lucky ones.
He remembers what it was like, crows bullying him until his ribs stood out against his sides in harsh relief. Desperate for handouts from friendly people who might mistake him for a dog (as much as he hates to think that), scavenging from trash can to trash can, never quite fast or cunning enough to catch one of those hated birds and eat it.
He misses the old woman, Grandmother. Her companionship...
Not like another wolf's is. Nothing like it. Nothing, really, when compared to what he has now.
But worth something all the same, filled up the gaping, aching hole he had inside until he could pretend that he wasn't lonely, that his soul wasn't shriveling up little by little and that her presence couldn't stop the pain forever.
But it was close enough.
But then she died...
Back to the back alleys and trash cans, but no longer trying to kill the birds, because...he's afraid to. Still is, maybe—death is a horrible, horrible thing, he sees that now, but he can't survive without killing something, it's in his very nature. Survival of the fittest and all that.
Wolves create packs when they have none, whether knowingly or not. If there are no wolves to be had, they'll take the next best thing, which is just about anything.
But who could Toboe have created a pack with? He was—still is—only a little more than a wolf cub, and though he hates to admit it, Hige's right when he calls him a runt. Human-wise, he's a twelve-year old street kid without enough brains to get by easily.
The girl—Lira. He truly is sorry about her bird, he hadn't meant to kill it--! But he'd been so happy, thought that maybe he could have a friend again, even if it was a human, and he hadn't thought and the bird had been so easy to catch—
And then Tsume had come—Tsume with a pack made of humans all in awe and just a bit afraid of their white-haired leader with the harsh, gold eyes that held something inhuman in them, Tsume who didn't care about him but went to the trouble of saving him, Tsume who'd helped him when it would've been better not to, Tsume who was the only wolf he'd seen in the damned city.
He left Tsume though, hurt and puzzled and confused.
Garbage bins again. But there was the human with the gun and the dog who smelt like a dog but with something familiar and right added into the mix, then the two wolves who the human had been chasing, and finally, on their way out of the city, Toboe remembered Tsume.
Remembered the loneliness that always felt like it would devour him from inside out, and knew he could do that to nobody.
So, tonight, they're tired from running on empty bellies and Toboe cuddles into Tsume's side hesitantly, against the warm fur and the wolf-musk and the comfort of another older, bigger, stronger wolf.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Toboe lies; it's fairly easy to do, but he still feels guilty anyway. "It's cold."
But he lets him do it.
And Toboe realizes that he'll never be lonely again.
Uh, yeah. Pretty much, that's it. Sap, I know. Enough to make my stomach turn.