It's warm. Though the sun hangs low and the sky is starting to cloud over, he doesn't feel even a chill. The remnants of a mouse sits between his forepaws, forgotten in favour of watching the white-patched tom chase a butterfly through the grass. He leaps and bounds and giggles like a kit with a smile full of sunshine. Willowclaw sighs as he watches Rainpatch. Unattainable, he tells himself, off limits, reserved, taken. He shifts his attention to the bones, scowling.
There's a thump, and warmth breath rolls over his face. Flinching Willowclaw jerks his head up to meet Rainpatch's sparkling eyes; they are a delightful shade of green, he's decided, bright and warm and wonderful. "Come on," Rainpatch purrs, "come play."
"I don't play. I'm not a kit," Willowclaw retorts.
"Yes but," he leans precariously close, cheek brushing cheek, to murmur in Willowclaw's ear, "no one's watching."
Willowclaw eyes him skeptically when Rainpatch moves away. He doesn't go very far, there's probably less than a whisker of air between their noses. No one's watching. No one will know. No one will find out. He's never been very good at thinking this out. He charges in blindly. There's a long scar on his shoulder that proves it. So when he leans in closer to brush his muzzle against Rainpatch's and lets out a quiet purr it is done without pre-thought. The answering purr that threads from Rainpatch's throat is comforting.
Three or so moons later Willowclaw wakes up in a cold sweat and remembers a spear of wood piercing blue fur.
