Chapter Text
i.
Being tied to a tree wasn’t, per se, how Pike expected to be spending his morning, but sometimes life really just works like that.
“Talk.” A dark leather boot nudges his foot, not hard enough to hurt but enough to grab his attention --as if he was really focusing on anything other than this roughed-up half elf holding him hostage. Pike musters up his most defiant look, complete with clenched jaw. He stares the half-elf down (or, up?). He’s met with a sigh, and a firmer nudge, the flash of a dagger at the man’s waist.
“Alright, alright, you don’t have to ask
me
twice,” he says then, a bit defeated. “I was just trying to see what you had on you, man, nothing big.”
A quirk of a brow. “You had your hand in my pocket.”
“Well, duh ,” Pike rolls his eyes. “How else am I supposed to do my thing?”
“By thing, you mean… pick-pocketing.”
He shrugs, best as he can with his hands and arms bound. “It’s a living.”
Somehow, the guy doesn’t look convinced. He crosses his arms and shifts his weight to one foot, looking for all the world like he’s about to deliver the most ‘I’m-disappointed-in-your-behavior’ lecture. Instead, though, he only says, “I wouldn’t describe thievery as a living .”
“Au contraire, my good friend,” Pike says, shifting a bit to sit up more. “That is where you are wrong . You see, anything can be a living if you’re good enough at it, right? And I ,” he tilts his chin up, “am the best of the best.” And, with that, he cuts through the final strands of the rope with his pocket knife and disappears in a flash of smoke.
He can hear the surprised gasp, the faint slide of metal against scabbard, and when he reappears behind the half-elf, there’s hardly a beat before the edge of a sword presses itself uncomfortably against his exposed neck.
“Hey, hey,
whoa
,” Pike says, craning his head up. “Dude, you wanna put that away? I promise I won’t, like, dig in your pockets anymore or anything, I’ll be on my way--” He searches those violet eyes with his own for a moment, cursing the fact that he must look like he’s pleading after his grand display of bravado. They search his back, with an intensity he hasn’t seen since… ever, maybe? It’s not like he meets a
lot
of people doing what he does, but the handful of interactions he’s had in the past few months went nothing like this.
The blade wavers, and then it’s gone, the fierceness fading fast from the half-elf’s face. “Fine,” he huffs out. “Just--fine. Don’t touch my bags, okay?”
“Heh, really?” Pike grins at him, posture relaxing back into his normal stance. “I can do that, sure, yeah, whatever. I go without stealing stuff, like, most of the time.”
A snort. “I thought you were the best of the best.”
“I am,” comes the hurried answer, and then more casually, “Most people just call me Pike, though. That’s my name.”
“Alright, well, don’t touch my stuff again, Pike,” the half-elf warns, the hand still resting absentmindedly on his scabbard coming up to adjust the belt around his waist. He turns and makes to be on his way, leaving Pike standing in the little clearing where he’d apparently spent the night, and Pike doesn’t know quite what possesses him to follow this man, but he is .
“You know, usually when people introduce themselves, it’s, like, a reciprocal sort of thing,” Pike points out, falling (uninvited) into step with the half-elf, who looks equal parts surprised to see him following still and unamused with his words.
“Who says this was an introduction?”
“Me, just now--keep up, dude. What’s your name, then, stranger?”
“... Thunderstorm,” he says. And then, like an afterthought, “Darkness.”
“Thunderstorm,” Pike repeats, and Thunderstorm is looking anywhere but at him, the barest hint of red dusting his cheeks--and, really, the structure of those cheeks is so unfair, Pike thinks fleetingly--when he realizes that Thunderstorm seems to be waiting for him to say something funny about his name. “Sounds… badass,” he says after a moment of ‘thought.’
“... You think so?”
“ Yeah , dude, sounds like a cool hero, doesn’t it?” It doesn’t really--it sounds kind of ridiculous, but right now Thunderstorm is looking at him with what must be relief for the lack of teasing in his eyes, and Pike is but one man.
Thunderstorm huffs an incredulous little laugh. “I guess so. Don’t get that one a lot,” he says, and Pike can tell he’s not so used to smalltalk maybe--he’s a little sparing with his words, and Pike wonders if maybe he’s one to avoid contact like he does, another lonely wanderer through these woods.
Pike keeps in step, and for some reason, Thunderstorm isn’t telling him to stop. Always one to push his luck, he presses forward.
“Well, Stormy--”
“‘Stormy?’” Thunderstorm’s expression colors confused again, but with a tinge of humor this time.
Pike grins. “Yeah, ‘Stormy!’ It’s a nickname. You… do know what a nickname is, don’t you?” Can’t ever be too sure. But by the way Thunderstorm rolls his eyes, he’s going to guess that’s a ‘yes.’
“Of course I do,” comes the answer, indignant. “But I haven’t--why are you giving me one?”
“Oh, because we’re friends, obviously ,” Pike says, as if it should have been completely obvious before now. Never mind the fact that Thunderstorm tied him to a tree after he tried to pickpocket him. “It’s like, step three of being friends, I think? So… we’re doing pretty good in that department, I’d say.” He punctuates it with a faux-serious nod.
“Oh, yeah?” It sounds like he’s almost close to laughing, a warmth Pike has yet to hear from him curling around the edge of his words. Fledgeling camaraderie! “So, what are the other steps of this, then? Was threatening one of them?”
“That was just a fluke,” Pike waves a hand dismissively. “First step--learn their name, check; second step--spend time with them, done--” Thunderstorm snorts another laugh, fuller this time. “--fine, it’s a work in progress , then. Step three? Nicknames!”
“And that’s the whole list?”
“Well, no , but that’s up ‘til this point. Next, we like, visit each other’s houses and meet the family and stuff, y’know?”
“Oh,” Thunderstorm says lowly, and a second passes. “Well, I--sorry to disappoint, then.”
Without missing a beat, Pike shrugs a quick, “Me, too.” This forest is the closest thing he really has to home, honestly, ever since he can remember. “Guess that means we did all the steps we can, huh, pal?”
They fall into silence after Thunderstorm doesn’t answer, and Pike isn’t quite sure why he hasn’t told him to piss off and bother someone else with his questions yet, when his thoughts are interrupted by the sight of a huge mass of black and blue-- fur? --hurtling towards them full speed. He lets out a less-than-dignified shriek, and in a flash of smoke is twenty feet higher, clinging to a tree branch as the furry beast lunges for a worryingly calm Thunderstorm. A second before impact, he raises his hands and catches the beast’s face between his palms, and--to Pike’s utter surprise--begins to scratch , murmuring in a voice too low to hear.
“What… is that thing?”
“He has a name,” Thunderstorm calls back, still scratching at the beast like it’s a plain old dog. “Yorak. He’s my wolf. Come down and say hello.”
Pike has seen wolves before. He’s never seen one like this --massive, shaggy, black fur streaked with a deep blue, eagerly accepting Thunderstorm’s affections. It takes nearly all of his courage to even return to the ground, let alone approach the two of them.
“Should I… pet? Pet him?”
“I wouldn’t advise it--he could take your hand off,” Thunderstorm says grimly. When Pike recoils, holding his hand to his chest as if already bitten, he hears a soft, rolling, genuine laugh coming from Thunderstorm’s direction.
“Oh, my god, he’s gonna eat me,” Pike mumbles, and Thunderstorm laughs again.
(And Pike thinks to himself for a fleeting moment, that’s a sound he doesn’t mind so much at all.)
ii.
“And that’s why I don’t trust bluejays anymore.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Are you even listening to me, Stormy?”
“No, Pike, I was a little more focused on the fact that your shortcut isn’t really anything.”
“What are you talking about?” He throws his hands out to the side exasperatedly. “I’ll have you know I know my way around these woods like the back of my hand ! I even took you the scenic way! I mean--I mean, just look at this cluster of rocks. How many times have you passed a formation this cool on your travels, huh? When are you gonna get the chance to see one again?”
“Hmm, I don’t know, maybe eight times? Because we’ve passed it eight times now. ” He’s got his arms crossed now, and the full day of walking is starting to take its toll, Pike thinks--he can see it in Thunderstorm’s eyes, in the way he’s carrying his shoulders now.
“... Oh. So I guess… you do know when you’re going to see one again?” Pike offers, trying at least to turn this into a humorous situation, but Thunderstorm doesn’t laugh.
“Let’s just… Make camp,” he sighs, scratching at the back of Yorak’s ears before making his way towards the little outcropping. Pike follows behind, a little sheepish.
“Uh, well… We need to make a fire, right? Or… set up the bedrolls? I don’t… have one of those,” he says. Pike’s never made a camp before, really; in the short time he’s lived in this forest, he usually re-stokes a fire he sees if it’s cold enough, or sleeps protected in a tree beneath his cloak.
“Neither do I,” Thunderstorm says, nonchalant. “Usually just sleep on the ground. A fire’s not a bad idea, though.”
“Oh, I can get wood for that!” He perks back up, already taking a few steps back from the outcropping. “Leave it to me, dude!” And in a flash he’s back up in the trees, tugging at a thicker stick with his hand until it snaps free. He continues until he’s got a good fistful, and poofs himself back down to the ground where Thunderstorm is waiting.
“You know you can’t--these aren’t firewood,” he says a bit exasperatedly. Pike’s face falls a bit before he can catch himself.
“Oh.”
“Listen, I’ll get the firewood. You just… keep an eye out, okay?”
“Sure, yeah,” he mutters, kicking at one of the twigs with his foot. Thunderstorm doesn’t seem to notice how dejected he is--either that, or doesn’t care--and heads back into the woods. Yorak elects to stay behind, evidently, and curls up a few feet from where Pike is sitting. He fights the instinct to move away again, but Yorak just looks at him with curious, unblinking eyes, and he’s not sure if that’s worse. Pike busies (or, distracts) himself with arranging some medium-sized stones into a circle as he waits for Thunderstorm to return with the firewood.
He hears him before he sees him. “Are you… making a fire pit?”
“Well, yeah!” He grins. “Isn’t that the next step?”
“You and your steps,” Thunderstorm laughs, dropping an armful of wood into the center and squatting down to create a more structured pile.
Pike pretends he didn’t say that, that he did something helpful instead, and grins. “So, Stormy, what’s next? Constructing hammocks?”
Thunderstorm hums. “Food.” As he says it, Yorak’s ears perk up, and Pike’s stomach falls. He is not about to be wolf-chow. And maybe Thunderstorm can read his mind, because he whistles, short and high, and Yorak hops to his feet, attentive and tensed. Thunderstorm gives him another firm, “Food,” and the wolf breaks into a mad dash for the trees. He turns back to Pike with a smirk, returning to stoking the new fire with a thick twig (one of the ones Pike brought back, he realizes with a bit of self-satisfaction).
It’s mostly quiet, broken by the occasional crackle of the flames or by Pike asking Thunderstorm another question only to be met with a curt, one- or two-word answer, until Yorak trots back into camp with a large rabbit in his mouth and a proud look on his face. Thunderstorm lights up and scratches at his ears again when he drops it before them, and for a moment, Pike can pretend this isn’t a huge , lumbering wolf but an enthusiastic puppy.
Thunderstorm flicks open a small knife from his boot and raises it to start cleaning the rabbit, trying to ward off Yorak’s eager nosing as he does, and Pike watches for an amused moment before saying, “Here, let me. It’s the least I can do, right?” He holds out a hand to Thunderstorm, who looks him up and down briefly, then passes the rabbit to him.
“You sure you know what you’re doing?”
“Of course I do,” he says, a little defensive, and his ears flatten on their own in response. “I do this, like, all the time.” That’s not a lie--he’s gotten pretty adept at hunting for himself since he made it to these woods a year ago. Thunderstorm only shrugs at that. No doubt he’s thinking that if Pike screws up enough, he can always have Yorak find him something else.
Well, they’ll see about that .
Pike makes quick, easy work of the rabbit, separating the meat from the superfluous parts, stacking the former on a rock he’d quickly cleaned using Thunderstorm’s canteen and piling the latter on the ground beside him. Yorak eyes those bits hungrily, and in a moment of boldness (or stupidity), Pike raises his hand in a ‘come here’ motion to the wolf, who does so quickly. He’s still intimidating, crowding into Pike’s space, and when he opens his mouth to lick his jowls, Pike catches a glimpse of terrifyingly sharp, gleaming teeth.
But he’s gotten himself this far, and he’s not about to back down now in front of Thunderstorm. Thunderstorm, who’s watching him with a curious expression as Yorak’s sniffing him, equally curious. Pike slides the bulk of the trimmings to Yorak with the flat side of Thunderstorm’s knife, and the wolf happily snaps it all up in one easy bite. Emboldened, Pike lifts the last few scraps up towards him in the palm of his hand.
When Yorak’s mouth opens again, it is his tongue that reaches Pike’s hand, gentle in a way he never would have expected from a wolf big enough to tear him into pieces if he so wished--or was so commanded, the thought of which had his eyes snapping to Thunderstorm again. His companion’s eyes are nearly unreadable, dark and intrigued as the light of the fire catches them, but as he watches Yorak continue to lick Pike’s hand, and as Pike relaxes enough to reach up with a slow hand to scratch at Yorak’s ears, the hint of a smile quirks at the corners of his lips.
“I think he likes you.” It’s soft, and doesn’t reach Pike’s ears until a few moments after he starts petting Yorak. As if in agreement, Yorak’s head lands heavy onto Pike’s thigh. He breaks into a grin, and looks back to Thunderstorm, gesturing excitedly at the wolf resting against him. Thunderstorm shakes his head, looking terribly fond in this moment, and--
Oh. That look. That look really works some sort of magic for Pike, as something impossibly warm and every bit as tender blooms in his chest, and he’s been cursed before, but never with anything harboring this kind of softness. Oh , he thinks again.
Thunderstorm gets to his feet then, grabbing another of the twigs Pike gathered before, and begins skewering smaller cuts of the rabbit meat to hold it over the fire. As he does, the ‘spell’ breaks, and Pike reaches for the rock again. It’s flat and thin, not unlike a pan. He rearranges the larger pieces of meat on the slab and, when satisfied, plops it down onto the fire. When he realizes Thunderstorm is watching him, his mouth opens of its own volition to explain, somewhat lamely, “When the rock gets hot, the meat will cook.”
“Yes, I’m aware how cooking works,” Thunderstorm teases, already pulling his makeshift skewer from the fire and eating a pretty-rare chunk. (This is a bit of a relief; Pike almost never cooks his meat, and the only times he has have been when some random traveler left a fire burning behind them, never on one he’d made for the express purpose of making food.)
Pike spears his own cut of meat and tucks into it, trying (and failing) not to drop a few scraps to a begging Yorak. Thunderstorm laughs again at that. “You can’t just fall for the puppy-dog eyes every time,” he chides, but there’s only amusement in his voice.
They eat in comfortable silence as the sun slips the rest of the way beneath the horizon through the trees. Everything is bathed in the warm, amber glow of their fire, and the two travelers toss in their sticks and another log before deciding to call it a night, stretching out by the stone ring around the pit Pike made. It’s less comfortable sleeping on the ground, he thinks, but he doubts Yorak will be letting him up anytime soon, and he figures if he sleeps here, there’s less chance Thunderstorm will be moving on without him, come morning. He’s still wondering exactly why he’s been allowed to tag along this whole time when Thunderstorm’s voice interrupts his thoughts, for once.
“So, uh… I’ve been wanting to ask, but…”
Here it comes. It always does.
“I wasn’t born with them,” Pike sighs, tilting his head up against his arm so he can meet Thunderstorm’s eyes. They’re sleeping at angles to the fire, so that their heads are closest together and their feet reach away from the outcropping. “--If that’s what you meant.” He only adds that to be polite; he knows it’s always the first thing people wonder when they meet him. Most travelers have seen Catfolk before, and he knows he looks almost nothing like them--his face is too human, his hands lack the claws, his body is too smooth, his ears too small, his tail too thin.
“Oh,” Thunderstorm says. Bingo , Pike thinks to himself. He’s not upset at the question, really, nor at the one he expects next. Sure enough, Thunderstorm clears his throat softly and continues. “So… How did you get them?”
It’s not like he chooses to spill his life story to just any Tharheim or Elanil who asks. Hell, he has no reason to tell this man, who’s barely shared more than the vague location of where he’s even going since they met early this afternoon, but he also hasn’t given him any indication that he’s asking out of anything other than the same curiosity Pike’s been exhibiting all day, and so he doesn’t really feel it necessary to lie or snap at him about privacy and personal secrets.
“A witch,” he says. “I got on her bad side. Terrible idea, I know, but it was an accident, I swear--I was an actual cat for a while. Wandered around, no idea what had happened, until another witch--I know, I know--took me in. She tried to undo the magic, but… she wasn’t powerful enough, I guess? So, here I am. Ears and tail and all.” He falls silent, waiting. Thunderstorm takes a moment to take in his story, seeming to believe it.
“Wait—you were a cat? For how long?”
He smiles grimly. “Don’t remember. I don’t remember anything that happened before that, actually.”
“Oh.” He sounds sad. Pike’s felt enough pity for several lifetimes, though, so he shakes it off a bit.
“It’s not so bad,” he shrugs. “I can see and hear pretty well—plus, you know what they say about ‘cat-like reflexes,’ right?”
Thunderstorm only hums, still looking at him--at them, more like, the way everyone eventually can’t help from staring at his ears for an uncomfortable amount of time, and Pike decides to just get it over with. He grins at Thunderstorm, only partly forced. “You can touch them, once. I let everyone get in one so they won’t ask again. It’s fine.”
His companion flusters at that a bit--probably from being caught, he figures--but he’s already inching towards Thunderstorm, chin tipped down so that the crown of his head is accessible. After a surprisingly long pause, he feels them--fingers, warm and calloused, but still damn soft somehow, and it would be maddening if he wasn’t completely focused on how gingerly these battle-worn fingers are slipping into his hair. And when they reach the base of his ear, instead of petting like he expects, Thunderstorm goes and surprises him again.
Because he scratches . And Pike purrs. He didn’t know he could do that.
They stay like that for a long moment. He doesn’t push away, and Thunderstorm doesn’t show any sign of stopping, until Pike shifts, relaxing, and the fingers jolt back as if burned. “Sorry,” he hears Thunderstorm say, barely above a whisper, and he can’t help but feel a tiny pang of loss as they retreat to their respective sleeping positions. Pike pushes it down as soon as he catches it, though, and snaps his eyes shut. As Yorak snores gently behind him, and now that Thunderstorm’s rolled over to face the forest again, his distractions from his own brain are pretty minimal. Was it foolish to let Thunderstorm know the real story, to let him in like that?
He’s pretty sure, as his breathing slows and evens, as he curls closer to the fire, that he can feel those fingers in his hair again, and he doesn’t hate it.
iii.
In the morning when he wakes, the sun streaming through the treeline has nearly overtaken the brightness of the fire before his face. Pike sits up, stretches calmly, before realizing--
He is alone.
Quickly, he runs his hands over his body, his belt. Everything seems to be in place, though, and that should be the only relief he needs. But he’s not relieved--he’s worried, brain suddenly very much awake. What happened with Thunderstorm? And Yorak? Were they taken? If so, he would have been, too--did they leave?
Did he do something wrong?
(He hates that he’s most worried over that.)
Pike scrambles to his feet, shaking his head and trying his best to stomp out the last smoldering embers of the fire--the last thing he needs is to be somehow responsible for a forest fire. He makes his way into the treetops, scanning from higher boughs. It only takes a few minutes, sweeping in wide circles around the perimeter of their camp when he spots him. He’d recognize that shaggy head of hair anywhere now, he thinks as he drops, silent as snow, to the ground behind him.
“So you were just going to leave, huh?” Pike says without greeting. At the very least, the small fright it causes Thunderstorm is a bit satisfying on the edge of the anger and hurt he can’t believe he’s feeling. The man turns on a heel--luckily not to press a blade to his throat again--and fixes him with that searing gaze that seemingly comes so effortlessly.
“Of course I wasn’t, idiot--I was getting water .” He waves the canteen in his hand to punctuate the sentence, as if it should have been something Pike just knew .
“Oh.”
“You were still asleep and I didn’t want to wake you. Besides, I don’t think I can really get rid of you, can I?”
Now, humor he can do. Pike slings a companionable arm around his shoulders, feels how Thunderstorm doesn’t waver even in the slightest with the force of it. “Nope, you’re stuck with me, Stormy! Look at it this way, you don’t have to go all the way back to camp to get me now.”
“Oh, yeah, you saved me a whole two minute walk , goody. I don’t even know what to do with all this extra time it leaves me.” Thunderstorm always meets him blow for blow when they bicker like this, and it’s strange to think how quickly this started to feel like some sort of normalcy in Pike’s day. Gods, it had only been a day, hadn’t it? Less than? No matter.
Yorak re-entering their clearing was less jarring this time--trotting happily into their field of view and passing a rather betrayed Thunderstorm to let Pike scratch at his ears again, tail wagging furiously. Pike laughs at his companion’s huff, and he jogs a bit so he can fall into position walking next to him. This time, Yorak alternates sides, sometimes sticking to Thunderstorm’s, sometimes Pike’s, and other times disappearing into the trees for long stretches, only to reappear ahead of them a bit.
He’d looked over the map with Thunderstorm earlier, and estimated they’d reach the pass between the Eastern mountains within a few more days’ walking. It’s easy to slip back into their banter, he finds, pleased. They’re making great time and even better company.
That is, until it all goes to shit.
iv.
There it was again . That aggravating, taunting little flicker just on the corner of his peripheral vision. It was driving him well and truly crazy, pausing every so often--but shrugging off Thunderstorm’s questioning each time--as they navigated a particularly dense section of the woods. He could never quite catch it in his view, until, a few moments after Thunderstorm said something about the mist closing in, it showed up a few feet to his left, in plain sight.
And, oh, is it shiny. He wants it. His imagination runs wild, imagining what sort of golden treasure this was--what riches it might lead to if he can just get his hands around it. So, try he does, straying silently off the path. Thunderstorm won’t worry where he is, right? Right. He’ll only be gone a moment, maybe he won’t even notice.
Right.
Pike nearly stumbles over a tree root in his insistence in not letting this golden light out of his sight, but it seems to have other plans. It disappears right before his eyes as he gets closer, and he begins to turn back with disappointment when it suddenly lights up again, this time a good twenty feet away. He grins then, and the chase is on. It’s almost cute, he thinks, as it plays this little game with him, but he’s determined now and won’t let it get out of his sight again.
The chase leads him to what might be the largest tree he’s ever seen--impressive for someone who lives amongst them. He’s peering up the trunk at the twinkling gold shine, a few branches up, and trying to judge if he can make that in one jump or two when frantic shouting reaches him through the haze.
“Pike-- there you are!” He doesn’t need to turn to recognize that voice, so he still doesn’t let the light out of his sight. “What are you doing ?”
Come on. He’s just going to leave anyway. He probably wanted to make sure you didn’t steal anything before you left.
Jaw clenched and determined, he poofs himself to that first, lowest set of branches. He can hear Thunderstorm’s shouting again, but Pike ignores it, along with the barking he can hear at the base of the tree. That’s right, the wolf, he should be afraid of it--
The gold gleam continues its little vanishing-reappearing act as he chases it higher and higher, until it’s finally, finally almost within reach. He walks surely across the thick, soft foliage blanketing this particular bough, clambers up the side of the strange formation the light rests on top of, and closes his hand around it.
“Aha!” He cheers, bringing his fist closer to his face. As he opens it, he’s back to imagining the worth of the prize he’s caught, but that fizzles out as his fingers curl back out. Nothing. There’s nothing in his hand. Pike only has a moment to mourn the loss of this little treasure before something heavy--and sticky?--lands hard on his head, pushing him down, down , into more wetness, and he takes a struggling breath as it surrounds him and threatens to fill his mouth. It’s dark suddenly, and the liquid is viscous like tree sap. He fights to reach for the little knife in his pack, but that’s hardly suited for a conflict--it’s more a bread-knife than anything, honestly--and lashes out, finding that it meets tough, fibrous resistance at the end of his arm’s length. His lungs and arm start to burn with the effort after a few attempts, and he panics. Is this how he dies, sticky and embarrassed, with no one knowing where he is or what happened to him?
But no--there’s one person, he realizes, and he can’t help the little spark that bubbles in his chest. He clings to it. Because, even though there’s so many reasons Thunderstorm wouldn’t come for him, he can’t help but keep his hold on this real glimmer--hope.
Outside, he can hear a voice, sounding like it’s underwater, forming almost-coherent sounds, and all Pike can think is back up , his air supply running so low and--
Silver slices through the surface before him, as unobtrusively as possible, lengths away from even coming close to Pike, but ginger in its own way. The fluid around him flows away, out, and he sputters, coughing up a mouthful of vile liquid. Strong hands come to grip his arms, to hold him up as his body threatens to fall.
“--ke?
Pike
?”
He blinks, dazed, as his breathing evens back out. Thunderstorm’s sword clatters to the ground, far, far below where he’s perched, clutching onto Pike, eyes all at once frantic and dark and... stormy.
“Stormy,” he repeats aloud, and the relief and gratitude that that one word causes on the half-elf’s face takes his breath away more than this whole ordeal had.
“You went and got yourself eaten by a plant , why didn’t you listen to me? Haven’t you heard not to follow will o’ the wisps? What if I hadn’t found you?”
He bites his lip. (It tastes horrible.) What if he hadn’t showed up? Pike would have been plant food, right? He should be grateful that he’s even alive to be pondering this right now, but he can’t stop his own question from tumbling out, despite the burn of his still-aching lungs.
“Why did you save me?” The you could have gone on, the you had a job to do and I’m not part of it hang in the air, and yet Thunderstorm frowns, like it’s the silliest question he’s ever heard.
“I couldn’t just leave you like that,” he says, some kind of new urgency creeping into his words. After a beat of stunned silence on Pike’s end, he backtracks a bit. “Not after Yorak finally took a liking to you, I mean. You know?”
“Sure, Yorak,” he huffs a laugh, leans his head down to rest it on Thunderstorm’s shoulder ( because this might be the only chance he gets ) because it’s hard to keep his head up right now. Thunderstorm doesn’t push him away, although he does scoff a bit playfully and take the bulk of Pike’s weight against him as they catch their breath.
(And maybe, Pike thinks for a fleeting moment, he is falling, but don’t cats always land on their feet?)
v.
Pike insists on stopping at the next river they come across--he’s caked in dried ‘plant juice,’ a term which causes Thunderstorm’s nose to scrunch up more than the smell of the actual stuff.
“Please don’t call it juice .”
“I mean, what else do you want to call it? ‘Goo’?”
“That’s worse, never mind--”
And so it goes. Back and forth, natural, like they’ve been doing it for years.
When they do finally hear the telltale sound of a rushing stream, Pike all but zeroes in on it, wandering off the path yet again with a somewhat reluctant and wary Thunderstorm following. They make their way carefully down the sloped earth to the bank at the riverside. Pike wastes no time in wading in a few feet, enough to sink him waist-deep in the cold water. Every hair on his body stands on end, but he pushes deeper, scrubbing at his arms and tunic with his bare hands. Maybe he should have taken his clothes off before getting in, but that’s not exactly something he does in the rare occasions he has company. With that in mind, he does turn, catching Thunderstorm sitting on the banks, knees drawn and watching him. Yorak bounds playfully in the shallows nearby, but he’s definitely staring right at Pike.
Or, he was , before Pike caught him and he looked away. He smirks a little at that. Thunderstorm’s just cute that way. He’ll continue to unpack that later, though.
They’ve only been at the river for a few minutes, Pike managing to scrub the brunt of the mess out of his hair, when a voice rings out from a short distance.
“Hello down there!”
Pike and Thunderstorm are both immediately on their guard, despite Pike’s less-than-favorable position in the middle of the river, and Yorak returns to Thunderstorm’s side in a flash. They turn in tandem to seek out the source of the noise.
Several feet down the river, a cobblestone bridge spans the eddying water, and Pike’s vision easily catches the waving hand of the dwarf woman crossing to their side. He relaxes a bit--she doesn’t seem to pose any immediate danger--but Thunderstorm still seems on edge. Pike sloshes his way in long strides to reach the shoreline again, resting a wet hand on Thunderstorm’s shoulder, and it seems enough to break him most of the way out of it.
“Sorry to startle you,” the woman calls ahead, and as she reaches the end of the bridge, Pike sees another halfling woman beside her. They’re dressed in bright cloaks, with colorful markings on their faces. “Are you two on your way to the festival? I’m afraid you’re still a few hours walk away.”
“Festival?” Thunderstorm says warily.
“Festival?” Pike asks at the same time, far less suspicious.
Her companion pipes up this time. “It’s famous in this area, you know--I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it. You must not be from around here?”
Pike is. He thinks. He’s not exactly sure where he’s from anyway, but this is the closest thing he’s got to a home. Thunderstorm shakes his head. “Can’t say that I am.”
“Oh, that’d be a shame to miss it, though,” says the dwarf woman wistfully, turning to smile and take the hand of her companion. “It is a celebration for people like us, after all.”
It takes Pike a moment to realize she’s including the two of them in her statement, too, and he feels a strange little pang in his chest--is it because of the insinuation, maybe? Or rather, the fact that it isn’t true? His mouth, however, beats his brain to the punch, as per usual. “‘Us’?”
“Yes, like the two of us. I’m sorry, I merely assumed--” She gestures to them both, Pike’s hand still leaving a growing spot of dampness on Thunderstorm’s shoulder, and he pulls it back reluctantly.
“Oh, I--we’re--” Pike begins, a red warmth creeping into his cheeks, and he’s almost disappointed that he can’t control that, when--
“Yes, well, thank you for pointing us in the right direction,” Thunderstorm says with a curt little nod, and wraps his hand around Pike’s wrist, tugging him along towards the bridge. He follows wordlessly, marvels at the feeling of bare skin against his own, and really, it must have been too long since he was really touched like this because he can’t remember a time when anyone held his hand like this, ever.
Maybe he’s just acting this way because he’s been out of contact for so long.
(Maybe he’s just acting this way because the contact he wants most is from Thunderstorm.)
Either way, he barely remembers to turn and wave goodbye to the travelers before murmuring, “Wait, where are we going?”
“To the festival, I suppose? Or just… away. I already have enough people tagging along with me,” he replies lowly, and Pike can’t help but feel like maybe there’s a little warmth behind those words instead of annoyance. He smiles and allows himself to be dragged along, focuses for a moment on the feeling of Thunderstorm’s fingers, how they extend curiously bare from the intact palm of his leather glove. Yorak clips along at his heels, pauses briefly to shake the water from his fur, and resumes. It’s almost like deja vu, the way he finds himself marveling at how quickly this has become… normal .