[ self-sufficiency is a pipe dream, he wants to say. at least when the world is the way that it is, but where would that kind of argument get him?

anyway, this human apparently likes to talk – or maybe it's hear the sound of his own voice – and that's fine with him. it means he doesn't have to say much in return and only needs to respond when prompted. it allows him a moment to reset, ignoring the whistle and then the sudden shift in proximity where he can practically taste the beat of his heart in his mouth. he can smell him too, the scent of something deep and earthy beneath the sweat and sloughed emotions that continue to hang over him. adrenaline, fear, excitement, amusement. larus tries to focus on saying anything to keep his mind from wandering too far. ]

Then I hope you find them. [ a blatant pause. ] If they're not dead.

[ and while he's at it, he maneuvers away from him so there's still some vague illusion of space separating him. until he takes it upon himself to touch casimir instead—just the edge of his thumb over the swell of his knuckles. like he's feeling the bruise. like he can imagine what had sparked his frustration in the first place. ]

I can't say I've ever let something like that build in me before. [ once, a long time ago. then sun had turned him, and that had been that. ] I do things when necessary. I hit, I break, I kill — it doesn't matter to me since it's all the same. [ a feigned breath, and he drops his hand into his lap. ] I'm guessing you beat the tree and won.

[ a once in a lifetime joke that's offered with the slightest smile. ]