He wanted to drown in that white fur, to grab the fox and hold it tight against his chest, bury his face in its ruff—and oddly enough, he wanted to cry, though there was nothing magical about petting a human.
But there was magic in two other things in that moment. One, the play of white, pristine hair between his fingers, the mixture of soft underfur and coarse guard hairs; he could watch his fingers slip through it for hours. It was entrancing.
The second thing was this: human or not, the fox had been uncertain, but chosen to stay. To trust. And if its expression was anything to go by, it was greatly enjoying Rory's attention, and he felt like giving it for eternities. Mushrooms, demon gourds, the incoming change of seasons—none of it mattered anymore. It was just him and his hand and the white fur and the slits of blue eyes peering at him from a canine face.
Yet all things, whether good or bad, must come to an end. Rory didn't know how much time had passed; too much, and too little. The fox hesitantly broke the contact, and Rory let it—the tips of his fingers felt cold, the distance between them immeasurable. His face slipped from absorbed contentment to something sadder, yet he smiled when the fox nudged his hand. Deftly he twisted his hand, trying to run one of his fingers down the bridge of its nose, a mischievous little parting—one corner of his mouth turned up in a lopsided smile.
Then the fox was out of reach, and Rory remained sitting where he was. He thought he saw regret in the parting, though he heard it in the called goodbye, and he wondered what it was that they had done here. "You take care of yourself now, okay?" he called gently after the fox, watching it trot out of sight, its gait uneven still. Hopefully it was nothing more than a deep bruise, easily treated once the Attuned shifted back to human form.
Gods...
Rory drew his knees up to his chest, ignoring the fact that his ass was getting cold, and picked at the bits of dead gourd still stuck on his clothes. Part of him felt incredibly foolish about the whole encounter—petting an Attuned as if it were a semi-feral animal? Petting it in the first place?
Groaning, Rory put his head in his hands for a moment. Whoever it was must think him a royal idiot, but...
It was hard to erase the memory of the fox's content face, hard to forget the weight of its head in his hand.
Once he felt pitiful—or cold—enough, Rory climbed back to his feet, cleaned off his pike, and resumed his mushroom hunting. Trying to sort out the fox encounter could wait until another day.
But there was magic in two other things in that moment. One, the play of white, pristine hair between his fingers, the mixture of soft underfur and coarse guard hairs; he could watch his fingers slip through it for hours. It was entrancing.
The second thing was this: human or not, the fox had been uncertain, but chosen to stay. To trust. And if its expression was anything to go by, it was greatly enjoying Rory's attention, and he felt like giving it for eternities. Mushrooms, demon gourds, the incoming change of seasons—none of it mattered anymore. It was just him and his hand and the white fur and the slits of blue eyes peering at him from a canine face.
Yet all things, whether good or bad, must come to an end. Rory didn't know how much time had passed; too much, and too little. The fox hesitantly broke the contact, and Rory let it—the tips of his fingers felt cold, the distance between them immeasurable. His face slipped from absorbed contentment to something sadder, yet he smiled when the fox nudged his hand. Deftly he twisted his hand, trying to run one of his fingers down the bridge of its nose, a mischievous little parting—one corner of his mouth turned up in a lopsided smile.
Then the fox was out of reach, and Rory remained sitting where he was. He thought he saw regret in the parting, though he heard it in the called goodbye, and he wondered what it was that they had done here. "You take care of yourself now, okay?" he called gently after the fox, watching it trot out of sight, its gait uneven still. Hopefully it was nothing more than a deep bruise, easily treated once the Attuned shifted back to human form.
Gods...
Rory drew his knees up to his chest, ignoring the fact that his ass was getting cold, and picked at the bits of dead gourd still stuck on his clothes. Part of him felt incredibly foolish about the whole encounter—petting an Attuned as if it were a semi-feral animal? Petting it in the first place?
Groaning, Rory put his head in his hands for a moment. Whoever it was must think him a royal idiot, but...
It was hard to erase the memory of the fox's content face, hard to forget the weight of its head in his hand.
Once he felt pitiful—or cold—enough, Rory climbed back to his feet, cleaned off his pike, and resumed his mushroom hunting. Trying to sort out the fox encounter could wait until another day.
