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Dysarrin had never so thoroughly despised everything. He did not want to hunt or sleep or pretend to be on companionable terms with the Elechun. He did not want to fight or venture or play the new games that new people undoubtedly brought with them. He sat. He glowered. He hated. Anything that crossed his path, he found a reason to dislike: children (loud, obnoxious, grating), food (didn’t taste like anything he’d eaten in his own home - bad), the sun - the sun; it had no business hanging in the sky all chipper and shining. He’d once been friends with this great and ever-present globe. But it, like everything else, was traitorous and continued to send warm, happy beams down beneath it, whether Dys wanted it to or not.

And when his emotions simpered and festered to the point of boiling over, Dysarrin slunk off, reclusively hiding himself along back-most edge of the shallow scoop out of the rocky walls that now served as ‘home.’

Dysarrin hated everything.

As days slipped away, his mood did not improve. More than once, he thought Tavi had a way of making him feel good. She was not as fun or loyal as Ataya was - or had once been, but not anymore; bad thing, didn’t want - but she had her own merits. Merits that Dysarrin was reminded were not his to take every time he came within a few paces of her. Grumpy woman. Mad at him for things that weren’t his fault. Her attacks came in the form of screeches and rocks. These, at least, were things Dys could deal with.

But being distraught was tiresome. More so than any events that happened over the winter. He did not want to be alone, bored, or angry. He wanted to spend his spring (a jovial time of flowers and sunshine) doing… pleasant spring things. What precisely that entailed without Ataya, he didn’t know. Above all else, this was what bothered him most. Never mind the drastic shift in his routine or the lack of companionship. His spring was being wasted. There were only so many moons he could spare before the winter returned. And winter was the only suitable time to be a recluse. This, he told himself, was the only reason he crept his way down the familiar path leading to the ‘spot.’

Not because Ataya was blind and brittle and the likelihood that he could be hurt or killed seemed to spike under these new conditions. Not because Dys was bored and lonely and didn’t know what to do with himself. And certainly not because he was desperate for anything worth even a skosh of normalcy. Definitely not that.

Besides, Ataya was delusional and stupid and had probably forgotten everything by now and was just as miserable and wondering why Dys had taken over half the length of the moon’s phases to return.

Yes, surely.

The lack of attention to the ‘spot’ told him otherwise. Any evidence of their last altercation had long since been whisked away. Frost coating the ground, scrapes in the dirt; gone as if it had never happened. Dysarrin’s wings flicked, and he chose to ignore the stale and faint scent reminiscent of things that didn’t make a daily appearance. He huffed softly, feeling annoyance like fire licking its way up through every joint in his body. “Stupid,” he snapped at nothing, glaring vehemently at the path that usually brought Ata toward the place.

His wings fanned and he spun, starting off back the way he'd come with a disapproving spit to the ground. Didn't matter one way or the other. There were still things he could do. He didn't need... 'Wasteful' flicked through his mind again, and Dysarrin tossed his head belligerently. Didn't matter. He'd done everything that was in his power to do, and that was just that.

'Could be hurt.' The Firani's pace stuttered, dragging him to a standstill on the dirt track leading deeper into the mountains. His gaze flicked over his shoulder, and he watched the ghost of a spear that shredded through his woman's leg and permanently injured her. That was just Tavi. It could easily have been anyone. Could still be anyone. What else would stop Ata from coming up here, besides how hard the climb would be with one leg?

Dys groaned, scratching his hands down his face and rubbing at his eyes and tugging at the pluff patch of gritty bangs dangling across his lids. It wasn't fair. His feet carried him forward anyway, down the path less traveled (at least by him) and toward the domain inhabited by purebloods with all due haste.

Dysarrin stalled in the span of yard before the home, bristling and snarling at it as if it had done anything at all to him, ever. He'd never been particularly fond of the place, all shielded within the mountain on one side and boxily confining on the other. It just looked uncomfortable. How people lived in it, he'd never understand. He moved forward anyway, skirting the outside edge as if the threat of violence was real.

It probably was.

The house was not a place he frequented, but he knew it well enough. The holes in the walls were acceptable forms of entry and retreat as far as he could tell, and per the usual, Ataya's scent leaked the strongest from one in particular... Grumbling out muted complaints, Dysarrin's claws met with wooden pane, and tucking his wings, he hoisted himself through the nearly-too-small opening.

The first thing of note that invaded Dysarrin's senses as he thudded to the floor of the Doryu abode was the overwhelming sense of cold; unexpected and unwelcome when the outside was so much warmer and smelled so much friendlier. The house did not smell friendly. It smelled like bitter anger and that pervasive odor that infiltrated places that were inhabited constantly for long periods of time. he expected his cave-nook was probably similarly unwelcome-scented. Green orbs roamed over the only vaguely familiar room, scraping across the floor and dresser and door (escape possibility) and landing on the bed. Specifically on the tucked boy leaning back against his headboard.

"Ata-" As the cold bite of the smaller boy's words reached him, Dysarrin cut off, recoiling and only barely stamping the urge to spit back in response or snap his teeth or curl his lips. Best to ignore him fully, probably, until he could muster a kinder tone. Very infrequently did he take heed to anything Ataya said, and he wasn't liable to start now. Particularly when he'd come all this way. Dys' answer came as a grunt, unenthused and unapologetic.

His primary mission was fulfilled, at least. Ataya wasn't hurt, though he still reeked of a nearly perpetual crossness. It wasn't enough to know just that, but neither was Dysarrin prepared to approach him closer than a few paces.

Instead, he took his interest elsewhere; nosing around in the space under Ataya's bed and sniffing at curiously unfamiliar things. Never mind that he raised his head to cast wary, mistrusting glowers across the top of the mattress every few seconds. He scooted closer to the door, leaning down and plastering his cheek to the wood in an attempt to peer between the crack of space that separated door from floor. Other smells seeped in from the small opening, but they were less interesting in the moment.

His scope took him to the closet, and after a brief rummage through sorted boxes and hanging garments, he turned the brunt of his attention back to Ataya. "Just by yourself," Dys grunted nonconversationally.

It seemed exceptionally pitiful when someone else did it; sitting alone in one spot and having next to nothing to show by way of accomplishment, grumbling and clearly irate. His wings flicked, extending stiffly to ward off tiny palms trying to forcibly convince him to do anything. Dys knew he hadn't been a prime example of thrill and eagerness and perseverance over the waning weeks, but it looked worse on Ataya. He was sure of it. Dysarrin, at least, couldn't blockade himself into anywhere, as Ata could. He grunted out a quiet, "Dun wanna," and nudged the smaller boy away with a flap of his wings.

At least for now, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. No strangers had moved in with the warm weather while Dys was away. His rummaging ceased, content that Ataya was indeed, alone.

And certainly in no better spirits than when he'd last seen him. "You left too," he retorted with a careless shrug. Had to have. Wasn't in spot. Here now. Must have left spot. Ataya's argument was invalid.

What he didn't understand was how he 'didn't get' to do anything. Particularly the type of thing that he was very well in the act of doing. Seclusion did not suit Ataya well. He was definitely delirious. Dys straightened, raising his head a notch and glowering at Ata through narrowed eyes, "Here now," he rumbled out slowly. "Only come here for you. Don't care about nothing else."

What he did hardly constituted as an attack. Rough shoving and less careful tackling. It was still, in the wildman's mind, well within whatever imagined boundaries they'd set for each other. Wouldn't have had to tackle him if Ata hadn't been so adamant about escaping his grasp, anyway. Was broken. Couldn't do an important thing he could do before, like see. Broken. A snarl of rebuke rose in Dysarrin's throat, threatening to spill over. But as per usual, Ataya was more swayed by words (simple words) than most people. He caught and clung to things that seemed immediately bad, but didn't have to be. When the rumble of sound breached his lips, it came out as a rough sigh, followed by, "Didn't want me, anyway." Shouldn't have mattered if he left or not. Ataya had magicked him. Clearly did not want Dysarrin around.

Ataya truly had a convoluted mind. One that dwelled too much on things and took actions every which way and- Dys huffed, dipping to settle his chin atop Ataya's head. It shouldn't matter. He was what he was; whiny, brittle, easily angered. Small, adorable, and needy. Dysarrin's. He puffed out another breath, rubbing his chin against Ata's head and tucking his nose against the top of his hair. "Stupid," he grunted out, his wings flicking out and the tip dragging across the ground to settle in the span of space behind Dys' feet. "Don't have to miss me. Always come back. Still mine."

Dysarrin should not have been half as pleased by Ataya's admission as he actually was. Wanted him. That's what Ataya said. And it seemed unlikely that Dys would ever un-hear the words. Ata didn't like a lot of best things; not good rocks or baowi entrails, or arrical tails. And for all the times Dys brought him these things, 'want' never seemed quite the right word to explain the younger hybrid's reactions. So there were certainly best things that Ataya didn't want, for some reason. Dysarrin was not of these things. To appeal to the Aiskala's much more strict sensibilities, he'd transcended 'best' and moved into some currently unnamed higher category.

He purred loudly, a quivering rumble that spanned the length of his chest as wings and arms wound around Ataya, ushering any fleeting dregs of space out from between them as Dysarrin scooped him up and nuzzled his face roughly into Ataya's bony shoulder. "You can have," he hummed, scratchy lips moving against Ata's skin. "If you wanna."

Good. Dysarrin hummed softly, his movements stilling as he settled his chin against Ata's shoulder, arms looped firmly and supportively around his middle. Good. Good, good. His nose found its way into a curtain of dark hair, and he breathed. Ataya was his, and he was Ataya's, and everything that had occurred those weeks ago was simply winter's last swipe at him. A last failed swipe, unless its sole purpose was to cause him very limited grief.

Ata knew he did a bad. Knew it. He'd said so. And somehow this encompassed all of Dysarrin's pent-up ails. Never mind his bitching ot his aggression... or his perpetual complaints. The Firani snorted. "You break it before me," he grumbled out stiffly, still not incredibly enthused about any of his companion being 'broken.' And then his fingers were tangling in the dark hair spilling down Ata's back, tugging and coaxing the smaller male to tilt his head back, up, toward him. Dys shifted, righting himself to glower down into Ataya's whited-out orbs.

Some mixture of frustration and- Something worse, something lower in his gut that while Dys couldn't actively pin, it was decidedly unwelcome. Like sadness, but darker, bitter somehow. Despair? Anguish? He wasn't hurt, so there really wasn't any reason for him to be particularly upset. But none the less..."Don't like it when you hurt yourself. Don't like it," he iterated firmly, grip tensing briefly and then relaxing, freeing the strands from his hold as his palms skimmed down the silky length. "Mine. Not supposed to. Mine."