Sympathy made Tychon uncomfortable. It made his fur feel like is had flees in it; he had a harsh time of it, but he didn’t think he wanted to be cared about. He was dealing with things (or denying them…). He knew how to handle anger and disgust. You puffed your chest out and declared “I am a hideous, mean jerk, so you go on ahead and hate me.” But When all that was met with a worried gaze, it sent his brain through a gymnastics course. He was ugly. He was a detestable sample of a wolf. Couldn’t others see that? They had to be hiding their disgust behind their teeth. There was no way anyone could think differently about him and he himself thought… But Masque’s wiggling enthusiasm and unrelenting belief that nothing was ever bad was in another class entirely.

He didn’t think she had the willpower to hide anything. So when she whined, he ears flattened to the side in some form of anxiety because he believed she was honestly concerned, but couldn’t comprehend that she wouldn’t think him difficult or gross. Or maybe she did and it didn’t matter? Tychon felt his chest freeze, compressing the air in his lungs at her unabhorred touch. He thought he was supposed to feel comforted. He just felt panicked. Then Masque licked him. … right over it. Over that hideous, vile scar on his face that made him look worse than having his defective cleft-lip. He felt every bump and fold and dry skin catch and it tingled uncomfortably like muscle being exposed to air. And it brought back awful trauma. He envisioned with overwhelming clarity the white muzzle of that maimer flashing for his face. He remembered the word, “Mundare,” like a it was a death song.

Tychon’s face scrunched with fury. He jumped out of reach as he shouted - and failed to shout, What did you do that for?! Masque looked like she thought he was playing with her, and his shock - fear induced kept him froze as she landed to the other side of his face. He sidestepped away, but it was not quick enough nor far enough to escape the edge of her tongue that pressed briefly into the brunette fur of his cheek. That one felt… different. It felt like a poultice cooling the burning of a scratch. If he’d been confused before, he hadn’t any idea what was going on with his emotions now. He was mad… and just as quickly as that had flared up, he was now stunned. His amber eyes observed her dance off through the snow, watching snowflakes tossed up by her eagerness… Did they glitter? No. It was preposterous. He was just feeling the exhaustion that should have hit him hours ago.

He grouchily haunched over and stalked after her, showing his compliance to being lead to the waterfall. He retorted in a raspy sigh, “It’s winter. Everything is cold.” Masque was successful in one particular thing: she was exhausting. He wanted to curl up in a den somewhere and ignore the frustrating extremes of mental state she march him through. He responded to her earlier quip, “At least I’m good at something.” One half of his face smirked while the other wrinkled and he taunted, “Can you even growl?”