Common

The Crossing. Frey didn’t know what he was doing going back. He didn’t know what he was doing cursing the island with his presence once more. The man, no longer a boy, would tell himself that he wasn’t homesick. He would tell himself that he didn’t burn for the Lagoon, for the only home he’d ever known. Frey always swore that he wouldn’t go back… what was he doing now? Maybe he’d go see it from a distance. Maybe he’d go stare. Ogle. Watch from the fringes, and not… not do anything?

That wasn’t much like Frey either. He’d gone to stare at the Lagoon, yes. He’d done that. He’d done that, and it had only made him feel worse. Far, far worse. An ache in his ribs, in his sides. Frey didn’t know how to explain that ache, he didn’t know how to put it into words. An ache, a burning between his second and third ribs. It feels… awful. Frey feels awful. Something terrible flickered to life.

He strode through the Commons, doing everything he could to look unapproachable. Neck arched, ears pitched back. Hot and dangerous. Taking a moment’s pause in the sun, feeling it shine down around his shoulders, Frey would collect his thoughts. Or… he would have. The man would have been collecting his thoughts, had a voice not derailed his train of thought.

Sooty coat gleaming in the late autumn sun, his great, regal head swung. A brilliant flash of gleaming white teeth, Frey was reaching for her. It wouldn’t be a hard strike, but he’s proving a point. “Move, please. You’re coming with me, where there’s plenty of sun to go around.” He is smirking, shining, rakish in the late autumn sun. Frey’s amber eyes gleamed, his head tossed. If he was going to have a bad fucking day, he wasn’t going to be having it alone.