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Just as he thinks he's rebuilt himself, the world tears itself asunder and the light shines in.
They'd rescued the prisoners. Flareheart's stupid, stupid, brilliant plan had worked. He sees his mate. Beemask is scarred, battered in a way he doesn't remember. His pelt is more gray than white when it used to be the opposite. It hangs off him, loose like his skin doesn't quite fit anymore. Like he's something different.
The biggest glaring difference is his eye, one a brilliant blue Troutstream had loved, now clouded over, not to be seen anymore.
But none of that matters because it is Beemask, and Troutstream suddenly remembers how to breathe again.
Of course, it is never so simple.
The first few days they revel in each other. Drink in the other's very essence. Troutstream feels like he's been kept from something vital, something he needs to keep going and suddenly Beemask is before him. He smells of dirt and blood. His pelt tastes of death when Troutstream grooms him, but he will remove it.
He vows to get rid of all traces of the tunnels. He wants his mate back.
The cracks of reality seep in when he's at his most vulnerable. He is happy, tracing his paw down his mate's side and marveling that he is there. But it's followed by a deep growl.
Troutstream knows that growl. It's the sound of a cat being threatened. He'd heard it most often when Beemask leapt to his defense, placing himself in harm's way just so Troutstream would be okay. (That's why he was lying here now, broken.)
It's never been directed at him before. He meets Beemask’s gaze, sees his blue eyes narrowed into slits. He looks like he's about to snap.
“Bee?” Troutstream’s voice is small and new emotion cuts into his chest. Fear. But he knows Beemask wouldn't hurt him. It's always been true, he can't hurt him.
He tenderly reaches out a paw. Beemask’s claws slide into the moss.
He stops. He's shaking, he realizes. He doesn't know how to deal with this, he hasn't been threatened like this since he was a kit.
Slowly, Beemask's eyes spark with recognition. He must take notice of his bristling fur and Troutstream’s fear scent because he holds back a sob. “Trouty, oh Starclan… fuck…” He can't meet Troutstream's gaze.
But he his still Beemask and he could never hurt him, so Troutstream inches closer. When Beemask doesn't protest, he curls around his mate.
Flarestar takes everything from Beemask. He swoops in and steals the life his mate could have had, his chance to take power and strike back against Fireclan.
He looks at Beemask with a kind of pity, like he knows the deputy wouldn't be able to handle the position.
Troutstream hates that there is truth to his words. But how can Beemask get over the shadows if he doesn't have the chance?
He tells the new leader this with the fury he is famed for by this point. This would be the first time he has told off a leader.
But Flarestar just looks at him with a sad gaze. “Troutstream, I understand you love your mate, but it remains the case that he's unstable. And…”
He looks towards where Beemask is sitting still, staring at nothing.
“I saved him. I'm the reason he's here. Do you really want a leader who allowed himself to get captured?” His green eyes are sharp and Troutstream realizes he's serious. He wants to scream that Beemask didn't choose this, that this is his fault.
He was the one who allowed Beemask to go back. Who got himself trapped by that Fireclan tom and had to be rescued in the first place.
But all he can do is bite his cheek to keep himself from snapping at his new leader.
Beemask hates his scar over his eye, that much is obvious. He flinches whenever he looks in a puddle. Troutstream isn't sure how to properly acknowledge it. It was own brother that made those deep gouges, his claws tearing through Beemask's flesh where Troutstream’s own paw had used to caress him gently.
The flowers start to help, for a bit as he gets adjusted. The kits love kit, they babble about different things as the bring Troutstream different blooms and he weaves together different purples and yellows and blues. Flower weaving was a courting tradition in Risingclan, but he'd picked up on it for his beauty. He had to have something to do with his paws while he'd been restless in the nursery.
He surely hadn't been planning on courting. He doesn't think he would ever- could ever- take another mate that wasn't Beemask.
But he watches Mallowkit look proud as she walks up with little white accent buds, Primrosekit proudly bringing a big orange blossom that she thinks outshines her sister's, and Talonkit with a wilted daisy, obviously not happy about being made to participate.
Still, Troutstream watches his son carefully choose a flower that will match the growing chain.
He lets the kits present it to Beemask. His mate tears up as he thanks them. His voice is small, like speaking is overwhelming. He swallows and Troutstream fears he's going to send the kits away.
But then he pats Primrosekit on the head and his daughter preens, eliciting a laugh from Beemask.
And for a beautiful moment, things seem alright.
“Thanks for coming out here,” Beemask is lying back, staring up at the night sky. He's breathing slowly, an expression of awe on his face. Troutstream flops down next to him.
He feels Beemask’s tail brush against his, but then his mate flicked it away and the absence stung.
“Of course,” Troutstream swallows. He has to tell himself the kits will be okay for one night. That Sloefall can handle them, but he misses them. He's not sure what to do without three soft bundles snuggled up to his pelt.
Beemask wouldn't know what to do with three kits curled up next to him, he realizes, and that makes it hard to breathe.
“There weren't any stars in the tunnels,” Beemask whispered, “Just the occasional hole that let a little bit of light in. But it was dim. Not… not like this.” He rests his tail of Troutstream's side properly now. “You know, I… I never really looked up to them before, but I missed the stars.”
Troutstream stares at him with wide, yellow eyes. Here under the vast sky, his mate breathes a little easier. He takes marvel in the little things that he lost. Troutstream wants to do the same. He presses up against Beemask, who stiffens.
“Can I hold you?” he asks, “Please?” Troutstream hates that he sounds like he's on the verge of begging, but he's desperate. Beemask turns to him and nods.
“I would want nothing more,” he breathes out, starlight reflected in his gaze.
Primrosekit presents him with a shrew. She looks proud, her tiny chest puffed out. They'll be apprentices before he knows it, these three kits of Troutstream's. (And Beemask’s, Beemask’s, Beemask's, even if it doesn't feel that way.)
“Did you catch that yourself?” he beams and his daughter nods eagerly. This is the kit's first kill and a rather big occasion. She holds her head up high, stretching up to be as tall as possible.
“Can I bring it to Daddy?” she asks and Troutstream nods. He watches her lay it before his mate, who asks a similar thing to Troutstream and his face turns to one of pride as Primrosekit explains this is her shrew.
“I want you to have it!” she perks up. To Troutstream's surprise, Beemask shakes his head.
“No, no, you're younger than me. You take it,” he pushes it away and Troutstream sees the moment his daughter’s face falls.
“Please, Daddy, I just want you to-”
“I said I don't need it,” Beemask snaps, shocking the kit into silence, “There are cats here who need it more, so can you just take it!”
Primrosekit’s lip warbles once. Twice. Then she lets out a sob.
She runs off before Troutstream can do anything, to the warriors den. He knows Ryelight is in there though, she’ll comfort her. He looks at his mate, bristling. “What was that? She just wanted to show you her catch!”
“I…” Beemask is staring off at where his daughter went, breathing heavily, “I just wanted her to eat it. She's so little.”
“Bee, it's Greenleaf,” Troutstream tells him, “There's plenty of prey.”
His mate seems far away at that moment.
“No there isn't. They wouldn't let us have enough.”
“Talonkit, don't you want to come eat with us?” Troutstream asks. Because Beemask is trying. He's currently engaged in a deep conversation with Mallowkit about beetles.
His son, his only son, his bright ginger, fiery son gazes at him and scoffs.
“He wasn't here to eat with us before.”
“Talonkit!” Troutstream yowls a little too loud. They have Beemask's attention now. He's glaring at his son because he's three moons old and while he's still young, he shouldn't be so cruel.
“What are you going to do? Punish me?” his son asks, “I bet you’ll be too caught up with him. He can't stand to be without you for a minute, but I’m almost an apprentice. I can.”
He leaves before Troutstream can say anything else, not sure how to explain it's the other way around. He can't stand Beemask not being by his side.
Beemask is the deputy but Flarestar is the one sorting out patrols. He looks back, staring at Troutstream and Beemask. Then he walks towards them.
“That should be good for the day. I know I was only deputy for a moon, but I still have the experience. You need the rest, so I'll give it to you.”
He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. It seems guarded. It makes Beemask growl next to him.
Flarestar takes a long look at the tom in front of him with his ribs jutting out and his blinded eye and doesn't even blink.
“I can do this,” he reassures them, but it's anything but that. Troutstream knows he doesn't mean just the patrols.
They move back to their camp and it should be a happy time. Troutstream watches the kits run around, poking their heads in all the various hiding spots and laughs.
He turns back to see what Beemask thinks, because he can finally experience something with their children for the first time.
His blue eyes are sharp and darting every which way and his ears are flat against his head. “The… I forgot about the walls…”
“Bee?” Troutstream whispers.
He only gets a whimper in response.
They do better, easing Beemask into camp. Seeing in the woods next to Risingclan camp where Fallenclan had their temporary camp hadn't troubled him, but this was a different beast.
“Stay with me,” Troutstream coos in his ear. With Troutstream, Beemask seems steady. He can breathe in camp.
Troutstream remembers when this was where they grew up together. Every little argument, each longing stare took place here. He sees their history.
His mate only sees a prison. But maybe Troutstream's presence reminds him of the good things.
They only separate at night, because it seems clear Beemask cannot stay in the nursery most nights.
The first night he wakes the kits with his screaming.
Troutstream stays in the woods with Beemask when he can. His mate can't sleep with the big, sloping walls of their camp blocking out the sky. Sloefall is already the closest thing the kits have to a mother.
He comforts Beemask, because his mate needs him. He tells himself the kits will be fine with Sloefall and the other nursery warriors.
He doesn't miss their eyes on him when he returns in the morning. They don't understand.
But they're used to being alone with their aunt, because Troutstream already could hardly look at them for a moon.
“You'll never get better if you don't swim,” Troutstream calls. Beemask hates swimming but his leg is broken and he needs this.
His mate hesitates. He's been standing there procrastinating too long. Troutstream is losing his patience.
“Swim!” he barks. It's the wrong thing. Beemask turns back and sees annoyed yellow eyes.
He flinches back like Troutstream had struck him. Troutstream feels bad, he didn't want to fight.
Beemask ducks his head. “Yes sir,” he chokes out, “Sorry, I’ll…”
He slides into the water. He's swimming. Troutstream wants to be happy.
His mouth tastes like ash.
When their kits are apprenticed, he sees Beemask smile properly. The kind of way he hasn't in moons.
He congratulates their kits with big sweeping hugs and he is all laughter that day. Even Flarestar apprenticing one of their kits to himself didn't damage the mood.
It is one of his good days. Troutstream is starting to learn the difference. Good days are when he could speak on how he felt. When he joked with Troutstream was happy to be back.
Bad days are when he snaps at nothing. When he looks at Troutstream like even he might claw him.
Troutstream treasures the good days. They're few and far in-between.
It is a good day, but a bad night.
He awakens in the dark and Beemask is gone, gone, gone. But he can't be, he'd fallen asleep with him. He had to he here. He was in camp, he'd been in camp this time, he'd been real, Troutstream had held him, he'd been real real real…
Ryelight catches him curled in on himself, choking back sobs. Beemask should be coming back soon.
She curls up around him without a second thought.
(But she only did that when Beemask was gone.)
They don't speak of it, because Troutstream wants this to be a good day.
It's a habit they fall into.
Beemask can't stay inside most nights. Troutstream can't leave his side. They're just simple facts. Cats sleep out under the sky sometimes.
(Not almost every night.)
They're okay. Troutstream is with Beemask and he can breathe.
(Sloefall wanted to talk to him but he was ignoring it.)
They were happy, because Beemask was home.
Beemask and Flarestar get into an argument and Flarestar bares his claws. It's a reflex and even he seems surprised.
Troutstream finds Beemask whimpering in the corner of the leader's den like a frightened kit.
Flarestar is staring at him in a mix of horror and pity.
Troutstream snarls at him as he leads Beemask away.
“Troutstream, I’m worried about you,” Ryelight hissed at him, “You have a life outside of my brother. I miss you.”
“I'm fine,” Troutstream glares at her, that new cold fury of his kicking in.
“And your kits?”
He falls silent.
“I'm sorry,” Beemask swallows. He hadn't spoken in a while. Troutstream doesn't know what he means.
“What for?”
“Leaving,” his mate sighs, but it's followed by tears.
Troutstream used to be the one that cried.
It not his fault. It's all mine. All mine. All mine.
He replays the battle again. He could have stopped this. He could have, he could have…
Ryelight and Sloefall set him down.
“Where's Beemask?” he asks, because he has to know. He hasn't seen him this morning and his paws are itching and he has to know.
“Sorting patrols,” Sloefall whispers. Troutstream stands up and Ryelight steps in front of him.
“You aren't needed for sorting patrols,” she hisses. He bristles.
“Move out of my way,” he frowns, “Let me go to him.”
She tackles him. Ryelight holds him still and he struggles against her. “Let me see him! Let me see, I have to know he's okay, I have to…”
“He's okay,” Ryelight growls in frustration, “He's actually doing his job. He's doing good. You can't…”
Troutstream wails and he sees Beemask come running.
“Rye, Rye let him go,” he exclaims, “Please. Troutstream, come here, come…”
Troutstream runs to him. He's shaking.
Beemask doesn't continue sorting the patrols out after that. Flarestar takes over with a disappointed eye.
Troutstream just sits with him while he does it. It's a simple solution.
They make jokes, laugh like they did before everything that happened.
It would seem happy if one didn't notice Troutstream's claws in the dirt, like he was afraid of being dragged away.
Ryelight misses her brother, he understands that.
He just also missed his mate.
The good days start to outnumber the bad.
Beemask can stay in the camp during the day. He got through a spar with Sloefall without breaking down.
He was getting better.
(He still couldn't be inside at night.)
Troutstream smiled, knowing they'd be okay.
(Beemask was gone again and he'd bawled his eyes out until he saw his mate at the next sunrise.)
He pressed against Beemask, not moving. He'd spent four moons without him and he vowed to never have that kind of pain again.
(With how close they were, it was a little hard to breathe.)