Private i've been ghosting along ] downy

[TIDE]

The air smells of wet earth, heavy with the promise of rain. Tide's paws sink slightly into the muddy ground with every step, but it keeps moving, sticking close to Downy. Their path winds through an overgrown field, the grass tall and thick, brushing against its flanks. It's quieter out here than it expected—no loud voices, no clatter of dishes, no burst of laughter from the porch. Just the distant croak of frogs and the occasional rustle of wind through the trees. It's strange. It isn't sure if it likes it. It's strange being away from the house, too. Tide still catches itself glancing back every now and then, expecting to see the tall building with its peeling paint and sprawling yard. But there's nothing behind them anymore except the endless expanse of green. Its ears twitch as it tries to focus on the path ahead instead.

A small stream cuts through the field, forcing the two cats to stop. Downy pauses, so Tide follows, and it watches as their reflection ripples in the water. The stream isn't wide, but the current is swift, and its stomach tightens at the thought of slipping. It takes a step back, ears flattening slightly. "Looks deep," it murmurs, voice low and even. Its gaze flicks to its sister, waiting for a cue, but it doesn't complain. It never complains. She goes first, and it watches for a moment before crouching, coiling its muscles, and launching itself forward. Its paws barely graze the edge of the opposite bank, and for a heartbeat, it feels the cold splash of water against its hind legs. But it scrambles up, shaking droplets from its fur with a small grunt. It doesn't say anything as it catches up to Downy, but its tail flicks once in acknowledgment—a silent 'I'm fine.' They continue on.

The field gives way to a sparse stretch of forest, the shade cool against its fur. The ground here is softer, littered with fallen leaves and twigs that snap underpaw. Its nose twitches at the faint scent of something musky—maybe a rabbit, maybe something else. Its ears swivel, alert for any sound that doesn't belong. The woods feel alive in a way the house never did, and it isn't sure if that's comforting or unsettling. Downy veers off the faint path, and it follows without question, its paws light and deliberate. It's always been like this: Downy leading, Tide trailing behind. Not because Tide doesn't know what to do, but because it doesn't need to. Its sister always has a plan, and it is content to let it play out.

They stop at a fallen log, its bark rough and peeling, and it stretches out a paw to test it before climbing on. It's a good spot to rest, elevated and dry, with a decent view of the surrounding area. Tide sits, its tail curling neatly around its paws, and glances at Downy. The silence stretches between them, broken only by the soft rustle of leaves. "What if they don't want us?" Tide asks eventually, the words slipping out before it can think better of them. Its tone is calm, almost detached, but there's a flicker of something uncertain in its eyes. It's not the first time the thought has crossed its mind. Back at the house, the girls had wanted them once—at least, for a while. Tide remembers the warm laps and the gentle hands, the way their names were called in sing-song voices. But then the new girls came, and the hands stopped reaching, the voices stopped calling. Its chest tightens at the memory, but it pushes the feeling aside. There's no point in dwelling.

@downy

 

[downyfeather]

Life had been simple; for the several seasons she's lived in that house, she hadn't any idea that it could be more. She lived with her mother, her siblings - a revolving cast of twolegs that both adored her and cared little for the molly she was. Downy was content for the bulk of it. That is, until a molly of soft, tousled fur and sharp eyes found her perched on her window. It was instant electricity for her - curiosity of the outdoors stabbed and bled her wistlessly. She wanted to speak with that cat, learn of her origin, why she was out there, and how to do that, too.

Moons passed, and Dove would find her again and again, carefully protected by panes of glass. The twolegs would let her inside before night fell and they would embrace - Dove would speak of her endeavors in the wild, enthrall Downy in her tales of woe. They grew more dire as the air grew colder, as the twolegs left and soon only one came around on occasion. He left the windows open. She could finally be free with Dove, yet when the chance happened... her lover never returned.

It was meant to be an entirely selfish journey. Her mother returned to her real home, wherever that may be. It was only her and her littermates left; and of them, Tide insisted on joining her. Her quiet, mild mannered sibling - a ghost of their quiet, mild mannered past. Downy almost insisted on Tide remaining behind, if not for the fact that she detested loneliness. They traveled together and slowly learned what hungry and exhausted truly meant. But that does not deter Downy.

The stream that stretches between them halts Tide on white paws; Downy races to clear it, her hind end soaking through. She claws to the opposite riverbank and shakes the water free from her pelt. Inwardly, she detests the waterlogged feeling - outwards, she's grinning fearlessly. I'm on my way, Dove!

Her blue gaze snaps back towards Tide as it speaks, and for a moment, there's childish frustration. Well over eight seasons old, and she can't quite tamper down that childlike temper. Her tail lashes, "Why would you ask that?" Downy says, her brows furrowed with minor frustration. "Dove - she loves me, you know that. So of course they'd want us...!"

 

[TIDE]

Tide does not move from the river's edge. Water laps at its paws, cold and glistening under the fading sun, but it is still. Silent. It watches Downy shake herself off, sees the fire in her eyes, the breathlessness in her voice. Even as she stands there, soaked and shivering, she looks triumphant. Like she belongs out here, like she has already won. Tide tilts its head slightly. The wind brushes through its fur, and it flicks an ear as if weighing the words it will say next. "Do you know that?" its voice is quiet, a ripple against the rush of the water. Its tail curls loosely around its paws, expression unreadable as ever. It is not meant to hurt her. Tide doesn't say things to wound—not like others might. But it does not say things to comfort, either. It only says what it sees. And it sees the way Downy's eyes flash when she speaks of this cat, Dove. Sees the way her paws hurry forward without looking back. Sees the way she speaks of love like it is something that will always wait for her, just beyond the trees, just past the next night.

Tide is not sure it believes in things that wait.

The river babbles on, endlessly moving forward, careless of those who hesitate. It is a reminder, or maybe a warning. "You say it like it's certain," it continues, watching the way Downy bristles. Its voice does not waver. "Like you know she will be where you left her." Because what if she isn't? What if this cat, this Dove, has moved on, the same way the twolegs did when summer ended? Tide knows what it is like to be left behind. The house had been warm, once. Not just in the way that the sun soaked into its fur as it lay curled on the windowsill, but in the feeling of voices—soft, laughing, indifferent, fleeting. Hands that reached down to pet, but never stayed. It had not minded. It had not questioned. The world had been small and full of light, and then it had changed.

Tide remembers watching the last of them leave. The new ones never looked at them the same way. Didn't reach down. Didn't care. The world had turned colder, and it had been fine. Because it had not needed them.

But Downy—Downy has always needed something to chase.

Tide finally steps forward, water pooling around its toes before it pushes off, landing on the riverbank beside her. It does not shake itself dry. Instead, it watches her. "If she isn't there, what will we do?"