Mornings like this made the blood burn.
Cool air, hot breath, hooves dug in.
They’d met in the clearing without meaning to,
like they always did.
Pulled by something older than memory.
They used to crash together as boys,
antlers not yet grown,
skin still soft where it shouldn’t be.
Too much closeness,
too much quiet after sparring—
so they collided like accidents,
like it wasn’t a choice.
Now their bodies were harder,
worn smooth in the ways animals learn
by pain and patience.
They didn’t smile anymore.
Didn’t talk.
Just stared, like mirrors with breath.
And when their mouths touched,
they tore away faster than bone under tooth.
Shame stank stronger than sweat.
It always did.
They bit.
They bled.
Their tongues didn’t search—they fought.
It wasn’t the love they’d be warned against.
It wasn’t gentle.
It was desperate.
And awful.
One gripped the other’s jaw too hard.
The other shoved until his back hit tree bark.
They kissed like rutting bucks
and hated the softness buried in it.
When they finally parted,
there was saliva on chins,
panting open mouths,
and ears pinned back,
ashamed of how badly they’d wanted
They were too old for this.
Too tired.
But they’d never forgotten.
Not the clearing.
Not the touch.
Not the way they’d once pressed mouths together
like they were trying to apologize for being born wrong.
They stood like beasts
still waiting for the other to charge.
But neither of them did.
They just trembled,
and licked their wounds,
and stayed.
The pain evened out
as if to say
I’m still here
You still know me
We still want