He shivers, he shudders, and his brows flinch, twitching the whiskers that protrude from them now in this form, at his brother's paw on his nose. Not to twitch away from him, but from the contact, gentle as it is, because he can't convince himself they're less canid than they are, because his nose tells him, and if he opens his eyes he'll see the claws, and he doesn't know how to do that without trying to choke on the air screaming and still sound, again, like a fox.

Not human enough, but close, and just wrong enough to leave him silent.

But he does, after that tremble, after that flinch, allow his weight to fall toward the bulk of his brother. Shifts his head so one ear presses against Jiang Cheng, flattened, and he exhales in short bursts that slowly grow longer. A slope from near hyperventilation to normal breathing, as his nose tells him everything he doesn't want to know, as he forces himself to breathe in only air of soil, of water, of natural decay in the life cycle of a garden.

What now? He asks, but he can't ask it, doesn't fathom beyond it. I know what now. The rain falls, the sun rises, we may not see it. We pick up stones, we rebuild, we hunger. No one loves foxes here.

How to say, hello, this is who we are? He curls up tighter against Jiang Cheng's side, shudders deeper, burrows his face in now so the cloying scent of fox turns into fox-and-mud-and-comfort. I never enjoy being here, but we'll survive. There's nothing else to do.

Giving up can never be a choice again.