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Azure sat close to Two Time, his gaze tracing the delicate lines of their tail as it moved slowly and almost rhythmically beside them. Most others would have dismissed it as a mere tail, but Azure saw it as a living map, a doorway into their spirit.
It was the one aspect of Two Time that had not been worn down by years of hiding. The rest of them— their face, posture, and voice— were carefully guarded, hidden behind walls designed to keep the world out.
The tail, on the other hand, was honest.
Unfiltered.
It was its own language.
A language Azure had spent months learning, one flick at a time.
He watched the way the tail coiled in a loose spiral, smooth and soft. That meant Two Time was relaxed—safe in the moment, calm in a way their eyes sometimes refused to show. The curve was like a gentle sigh, a quiet breath that told Azure, “I’m okay, don’t worry.”
When the tail stiffened, curling tightly like a spring wound too far, his heart would clench. It meant Two Time was anxious, braced for something they didn’t want to face. It was subtle— a tiny twitch here, a sharp flick there— but to Azure, those small signs spoke louder than words.
He learned to detect them early on, moving near to offer silent comfort or staying back when they needed space.
The tail’s springiness was one of its most beautiful traits. It moved with a sort of graceful tension, ready to snap into action, but also able to unwind softly, like a coiled wire being released. Sometimes, when Two Time laughed or smiled genuinely, the tail would bounce with a lively energy, curling high and flicking playfully. Those moments made Azure’s chest ache—they were glimpses of light in the aching corners of Two Time’s heart.
But the tail could also speak fear. When Two Time was scared, it folded tight against their legs, curling protectively like a shield. The bones, sharp and firm, pressed inward, folding like a shutter closing against the world. Azure hated those moments—the way the tail betrayed their pain even when Two Time’s eyes stayed brave and distant. He wanted nothing more than to reach out and hold them, to carry the fear away. But he knew better than to force it. Instead, he watched, trusting the tail to tell him when to step in or back off.
That trust was sacred.
Azure’s fingers itched to touch the tail, to feel the subtle pulse of life in those rigid bones. He admired how expressive it was, how it could say everything Two Time’s lips could not. Every flick, every curl was a word, a sentence, a paragraph in the story they told in secret.
Sometimes, when Two Time was lost in thought, their tail would twitch softly; it was so small that most would have missed it.
Not Azure.
Azure would pause, waiting, giving space. Other times, it would spring out with quick, sharp movements— anger, frustration, or warning. He would see the tension coil up like a drawn bow and know it was time to tread carefully.
More than once, the tail had saved him from misunderstanding. It had told him when to be gentle, when to hold back, and when to offer quiet presence. Two Time might not say much, but their tail spoke clearly.
Azure smiled to himself, his heart full of quiet love. “I trust you,” he whispered, voice barely audible. “You tell me everything.”
Two Time glanced over, their eyes softening as their tail flicked— a gentle curl, like a whispered thank you in a language only they shared.
In that simple exchange, Azure felt it deep in his bones: love wasn’t just in what they said or did, but in every subtle movement, every unspoken truth told by a tail that refused to hide from the world.
And he would listen to it forever.
Anger
Azure noticed it the moment the air shifted—the subtle tightening of muscles in Two Time’s back, the way their shoulders stiffened just a fraction. But what truly caught his attention was the tail.
The tail, usually a gentle curl or a soft coil, had snapped into a rigid line. Its sharp bones stretched taut, every segment straight and unyielding like a drawn bowstring. The tip flicked sharply, slicing through the air with impatience and raw tension.
To Azure, this was a storm warning. The tail wasn’t just signaling displeasure; it was shouting it in the quietest language they had. That sharp, sudden flick was a warning saying, “I’m upset. Back off.”
Azure’s heart sank.
His first instinct was to reach out, to touch, to soothe, but the tail’s rigid posture warned him to be cautious. The bones beneath the skin looked almost brittle, the tautness showing pain that wasn’t just physical but emotional.
His eyes locked on the tail’s movements— every twitch, every stiffened curve— and he read them like a script of frustration.
When the tail thumped hard against the floor, a heavy, impatient beat, Azure understood: Two Time was angry, maybe hurt, and needed space. The tail’s sharp snaps weren’t just noise— they were a boundary.
Azure swallowed the impulse to apologize immediately. Instead, he softened his voice, careful not to crowd the space around Two Time.
“I see you’re upset,” he said quietly, voice gentle but steady. “I’m here when you’re ready.”
He stayed silent, watching as the tail curled slightly but remained tense, like a coiled spring that hadn’t yet decided whether to let go or stay bound.
Azure’s fingers flexed, wanting to bridge the gap between them, but he held back, respecting the tail’s message.
When the tail flicked once more— quick, sharp, almost like a warning strike— Azure nodded softly to himself, affirming the unspoken agreement.
He wouldn’t push.
Not now.
Instead, he lowered himself to their level, keeping his gaze soft and open.
“I love you,” he said quietly. “Even when you’re angry. Especially then.”
The tail twitched once, just a small flick, almost like a reluctant acknowledgment.
Azure’s chest tightened with relief and sadness— knowing the tail spoke truth even when words failed. It was Two Time’s shield and their truth-teller.
He waited patiently, breathing slowly and steady, matching the rhythm of Two Time’s tense tail.
And when, finally, the tail softened ever so slightly, the first fragile curl in hours, Azure reached out—fingertips gentle and careful, tracing the edges of those sharp bones.
“I’m here,” he whispered.
Every flick, every curl of that tail was a message—a language he had vowed to understand, no matter what it took.
Fear
The fear didn’t come all at once; it crept in.
Azure noticed it in the way Two Time’s hands paused mid-motion, their shoulders shrinking in just slightly. But it was the tail that told the full truth. It lowered slowly, curling inward like a withering fern, every bone drawing closer to the base of their spine. What was once springy and expressive had become small and protective, coiling tightly around one leg like a barrier.
To anyone else, it might’ve looked like nothing. But to Azure, it was screaming.
He immediately stilled his own body, as if afraid any sudden movement might worsen the trembling silence that had fallen over the room.
He crouched nearby— close but not touching —letting the quiet build gently between them like a bridge.
The tail was curled tighter.
That curl, Azure knew, meant "Don't look at me!"
It means "I’m scared, and I can’t protect myself right now."
It meant "everything’s too loud, too close, too fast."
Azure’s throat tightened. He hated seeing it like this—his strong, resilient Two Time turned so small, their tail no longer a banner of personality but a trembling shield.
“I see you,” he said softly. No more than a whisper. “I see what you’re feeling, Flower.”
The tail twitched at the nickname.
A soft reaction, like a flicker behind fog.
Azure took that as a sign and slowly shifted to the floor, cross-legged and low, making himself smaller, less threatening.
He didn’t reach out.
Not yet.
The tail was still too tight, like it was bracing for pain, for judgment, for memory.
It was heartbreaking.
It was sacred.
Instead, he spoke gently, filling the space with a steady voice. “You don’t have to come out of that curl. I just want you to know I’m here. I’ll wait.”
Minutes passed. The tension hummed like a wire between them.
And then— just barely —the tail loosened, just a fraction. One of the sharp bones shifted outward.
Not a curl.
Not a flick.
Just space.
Permission.
Only then did Azure move, inching forward to rest his hand lightly— almost reverently —beside the tail on the floor.
He didn’t touch it; he didn’t speak again. He just stayed there, breathing slowly, letting his warmth be felt without demand.
Eventually, the tail brushed faintly against his hand. Not by accident.
Azure’s eyes prickled with tears. He laid his hand over it gently, the way one would cup something made of glass.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “I always will.”
Because to him, Two Time’s tail wasn’t just bone—it was truth. And when it showed fear, Azure knew exactly how to love them through it.
But fear rarely came alone. When it faded, it often left something behind. A heavier shadow. One that didn’t shake or tremble— only settled.
Guilt
Guilt had a particular shape when it came through Two Time.
It wasn’t loud. It didn’t come with apologies or confessions. It came in through the back door, quiet and sharp, and curled up in their spine like a weight they couldn’t shrug off.
And Azure always knew—because of the tail.
When guilt struck, it dropped low. Not the way it did when Two Time was scared, curled inward like a child.
No.
This was something else.
This was resignation. It hung limp, almost dragging.
The joints no longer moved with bounce or spring; they locked stiffly, as though the tail didn’t feel it had permission to move at all.
Sometimes it folded awkwardly, too deliberately, like Two Time was trying to tuck it away, as if hiding the tail could somehow hide what they’d done or failed to do.
Azure saw it today, trailing behind them like a flag at half-mast. They sat at the edge of the bed, hunched low, hands in their lap, face blank. But that tail—it was the loudest thing in the room. Still, twisted slightly under one leg, like it didn’t deserve comfort.
Azure approached quietly, slowly.
“What happened?”
Two Time didn’t answer. Just a shrug. The kind that said, 'I don’t want to tell you. You’ll hate me if you know.'
Azure didn’t push.
He had learned the rhythm of this dance— when to speak, when to wait. So he lowered himself to the floor beside them, facing their back, and reached out to gently touch the tail.
It didn’t move.
That hurt more than he expected.
He ran his fingers along the rigid bones.
They were cold today.
Still.
“Don’t do this to yourself,” he whispered. “Don’t punish it because you’re hurting.”
Two Time flinched, but barely.
“Whatever it is,” Azure continued, voice steady, “you’re not alone with it. You don’t have to carry it in silence. You don’t have to bury it here.”
The tail twitched, just barely—a little resistance melting.
Still uncertain.
Still ashamed.
But responding.
“Is it me?” Azure asked. “Did you think you’d disappoint me?”
There was no answer. But the tail curled slightly inward again—not like fear, but like trying to disappear.
Azure sighed softly, hand cradling the curve of it.
“I’ll never stop loving this tail. I’ll never stop listening to it. Even when it’s sad. Even when it tells me hard things.”
A pause.
Then, finally, a flick—featherlight. A touch to his wrist. Still here.
And Azure’s heart broke open.
He crawled up beside them, arms gentle as he gathered Two Time close. The tail followed a second later, wrapping around his waist—not firm, not eager, but there.
“I don’t need you to explain,” he said softly. “I just need you to let me hold you while it hurts.
Two Time nodded, head against his chest. And the tail, still low, still quiet, pulsed with a small, aching relief.
It was still guilty.
But it was no longer alone.
But guilt, at its core, believed you’d done something wrong.
Shame, on the other hand, believed you were something wrong.
Shame
Shame didn’t just pull Two Time inward. It made them shrink.
Azure could always tell when it hit—when something in their mind twisted, when they decided they weren’t good, or clean, or lovable. Their body stayed still, their face passive.
But their tail gave it all away once again.
It curled under them like it wanted to vanish. Pressed flat to the ground, drawn tight to their spine, as if trying to become invisible.
Not limp like guilt.
Not twitchy like fear.
Shame was heavy.
Held still with tension, like it believed it didn’t deserve to move, to exist, to take up space.
Azure hated seeing it like that.
Today, it was over something small—a broken dish, just a plate. But Two Time had dropped it and frozen, wide-eyed.
The tail snapped down instantly, slamming to the floor, tucked close in a harsh coil like a trap springing shut.
They didn’t look up. Didn’t speak. Just stood there as if expecting judgment.
“Two,” Azure said softly.
Still no response.
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t move quickly. He just crossed the room slowly, calmly, until he could kneel in front of them, gaze even.
The tail was coiled so tight it trembled slightly.
Azure reached toward it first.
No words yet— just his hand resting against the rigid curve.
It didn’t lift.
Didn’t curl into him like it usually did.
It was hard with tension.
Distant.
But it didn’t pull away.
That was something.
“I don’t care about the plate,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I care about this.”
He ran his fingers along the bones, feeling how cold they were. How still.
“I care that your tail is telling me you’re hurting. That you feel like you did something wrong just by existing in this space.”
Two Time flinched—not at his voice, but at the truth in it.
The tail twitched once. A flick of protest. Stop. Don’t look. Don’t talk about it.
But Azure didn’t stop.
“You’re allowed to break things,” he murmured. “You’re allowed to mess up. That doesn’t make you bad. That doesn’t make you less.”
The tail gave another twitch— quicker this time.
A jolt of confusion.
Uncertainty.
“I love this tail,” Azure whispered, leaning forward to press his forehead gently against the coil. “Even when it’s scared. Even when it hides. Especially then.”
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then—slowly—the tension began to bleed out. The bones uncurled, inch by inch. Still hesitant. Still unsure. But no longer hiding.
It rose, barely off the floor, and brushed gently—just once—against Azure’s leg.
A quiet, 'I hear you.'
Azure closed his eyes. “There you are.”
Two Time didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.
The tail shifted again, curling softly— not joyful, not playful, but reachable.
It tucked lightly into Azure’s lap, letting itself be held.
And for that moment, shame loosened its grip. Just enough for them both to breathe.
But not every ache came from within.
Sometimes, the pain came from each other.
Conflict
Conflict with Two Time rarely looked like yelling.
There were no sharp words or door slams— just silence and the way their tail bristled like an animal trying to make itself bigger.
Not to scare Azure, but to keep him out.
It happened one evening after a careless comment.
Azure hadn’t meant it cruelly—just a slip, an old habit, something that echoed the voices Two Time had fought so hard to unlearn.
“You’re overreacting,” he’d said.
And just like that, the room changed.
Two Time had stilled mid-motion, the way prey does before it bolts. Their face didn’t twist; it didn’t fall.
It just… went blank.
Carefully blank.
But the tail snapped up, rigid and sharp as a blade, arcing high with tension, every bone set in place like armor.
Azure cursed himself immediately. He knew better. He knew how long it had taken for that tail to trust him in the first place.
“Two—” He began.
The tail jerked toward him— a sharp, whip-like twitch.
'Don’t.'
It didn’t lash violently. It didn’t strike. It just hovered between them, curved in warning. Too close. Back off.
So Azure stopped.
He didn’t beg. Didn’t defend himself.
Instead, he sat down. Right there on the floor.
And he waited.
Minutes passed.
The tail didn’t lower. It paced behind Two Time like a sentry.
Watching.
Measuring.
Their arms were folded, eyes distant, face unreadable— but Azure watched the tail. Watched the conflict in it.
'You hurt me.'
'I want space.'
'I don’t know if you’ll do it again.'
'But I don’t want to leave, either.'
Azure spoke low, barely more than a breath. “I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean to belittle you. That wasn’t fair.”
The tail flinched.
“I know you’ve heard that kind of thing before. I should’ve known better. I do know better.”
Still no movement— but a twitch. A change in posture.
Not forgiveness. But listening.
“I’ll earn it back,” Azure said. “You don’t have to make it easy for me.”
And then— finally —the tail dropped.
Not entirely.
Just an inch.
But the tension started to bleed out of it.
The arc softened.
The bones relaxed. It shifted sideways, exposing its length— not quite vulnerable, but no longer armored.
An olive branch.
Azure held still.
Waited.
Let it come to him.
And when it finally brushed his side, feather-light, he felt the sting of tears in his throat.
'I’m still here,' it said.
Playful
Playfulness, in Two Time, was always a surprise.
They weren’t naturally open with joy. It slipped out only when their guard was down, when they forgot to be careful. But their tail—it didn’t know how to hide.
Not when it was happy.
It started with a bounce.
A sharp little spring in the bones, almost like a spark running through it.
The kind of bounce a kitten’s tail might make when it’s spotted something just barely out of reach. But in Two Time, it was rarer— more precious.
Azure noticed it one morning as they passed through the narrow pathway to their home. Two Time brushed by him, their expression cool as ever. But as soon as they thought they were out of sight, that tail flicked upward with a— twang!— a full, playful spring and curl, like a ribbon caught in the wind.
Azure nearly laughed aloud.
He’d seen that tail do many things—coil in fear, freeze in guilt, tuck in shame.
But this?
This was something wild and sweet and free. A little flash of who Two Time was underneath all the layers.
The next time it happened was more deliberate.
They were sitting on the floor, Azure with a book, Two Time fiddling with something unimportant.
And that tail kept brushing his arm.
Not hard.
Not angry.
Just... brushing.
Curling.
Booping his elbow.
Flicking his shoulder and then pulling away like it hadn’t done anything.
“Are you messing with me?” Azure finally asked, raising an eyebrow.
Two Time didn’t look up, but the tail gave an innocent twitch. A slow, exaggerated curl, like a smug little smirk.
'Who, me?'
He couldn’t help it— he lunged forward to grab at the tail. It dodged, snappy and spring-loaded, dancing out of his grip before curling around his wrist fast.
They wrestled like that for ten minutes— no words, just a tail and hands, tapping and catching and slipping away.
Two Time didn’t laugh, but their shoulders were shaking from how hard they were trying not to.
And Azure’s grin wouldn’t leave his face.
He loved how fast the tail could move— sharp angles and bouncing loops, like it was made of live wire and joy. It snapped like a spring and rebounded just as quickly, curling into his lap before slipping away like it had never been there.
And when Two Time was finally tired, the tail settled against Azure’s arm.
Loose and trusting.
Still buzzing faintly with energy, but quiet now.
Azure kissed the bony tip gently. “You’re trouble, you know that?”
The tail twitched.
You love it.
And he did.
Because this tail— the one that dared to play, to poke, to joke —was honest in a way even Two Time wasn’t ready to be.
It didn’t know how to lie.
So when it curled around his wrist and stayed there, light and loose, Azure knew what it meant.
'I'm happy.'
Curiosity
There were few things Azure loved more than watching Two Time get curious.
It always started subtly— eyes sharpening, lips slightly parted, the faintest lean forward —but it was the tail that gave it away completely.
It would rise like a question mark, curling at the tip into a delicate hook. The bones shifted with alertness, like antennae catching signals only Two Time could hear.
It hovered in the air behind them, suspended in a half-coil, still but quivering, as if waiting for something to touch it.
Azure never interrupted when it happened.
Curiosity was precious —fragile in Two Time, who was so often cautious and afraid. So when their tail lifted like that, full of possibility, he stayed absolutely still.
Today, it was a windchime. Faint and metallic, swaying from the rafters of the old porch they had found. The wind picked it up, made it sing soft, uneven tones—and that tail sprung to life.
It arched and curled and unwound, a slow wave of bone down the spine. It flicked once, tentatively, toward the sound, then again.
Not aggressive. Just exploratory.
Interested.
Azure could see the questions in it.
'What is that? Can I touch it? Is it safe?'
Two Time didn’t speak.
Their face was as unreadable as always, but that tail danced with wonder. It crept closer, each movement calculated yet light. The closer they got to the chimes, the more the tail began to sway in tiny, rhythmic pulses, mimicking the sound’s rise and fall.
Azure smiled softly, heart swelling.
He leaned against the porch post, arms crossed, watching with the quiet patience of someone witnessing a miracle.
“You’re studying it,” he murmured aloud, not expecting a reply.
The tail froze for a second— spotted. Then it tapped once against the floor, a soft punctuation mark: 'Yes.'
Two Time finally looked back at him. Their eyes were open, focused, bright in a way that made Azure’s breath catch.
“What does it do?” Two Time asked.
“It sings,” Azure said. “With the wind. It doesn’t fight it. Just lets it move through.”
Two Time stared at the chime, thoughtful. Their tail curled tighter—processing, intrigued, respectful. Then it gave a small, swaying loop that Azure had come to know meant something like, 'I want to understand more.'
He stepped forward then, slow and careful, reaching a hand out to the chime. “Want to try it together?”
Two Time hesitated. Then the tail moved forward— slow, deliberate —and gently brushed the chime. It rang, sweet and pure.
The tail gave a delighted flick.
'Aha!'
Azure laughed softly, delighted. “You’re so smart,” he said.
The tail looped back toward him and tapped lightly against his shin, like a nudge. He looked down, touched.
“Is that thanks?” he asked.
The tail wagged.
Just once.
And in that moment, Two Time didn’t need to smile with their mouth. Azure had already seen everything in their tail.
And from shared moments— an even deeper kind of trust.
Trust
But not all trust was tender. Sometimes, it was tested.
It happened fast. Faster than Azure could’ve stopped it.
They were sitting on the edge of a park outside town; they were sent to restock on something but decided to take a break beneath the shade of a tall tree where dappled sunlight made the ground shimmer like water.
Two Time had been more relaxed than usual. Their tail idly swayed in slow loops behind them, uncaring of who saw. That tail, sharp-boned and springy, moved with unconscious grace, speaking in lazy spirals and soft twitches of comfort.
And then someone came too close.
A man— not old, not young, but confident in that careless, smirking way that set off every internal alarm Azure had— strode over with the swagger of someone used to getting attention.
He wasn’t mean outright.
Just entitled.
His eyes roved where they shouldn’t. His smile lingered too long.
“Oh, that’s… weird,” he said, eyes locked on Two Time’s tail, which had immediately gone still the moment his shadow crossed them. “Is it real?” He didn’t wait for an answer.
He reached for it.
Azure stood up too late.
“Hey—don’t—”
Fingers met bone.
Two Time didn’t scream, gave a small flinch— but their tail exploded.
The moment those hands touched it, it lashed—violently, instinctively, like a whip except with bone.
The sharp, ridged bones cracked against the man’s wrist with a sound like snapping branches. He yelped, stumbling back, but the tail wasn’t done. It coiled so tightly it looked like it might snap, then sprang forward again, cracking against the ground and throwing up dirt in a defensive arc.
Azure was already between them, hands up, voice hard.
“Step back. Now.”
The man, cursing and nursing his bruised wrist, muttered something about freaks and stormed off. Azure didn’t care. He was already turning back, heart hammering, hands cold.
Two Time was frozen.
Their face was blank, too blank.
But their tail told the truth.
It was wrapped around one of their legs, curled so tightly the bones creaked under the pressure. Every vertebra seemed locked in place, the very tip twitching like it wanted to snap in every direction at once.
It wasn’t just fear— it was violation, panic, and disgust.
A scream their body couldn’t— or wouldn’t—give a voice to.
Azure crouched beside them, gently reaching out. “Flower…” His voice was low, careful. “Hey, it’s okay. He’s gone. You’re safe. I’m here.”
The tail jerked when he got close. Not at him—but near him, a warning: Don’t touch, not yet, not now. So Azure didn’t. He simply sank lower, level with their eyes, hands on his own knees.
“It was too much,” he said softly. “I saw. I’m sorry I didn’t stop him fast enough.”
Still silence.
But the tail began to loosen, fraction by fraction, curling a little less tightly, twitching in more deliberate movements. A low sway. Then a slow rise. Not relaxed— not now —but aware.
Only then did Azure reach out again— slowly, so slowly —offering, not insisting.
The tail brushed his fingers.
A brief contact.
Testing.
Then curled lightly around his wrist.
Not a grip. Just enough pressure to say, I know it’s you. I still trust you.
Azure swallowed hard, blinking back the burn in his eyes.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “I’ll protect it. Always.”
And in the delicate, shaking arc of that tail, he heard the smallest, most precious thing of all:
'I believe you.'
Love
Azure didn’t need to see Two Time’s face to know they were happy.
He could hear a soft sound— something close to a laugh, though Two Time never laughed loudly —and he could see it, more than anywhere else, in their tail.
It bounced.
Not just moved, bounced.
Light, spring-loaded movements that made the sharp-boned tail seem alive in a way no other part of their body ever was.
It curled high, an arc like a crescent moon, and flicked at the tip like a dancer’s ribbon caught in a breeze. It was joy, honest and unhidden, slipping through the cracks of all their carefully built walls.
And to Azure, it was everything.
He froze in place, watching with his heart caught in his throat. Two Time was sitting near the window, sunlight catching in the bones of their tail, making each ridge shimmer faintly.
Their posture was still hunched in the way it always was— guarded, unsure—but the tail betrayed none of that.
It twitched like it was trying to wave at the world. Coiled playfully. It even did a full springing curl, spiraling in the air before tapping gently on the floor like a heartbeat.
Azure’s breath caught.
He smiled— wide, helpless. "You're doing it again," he murmured, not needing to say what.
Two Time turned, startled. "Doing what?"
"Your tail," he said softly. "It's happy."
Two Time blinked, and immediately the rest of their body began to stiffen, a flicker of fear rushing in.
'Was it bad?'
'Were they being too much?
'Had they made a mistake showing something so real?'
But Azure was already moving, not toward them, but toward the tail.
He crouched beside it, low to the floor, as though it were some small wild thing that might dart away if he came too fast. The tail gave one more gentle bounce before slowly lowering—not defensive, just shy.
Azure reached out, hesitated, then let his hand rest palm-up beside it.
“I love it,” he said. “I love seeing it move like that. You don’t even know what it does to me.”
Two Time tilted their head. “It’s just a tail,” they said, their voice quiet and uncertain.
“No,” Azure said, still watching it. “It’s you. It’s the part of you you don’t hide. It’s how I know when you’re okay. It’s how I know when to be gentle, when to celebrate. It’s your joy, and you let me see it.”
The tail curled inward, slowly— embarrassed, but not afraid. It curled around Azure’s fingers, bone tapping softly against skin.
Two Time looked down, as if surprised it had done that.
“It likes you…” They said, almost bashfully.
Azure let out a breathless laugh, almost choked with warmth.
“Yeah. I like it, too.”
He leaned forward and kissed the edge of one bony ridge, reverent.
“I’ll always listen to it. Even when you can’t say the words.”
The tail flicked lightly at his chin in response— playful, teasing.
Happy.
And Azure could’ve cried from how much that meant. Because in a world where so much of Two Time was learned silence and restraint, their tail was their truest voice, and he’d become fluent in it, one flick at a time.