He'd been lucky arriving when he did.

In the final throes of summer, as darkness descends and bathes the badlands in the cooling swath of night, the desert is almost tolerable. The hovel he had stumbled upon when he'd first arrived had blossomed into something of a smuggler's paradise, with a cavern that ran deep into the bedrock and broke access to an aquafer of water straight from the mountains, and enough hidden nooks and crannies to hide any valuable object he might find.

Information was more his style, but it helps to have assets; it was easier to get what he wanted out of a starving vagabond if he could dangle a piece of meat in their face.

Such a life, however, seldom calls for a day off, and darkness settles too far ahead of the night, Rhys knows he's in some semblance of trouble. The rain—the only caveat to his near-perfect home—always floods the cavern.

Mercifully, it was mostly hollow. Rhys would only be subjected to waiting out the storm at the mouth of the den, stuck between getting wet—and getting drenched. In the quiet hush of rain in his little paradise, Rhys could almost sleep.

---

@Hubert

Art by rabbit, table by cala

Well, well. So the badlands do know the taste of rain, despite all evidence to the contrary. No doubt such an occurrence was a remarkable rarity, up there with finding a four-leaf clover or catching the blink of a shooting star.

So of course Hubert's abysmal luck would see him caught in a desert shower. And here he'd thought the wasteland would be a fine place to be alone.

When the first raindrop splashes against his nose, the ebony man is caught like a deer in the headlights, verdant eyes blinking once and then twice, struggling to decide if the sensation was real or imagined. Dark clouds rolled ominously above his head, yes, but he'd rather hoped that they would continue on to deliver their deluge elsewhere. The lack of shelter across the dusty plains is a drawback he's keenly aware of, and as for the shelter that did exist amidst the red crags...Well, he remembers all too well the venomous dangers that slither in those shadows.

There's another splash of something cold against his ear. And then his shoulder. And suddenly, the Starke is pivoting on his heels with a string of muttered curses, his misgivings about whatever might lurk within the rocks temporarily shelved as the first waves of water threaten to soak through his back. He darts for the nearest outcropping, narrow shoulder pressing against rough stone as he follows the wall towards a darkened recess promising shelter -

Only to promptly trip over something gigantic, heavy, and furry as soon as he gets three steps inside, the sound of his indignant squawk echoing through the entryway as he went down.

Really?

He's beginning to think that he truly hates this place.

@Rhys

ART + CODE By Dee

Rain where it is rare is often as spectacular as it is dangerous.

Rhys was lucky to have been raised in a desert, to expect what is least expected in its illusion of safety. Gravel and sand was not like soil and earth, it did not direct the course of water to its demands. Here, the downpour commandeered its own course, and it was often destructive and uncontrolled and wild. His cave, secluded and rare and lucky as it was, would be flooded for days.

Fate gives and takes, just as men do, a cycle ordained by the very universe.

It is a sentiment just boring enough to lull Rhys into a sense of sheepish complacency. His head lowers onto his forearms, his gaze venturing out into the distant horizon but staring at nothing in particular. His blinks lengthen, his breaths slow, and the steady rise and fall of his chest follows a steady, simple rhythm.

He does not hear the frantic sound of footsteps over the heavy roar of the rain, and he does not see the intruder in nearly enough time. In fact, Rhys does not know @Hubert is there at all until the man comes crashing straight into him.

The jab to his chest is enough to knock the wind out of him, and he is suddenly all things turning and twisting and frantic. The brief shock of being wrenched out of half-sleep quickly passes, however, for Rhys would never have survived as long as he has if he were not cunning and prepared.

Despite the burning in his lungs he finds his footing somewhere among the fray, and turns with Hubert as the lion tumbles over him. As he rolls onto his back, his forelegs hooking upward, attempting to anchor on either side of Hubert's neck as he follows the pull of his weight over.

By the time their inertia ends, Rhys attempts to find himself on top, trying to pin the intruder to the ground before he can trip over anything else.

But there is not a look of anger or frustration on his face—rather, there is shocked-silent bewilderment, mouth half-agape.

Art by rabbit, table by cala

One must forgive the former swamp-dweller for assuming that the sun-parched lands would remain dry.

Hubert, however, is under no obligation to forgive anyone for anything. Much less any oversized brutes so uncivilized that they thought it was acceptable to fall asleep in a damned doorway of all places, like some sort of useless doorstop. Otherwise known as a clear tripping hazard. The Starke doesn't even have a chance to get a proper look at the latest obstacle to crop up in his path, catching only an indistinct glimpse of dark hair through the low light before the world began spinning.

For better or worse, the colossal beast falls with him. The frenzied entanglement of their limbs does nothing to ease Hubert's initial panic, trapped as he is between the hard ground and an equally unyielding wall of muscle, his breath cut off by thick waves of a dark mane clogging his nose. Yet all of his frenetic twisting and lashing does nothing to alter his trajectory, only exacerbating the brief struggle until it all came crashing to a sudden halt.

A pained groan hisses through his teeth when his spine collides hard with the rocky ground, his head splashing (splashing?) back against it with more force than was pleasant. Still, he was quick to raise a striped forepaw up to push against the chest above him, green eyes blinking rapidly through the disorientation to try to get a better look at his current partner in misfortune.

The other man is a large beast indeed, possessing that enviable sort of size and power that reminded him of Colsun (despite all his best efforts). Why, oh why, did they have to skip Hubert when they were handing out all the impressive genes? Regardless, the threat suggested by the thick limbs currently planted on either side of his head loses a bit of its edge when it's paired with the dumbfounded look on the brute's face.

Then again, does Hubert's face look any different?

Snapping swiftly back to reality, the Starke would clear his throat pointedly, prodding sharply at the stranger's chest once more while his hindpaws reached for an 'encouraging' kick against his belly. Wipe that slack-jawed look off your face, and get off of me. He demanded through gritted teeth, displeasure evident in his sharp tone and furrowed features.

Worst case scenario? He'd much rather risk provoking the titan's aggression than dwell upon the heat rising in his cheeks. Adrenaline. Yes. The scuffle was the reason his breathing was so quick, blood rushing through heated veins.

Obviously.

@Rhys

ART + CODE By Dee

It all takes a moment to register.

There was a brief feeling of immense smugness as Rhys manages to wrangle the intruder to the ground, but it is short-lived. When there was only surprise and instinct involved, size often won out against skill, and the man beneath him was slight compared to most their age. Slight, maybe, but certainly no less angered by their predicament.

The jab to his chest certainly stung enough to make a point.

Rhys wheezes, blinks once.

Wipe that slack-jawed look off your face, and get off of me.

Oh.

Quickly, the Tollaire skitters back, hind legs just catching his balance as he swiftly lifts himself free of @Hubert. He gives the man a second to collect himself—or perhaps giving himself one, wiping away the embarrassed heat that furls on his face and willing away the frantic thrum of his heart, seized with adrenaline at the very real fact that Hubert could have very well been an intentional ambush.

And Rhys would not be breathing if he had been.

That was not acceptable.

Self-chiding and ideas of tightening security in some way aside, Rhys eventually returns his crimson gaze to the dusky trespasser. He is lanky and small but there is nothing soft about him. Hubert is all things tempered and long-legged and trained, wiry musculature built for harsh terrain. Perhaps not deserts, but—

That was quite an entrance, he laughs, smoothing his mane down with a quick, skillful paw. Is this something you usually do?

Might as well make the most of company, especially amidst the ceaseless, lonely rain. A hand single paw extends, offering Hubert a cavalier hand.

Art by rabbit, table by cala

There was nothing he hated more than being pinned.

Few things highlighted his greatest frustration more clearly this - the infuriating evidence that sheer strength was, in fact, not this particular Starke's greatest strength.

Had he been a little quicker on his feet, he might have slipped out of the brute's grasp easily. Perhaps he might even have avoided the misstep entirely. Yet it seems that all his time away in recent months may have left his skills...dulled. Slowed.

He's lucky that this outrageously masculine stumbling block seemingly has little intention of eating him alive.

The realization only fuels the fire of his shame, the flying sparks of embarrassment provoking the seething snake to prod harder at the broad chest already retreating from him, hurrying @Rhys along his way with one last vindictive swipe. In the absence of the heavy weight, Hubert rolls immediately onto his belly with a gasping breath of relief and a pounding heart, struggling to collect himself before the shuddering of his adrenaline-fueled body could be noticed. A task made more that much more difficult when his striped forearms splash against the ground.

His nose wrinkles distasteful when he realizes he's been half-lying in a cold puddle, narrowed eyes sliding disapprovingly towards the colossal male who, from Hubert's perspective, was all too indifferent about the whole thing and far, far too jovial.

No. His tongue curls crisply around the single syllable, venomous eyes lingering suspiciously upon the man's proffered paw. The Starke man does not take it, heaving himself up to his own four paws with a low grunt and a pointed sniff. 'Usually', I come out on top. His words would be punctuated by a hearty shake to dry off his coat, knowing full well that the other would likely be caught in the splash zone, while the small smirk on his lips suggested that no apology would be forthcoming.

Evidently, the fact that he was effectively stuck in here with this stranger did not mean he had to be friendly about it.

Do you usually loiter in doorways? He twists the question around quickly, with no small measure of accusation brooding in his tone. Most of us just use sticks for setting traps, you know. Bastard.

ART + CODE By Dee

If Rhys didn't know any better, @Hubert might not appreciate his making light of the ordeal. The smuggler had half-assumed that his general lack of wanting to maim or murder his unexpected intruder might be reason enough to lose the chip on his shoulder. He thought that, undoubtedly, his charming smile and playful prodding might ease the tension, might loosen the scowl on the stranger's face. If anything, it only seems to perturb Hubert more.

It's never stopped Rhys before, though. It would hardly stop him now.

'Usually', I come out on top.

I can lay back down and we can try again, he proposes, lifting a boyish brow.

He doubted he would do such a thing, even if Hubert agrees. He very much doubts he will agree. The man is all things prickly and intense and unapologetic.

At least he's capable of a smirk. A handsome one, Rhys will give him.

The downpour of rain outside and the rush of floodwater deeper within the cave made leaving a very precarious notion. Hubert could attempt to brave the desert in the tempest, but the sand was beyond the hard, compact dampness it was before; now, it was saturated, and likely to be a host of pitfalls and quicksand, if not entirely impassible.

Do you usually loiter in doorways? Well, it is my doorway. Most of us just use sticks for setting traps, you know.

Rhys' lips press into a firm, thin line. Hubert is accusatory, and brooding, and if it weren't so endearing in a strange, subtle way, then he might have simply gotten to his feet and walked away. Perhaps to the other side of the cavern's entrance, where he could stare at the wall instead.

He shouldn't have to justify himself. This was his home.

Traps are rudimentary, predictable, he eventually settles, trying not to poke the bear any further. You think I have something to hide?

Of course he did. Rhys always has something to hide. But Hubert didn't know that.

Art by rabbit, table by cala