When Oleanderpaw leaned against him again, Leveretpaw had to physically bite back an anguished whine — because it wasn't fair, these friendly, casual touches when all they were was friendly. He could feel himself constantly oscillating between acceptance and resentment: one minute he'd be at sorrowful peace, content to love her in silence from beside her, content to smile and bow his head and make himself a pleasant friend to whatever cat was eventually luckier than him in winning her affections; the next, bitterness was like fire in his belly — he'd go mad if he ever saw her with someone else, and she was so horribly, unbearably self-absorbed and selfish not to love him back when he was offering affection until the day he died, and he hated her for touching him. The line between love and resentment was so unspeakably thin when the only thing keeping them apart was yourself and your own sense of honour, of kindness, of understanding. And when you were left alone enough to stoke the latter, it grew harder and harder to hold back the surge of uncomprehending, confused rage, that anger that felt like sour, tingling sickness low in your throat. But he pushed back. For now, he pushed back — because he had softness left; because she was his best friend; because he loved her for more than the love he wanted back and couldn't get. But the unknown of it terrified him. How long could that last? How long before it wasn't enough and he grew a frightened stranger to the monster unrequited love could turn someone into? Could turn him into?

He wished for the thousandth time that night that this had never happened — that he had never started to think of her this way. That he had never grown into a teenager with thoughts that made him queasy with shame and embarrassment and a bitter loneliness that turned childhood affection to anger. Things could have been so simple. They could have grown old, best friends and nothing more. Everything could have been so gentle. Instead he felt like he was fighting a losing battle with his own innocence.

But then she was listening to him, with that soft little smile on her face that was always so patient and indulgent and cynically amused, like he were a child, and he suddenly felt immensely guilty. A fresh rush of tender love washed through him. No one else looked like that when he talked. He could never throw this away. This — you didn't need romance for love. He was so grateful to her. When she nudged his shoulder, Leveretpaw looked up at her with a soft, sheepish smile, the tips of his ears red with an unplaceable shyness. And then she was laying down beside him and he drew in a deep, quiet breath that caught halfway. His side tingled where he could just feel the warmth of her fur. He'd been fantasising, with such innocent, shy idleness in the corner of his mind, about reaching up and drawing her down under the pretence of friendly companionship — and now here she was, like she'd taken the guilty, blameless image in his head and painted it on canvas. Leveretpaw let out a frantic, strangled sort of hum in agreement, casting her a quick smile before looking back up at the stars desperately; he didn't see any of them. All he could concentrate on was her wriggling about beside him, bumping into him with her shoulder and hip and elbow. Every nudge felt like a jolt, and he was hardly breathing, just lying there with his forepaws on his chest and his eyes staring with a frozen sort of franticness up at the treetops. He wanted to move away; he didn't. When would this happen again? Even though he always had his nest close next to hers, they never shared a nest — that would interfere with her fur routine. He could always smell her in the night, so sweet and close, and they usually sat close enough to touch — but not like this. Never like this. Leveretpaw played hysterically with his forepaws; he wanted her closer; he couldn't have it.

Hey. He physically jumped, flinching where he lay, and for an insane second he thought she'd been able to read his mind. He glanced at her with wide, panicked eyes, rolling his cheek against the asphalt into what little space there was between him and the softness of her own cheek; the side of his muzzle bumped against it and fresh warmth blossomed through his ears. "Huh?" he breathed guiltily, brows together like he'd been caught. And then she went on. "Oh," he laughed, looking back up at the stars with his cheeks burning and his paws still playing with each other. He could hardly see the clouds through the haze of Oleanderpaw. His gaze followed her paw up and back down before darting away. "Um. I—I don't know." This was such an Oleanderpaw question to ask — not the Oleanderpaw everyone else knew, but the one who was his best friend. Because it was so not her — it was the kind of questions she asked when she was trying to make him feel better, make him feel normal, because it was silly and nonsensical and whimsical, and he loved her desperately for it. He felt a fresh wave of unspeakable gratitude — for her love, for her friendship, for her stubborn, gentle care that she never voiced out loud. "I hope so. 'Cuz the alternative is that they just break up and disintegrate and never exist again, and that's just too sad to think about." He was given more and more to the sad musings lately; that's what he thought did happen, that they just evaporated into oblivion, but he didn't say it. She was trying to be hopeful. "I hope they go somewhere nice. Somewhere someone loves them, y'know? That'd be nice." There was soft, quiet longing in his voice.

When she giggled, he smiled to himself, still looking up at the stars. His cheeks dimpled faintly. And then she was turning her head to look at him, and Leveretpaw was turning his to meet her, and his breath caught. His mouth opened slightly as he gazed into her clear eyes. She was so beautiful. "Yeah." One half of his mouth pulled up; he had no idea what she'd said. Something about a ghost. All he could see was her eyes. He wanted to die with her. "So cool." He sounded dumb and breathy and nonsensically infatuated. Captivated. The half-smile on his face was just as goofy. She looked back at the stars; he didn't. He kept gazing at her profile. In that wave of love-struck bravery, he wanted to ask her all sorts of questions he'd never risk breaking his heart to find out at any other time — do you ever think you'll have a mate? Do you believe in love? Could you ever love someone who didn't deserve you? Someone so far beneath you? Could you ever love me? Finally, inexplicably happier and still grinning stupidly despite the bittersweet melancholy whispering around his heart like a sad hymn, he dragged his gaze away. His heart felt full. "I think it'd be nice. You get to be alone, and you can explore all the tunnels, and maybe they're not the only ghost — maybe there are other ones, or even the ghost of the train. A ghost family." That sounded nicer, fuller, warmer, than the cloud family. It made his heart swell. "I think there must be lots of ghosts in NightClan. Everything that's happened — they can't just be gone. If there ever was a StarClan, they're not there. They must be here, stuck in the earth and the ferns." Suddenly feeling a shy burst of confidence, he rolled his head to smile at her again. "I'd like to be a ghost with you. It'd be too sad, to think this is all we have and then it'll be over. If there's a ghost life after, I wanna spend it with you."

Smiling at her for a moment longer, he finally, reluctantly, pushed himself into a sitting position. He wanted to lie there with her forever, but he knew he'd only sink deep into melancholy if he could feel her warmth and couldn't have her. It was better to leave now with this hope full in his heart. His back was covered in grit and dust and tiny pebbles; it made him look like he had a blanket of tabby spots on the soft dove grey. Leveretpaw smiled down at her, endlessly tender. "Let's go find a ghost. We'll climb down the cliff above the tracks," he sounded the bravest he ever had, almost blindly foolhardy; the usual Leveretpaw would have been appalled at the thoughtless risk-taking, but he was bolstered, uplifted and held aloft, by his love for this she-cat, "and it'll be the scariest thing I've ever done — and if I fall, I fall." He sounded almost giddy, choked up with the uncharacteristic bravery. His eyes were bright as he looked down at her. "Whaddaya say, Ollie? Wanna take a 50/50 chance of becoming a ghost?" He grinned, so tender and uncharacteristic of the Leveretpaw who'd been moping around the medicine den for the last moon; it looked almost tragic, like he'd forgotten how to smile so wide. His pink-dusted ears drooped slowly backwards, showing that he was faintly afraid behind the faint rush of adrenaline. Haunting the tunnels with her for eternity didn't sound like so terrible a punishment. It was more than he'd ever thought he would earn.