A sigh rattles his bones. He spots Arrow approaching from the corner of his good eye, where the image isn’t blurred at the edges, or resembling the result of a heavy downpour through pressed lashes.
He doesn’t argue when the tom comes to meet him, and Lusk only expects it’s to do with the lack of other felines deemed appropriate enough to speak with. The dark tom tilts his head upwards, ears flattening against his skull. He listens as Arrow sits so neatly, so prettily, beside him. There’s a lot Lusk could ask him -- about the births, about the injuries, about his work -- and yet he refuses, stubborn, but flicks one ear up in Arrow’s direction, clear indication to how he’s expecting the younger tom to prompt a conversation.
A few seconds pass. He should’ve expected it. Arrow is a quiet cat; he’s likely sat there debating on how to spit out something -- but truthfully, Lusk is just as awkward. He just happens to give less of a worry about it.
“What?” Rumbles his baritone, thunder in a storm, with both the power to relax and influence fear in one. He gives, uttering the first word, but he keeps his gaze hidden and his nose raised.