you do not know who is your friend
and who is your enemy
The heat in his blood demanded release—but release never came swiftly. It was satisfying, in a mindless, primal way, to finally collide, and on his terms; it was not blood but it was contact, and from here on, Ice knew that he would not escape the russet beast.
Not that he cared. As the pale fire lit up in his eyes, he knew that he wanted this—needed it. The reckless, stupid, insane crash of flesh on flesh, snapping teeth, blood and pain and anger and all that came with fighting for what you believed in. Everything else disappeared, even the body he had collided with; it fell beneath Ice's weight and, surprised, he sort of fell with it, burying his maw in red fur. All he got for it was hair, sticking in the saliva on his teeth.
And teeth. He was given no chance to savor the moment, for jaws came flying for his face. Ice pulled his head out of the other's fur, neck bristling, lips peeled back; his snarls dripped from his mouth as he parried and struck, getting nowhere.
Fighting was pointless, honestly. It was the amused observation of an elderly wolf still full of brawn—he liked the rather sickening collision between fangs, and the way it made them quiver in his jaws. He thrived on his pulse, and the way it seemed to make him throb.
But he wasn't blind to how little it solved. Likely they'd roll apart, spit and snarl, and go their separate ways. What would he have achieved? What would he have learned?
Nothing, really, but that was no excuse not to do it. His entire body screamed rage but he backed off a little, driven by the younger wolf pushing at him, and the relentless snapping of his teeth. He knew that by giving ground, the other would get up, so.. he did his best to bound in the start of a circle, hoping to get behind the rising wolf and attack his back with angry, hungry jaws.