Those sobs wracked the once defiant Western King's frame, his free hand was held near protectively over his ribs as if it might somehow lessen the sharp jabbing of their jagged edges against his flesh and organs. Somewhere, in the deep depths of his mind, he knew that shock was setting in - shock from the loss of blood that made him far too weak to consider moving, shock from those shattered bones that had somehow made his breathing both all the more labored. He knew something was drastically wrong and yet any self-preservation he once might have had all but dissipated on the overwhelming grief that had struck the man. Tobias, and even Nadya despite her beliefs, had been the very reasons that Tetradore had once done everything. For too long he had believed that he had done all that was necessary to ensure they both would remain safe and out of Risque's immediate grasp. How utterly foolish he had been. That perceived safety he'd given his spotted childhood friend had all but been shattered tonight - destroyed by Tetradore himself when his teeth had torn through flesh and bone to consume the very epicenter of the leopard's body. How it haunted him, those feelings of muscle and flesh ripping under his sharpened claws, of Tobias' last few shuttered breaths, of the sheer amount of blood that so coated his frame. The taste still lingered upon his tongue, accompanied with that bile as his stomach so revolted, thanks to his own horror at what he'd eaten.

A part of him was aware of the sound of something else in the depths of his darkened room - of someone else and slowly Tetradore's own frame curled tighter in on himself, those sobs unable to cease even as he turned his head slightly more into the cold caress of the tile floor in some vain effort to hide from those prying eyes. He wasn't ready to face them, not yet. His pack would surely have questions. Questions of what had happened, of where Tobias was, of why he'd so callously murdered the only soul whose company he enjoyed on a regular occasion. He wasn't ready for the way they would so surely look at him - first with pity and then with the realization of what a monster he truly was. Not yet. His body flinched at the very touch of a hand upon his shoulder, the Were-King hardly desiring the touch of his pack before that figure slowly settled down at his side. He was aware of the sudden gentleness of those arms that wrapped around him, pulling his beaten, battered, and bloody form against a body he knew all too well. The very scent of his father filled his nose as his head was guided into the fae's shirt. He was well aware of that hand against the back of his head and, in turn, Tetradore did distinctly little to pull away from Matteo's touch. Quite on the contrary, slowly, Tetradore uncurled himself from that tight ball, his own arms shifting, despite the protest of his injuries, to wrap around the fae's torso. His tears somehow seemed to increase in that very moment, the Alpha finally, somehow, feeling safe enough to express the very depths of that grief that afflicted him. Matteo alone, it seemed was capable of easing down those impregnable walls that were presently struggling to even keep the Were-King in one piece.

Those softly muttered words were hardly enough to sooth the sorrow that afflicted the Alpha. It was, he was certain, not all right. His head shook from side to side ever so slightly, that gesture altogether subtle and yet, Tetradore found himself incapable of voicing those words to tell the Frenchman what had happened - that was if the fae hadn't already seen the horrors he'd committed already. The softness of Matteo's lips against his forehead saw his grip tighten upon the fae, his fingers balling the man's shirts into fists as if in some childish effort to keep the Frenchman there. It was almost habitual, really, left over from his younger years when he'd once thought that if he could simply hold onto the fae tight enough, that Matteo might somehow rescue him from those hellish nightmares he so frequently used to endure. His body, however, hardly seemed as capable of withstanding Tetradore's grief, the demand he put upon his lungs in those gasped breaths resulted in those breaths somehow all the harder to take - the usually rich, caramel skin almost taking on a deathly blueish tint from the oxygen that he was deprived of. How long he could last in such a precarious state was tentative at best.

Tetradore was almost unaware, truly, to the light that near bathed the pair of men as Matteo's own gift near slammed into his body. He was inattentive to the way those marks upon his arm healed, stitching themselves closed before receding into his skin as if they had never been there at all. Those burns upon his back diminished, leaving pristine skin all over again. His ribs pieced themselves back together, the angry purple and yellow bruising somehow lessening into that perfectly exotic caramel flesh. Most importantly of all, however, his lungs filled with that precious, glorious air as they filled all over again back to their true capacity, the rip caused by his fractured ribs all but coalescing all over again. His body near seemed to work overtime, with Matteo's coaxing, to blood his system with the blood he'd lost and, in turn, the discomfort, pain, and tautness to his naked body seemed to visibly relax within the Frenchman's hold, even if his skin was still caked with dried blood and dirt and grime. Those tears, however, hardly seemed to cease, even despite the lack of agony that had once surely contributed to their falling. For several long moments, the pair simply stayed upon the tile, the sound of his sobbing and whimpered breaths the only noise in the otherwise quiet Ark. The sound of his name, soft and gentle caused him to at least attempt to subdue those tears - those sounds from the Alpha somehow softly and quieter, albeit slightly, as he tried desperately to regain some of that aloof composure he was so known for.

He heard the Frenchman's words, Matteo all but confident, if not gentle in his certainty that the leopard he'd murdered tonight wasn't his best friend. His eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly, his shoulders still rising and falling quickly with those tears he attempted to not let fall. Tentatively, Tetradore pulled back ever so slightly, his forehead alone still resting against Matteo's chest as he so painfully refiltered through his memory - his hand slowly reaching up to his neck as if checking for some....bite that might have caused such hallucinations. He couldn't remember being bitten.....he would have remembered that. His head shook ever so slightly in a small glimpse of disagreement, though truly he was attempting to simply piece together all that he had experienced the last few hours with the truth Matteo had offered him. The Frenchman, after all, had never once lied to him - not about this. "But....but I ate him," Tetradore uttered in a muffled murmur. "I ate Tobias.....if it wasn't him then who was it?" His glassy emerald eyes finally turned upwards towards Matteo - searching for answers for questions he hadn't known he'd had.