It was not an unfamiliar action, for the pair of them to dissolve into this mess the moment there were walls between them and the rest of the world. With the smell of death and battle still clinging to their skin, waiting to be replaced by a new set of scents.

A rush of air left Tybalt's lungs when he was slammed into the wall, cut off an instant later by insistent and determined teeth and lips. He hissed as blood escaped the fresh wound on his lips, but all the fire that had been boiling away in his blood bled now into this and he met the kiss with the foil to Bran's dark disconnect.

Fire and hunger and life flooded through the cat and he aimed all of it right back at the other warrior pinning him to the wall. His hands found armor ties and fastens with quick efficiency, tugging and twisting at them, shoving heavy pieces of that shell casing his friend away and fighting back against the kiss, welcoming the taste of his own blood on his tongue.

This was what he needed. A direction, an outlet for the burning fire of instincts and the blood on his hands, his blade, his conscience. He threw himself into it, more than happy to provide the life and the fire to warm Bran from the chill of death that clung to him. Fire and Ice colliding in a clash of teeth and tongues and persistent, quick fingers.