Cardboard Box Syndrome

It's not kindness with which he rakes his claws along the cement of the city which restricts the nature he loves more. It is not kindness with which he bares his teeth beneath that polite smile, whomever he's speaking with none the wiser of how close they've come to being bitten or stabbed or scraped by his barbs.

He's not kind. Not even slightly. He is distant, he is contemplative, and he is overwhelmingly wonderful. But kind, he is not.

It's why Apollo cherishes most the trust he places in his hands.

When Snufkin is alone with Apollo, he doesn't bother sheathing those claws and fangs of his. He lets himself be as jagged and sharp as he always is, just without the coating over it for the sake of being overlooked. His smiles are cunning and full of teeth, his disdain is on full display, and he confides all of this in Apollo.

This isn't a kindness given to Apollo, this allowing of him to see past that distance he puts between himself and most of the world. It may not be a kindness, but it is trust.

It is the truth.

Whether Snufkin knows this or not, it's the kindest thing he could have ever offered Apollo. He doesn't lie to make himself palatable to Apollo. He also never asks Apollo to make himself palatable in turn.

They know one another better than anything else they could know. They are the same, after all.