11-11-2019, 12:53 PM
‘I have dreamt of you often,’ Aegean says, and Pteron sighs. A little louder and it might have been a swoon, but the tobiano keeps his balance, drinking in the antlered stallion as though parched for the sight of him. And he had been, Pteron can admit to himself. Finding him again is like finding a coldwater spring after ten miles of summer scrubland; a long draught is the very smallest thing he needs. He would recognize the expression on his face were he able to catch his reflection: a stunned sort of satisfaction. It’s what Pteron enjoys eliciting in others; making them stumble over their words, flattered and dazed in equal parts. Yet Aegean has done nothing but smile and speak to him of dreams.
“I sometimes think you are a dream,” Pteron admits to the other stallion. “I worry you might turn back to a star, might return to the sky.” How else to explain the way Aegean glows even on this sunless winter afternoon, the way his eyes are every shade of purple at once and yet one single perfect color. There’s even a glow about him, Pteron thinks, that makes the hair along his spine stand on end when he takes a step nearer. He seems as ethereal as the ghost Pteron had been playing at, just as likely to disappear in a blink, carried away on a puff of snow.
Yet warm clouds of mist rise from his pale mouth, as visible as those from Pteron. A creature of flesh and blood after all, and he almost reaches out to confirm, but instead settles for watching the way their steaming breaths catch and mingle as they rise. He does not want to shatter the illusion, to break Aegean into the several thousand bits of stardust that Pteron is still half-sure he really is. The thought of him shattering keeps him distant, yet his olive eyes caress each smooth curve and follow each hard line of the overo in front of him.
There is something almost painful about the way he feels near Aegean, like his chest is just a little too tight to breath, like his breaths are just a little too short. He inches closer, curious despite himself, and finds that his pulse races just a little faster with less space between them.
“Or perhaps you are the sun,” he says quietly, watching the snow settle on the stallion’s white skin and disappear. “Even when I close my eyes, I still see you.”
@[aegean]
“I sometimes think you are a dream,” Pteron admits to the other stallion. “I worry you might turn back to a star, might return to the sky.” How else to explain the way Aegean glows even on this sunless winter afternoon, the way his eyes are every shade of purple at once and yet one single perfect color. There’s even a glow about him, Pteron thinks, that makes the hair along his spine stand on end when he takes a step nearer. He seems as ethereal as the ghost Pteron had been playing at, just as likely to disappear in a blink, carried away on a puff of snow.
Yet warm clouds of mist rise from his pale mouth, as visible as those from Pteron. A creature of flesh and blood after all, and he almost reaches out to confirm, but instead settles for watching the way their steaming breaths catch and mingle as they rise. He does not want to shatter the illusion, to break Aegean into the several thousand bits of stardust that Pteron is still half-sure he really is. The thought of him shattering keeps him distant, yet his olive eyes caress each smooth curve and follow each hard line of the overo in front of him.
There is something almost painful about the way he feels near Aegean, like his chest is just a little too tight to breath, like his breaths are just a little too short. He inches closer, curious despite himself, and finds that his pulse races just a little faster with less space between them.
“Or perhaps you are the sun,” he says quietly, watching the snow settle on the stallion’s white skin and disappear. “Even when I close my eyes, I still see you.”
@[aegean]
-- pteron --