I should have loved a thunderbird instead
at least when spring comes they roar back again
It never once crosses Aegean’s mind that Pteron might read his words as a rejection. It never occurs to him that the other could possibly mistake the ache in his chest that spreads low and slow like wildfire as anything but what it is, anything except the want that he does not yet understand, cannot define. It feels so clear to him—feels so undeniably pure and right—that there is no other viewpoint, no other explanation.
So while the other stallion simmers in the feeling of heartache, Aegean feels quite the opposite.
His purple eyes study Pteron, mesmerizing the way that he has grown—the strength of him and the kindness of his eyes, that joy that somehow always sparks just below the surface. There is so much of him that he has yet to discover and although there is a greedy part of him that pushes for more, he restrains himself. There is beauty in the slowness, he thinks. Beauty in the build, in the tension, in the want.
Pteron’s word cause a slight glow to warm within him, as if he has swallowed his own illusions, and he closes his eyes for a moment to savor it—his lips turning upward. The other’s breath fans across his cheek and he feels the way that the hairs move in response, ruffling just so beneath the quiet movement of air.
When he does open it, his gift reaches for the snowdrifts around them, letting the snowflakes fall to the ground with a loud splash. He hums underneath his breath as he continues to weave the world to his own pleasure, turning the snow into a low, dense fog—supernatural in the way that it crowds around them, weaving between them. Soon, he pulls in the dull crash of waves and the smell of saltwater and brine.
It is the Cove and the memory is such a beautiful one that he crafts each and every detail with care.
The fog crowds them both, muffling the rest of the kingdom until it is just the two of them, and his eyes clear slightly when he is content with his creation. “I remember,” he breathes, glancing around them at the place where they had met in his childhood home, brought to life in the place that should have been.
“I remember thinking I had never seen anything more beautiful.”
A smile, a breathy laugh.
“If only I could have known how beautiful you would become.”
He considers reaching out, indulging, but the self-control in the face of such want is a heady thing—
and he restrains.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead
(I think I made you up inside my head.)