What he lacks in compassion, in kindness and empathy and everything good, she more than makes up for. It is the reason she had gotten herself into this terrible mess, the reason she had been such an easy, tempting target. It had never before occurred to her to think badly of anyone. She had not been able to imagine the terrible things that exist in this world.

Her mother had warned her of course. She had seen and she had known. But her mother sees everything. To Rapture’s youthful mind, her mother’s knowledge and power is both vast and nearly incomprehensible. Even her father holds her mother in awe (he doesn’t know she knows, but she sees things too, even if she doesn’t always understand them).

But this is too much, even for her boundless tolerance.

Ducking her head, she rubs her tear-streaked face against one knee, forgetting for a moment that she needn’t do so. That she has much more effective ways of stifling the terrible portrait she must make.Gentle and kindhearted she might be, but even young Rapture has her vanities. In that, Levi is most certainly not alone.

Blinking eyes the color of a wintry blue sky, Rapture avoids his gaze as she extends her sight and finds his. It is not often she has done this, and she barely resists the urge to apologize to him for her intrusion. Fortunately all it takes is a very simple tweak, one that hides her stained face, replacing it with the familiar blue and ivory features, soft and serene and quietly lovely. And entirely devoid of blemishes or signs of distress.

With a muted, shaky sigh she drags her reluctant gaze up to find his, earnestly searching his dual toned eyes before whispering, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” Dropping her gaze once more, she glances hastily away. “I can go if you want.”

She doesn’t wish to be alone, not now. Not with the memories tugging so adamantly at her soul. But she would leave if he wished. She has no desire to disturb him if he had come here to be alone.

there is a pulse that echoes of you and I

It hurts to feel this much, to know pain and suffering in the wake of kindness. It hurts to know the world is not what she had thought, not what she had expected. Perhaps it would be easier to feel nothing, to know little else but emptiness. The way that her heart squeezes now inside her chest cannot possibly be worse than the void of emotionlessness.

Alas, she is doomed to never know. Her sight might venture and seek and shift, but her heart would always be hers alone.

Never has it occurred to her though, that her small bit of meddling might anger him so. That he would prefer her face bloody and tear streaked, so much less than the delicate perfection it could be. But that is not what causes her wariness as he approaches, the way her head falls slightly, her shoulders hunching just a bit as though she is trying to hide from his advance. No, it is the memories that do that, the thought of cruel words and the striking thud of flesh against flesh. The bruises are not visible against the blue of her skin, but they are there, throbbing with memory as he comes closer.

She does not retreat though. Despite the mildness of her demeanor, the meekness of her words, there is bravery there. Deeply hidden, but bolstering her spine with steel. She is her mother’s daughter, after all. So she peers at him through her lashes, watching the way water sluices from the brown and white and black of his skin, the way his ears press against his crest, his eyes now blazing at her with fiery heat. She might be scared, but she is also curious. Faintly intrigued by the young stallion and his odd behavior.

Barely repressing the flinch, she holds herself still as he presses his lips unerringly to the small wound she hadn’t realized adorns her face. For a moment, she forgets to breath, a shudder passing along her spine as she presses her eyes closed. Her throat feel tight, the words stuck there until she abruptly draws in a sharp breath.

Swallowing, she opens her eyes again, peering at him with that pale blue gaze, notes of nervousness and curiosity and an innate warmth glittering there. Her mouth opens, closes, as she considers his words. The question that almost seems odd coming from him.

But he had asked her want she wants - such an easy question with an equally easy answer - so she puts shyness aside. He hadn’t moved away from her, and that is all the invitation she needs. Pressing closer, until blue nearly melds with bay, she places a hesitant touch against his neck, breathing in his warm scent heavily laden with the more earthy notes of the river. “I want a friend.” she finally replies, her voice nearly inaudible over the sounds of rushing water and the rustling of animals in the nearby trees.

there is a pulse that echoes of you and I

She cannot quite say how it is so, but she is suddenly very certain that he is not emotionless at all. That the cool unaffectedness he portrays is very much like her mother’s. Perhaps he does not feel like she does, perhaps the woes of the world cannot hurt his heart like it does hers, but he feels. And she would venture to guess he feels intensely. He just doesn’t wish to admit it.

It is the hazard of calling one like her friend. She is apt to see far more than might have been intended. With her ability to mold sight like clay comes a certain familiarity, a familiarity which allows her to pick up on things that others might miss.

She would never say such things, of course. Her natural discretion would never allow it. In that respect, she is very, very different from her parents. Her heart is too soft, too giving, too kind. She could never use what she has learned against others, not like they could. So even though she can almost feel his bewilderment, she does nothing more than tuck that small piece of information safely away, one small secret that would remain between them. Instead she presses close, freely sharing her warmth, heedless of the cool water dampening her coat where their skin meets. Instead she rubs her muzzle against his slick coat, the blue velvet tender as she gently caresses his darker skin.

She doesn’t say a word when he withdraws, pulling away without any response to her soft declaration. She hadn’t truly expected him to. She had no inkling of whether he truly wished to be a friend to her when she uttered the words, so she could not blame him if he chose to reject her offer.

When he doesn’t leave, she is slightly surprised, her wide, pale gaze following him to where he stops in a bright ray of sunlight. Instead of fleeing her good, if ill-thought, intentions, he only distances himself. As though he merely needs space to think. And maybe he does. She had been rather bold in her assertions.

After a moment of quietly considering him, she follows. Slipping alongside him, close but not touching, she allows the sun to warm her blue skin, to highlight the white lacing intricate patterns through the periwinkle. As she edges forward, she brushes her muzzle almost hesitantly along his shoulder, a silent inquiry. Finally, she murmurs, “You don’t have to say anything, but will you stay? Please?” The last is exhaled on a breath, more air than sound, as though she is afraid to ask it.

there is a pulse that echoes of you and I

When he doesn’t leave, doesn’t abandon her to her pain and loneliness, she can feel a faint joy, an optimism, stealing over her. A welcome warmth that floods her veins and brings just a hint of brightness to the blue of her features. And when he doesn’t withdraw again, doesn’t flinch from her hesitant touch, she is emboldened. A tiny flower seeking its ray of light, petals spreading, showing the truth of its beauty.

She is that flower and he the sun.

Not that she would ever say such things. She could never be so bold, not in word.

When his neck flexes, muzzle briefly touching the ridges of chest, she instinctively presses closer. Her lips trace from shoulder to neck, feeling the tenseness of the muscles there, the quiver of uncertainty. She rubs gently against the soft, sleek hair, as though her soft, unassuming touch could ease the strain and tension from his larger frame.

For a moment, just a moment, she is tempted to curl into him, to let her touch explore, to find the dot of red on his chest and rub it away. But she is not brave enough. Instead she remains silent, allowing her softer, smaller form to ease against him, inch by infinitesimal inch. A tender touch that seeks to do nothing more than offer solace and solidarity.

there is a pulse that echoes of you and I