Rapture
somewhere between the sand and the stardust
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
