let me whisper in your ear, star pony

[isakov]

throw me in the water, don’t think about the splash i will create
leave me at the altar, knowing all the things you just escaped

He is oblivious there in the dark.
Oblivious to the way the stranger looks at him. Oblivious to what he sees when he does. Oblivious to what has spawned the anger with which the winged stallion addresses him when he finally approaches.

And Isakov looks up at the older stallion then, caught thoroughly off-guard by his ire. He casts a glance around into the darkness that surrounds them, as if the stallion is addressing someone else. Someone else he had not seen lurking in the shadow.

But it is just the two of them there and the stranger is asking what he is rather than who he is, which feels strange. A much harder question to answer, the boy realizes, and blinks those golden eyes in thought. There had been something in the asking, though, that left him feeling like the question was mostly rhetorical.

It is confusion, more than fear, that the boy regards the older stallion with. His head, all painted in galaxies, tilted as he studies the expression. He does not know what he has done to deserve this vitriol, this pointed sneer.

“I am Isakov,” he says, though it comes out sounding like a question. Because of course he is Isakov. Of course he is no one else. Of course he is not her. “I do not recall claiming to be anyone else.”

isakov