let’s be wildflowers
The edge of his lips quirk into a smile, as he turns back to the pegasus. And for one brief, quiet moment, he says nothing - only watches Andras clean the lens of his glasses, wiping away an unseen mote of dust with meticulous precision. "Perhaps," he concedes, with a short dip of his head. His wings flutter against the ground heedlessly, stirring fresh dust and dirt into the air.
Ipomoea has to concentrate to force himself to stop. Tucking his wings slowly back against his fetlocks, so tightly the bones begin to ache. And he can’t help but wonder, distantly, if Andras’ jaw ever feels this way when he clenches his teeth tight enough to break them.
"Oh?" he looks up in surprise from the bookshelf. For a moment Andras’ meaning is lost on him, but then like a fire roaring to life -
"Oh," he repeats, "Oh that’s fine, I’m sure no one minds it. I don’t." Another beat passes, and he tightens his wings again.
"It’s probably good actually, the library seems to get less and less use these days, after all…" he’s rambling, and he knows it, so he forces himself to stop. And smile. And breathe. And trail his eyes over the books again. Rinse and repeat, back and forth across the book titles as if he hasn’t already read them.
His wings are beginning to protest, so he relaxes them slightly, but somehow it only makes it worse. Tapping one hoof impetuously against the ground, he asks, "So. Enjoy your stay, Andras." And then with his book held tight to his chest, he turns back into the library.
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