[P] Don't let the colours fade to grey

[Bexley]

" BEXLEY BRIAR "

The day is heavy with sunlight and hot almost to burning, yet Bexley is comforted by the intensity of the summer growing around her. Splayed halfway into the water and halfway out, she stretches until her joints protest, then relaxes, resting her cheek against the warm sand that stretches for miles around her, auburn lashes drifting closed against the light with a lazy flicker before they settle. The bruise on her side, turned now to the sky, has ripened into its richest black, stark against the ochre of that previously flawless skin; the cut on her shoulder has darkened and scabbed, leaving a hard line slashed deep into layers of muscle.

Bexley’s body tingles with soft, black exhaustion. Slumped against the sand, clear water lapping at her hips, Bex lets out a sigh so heavy it rips through her lungs, frustration winding a slow, hot path through each muscle: why is she so lead-footed in this damn recovery, stapled to the dirt like she’s already a corpse? Her whole body aches, protests, crackles and pops when she moves, joints moving around in their sandy sockets. Her mane and tail are lazily wound up in two loose braids, strands falling against her cheek and legs to let sand trickle over her skin. Half-asleep, she doesn’t notice that one pale petal pushing against her leg, but of course her eyes snap open at the sound of a voice emanating from above her.

It’s familiar. More than familiar - Bexley has been hearing it in her dreams for days. Against the protest of her wounds, she rolls instantaneously to sit up on folded legs, heart pounding viciously in her chest, a flush of excitement (and anxiety) moving through her body as she whips to meet Florentine’s gaze. Hi - a moment passes in which, overwhelmed by surprise, eyes wide, she struggles to pick the right word - angel. A blush creeps into her cheeks, but she meets Florentine’s stare with affectionate and confidence. The flowers in Flora’s mane have wilted, and Bexley frowns as she notices, thinking of the one that had graced her hair not long ago, lamenting that her own home should have treated them so badly.

Uh, not… Bexley presses her lips into an uneasy line. But there’s no reason for her to lie, nor, really, any conceivable way to pull it off, so she wriggles to show Florentine the continental bruise, the stripe of congealed blood over her shoulder. No, but it’s not bad, at all. As she finishes speaking her inhale slows, a baited breath waiting in the curve of that slender throat, behind the golden chain that still presses gently against her skin.

@Florentine !!! 

love, space