Weariness begins to tug at his eyelids, a heavy weight that settles over his aching body. The afternoon sun is curtained by the dense expanse of forest that surrounds the creek, and the sounds of trickling water murmur a lullaby. Perhaps, were the weather warmer and the circumstance different, it’d be pleasant here—somewhere to come and spend a quiet day in the peaceful company of a lover.
Presently, it taunts him, reminds him he no longer has someone to curl up against in rest. Sleep had always come easier when he had someone to hold him, a distraction from the anxiety that bubbled up in the shadow of night. He had always had someone, be it his mother, whose mane he’d tug on as a foal when storms would wake him; Alek, who helped him escape the realities of his life when he felt trapped; Lepus, who’d sing him to sleep when his mind was too loud; a client, who helped him forget the trauma; or Aion, who had always been there to kiss away the tears from his cheeks. Now, he’s never felt more alone.
Sometimes, when he’s blessed with a dream and not a nightmare, he thinks he can almost feel the warmth of his mate against his back. On those nights, he wills himself to stay asleep as long as possible before the sun tears open his eyes and yanks him from the comfort of his reverie. And then, he’s off again on his search. Today, it was harder to get up, and he’s feeling drained even earlier than usual; he wonders why. He’s almost too fatigued to notice another horse approaching.
He blinks his eyes a few times, trying to clear the grogginess that has burred his vision. The horse is white, like him, with hints of gold. But he’s taller, and has a mane, and antlers, and wings, too. Eros supposes the stallion is a prettier version of what he might’ve looked like.
“Waiting for someone?,” the man asks. Eros wonders if he is waiting; he thought for sure he was looking. Waiting implies passivity—looking implies initiative, right? The question almost makes him feel guilty for stopping to rest, but the wave of lightheadedness that rushes over him silences that thought.
“Waiting, I guess, and looking, but I haven’t had any luck. What about you?”
@isorath
it's def not terrible!!
sorry i took so long, i'm hoping to write at least a reply a week from now on! ;u;
Presently, it taunts him, reminds him he no longer has someone to curl up against in rest. Sleep had always come easier when he had someone to hold him, a distraction from the anxiety that bubbled up in the shadow of night. He had always had someone, be it his mother, whose mane he’d tug on as a foal when storms would wake him; Alek, who helped him escape the realities of his life when he felt trapped; Lepus, who’d sing him to sleep when his mind was too loud; a client, who helped him forget the trauma; or Aion, who had always been there to kiss away the tears from his cheeks. Now, he’s never felt more alone.
Sometimes, when he’s blessed with a dream and not a nightmare, he thinks he can almost feel the warmth of his mate against his back. On those nights, he wills himself to stay asleep as long as possible before the sun tears open his eyes and yanks him from the comfort of his reverie. And then, he’s off again on his search. Today, it was harder to get up, and he’s feeling drained even earlier than usual; he wonders why. He’s almost too fatigued to notice another horse approaching.
He blinks his eyes a few times, trying to clear the grogginess that has burred his vision. The horse is white, like him, with hints of gold. But he’s taller, and has a mane, and antlers, and wings, too. Eros supposes the stallion is a prettier version of what he might’ve looked like.
“Waiting for someone?,” the man asks. Eros wonders if he is waiting; he thought for sure he was looking. Waiting implies passivity—looking implies initiative, right? The question almost makes him feel guilty for stopping to rest, but the wave of lightheadedness that rushes over him silences that thought.
@isorath
it's def not terrible!!
sorry i took so long, i'm hoping to write at least a reply a week from now on! ;u;
