i got issues, you got ‘em too
so give ‘em all to me, and i’ll give mine to you
i got issues, and one of 'em is how bad i need you
The soundlessness of the shadows is too deep for the boy to call it Silence. The din of his own breathing, the grate of his hooves and the brush of his mane against the edge of his ears are sounds he has heard all his life and filtered out. Here in the blackness there is nothing but these self-made rackets and his senses hone in on them, clinging to the familiar in this otherworldly place.
Haunt’s whispers trigger a twitch in Misfit’s lips, a smirk, a snarl because the game is not the one he expects it to be. The echoless hushing of his own breathing slows and deepens, and the wall of blackness before his blue eyes becomes a chasm from across which a pair of golden eyes glow. It would be an offense to them both if he hesitated for a moment to try and reach those two pricks of eerie light. Shadows have closed around him before but the boy has never moved into them unguided. A few heedless steps are taken before it occurs to him that there may not be anything beneath his feet. Instinct stays his progress and Misfit paws at the darkness that falls—rests—beneath him. His hoof scrapes something before him and so another few steps carry him toward Haunt. They may hold their ground or disappear from him but the leggy mustang moves gracefully on.
When the two of them were small Misfit learned not to strain his eyes after the shape of Haunt when they are joined to the shadows. He would charge into the Taiga’s darkness to chase, or spar, or be ambushed but here in the void with no distant sunlight or break of trees to remind him he can flee back into the day, his pursuit of golden eyes is his sole objective.
If Haunt permits the boy to find them, he assures himself of the boundaries of the youth’s body, by pressing his mouth to whatever he is able to reach, tasting for the void of their pelt, pulling the mane, and the tail made of shadows through his lips. Misfit’s side presses against whatever he finds, keeping track of Haunt’s outline as he circles them. Their play has always involved an utter disregard for personal space but for Fit finds that he is paying careful attention to the texture and topography of his companion’s body, that the invisible planes, angles, subtle youthful curves stir a desire to linger rather than play or fight.
@[Haunt]