[open] most of us are heaving through corrupted lungs; any

[Fart]

Why did they allow it, allow him? Allow. That is all Fart could sum this up to, the others had allowed him this closeness, allowed him in their space. The fact that they wanted him to stay, that they would like that, the idea was lost on him. There had only ever been once other occurrence where someone wanted him around, liked him to be there. That was not here though, that was there, wherever there was. Fart wished he knew too, where that other place was because that is where Grumble could be found, that is where he was brave and smart and loved.

Here he’s not so sure. Of course they said they would like him to stay, where they just polite? Fart couldn’t blame them for not wanting to be rude and yet his ears perked just so atop his hairless head.While he is very hard on himself there is always that whisper in the back of his mind, that gentle caress of hope. And while he knew he should get them up he also couldn’t help but entertain that miniscule speck of, what if?

There he stood, bright and green and awkward between the two. He watched the grey from his muddy brown eyes, even seemed to perk when he mentioned how unique his name was, unique like him. Well, that was one way of putting it wasn’t it? Suppose it is the nicest thing someone has said to him in a long time, in this world, in Beqanna. “I guess it is. I guess I am. That’s a nice thing to say,” he admitted, not knowing how else to respond to a compliment. Maybe once, a long time ago, he had been taught proper manners, had been told to say thank you. One forgets so easily though, rules and replies are lost when not in practice and boy, he had been out of practice.

“Oh, I don’t know that there are many more, the girls. Not nice ones, most the time they run me off. They call me names but not the one I have.” It was both thoughtful and somber that admittance. While it was terrible truly to be picked on, to be cursed or bullied, Fart understood. He understood why they did it, he understood that he was ugly and smelly and small. Part of him was under the impression that it was normal treatment, because it was, normal, for him anyhow. “Lucky, yeah that’s me.” He thought that was a bit funny, he even laughed, a fleeting sound. Fart was nothing near lucky, never had been, not to his knowledge. This, this was likely the closest he could have claimed to be to luck, to having that fickle fiend in his grasp. “I’m not sure I believe in luck,” he commented off hand,  half-heartedly because he knew luck was too good to be true. Luck was something he had never had.

dont you know that youre toxic?

[Xylo]

Viva La Vida or Death and All His Friends

Lucky was a word Xylo hadn't given much mind to in a very long time. He supposed if he was being honest with himself, coming to Beqanna had been lucky for him. He was meeting people, he was attempting to move forward in his life. He was trying, to the best of his ability. He'd even taken refuge in the Tundra, which he was learning may have been more work and commitment than he initially expected. But he could not forget. He couldn't forget her faces..their faces. The life he'd had ripped away from him still burned in the back of his restless mind and that made him horribly unlucky. 

He looked rather genuinely in Adaline's direction as she spoke though, nodding along to her voice. Perhaps it was the fact that he felt almost comfortable, not threatened in the least. But Xylo found himself relaxing. His muscles, which had been tense under his thinning body, became softer. A breath escaped his muzzle that he hadn't realized he'd been holding in. It almost felt nice, to be standing and casaually interacting with others again. In his mind, Xylo cursed himself for being independent so long. Loneliness always took him down a winding trail of depression, a twisted path that left him empty with no hope of escaping. This time though, he had to climb out.   

Xylo offered a small chuckle when Fart spoke of girls running him off. Rather under his breath, and not particularly to the small group he added, "Women running men off is their speciality, don't take it personally." Of course, he could see how Fart would. But he was trying to add some humor to the conversation, however failed his attempt may have been.

The laugh that escaped the other stallions mouth as he spoke of luck startled Xylo. It was one of the more genuine noises brought into the conversation, and he found himself letting out a quick laugh himself. Luck wasn't real, but coincidence sometimes dealt you a lucky hand. This was his. Two other weirdos hanging out in meadow, no real rhyme or reason for being there and no real rhyme or reason to head home. Where or whatever that may be.

His gaze shifted back to Adaline, and he watched her with quiet admiration. The two creatures before him were unlike any he had ever seen. But the mare, she was still quite beautiful. His eyes were trained on her veins, and when he realized his gaze could be taken offensively he softly shook his head and broke the stare. Of course, it wasn't meant to be rude. He simply had never seen anything like her, and he was startled and intrigued by her, by both of them. A sideways smirk crept over his face, meant to dull any threat she may have felt if she caught him staring.

"I'm not sure I believe in much at this point...." He finally spoke, the silence sitting just a smidge too long, as per usual. "But whatever brought all three of us here, well I'm not terribly opposed to it."

Xylo

[adaline]

I'm wasted, losing time; I'm a foolish, fragile spine
I want all that is not mine; I want him but we're not right

Adaline was delicate, breakable, impossible.

She spent hours picking her way through the rocks to get to wherever she needed to go—her step always a question and not a statement. She lived each day with dreams thrumming in her heart that she was not sure she would ever fully embrace. It was difficult to dream of adventures and hunger for thrills when your body was not designed to carry them.

It left her hollowed out on more days then most, accepting her quiet fate.

So she would empathize with Fart if she could read his thoughts. She would understand the feeling of being an alien thing—unwanted in most situations. She would tell him of first interactions when the first look to flash on someone’s face was disgust, when they had to fight to hide it. She would tell him how that would sting, how it would drive a knife in her chest that she could not dislodge, could not breathe around.

She would tell him that her desire for him to stay was genuine.

But, of course, she does not know these things. Has no way of knowing his inner turmoil in the same way that neither stallion knows of hers. So instead she just continues to smile, following the conversation with a casual gaze, pale pink eyes flicking back and forth atop her head as they each spoke. It broke a piece of her heart to hear how the girls had treated him, but she didn’t speak just yet—instead watching Xylo.

There was something haunted about him, something she hadn’t noticed before. Perhaps none of them came to this conversation without their own ghosts and demons. It was somehow comforting to know that she was not alone in this. “Not luck then,” she said, perking up a little, “but something, and I am glad for it.” She glanced between the two of them, expectant. “So what should we do now? Surely, we should do something.” The sun was warming, the ground thawing. “It’s too pretty of a day to waste.”

in the darkness, I will meet my creators
and they will all agree that I'm a suffocator