It’s strange for Braemar to see Fletch here. Something about the red bastard just doesn’t look right against the backdrop of the islands, as if he’s a ghost come to haunt Braemar from the afterlife. Fletch belongs back home, in the real world -- not here, in what is either Braemar’s personal heaven or hell (he hasn’t decided yet which it is yet). Despite the surreal quality of this encounter, however, it’s certainly not boring, as things never are with Fletch. Braemar finds himself laughing as Fletch returns his playful bite, and pivots on the spot to watch as his friend circles him, but this laughter quickly dies as Fletch’s playful demeanor suddenly becomes alarmingly serious.
Braemar’s stomach goes cold with dread and for a moment he thinks Fletch has come to confront him about What Happened. He dodges Fletch’s question, leaning away with a nervous smile twitching across his lips when his friend leans in close to express concern that Brae isn’t sure is genuine. Normally he can read Fletch so well - they’ve always been too similar for their own good, after all: practically two peas in a pod - but something is off about the energy Fletch is radiating.
“The fuck you on about, mate?” Braemar mutters, his ears flicking uncertainly atop his head. But then Fletch is spinning away, the playful grin back on his face, and all normality is restored. Braemar shakes off the brief moment of doubt that had paralyzed him and offers Fletch a wicked smile in return, picking up his feathered feet and lurching into a slow jog across the meadow after his friend.
“Well where ye goin’ then, ya prick? Come an’ kick me arse, big man!” Braemar shouts after Fletch, wheezing in laughter when Fletch nearly runs into some bewildered stranger. “You ain’t changed a lick, Fletch! Still as big a dumbass as ever. Looks like it’ll be me kicking yer arse this time!”
And with that, Braemar gathers his weight beneath him, rocking on his dappled hindquarters to lift in a half-rear and strike out with one foreleg at Fletch’s shoulder. His effort is half-hearted and mostly for show, however, for Fletch is much quicker on his feet than Braemar is, so Braemar doesn’t expect his blow to land. Yet the fierce smile on his face sharpens into a grimace as he falls back toward the ground, and the moment hooves hit the earth he barrels forward, pressing in as close to Fletch as he can until the smell of his friend is thick in his nostrils, his teeth bared and ready to snap at whatever inch of the stallion is in reach.
Finally, all is right with the world.
(ooc: since fletcher won their dice roll battle, I’m cool if you wanna say fletch thrashes him in your reply. braemar is out of shape from his island vacation lmao)
5; highland pony; dapple gray; 14.0hh |
