Meadow

fearghas

In the wake of the renewed threat of Cullen's interference, Fearghas couldn't stop thinking about Varanduil. Not only because he felt as though they were tied together in some strange fashion, their souls linked in ways that Fearghas could not begin to describe, let alone understand, but because he had worried for his brother. Cullen had not explicitly stated where his information had come from, but the spotted stallion could not help but fret over Varanduil being the source of this knowledge.

Not by choice, of course. Fearghas had long since decided to trust his golden brother, which included trusting that he would not divulge the Savanna or its contents to the Lagoon boss. But Cullen's threat had not come out of nowhere.

And Fearghas would not rest until he knew Varanduil was safe.

So when he finally laid eyes upon his golden brother, whole and unharmed, peace had filled him and spawned the smile that had stretched across his lips. As it became more clear, however, that not all was well, it faded just as quickly as it had come. Concern etched itself back across his face, drawing his brows together until they nearly touch in worry. There are not marks on his golden friend that he can see, but he checks again, drawing to the side to rake his handsome body in an appraisal. It is only then that he notices the subtle hollows between his ribs, camouflaged by the dapples that have grown dark and hazy from neglect. His mane, so pale and creamy that Fearghas has often wondered what it might be light to grab it between his teeth and taste, is dull and listless against his neck. Even his eyes, bright and intelligent with a wit so quick that Fearghas often felt three steps behind, are shrouded by confusion, their clear depths obscured by an internal haze.

It worries him more than he can name, but not nearly as much as the blank, blissful non-recognition that his brother offers. As if he existed in some other place, a parallel world right next door, so close that one could slip back and forth at will. It is only when Fearghas's inquiry pierces the bubble that Varanduil reacts, the dullness receding slightly from his beautiful brown eyes.

They stand eye to eye, face to face, and Fearghas holds his breath. There is something beautifully intimate in the moment's passing, an acknowledgment of himself that he'd been neglecting. As much as he cared for Ally -- and he did so immensely -- there would always be a part of him that was drawn to Varanduil. That felt tied to his beautiful golden brother, even when his morality (or lack thereof) threw their relationship into question. Even when their continued… meeting or dalliance or friendship… meant danger for both of them. He could not shake whatever it was that kept drawing them together.

He stands quietly as Varanduil reaches for him, and ducks his head obligingly, his gaze never dropping. Enraptured, Fearghas watches as Varan licks the sea salt from his forelock, blushes as his breath rolls over his face, and has an unsettling urge to do the same in return. To press his lips against some part of Varanduil, to claim him in some way. It is such a mild gesture the dappled boy makes, hardly sensational or sensual, and yet it feels personal, as though in it's doing, the spotted stallion could no longer hide the part of himself that brought his mind back time and time again to these small moments.

He draws a ragged breath in, his cheeks flush with something he cannot name but has certainly felt at least twice before. Even when the words force themselves out of his tight throat, they are low with some unspoken desire he cannot begin to name. "What face d'ye want me to make then?"

The words have hardly left his mouth before Varanduil is pulling him close, wrapping his too-thin neck around Fearghas' too-high withers. With a tremble he cannot quite suppress, born of a year's worth of pent up stress and emotion, Fearghas trails the mottled skin of his muzzle along those exposed ribs. Traces his too-thin sides, where Varanduil's neglect has grown obvious. Rubs gently against the whalebone ridge of his shoulders and then pulls his golden brother roughly against him until their bodies align tautly side by side, shoulder to shoulder.

"Varan," he begins huskily, choosing to ignore Varanduil's attempt to pushing the focus away from his condition. He tries again, shortening the nickname he'd christened him with so many months ago as if trying to remove any semblance of distance between them. "V, what have ye done? Come home with me."

He pauses for a moment, his brow still tangled in a cloud of emotion too complicated to unravel. "I miss you." He tries again, pressing the broad span of his head against Varanduil's shoulder, his voice dropping to little more than a whisper. "I need ye."

stallion . 3 years . 16.1 hands . smoky black blanket . loveinspired . credit