There was no one else currently in his life that Zevulun would rather have had lying close to him, sharing their warmth, as he spoke the troubled worries he held away from those around him than Larka. Despite the complications in their friendship, the strained quiet they danced around in on nimble hooves, as though afraid to break through the thin ice of what lay over so many conflicting emotions, Larka was here. She listened quietly as he spoke, offered sympathy in her kind eyes and in the soft touch as she placed her dark lips on his salt-tear streaked cheeks. His heart ached and warmed, all the same, both wanting her more than ever and happy to at least have a close friend in her as he did.
His pink-lined ears flicked, trained on her as her soft voice broke through the quiet that had followed his confession. He knew she was right, despite the shame and anxieties trying to pry at his mind and tell him otherwise. Everything he felt he should have done, all the arguments he could have had, died on his tongue the longer he held Larka’s silvery blue eyes with his. Emotion rose back up in his throat, made it feel tight. He swallowed, working through it, and let out a slow, long release of breath that swirled around them both in a soft, semi-translucent cloud.
“Thank you, Larka. You’ve been…” he wanted to say she’d been one of his closest friends, but the words stalled. His heart waged war against it. He didn’t want her to be only a friend to him. But he could see the exaggerated curve of her belly, and so he continued, “... one of my closest confidants.” The burning ache of wanting more was so familiar by this point he only swallowed back against it and admitted in a softer voice, “I know you’re right… I know you are. I’m sure eventually my heart will catch up and believe you too.” Zevulun offered her a small, wry grin at that.
Then, a heavy heart still seeking comfort, he reached for her neck and brushed his lips down her pale, gray skin, letting himself have this. This quiet moment that was only theirs, lying in the small clearing among the leaves in the cold, all the eyes of the world closed to them, his heart laid bare and her gently holding it for him, offering him comfort in a moment he didn’t think he deserved. His pale lids closed, white lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks, and then they closed tighter as he leaned more into her length, wanting more of his pale skin pressed up against hers. He breathed a low, shaking breath against her skin - he still hadn’t pulled his face away - and brushed at the length of her ink-blank mane. Every breath he took tasted, smelled like her, and after such an emotional turn of events, Zevulun let himself have it.
“I’m so glad you’ve stayed here with me.” Not just in this clearing. Not just today. He breathed another warm breath, and made sure she knew, too. “I know this is your home,” and that was likely the main reason she had remained here; Zevulun had always said the Prairie was hers before it was his, “but it’s meant a lot to me just to have you here.”
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