_{Some say you're trouble, boy Just because you like to destroy All the things that bring the idiots joy} Well, what's wrong with a little destruction?

The dark prince ran; the dark prince panted; the dark prince nudged the rock endlessly, and he adored it. His sides heaved; flecks of foam began to form on the side of his mouth. He did not slow his pace. He ran, and it was the flight of his frivolity that gave him his strength—the grey-eyed colt feared that, if he slowed down, all these detestable would catch up upon him again. His frail and sickly heart, his trembling knees, the hiss of blood that rushed in his arteries with pained urgency—all these things he feared would drop from the sky as soon as he decided he was finished with his game, and once again he would be brittle and anemic, a useless vessel.

His eyes trained upon the rock; he saw nothing else. He followed it wherever he chose to send it, and even though sometimes it shot off into its own trajectory, he followed close behind with a single minded intensity that interested him. Surely afterward he would analyze this new feeling, this growing obsession that seemed to have sprung to life of its own accord; for now, he chases the rock. He does not waver from his devotion—and even when the flow of his game is seemingly broken by the sniffling, pompous words of an annoyed little thing that cast the stone aside, Reginald does not register this thing passed a noisy, messy snort of impatience as he shifts his movements to further follow the rock’s progress. He does not know where it goes—he follows it regardless.

The rock is stopped—then returned to the grey-eyed prince. Only then does he tear his gaze from the make-shift ball to see a boy who towers over Reginald in a shower of black and crimson sparks. A daft moment of confusion and subsequent rage for the interruption of his game commences—then, almost at once, the flames of hatred die out indeed. There in the shadow boy’s lustrous sapphire eyes blaze the same feverish desire for the ball’s movement that Reginald himself had felt moments ago—and in the recognition, the dark colt feels himself fall into the pit of his frenzy again, for it is seductive to him, and he cannot resist. He does not want to.

On a whim, he follows the movements of the trotting black colt before bending down and nudging the ball powerfully, aiming it for the black-and-red colt’s possession. He follows behind before his body fails momentarily; he must slow his pace to a spirited walk, for his breath comes in heaves and he has started to sweat underneath the thickness of his winter coat. He does not mind these things; his eyes are alight with excitement as the ball approaches the black colt. “To the water!” he calls, demands, but the demand is tempered by the exhilaration in his voice; he urges the colt to shoot the ball into the gurgling creek that lays beyond them, nestled within the glowing nest of the lush underground forest, while Reginald catches his flyaway breath. In an aimless game, the grey-eyed prince has decided there is now an aim—and the ball must make it into the water.


"talk talk talk"