His ears stand in opposite directions, one forward and one back, telegraphing the mixed emotions churning through his mind. He doesn’t like the way the Weaver’s eyes are wobbling at him, all bright and hopeful. He doesn’t like the way his little candied body practically vibrates with good cheer, all his annoyance and dislike instantly forgotten. He doesn’t like that there’s no expectation of dishonesty in those radiant features or knowing that the little stallions heart will be absolutely crushed when he doesn’t reciprocate on their “deal,” because that’s what he’ll do - isn’t it? No one in their right mind would expect otherwise but those little emerald eyes keep staring at him with unfettered trust.

It's like watching a newborn foal touch fire for the time, completely unaware that things in life can actually hurt, that it's not all loving mothers and protective fathers. Well, if the little pygmy gets disappointed it’s his own damn fault for being so naïve. Albrecht is simply doing him a favor; flicking him on the nose so that he knows to flinch when the real punches come. Better that he learn his lessons now than when real stakes are on the line... so why does it still feel like he's the bad guy here? Johnny's no foal to be coddled and guarded. He's a grown ass man. A grown ass man with pink highlights and ruby slipper hooves.

With a grunt and heave of effort the old stallion drags himself to his feet, a chorus of unpleasant creaks and snaps accompanying the movement. He flicks his tail back and forth in an effort to resume normal blood flow through his body, silently berating himself for letting the peppermint-ponys ridiculous exuberance infect him. His ass might never regain full feeling and he’s going to end up hobbling around like some geriatric pirate for weeks thanks to this little yoga session. He hopes the fucking scarf is worth it.

Snatching up the newly crafted item, he dares the Weaver to spew some new line of mindless pleasantry with an irritable glare before flipping the swathe of wool over his mane-less neck and contorting himself to lip at the loose ends until some miracle of physics organizes them into a rough knot at his chest. The soft material settles into folds around his withers and shoulder blades. “At least it isn’t hideous.” He mutters the words, unwilling to compliment, but not wanting to outright insult either. He likes the scarf and he wouldn't say he hates its maker either, but he’s been entirely too nice already and he won’t be responsible for harboring any misguided feelings of friendliness - in the Weaver, obviously.

“Have a nice life Candy-Man." He'd bound away if he was a spry young thing, leave no space for replies or questions, but old and broken as he is he just lugs along, wondering if there are any nooks or crannies left that the Weaver doesn't know - somewhere dark and quiet he won't be able to stick his stupid pink nose and make an old man hurt with guilt.


//

OOC: You can stop him or call something out, but I think he's pretty much done for now. Would love to thread with you and Johnny more though!