A/N:
I'd like to dedicate this chapter to my dear friend and twinsie, ongreenergrasses,who has done more for me than I can ever thank her. The fact that I'm still writing as much as I am is all due to her and all the loveliness that comprises her.
In other news, my hiatus on this story is officially over. I'll be finishing up the plot and the final two prompts that I have and giving this an ending. After that, when I have time, I'm hoping to start taking prompts again. First, however, I have to finish up my other three or four stories, so it'll be a while.
The short horse picked his way through the last stretch of the mountain trail as he made his way back to Windless Shoal Stables. The muscles in his strong legs bulged and stretched with each step he took, carefully trying to avoid stepping on anything that would cause him to stumble. He was a smart horse who always paid attention to where he was going, but today he was carrying someone special, so he wanted to be sure of his footing. The stable owners hadn't even needed to discuss which horse would carry the sick child; John had been the first and only one considered.
John rather liked his tiny rider. The boy was gentle on the reins- barely even held them, really- let John have his head, and he sat easily, letting his body move the way John's was, instead of fighting against him the way most of his riders tended to do. It was a rare treat to have someone so good-natured on his back, so John did everything he could to make the ride go well- even went so far as to nicker at a small band of mustangs, entreating them to trot by so the little boy could see them. They'd been agreeable, as mustangs tend to be towards those who ask politely, and the gasp from above had been so genuine and full of awe, that for one beautiful moment, John hadn't felt the ache in chest.
Eventually, however, the stable came back into sight and the ride came to an end.
When they put him back in the wheelchair, the boy looked so small and frail, so lonely and broken, that John felt a sudden urge to shield him from the pain the boy was feeling. He wanted to lie down around his small body and comfort him. That would never be permitted, though, but still, the sadness was so deep in the young man that John knew he had to do something.
In the end, that something was nosing at the patch of blonde hair on his head and rubbing his cheek against the boy's. For a crazed moment, he smelled familiar, like the rush of adrenalin and a mask of indifference; there was a wildness in the face of a creature who ought to be innocent and awed, rather than jaded and cold. Just as quickly as it came, it was gone, and the boy was petting John's nose with cold fingers and a look of barely reined-in hope.
For someone who loved to be touched as much as John did, who reveled in the connection, the contact of human skin on his face after months of the absence of any was ecstasy; he shivered and sighed at the sensation of a heartbeat thrumming against his skin. It sent him into a state of being nearly hypnotized, lost as he was in the sheer, overwhelming life in the touches.
He was glad to wake up and see that the boy was gone. Such kindness was uncommon, and it would have hurt more than John could have borne to watch him go. He'd already lost two loves of his life, and as they say in America, "Three strikes, you're out."