L'Appel du Vide (Nocebo Effect P3)

he would rather ride dallon than these horses

I awake to a slap, but it's definitely not a slap in human form, so I know that I haven't done something to offend my companion. It's some sort of clothing material, but I'm too damn lazy to unlatch my lids and see what it really is, so I only coast back into the beautiful sleep of Sunday morning and assume that what has struck me is either the sheets or my own disfigured limb now resembling the surface of textiles. It doesn't matter. I'm fucking tired.

"Brendon!" Dallon calls, annoyed with my sluggishness.

Okay, so maybe those materials smiting me weren't either of those aforementioned things, and maybe Dallon needs me for something, and maybe I'll completely flop at it, but who really gives a shit? This is Bordeaux, where I'm snagging my second chance and Dallon is snagging his third, so really I can do whatever the hell I want, and I can do it with him by my side.

Nevertheless, I'm exhausted from the plane flight and from the dinner situation and from what succeeded that dinner situation, in addition to staying up most of the night to think about them as I reeled in brief flickers of Dallon's hidden figure in the other bed, chest reaching and collapsing like an ocean wave and just as alluring, so I have no intentions of rolling from my mattress to actually do something.

But Dallon has been so kind to me since I met him again, especially for someone trying to figure out something as simple as who he is, and I should cut him some slack for that, because he certainly isn't being treated very generously judging from yesterday's ghastly events, so I grant at least a bit of the drawbridge to shuffle down.

I finally glimpse him now, standing at the base of my bed with his hands rooted on his hips, though my vision is partially shielded by the apparent horseback riding pants Dallon has tossed at me for whatever reason. Shouldn't he know that I'm a failure at most sports? My coaches even told me that I should stick with academics and never placed me in games for the rest of the season. Riding is the most dangerous out of all of them, though I haven't attempted to be a professional at it, but I haven't attempted at all, so I could fucking fall off of the horse or something.

"Please get dressed," Dallon commands, peeling back the covers blanketing my chilled body to speed up my awakening. "We're going horseback riding."

As I spill onto the hardwood floor, I notice that he's donning the same pants he threw at my fucking face, in addition to a loose white shirt like it's the godforsaken nineteenth century or some funky French shit, and he looks bloody fantastic in it, I must admit, though that's not so much my forte.

"You can stick with your Deadpool t-shirt, Brendon," Dallon permits, a minuscule chuckle singeing his tone as if my comfort is a joke, because in all honesty this shirt is an amazing clothing article for practically anything, despite it looking outwardly unprofessional. You can wear it anywhere, even horseback riding. Does Dallon not comprehend this?

Maybe he does. He's probably just trying to give me something cozy to die in when I fall off of the horse. Fair enough, I suppose. At least he's considerate.

~~~~~

The murky smell of the stables alone is enough to repel me, and I contemplate turning back and, but I'm already stuffed tightly into these horrific pants (which he calls jodhpurs, as if that makes any sense), and Dallon is gripping my hand with a fervor that suggests he's never going to let me go, and I think I kind of enjoy holding his hand, even through the dirty walkways and the humming flies and the cackling horses whom I'll be required to trust in order to ride them, though it doesn't appear that they're disposed towards trusting me.

I'm freaking out about simply touching a horse, whereas Dallon is completely calm as he strolls through the stables collecting carrots for the animals to nibble on with his palm extended flat and gathering the rough whiskers and the oral bacteria of his so called furry friends. I follow closely behind him for fear of being harmed by these creatures but never mentioning my phobia of them, because Dallon would obviously say I'm being childish. Some people would label them gentle giants, but they're wriggling their heads all around and flaring their enormous nostrils and pounding the door with their rock hard hooves, so they don't really seem so gentle anymore.

On one hand, I had prayed that Dallon wouldn't acknowledge my struggles and call me a wimp, but on the other hand, I just want to be free of this equine hell. Neither of those things happen, because Dallon does acknowledge my struggles, but he doesn't do a single about them besides clap me on the shoulder and drill a familial glance at me to continue on with what he wants to do, not what I want to do.

And I can't really blame him, because he's been serving the whims of his old friends ever since he got back from the falsified grave or whatever it was that he was doing for a month afterwards, and he deserves something pleasurable of his own, but I'm fucking suffering over here. If he wanted, I could just watch him ride from the sidelines like a soccer mom, and he'd be soaking up the fun of riding without worrying about picking up his dying friend after they tumble from the horse (it's just a matter of time really).

However, he does not allow me such a dignity, as he's guiding me towards a horse name Amorette, which I spy from the label near her door, whose coat is as slick and white as the advancing snow. "Little love," Dallon whispers, glancing over at me with the sweetest adoration I've ever seen in my life, and with a leap of courage I never knew I could muster, I stretch to stroke her, and it's not nearly as terrifying as I thought it would be, which is only partially a relief, because the most difficult part is riding her, and I haven't approached that yet.

"I've already tacked her when I visited the stables before you were awake, so she's all ready for you to ride."

To an experienced rider, this is a benevolent gift bestowed upon them so that they may indulge in more time with their lovely horse with whom they share an inseparable bond. To me, that just means there's a larger span of time where I can die. Dallon doesn't understand this like he understands most other things, though this is the one thing he needs to know, and he doesn't fucking know it, so there he is, leading Amorette out of her stall and brashly hoisting me onto her by grabbing my fucking knee and pushing my body towards the saddle, which surprisingly isn't tilting to one side until I cascade to the stone flooring.

Next is Dallon's horse, a stunning mare named Lourdes whose ebony coat is inconsolably stark against Amorette's alabaster fitting, and after he mounts the majestic steed, everything is proceeding so rapidly against my vision.

"Squeeze your legs into the horse to get it moving," Dallon instructs, head angled only slightly backwards to observe my trials.

To my astonishment, my horse and my skills are actually functional, and soon I'm walking through the grass towards the riding ring, where I will meet my doom, but maybe my doom has nice hair and I can learn from it while I'm cascading into the underworld.

My mind should be on fire, yet it is not, for whatever deluded reason. I'm settled into the saddle, absorbing my surroundings, which include the elegant posture of Dallon Weekes, who is somehow assured that I'm doing well behind him. That's a bit of a misconception, but at least Amorette's mouth isn't glued to the grass like I've seen in beginner classes, and at least I haven't poured to the ground yet.

Dallon glides through the gate and into the sand-filled arena (I'm calling it an arena because that's where gladiators die, and though I'm not a gladiator, I'm going to die here), and he instantaneously employs a steady trot around the border, expecting me to follow when all I can do is walk and pretend like I'm not caving in. He bounces up and down in his saddle to the rhythm of the trot, and I try my best to imitate it.

"It's called posting!" Dallon yells, now on the opposite end of the ring. "Squeeze your horse and do it yourself!"

I attempt to heed his advice, though unsuccessfully. It is only with the mighty fruits of being a bottom that my leg eventually inform my horse that it's time to trot, and soon I'm up and down just as Dallon is.

My companion mails a smile to me, as broad as his horse's obsidian flank, and it's now evident that he actually believes in me and isn't here solely to watch me fail at something he's been training in for his entire life, because I'm actually gaining skills at it.

Maybe this isn't so bad after all.

~~~~~

A/N: remember when I tried to use musical notes in UCDF

yeah well I obviously abandoned that....too much work for a suffering writer....

aesthetic: my brother telling me I shouldn't eat too much of something or else I'll get fat when he literally ate that entire pack in one day why is he like this

~Dacalories