The smell of his mane was wrong. The hints of armor polish and steel shavings and sweat were there, but his sweat was too sharp, too reminiscent of mushrooms and caves and dust. The hairs were too soft, and by the half-moon light the blues seemed a little too green, although it might have been the sleeplessness talking. His mane was all wrong, and she knew it, but Cadence still nuzzled into it, still drank in its scent greedily as she wrapped herself tighter around his broad shoulders. His mane was all wrong, but it was close enough, and she was all wrong, too. She had been for years now.
His breaths were wrong, too. The rythm of them was off, shallower and raspier than they should have been. The sleepy little murmurs came from too far up in the throat instead of the comfortable rumblings she remembered feeling in his warm, soft chest. But that was so long ago. Before... she banished the thoughts with a dark glower and took another defiant whiff of his mane. Wrapped herself more tightly against his solid, fuzzy warmth.
Tonight, under moonlight, he would be gone, the spell would be broken. The white fur would slip away into a black, fibrous exoskeleton, his voice would become many voices with taunting laughter and a sarcastic, fanged smile. That was part of their agreement.
And Cadence was just tired enough that she didn’t care anymore. That she couldn’t care anymore about what was wrong. She was just tired enough that it was almost real. It was close enough.