The rain practically slicked their usually proud and full hair against their skull, cascading down their back in long, white clumps of drenched tendrils. All their feathers were drenched as well, showing just how thin the hollow was under all the volume the feathers provided. They were beginning to get anxious, feeling that perhaps, the other would not respond and ignore them as more time stretched on. It drew out their sorrow and the wings drooped, was it all irredeemable? They were about to return to third when wind tugged at the sopping feathers, urging them in. The long feet were over the line, padding over the soaking ground and dipping passed buildings to find the larger hollow. There was joy in the Principal’s chest, warm and filling the hollow hole– like when they fed until full, hearing their Muse’s voice or acting on carinal desires.
It felt wonderful, it felt fixed, and it had them tuck themselves under the offered arm, the mask’s bill rubbing against the other’s side in a low trill reminisce of gale winds. The hollow suddenly shook rapidly, trying to get the heavy water out of their feathers, splattering the droplets around before going back to rub the beak against Beast’s side and preen themselves between these motions.
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2087
