Grey tufts, white feathers, black downy.
Your hand follows the curve of memorized figure, a caress that has simply become second nature in recent weeks. Unpolished nails trail up the length of his spine, a dip flowing up into a thin trail between shoulder blades. Itβs funny, how well you know this form before you, how well-acquainted you have become, every question you once coveted within the crevices of your mind now laid out with answers a-plenty.
You were, or we suppose, are the princeβs friend, that is simply the truth. You have become something of a comfort to him, someone he can run to when he needs to feel, and while such a relationship has always left you questioning the authenticity of what you have built this connection upon, you cannot argue that it has not blossomed into something positively enchanting.
The bite of guilt seems more like an illusion, each night you venture near his bedside, a coy, knowing smile playing across your lips, equally returned as darkened talons clasp your tender hands. You could repeat this dance over and over, and you will. Even if you know it never fixes anything for your friend, only granting him a moment of ecstasy, a high that strips him free of all his doubts, worries and responsibilities. And once itβs over he can revel in carefree bliss, only for the world to come upon him like a weighted blanket, dragging him down with all its nonsense β for that is simply what the world has become.
Is it a blessing? That you can bring him this gift, this thimble of poison that leaves him begging for more? Are you cursed with knowledge now, knowing the Prince of Goteia in such curious ways that simple conversation concerning his name brings you to blush?
But he wouldnβt have it any other way, yes, he. For even if you second guess yourself, even if you succumb to your doubts, he knows that you wonβt leave him. Perhaps that is why he rests in such peaceful slumber at your side, his body dwarfing yours in size, arms draped across your shoulders. Yes, this is forever.