[ laurent starts at the laugh — it comes unexpectedly, and he's unused to anyone doing such a thing around him. people in the palace know better. aspen does not, or just doesn't care. his hand freezes, still buried in feathers. winter feathers. he doesn't yet know how seasons work in stygia, but back in vere, the daylight will dwindle, the first snows powdering the grounds of the kingdom. he wonders if he'll ever see it again, and wonders if he should feel a bigger throb of emotion that he might not. ]
I don't mean to tickle you. [ his voice is honest, verging on uncertain. he doesn't mean to, truly. doing such a thing never even occurred to him. he removes his hands, only to find himself lacking warmth. aspen had called this his bad wing, said the sensation felt further away, so laurent reaches for the other, slowly, his fingertips grazing closer to his back. ]
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I don't mean to tickle you. [ his voice is honest, verging on uncertain. he doesn't mean to, truly. doing such a thing never even occurred to him. he removes his hands, only to find himself lacking warmth. aspen had called this his bad wing, said the sensation felt further away, so laurent reaches for the other, slowly, his fingertips grazing closer to his back. ]