[Although he's thoroughly exhausted from the entire ordeal, he does shiver and hiss at the sudden chill. His fever has broken and it isn't long before he feels quite cool, despite feeling dangerously high mere seconds before. Now that the wings were no longer roaming under his skin, his body had nothing left to fight. He wondered if the difference he felt in the other boy due to his own perception or if he was going to be sick too.
Shoot opens a bleary eye to watch him, tiredly, from under the slicked-down mop of dirty blond hair, before giving a little nod to confirm he's alright, he's breathing, (no, he will not scream again), reaching back to feel what soaked in the pooling water behind him, slowly, fearfully. The slightest brush and he recoils, before trying again. The bristles cling together, sliding on his wet fingers, but they feel smooth and velvety nonetheless. He thinks of flapping his wings and shifts his shoulders, but they don't move significantly. A pity.
The blood flushing down the drain, his wings were closer to grey now, although there's still a great deal of blood trapped between the feathers, discolouring them in patches. Still, they're far less shocking than the sight from earlier.]
... that's... how they come in?
[He can speak clearly enough now, only slowly. He looks up at the older boy, now bringing his hand to push back his unevenly-cut hair from his blue eyes, sharply scrutinizing, searching, memorizing. Craning his neck to get a better look at his face, to try and learn his features, he exposed the red bruise on his neck.]
Hey.
You never... told me your name. Your new name.
[It's alright if he didn't tell him his dream. He already had the upper hand in every other way, what's one story unshared. He only wanted a name to anchor the memory of that face, something to ensure he wouldn't forget the one who helped him. He wanted to return the favour to this stranger who took care of him despite being just as in need of it himself.]
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Shoot opens a bleary eye to watch him, tiredly, from under the slicked-down mop of dirty blond hair, before giving a little nod to confirm he's alright, he's breathing, (no, he will not scream again), reaching back to feel what soaked in the pooling water behind him, slowly, fearfully. The slightest brush and he recoils, before trying again. The bristles cling together, sliding on his wet fingers, but they feel smooth and velvety nonetheless. He thinks of flapping his wings and shifts his shoulders, but they don't move significantly. A pity.
The blood flushing down the drain, his wings were closer to grey now, although there's still a great deal of blood trapped between the feathers, discolouring them in patches. Still, they're far less shocking than the sight from earlier.]
... that's... how they come in?
[He can speak clearly enough now, only slowly. He looks up at the older boy, now bringing his hand to push back his unevenly-cut hair from his blue eyes, sharply scrutinizing, searching, memorizing. Craning his neck to get a better look at his face, to try and learn his features, he exposed the red bruise on his neck.]
Hey.
You never... told me your name. Your new name.
[It's alright if he didn't tell him his dream. He already had the upper hand in every other way, what's one story unshared. He only wanted a name to anchor the memory of that face, something to ensure he wouldn't forget the one who helped him. He wanted to return the favour to this stranger who took care of him despite being just as in need of it himself.]