[ the warmth is inviting, enough so that peter moves towards it just a bit more to experience what it feels like to brush. the phantom feeling of feathers somewhere inside his skull, concept of them, and he likes it all the more. he offers that much more in turn, a very slow unwinding like a bolt of silk - soft and decadent, a part of his nature he doesn't hide.

it is hard to avoid relating comfort to the idea of something labyrinthine and mirror-like, almost dizzying, a fragment of a concept that plays well with peter's mind as he works it slowly in the background of his thoughts.

his primary focus lingers on sam alone, like both attentive student and coy gentleman. his voice is conspiratorial, low enough to remain just between them. ]

We're you a bird in your life before this one? Or even in this very one and you're actually all feathers under there. I'm only asking because if that's the case then I wanted to commend you. I've never met a bird as well-spoken.