HEARTBEAT, HEARTBREAK | sparrowsong

[CHRYSALISWING]

"Why do you even have those feathers around? What are you trying to do, dress up as a bird? You'd probably make a stupid-looking bird since you can't even fly." Chrysaliswing pointed with a wispy tail so unlike the rancorous chimaera, as though behind a soft and eiderdown pelage belie terrible brimstone, a sulfurous force upon the weighted, indicting tongue. It was the only language he could speak - he tended to choke on more flowery or simpler words, as if petals and papers could not be swallowed as fire could. Fragile, butterfly-wing things easily burned upon the wildfire of his throat, so he sought more rancorous and acrimonious words for his palate. Strange for a beast of flesh and fur to subsist on nothing but antipathy and anathema, but he was a strange beast. A paradox, a hypocrite, an open box with all its contents to bear.

Chrysalis had seen Sparrowsong around but had never uttered a (willing) word to them until now. It was merely a stroke of luck that they had been present in the same place together. Chrysalis had been let out of the dawn patrol that he had woken up early from. Still groggy from tumultuous torpor, he had sat down near the entrance of the warrior's den. He noticed, then, Sparrow's menagerie of feathers, as though they had plucked one plume from the birds of the forest. Or, rather, they had collected the ones that rained down from aloft, as though they held onto fallen stars, even those whose luster dimmed and spluttered. Where they saw beauty, Chrys saw liability and waste. That seemed to be the case for so many cats that he knew. How could anyone appreciate the husk of a beetle's elytra or the musk of a rotted log? It served no purpose to him.

Still, he stared at the afternoon light dancing upon the barbs of the feathers. He recognized the raven's black plume like a weapon and the finch's striped feather like a shield. He hadn't considered how many shapes they came in, or just how colorful they could be when together like that. He tilted his head in an owlish manner, and that gesture was not caked in arrogance nor acrimony. A rarity for him, though subtle and gentle in its undue grace.

@sparrowsong!
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[sparrowsong!]

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Sparrowsong made at least an attempt to get to know each cat they could in SkyClan. It was natural, almost instinctive for them; to ignore someone or just simply be disinterested from the start wasn't in their nature. They were social, friendly, having been raised in a colony of cats that always seemed to be flank to flank.

Chrysaliswing was no exception, but... having more or less been brushed off, they opted to respect it. As they sat off on their lonesome, humming to themself, he was quite honestly one of the last cats they expected to draw attention from.

Ear flicking before their head turned, words that registered as nothing short of unfriendly made gray eyes rounder. For a moment their mouth parted, eye contact breaking, but no immediate words came. He wasn't yet done with his tirade though, and their ears tipped back. That's unkind, their mind supplied unhelpfully, and not much else. It isn't voiced.

A creamy paw gingerly placed itself upon a near feather, pulling it just a touch closer. "...No," they finally said, softly, after heartbeats of silence. "I don't wear them. I just... think they're pretty, is all." No matter their dreams of soaring the skies just like them. They knew it was just that, dreams, and the words stung a little more than they knew they should.

Yet the chimera hadn't wandered away, and they regarded him almost warily. Rather than upon them, his attention was fixed upon their collection. They had brought it out of its small stash to keep it safe while they prepared to clean up their nest, but had admittedly gotten sidetracked.

"They're soft, especially around the edges," Sparrowsong tentatively continued, looking down at the dark feather between their paws to brush at it gingerly. "And there's so many different kinds, I just... like to look at them all."​

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[CHRYSALISWING]

"Why even bother with keeping them, though? There are hundreds of other feathers in the forest. There's nothing special about them. I could walk out of camp and pick one up from the ground right now." It was more of an inquisitive statement than an odious spat, and such rays of sunshine often poked through the dark and billowing pall, as though there still lay some compassion beneath the wreckage of the life he had created. His kindness was not an undying sun nor a torchbearer for the hopeless, but rather an insect poking out through the sedge and the thorn. An unnoticeable speck in the great matter of things, a mote of dust upon the canvas of the sky, but still there.

Still, the tom was a stubborn fool and could not see the beauty in feathers that Sparrowsong could. He stared, with his mismatched and glowering eyes, at the strewn feathers like the plucked petals of a denuded and worn blossom. As if he needed to search for something that would appear to him in the shimmering barbs, in the dancing iridescence... But nothing came to him. Was it a stroke of painterly inspiration that cats got? Or perhaps a veil of catharsis wrapped around them? The answer to life, even?

That's stupid. There's no such thing as that. The only use he had found for the bird's pelage was to push them to the side while trying to get at the meat of the avian, allowing the blood to seep into wilted and now-dull coloration, like sanguine impasto to accentuate the already morbid scene. The corpse would then be strewn for the crows and worms to feast. His prior statement also rang true - he also saw many plumes of many kinds and ages throughout Skyclan's pine forest. They lay discarded yet not disrupted; among the foliage, it was a stranger and yet it fell into the warm embrace of the menagerie. He stared, again, at the dark feather between them, but made no motion to touch it as gingerly as they did.
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[sparrowsong!]

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Their expression was bordering uncomfortable as their face lifted to meet his eyes while he spoke. Was he only standing before them now to be unkind? Was he trying to insult them?

For a moment Sparrowsong didn't reply, gaze falling back to the feathers at their paws. The tip of their tail tapped once, twice upon the earth uncertainly."...And I would collect most of them if I could," came the tabby's eventual response.

For a second time, the silence expanded. Was there something he wanted from them? A justification of sorts? There wasn't one to give. The words were tangled in their mind under a gaze that felt scrutinizing. Sparrowsong wasn't the only one that liked to collect things.

With a decision that was hardly a decision at all, they spoke the thoughts they could parse out from the rest. "I don't..." Try again. "You don't have to like feathers if you don't want to, but... they make me happy to have." There was nothing quite like them. A mouse could be brown, could be gray, the same as a squirrel. A bird could be brilliant reds and yellows and blues, could be striped and dappled, big or small. They could sing, they could fly, they could bring a beauty into the world unlike anything else. How were they supposed to convey it if he didn't see it?

Unsure of what else to do, they once again began to sort their feathers to the side to continue the task they had originally set themself upon while they gathered their thoughts. "I don't think any two are exactly the same. They can be colorful like flowers but they never wilt away." Less delicate than a butterfly, but fragile all the same. There was a wonder to birds that had always captivated them.

"I would wear one or two if I could," the smaller warrior continued, expression smoothing as their paws remained busy. "But... my fur is too short. I envy cats with long fur like you, a little," they said near sheepishly. They paused, and a pause turned to hesitation.

A paw hovered over their gathered feathers before it placed itself upon one, nudging it closer so that they could stoop down and pinch it gently between their teeth. Black, but looking as if it had been dipped in snowy white. A grosbeak's feather, if they were correct in their assumption. He won't like it, part of them warned, but they went ahead with it anyway.

Sparrowsong leaned back upon their haunches, carefully grasping at the feather between two paws and leaning forward to try and tuck it into the bright orange fur of Chrysaliswing's shoulder. They leaned back, a hopeful but anxious crinkle to their features. They expected him to shake it right out, honestly. Did it stand out too much? Surely it stood out too much. Maybe it wasn't a bad thing.​

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[CHRYSALISWING]

With a mismatched gaze that swam in a toxic sea, Chrysaliswing glanced at the grosbeak feather as the fiery bales of his gaze brushed tenderly along the bristles and vane. It was soot-black, though the end of it seemed to be dipped in a snow-white color. It was almost beautiful like the ends of the scorched earth, arms reaching out from the tangles of devastation. And though the man could never bear to admit when beauty had touched his heart, he could still inwardly acknowledge when it had foredone him (even as little as a reckoning to something that was not his own was a forthright revelation).

He listened to Sparrowsong's explanation of why they loved the fragile little feathers, and it made some sense to the tom. Just enough sense to cast a glimmering light upon the chimaera, as though he saw a glimpse of what lie behind the unchanging, impenetrable stars - a great sea of darkness, of which the nills of hope could be missed with a blink. No two that are exactly the same...? What about ravens? Or swans? He didn't push it, though the disputes rumbled on his tongue like a summer storm before it dissipated into the air. His expression shifted to that of a discomforted confusion as Sparrow said that they were envious, somehow, of his long fur. There weren't many cats who were jealous of him, and for good reason. Something akin to a juvenile shame (like receiving an undue compliment) prickled at tousles of pitch-and-flame fur.

The warrior then picked up the quill with two deft claws. His grasp had never been the most gentle, though this time he exercised some restraint to a bestial nature, as if it were the effort to control the tramontane winds themselves. It was truly a strength to be so tender, and Chrysaliswing must be the weakest of them all. He examined it further, watching it waver in the breeze like it shivered in autumn's wane. "What bird did this come from? Magpie? Warbler?" The question was not borne in malice but of genuine, rare as it was for him, wonder.
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