Audland reveled in the bubbliness of their reunion. It was the same squirming worm buried deeper in his gut than Plover's many strong hands could reach, and it writhed and sung the same songs, but it could not be for more different situations. People. The thoughts played ambiently in the back of Audland's head like a radio. Party in the back, business in the front.
Business meaning stoicism. Audland had to keep a... straight...ish face out here. But Plover's evergreen grinning was a most effective contagion. Audland was smiling as he snorted in disbelief. "I didn't think you could get any bigger, ya damn whale!" All affection. Plover would probably take it that way.
He tried, he tried as hard as he could—like god's gayest soldier—not to notice anything more about bodies. About Plover's, and his own. The gentle tug on his horns, the pressure on his chest, the placement on his lap. He tried not to remember the images of bodies curling and coiling, fur and blood mixing—he tried so dang hard. The radio static was cranked so loud he could barely hear nor see anything going on outside of his brain's tunnel vision. Touch—touch is a drug. Noticing every hand placement, every texture, every perk and prick of sensation... the closeness of Plover's stinky breath, brought only closer as Plover said some words Audland figured he should probably care about. That he did care about, just—it was enough to make the touch-starved vomit oil. Audland wasn't going to do that right now.
Instead, before he could stop himself, Audland's smiling body was going to make decisions for him. He would slide a little up, and if Plover would permit it, Audland would use a hand to prop up his torso at an angle. He'd move his own head even closer to Plover's—nearly snout to snout—while his free hand would come up to cup Plover's fluffy puffy cheek. He fully expected Plover not to break that single breath of a gap between their faces.
Plover's breath. Plover's chest. Plover's rhythmically beating heart. Could he hear it? Oh my god, what was he doing? Oh my god, he was gonna throw up—
Breath. Plover's stinky, stinky breath. Audland's wasn't any better. Audland turned his face away, to one side. Holy mother of cave Jesus. Breathe. Take a breath—and not the kind that makes those facial scars itch. Giving Plover a more composed side-stare, Audland now felt the space in his arteries to reply: "Hey now, I ain't little." Audland would rustle Plover's fluffy puffy head with that occupied hand. "An' dinner's exactly what I wanted to talk to ya about. If you'd allow me to explain,"
Audland would try to break contact and get up and out of their bromantic wrestling hold. If Plover would let him. He'd offer a hand up once he got on his two feet. "I, o' course, can beat yer little bee-hind into next cycle. But, I wanna set some ground rules first." Audland hadn't expected Plover to start out with this much contact—I mean conmbat readiness. Such a fool he'd been. "Number one: magic's allowed, pain's allowed, but no death and no chrysalis. Just a few holds barred, but," as Plover was likely rising, perhaps with Audland's assistance, Audland gleaming yellow gaze would cut straight into xer beady little eyes, "I still wanna feel your blood runnin'." Whatever that meant.
"Number two's that we got five rounds only. We're gonna wanna be quick, and that's because ah number three: winner winner, big fat dinner." He'd give Plover his dirty, lopsided grin. "Loser presents winner the cake." Get your mind out of the gutter you gay-a%# Ancient Roman. "Winner's choice of food, loser has to make it." Audland would fold his arms and lean in, craning his neck up to see the head of the three-foot-taller titan. "How's that grab ya?" Answer better be like 4 pairs of hands and twenty delectable fingers, or Audland would eat the hat he didn't have.