[He sighs, but it's almost with relief, accompanied by a lift and flopping down of his arms. More flour drifts into the air.] You know exactly what I need.

[He hums into the touch this time, his eyes fluttering closed, chickenskin raising across his arms, lifting his hair at the roots. Oh. There's certainly something to say of how good this felt before, but he swears this feels even more... intimate, as if the touch goes down into his very bones.

He shivers.] You can rest. Surely you know I don't expect you to clean my mess. [He leans (down, now, always down) to kiss her, before slipping off to the bathing room. It's a quick affair, though he still scrubs his body, his nooks, and his hair. It's only when he's trying to get the flour out it he tries again. Pulling them out.

It feels terrible, them being pulled. It's then he has to allow himself to come to a conclusion -- somewhat easier to feel knowing Nadine is in the next room, with her pearl horns. The horns she has not always had, only as long as he's known her.

When he returns to the kitchen, he's cleaned up, though his hair is still wet. He hasn't put his shirt on, but holds it in his hands. He turns it towards her, showing the line of brown-red feathers that flow from the nape of his neck down his back.] They're there, aren't they? The feathers.