He lowers his lips. The water is warm as flesh. He drinks, and his mouth is full of song.
He looks to the other pegasus as she swallows. When he stretches his wings (a good song will rip right through your body, demanding movement, and the song rolling down his throat is a fine one indeed)
-- When he stretches his wings he marvels at the heat that radiates from the golden water below. He looks to the sky, and thinks to himself that there must be an incredible updraft here. A wild grin (too large for his face) cracks across his features. It glows even when he tears his eyes away, back to the mare at the water. Flight in his eyes and song in his mouth and god all around; he feels unbreakable.
Another marvel, there would be many today: He's never seen eyes quite like hers before. The closest would be those of his own reflection, caught from time to time in the huge glass windows of the great hall. "Mischief eyes," his mother chided when she could tell he had been up to no good. Which was often. Looking at the bay mare before him now, he would maybe call them "cutting eyes."
God hums on his tongue, and a wordless song rises to his lips. "You have..." No, cutting eyes was not quite right. "You have summer eyes." His voice sounds a little older than he feels, a little fever-raw. "Were they always like that? Or is it the water?" Mateo is not often so cryptic, but right now he feels like an unwritten melody, like bright sun and hot black feathers, and maybe she will understand.
@Elif
