Something wet and rough stroked my cheek. I opened my eyes. Rays of marigold light peeked out from behind vast clouds above—but a flash of pink in the corner of my eye diverted my attention from the celestial display.
“Ah, sorry, sylveon. I almost fell asleep there…”
He stopped licking and stepped back to let me sit up. I stretched and gazed out over the gentle hills that surrounded us, the wavering grasses and goldenrod. The wind was capricious today; it blew teasingly lightly one moment, only to whip up to eye-watering speeds the next. A strong gust swept over us, and sylveon shivered. He nuzzled the bottom of my coat as though trying to burrow underneath it.
“Oh, you’re cold? Here.” I unzipped my coat and enveloped sylveon with one arm. He snuggled up to me, and I kissed the crown of his head. His fur there was smooth, almost glossy under my lips. A bit different from the fur of his ears—I reached over to confirm. Right. The ears were more like velvet. A bit more textured.
Sylveon chirped, sparrow-like, and I pulled back. I saw him prod my sleeve with his feelers, so I rolled the sleeve up and let him wrap his feelers around my arm. His figure distorted and became fringed with pastel colors like a soap bubble.
“Oh, you…”
Giddiness overcame me, as though today were a holiday and I had only just remembered it. The caress of his feeler, the rippling of my clothes, the breeze on my neck—these sensations grew raw and ticklish, like the difference between feeling something through clothes or with bare skin. A moth landed on my forehead, and instead of brushing it off I just laughed. I understood why sylveon subdue their prey this way; my companion could have bit into my throat right then and I don’t think I would have cared.
Sylveon stepped toward the picnic basket beside us. He often took advantage of me like this; whenever I was under his influence, I turned too placid to scold him. But I’d recently learned how to counter this tactic—I just gently pulled sylveon into my lap and kept my arm around him. He may have loved pastries, but he also rarely turned down my affection. And this way, I didn’t feel like I was doing something mean.
As I nuzzled and stroked sylveon, he resigned himself. His purring was high-pitched, like a teakettle. I lightly squeezed his paw; it felt so small and delicate despite all the steps it had taken. The pads on the bottom were smooth like wax.
I said some things to him which I don’t exactly remember, but I’m sure they were very flattering and probably a little hyperbolic. We watched dappled shade morph across the hills. A numinous feeling swept me over with the wind, and I felt as though I might be carried off the fluffy canyon of clouds above. I kept sylveon sheltered away under my jacket. He kept purring away happily, which assured me he was comfortable.
My posture slackened as I grew sleepy. Sylveon tugged at my shoulder with one of his feelers, encouraging me to lie down. I did, and he followed suit with his back against my belly. I stroked his chest, where his fur was most luxurious—as soft as pussywillow and as fluffy as cotton. A scent like chamomile and lemongrass lulled me to sleep.