Silvertip Mountain you only hear the music when your heart begins to break

Phocion's distress did not go unnoticed; suddenly shamed by the burden he had thrust upon his friend, Cortland trained his gaze on the ground beneath him. He was soothed slightly by the gentle licks over his forehead, but not entirely. There were so many things he wanted to tell Phocion— so many words they had not yet exchanged, and now the Mayfair had none to give. He whined again, quietly. The priest's invitation went ignored for several beats, though not purposefully.
When he did respond, it was slow. Moving still brought discomfort— but he was undeniably eager to take Phocion up on his offer. He crept closer, lingering for a beat to rub his muzzle gently against Phocion's if the touch was allowed. Then, he tucked himself into his friend's embrace. Another soft whine escaped him; talk to me, please. He knew the priest was tired, but— oh, how he wished to hear his voice! Cortland often thought he could lose himself in the sound. And right now, there was nothing he wanted more.