You freeze in the doorway of the sunroom, the jar of preserves suddenly heavy in your hand, your breath caught somewhere between your throat and the roof of your beak.

Faisan stands with his back to you, the winter light streaming through the frost-etched windows and gilding every feather along his spine to polished copper. No vest, no coat, no scarf—nothing but the glossy sweep of his feathers and the flesh beneath them, which has become... substantial. Only a modesty of fluff at his backside and upper calves standing between him and true scandal.

The last time you saw Faisan was midsummer, at the solstice fair. You remember a bird who was plump, certainly—pleasantly round, the kind of figure that suggested good living and better eating. His belly had been noticeable then, a proud curve beneath his waistcoat, but manageable. Proportional. The sort of fullness that made him look prosperous rather than excessive.

He holds a serving tray before him, a full tea kettle balanced atop it, and the posture—arms extended, shoulders drawn slightly back—only serves to emphasize the sheer, staggering scope of what the past months have wrought.

You had come to drop off the preserves. Blackberry, your grandmother's recipe, a small gesture of neighborly goodwill for the solstice. You had meant to leave them in the foyer with a card, as was proper, as was expected. But then you heard the soft clink of porcelain from deeper within the house, and the whispers you'd overheard at the market came flooding back—'have you seen him lately, absolutely enormous, can barely fit through his own shop door'—and curiosity, that old serpent, coiled around your better judgment and squeezed.

Now you stand rooted to the threshold, unable to announce yourself, unable to look away.

He has put on—you try to guess by the sheer scope of him—he has put on stones upon stones since summer. His spine has vanished into a valley of softness, a gentle furrow between two rising hillocks of abundance that have claimed the territory where muscle once held sway. You can see the dimples where his shoulder blades were, now buried beneath a layer of plush that speaks to months of uninterrupted indulgence.

He has grown so round that his arms no longer hang straight at his sides. They settle at angles, elbows propped outward by the soft pillows of flesh that have accumulated there, and his silhouette is less like a bird now and more like a great, feathered pear. The white collar of his neck has lost its crisp border and become a muff, a patient ring of softness above the magnificent slope of his breast.

His sides have swelled so generously that you can count the rolls beginning just below his shoulder blades—one, two, three distinct folds that deepen as they descend toward where his waist once was. There is no waist now, only a continuous, rolling expanse that flows into hips so wide they seem to belong to a different creature entirely. His lovehandles spill outward, plush and pronounced, each one a soft parenthesis framing the greater abundance below.

And his backside—owning the space between his tail and his thighs with an abundance that lifts his elegant tail feathers high to accommodate the shelf they now rest upon, and below them, his rump cheeks crease heavily against thighs so thick they must splay outward to accommodate the weight between them. Even standing still, the sheer weight of his haunches seems to test the patience of his legs.

The tray trembles slightly in his grip—not from weakness, you realize, but from the effort of holding it away from the obstacle of his own girth. For an instant, you see the tray list precariously to one side, and with a deft motion, his elbow braces itself against the shelf of the lovehandle beneath it, dimpling into the softness as he steadies the tray before the steaming kettle slides another inch. He sets it down on the table beside the cheesecake with evident relief, and when his hands come to rest atop the crest of his belly, it is with the easy familiarity of a man greeting an old friend.

You must make a sound—a sharp intake of breath—because Faisan turns to notice you now, and the motion is slower than you remember, more deliberate. First his head, then his shoulders, then the great, swaying mass of his torso following after like a ship coming about in heavy seas. A great round dome that begins just beneath his breast and descends in a smooth, unbroken curve to hang well past where his waist should be. It droops toward thighs that have thickened to match, the whole of it swaying as he completes his turn.

His face—handsome still, always handsome—has rounded out too, his cheeks fuller, his wattles more pronounced, his eyes bright with recognition.

“Ah!” he says, a little surprised. "A visitor! Come in, come in—don't hover there like a sparrow in a draft."

You glance back at the table: the cheesecake, ringed with lemon curd, sits perfectly centered, immaculately smooth and glossy like a thick custard. It looks small, almost vulnerable, in the shadow of the body preparing to consume it.

You want to say, I brought something for you, but the words lodge in your crop. Instead, you set down the jar and card, and marvel at the way the furrow of his neck has vanished, overtaken by the gentle rise of flesh beneath the feather. He smiles, and you see it—a real smile, not the polite mask he wore at market, but the kind that lights the entire face, wattles and all.

He moves to pull out a chair for you, and you hesitate, just long enough to realize how much you want to see him eat. He notices the gaze, and his expression flickers, but does not retreat.

“Would you do me the honor of the first taste?” he asks, and the emphasis is unmistakable: He knows what he looks like. He knows the stories. He is offering you this, as a gift.

You sit, careful not to upset the act, and let him cut a slice. The serving knife, unusually sturdy, is barely up to the job. He plates a piece for you, then selects another—twice as large, if he’s measuring at all—for himself. He waits until you have your fork before he tries a bite.

It is, you admit, a beautiful thing: dense, glossy, the lemon bright and sharp against the cream. The flavor is everything you’d heard, and more. When you look up, he is already halfway through his own slice, chewing with a slow, deliberate pleasure, eyes closed to better appreciate the moment.

He eats as one who has denied himself nothing, but without hurry, without shame. The wedge vanishes, then another, then another. You lose count, but you don’t need to—he is savoring every beakful, filling the silence with the small, genuine noises of a bird who finds real joy at a table.

“It’s the best I’ve ever made,” he says, not boastful, but as if confessing a secret. “I feared it would be too much, you see—after so many months. But it’s better to have too much than not enough, don’t you think?”

By the time the sun has reached its angle between the houses, two-thirds of the cheesecake is gone, and the crease where his breast meets his belly is almost gone, filled by contentment.

You say you should go. He stands—careful, using both hands on the armrest—and walks you to the door. From the side, the fullness of him is even more striking: the belly curves beautifully in profile, soft but undeniable, and his hips have taken on a width and sway you cannot help but imagine filling the entire doorframe, come spring.

At the step, he hesitates. The silence is comfortable, but charged.

“I am glad you came,” he says, finally. “It’s better to eat in company.”

You smile, and say you’ll come again, if he likes.

He grins, broad and confident, and rests one hand atop his belly, proud as a rooster. “I think that would suit me very well.”


Thanks to  bombird for some amazing artwork of the big, friend-shaped pheasant!