Chapter Text
As Shigeo dug his fingers in just below Ritsu’s shoulder blades, Ritsu’s wings arched of their own volition.
Shigeo’s hands stilled.
“Does that hurt?” he asked.
Through the haze that swamped his thoughts, Ritsu managed to shake his head.
"It feels good," he said -- too honestly. But Shigeo simply nodded and went back to work. His fingers were agile and assiduous as they worried the old feathers out one by one and opened the pinfeathers beneath them. You wouldn’t expect such dexterity of him normally; he was shy, clumsy, nervous in most circumstances. The sort of guy who didn't suit wings, as people never seemed to tire of mentioning. "I'd understand if it was you, Ritsu-kun, but Mob? It just feels like a waste."
Those people might change their assessment if they could see Ritsu now. Clammy with sweat and panting into the bedsheets, too weak to contain the shivers that wracked his body with every unbearably gentle touch, he was anything but dignified. Shigeo had never seemed this affected all those past summers when Ritsu had helped him through his moults. It had been a soothingly dull routine for Ritsu back then; repetitive, meditative, and increasingly, tedious. Burying his resentment beneath a veneer of brotherly concern, he’d envied how peaceful his brother looked as he worked.
The whole time, he’d thought so much about it would be like when it was his turn -- whenever it would be his turn -- if it would ever be his turn. He hadn’t imagined this. Growing the feathers in had been bad enough, but at least he’d felt like himself the whole time. This morning he’d felt so shaky, he’d thought he was coming down with the flu. He’d dragged himself into the shower with effort. When the drain had clogged with feathers, his first hysterical thought was that he’d done something wrong to lose them: his lack of innate goodness had stunted them, poisoned them somehow, just like in all those nightmares where his wings disappeared overnight and no one remembered he’d ever had them, not even Shigeo, who just smiled at him and said “Don’t worry, Ritsu; you may not feel them yet, but I’m sure that any day now …”
The real Shigeo had come into the washroom when Ritsu was toweling off, and understood the situation the moment he'd seen his face. With utmost gravity, he'd brought Ritsu straight to his room, helped him onto his futon, and gotten right to work. Everything after that was a jumble of sense memories. The smell of Shigeo thick in the sheets, muddled together with the pressure of his palms. The throbbing in Ritsu’s skull and the bone-deep ache that radiated from his shoulder blades out through his whole body.
He gasped as Shigeo brought a cool hand up to wipe his brow. Every part of Ritsu wanted to arch into his touch. He felt like an animal; he’d be embarrassed by that later, but right now he didn’t have the strength. Once this was all over, he was sure Shigeo would tactfully avoid bringing it up, just like they’d managed to avoid talking about everything from Shigeo's wings to Ritsu’s resentment, smouldering under his skin. Sometimes it felt like that was what had awakened his own wings at last: not generosity or gratitude or any of the things he was supposed to feel, but rage.
Shigeo must know, though. His touch was so kind, he had to know. Combing out Ritsu's feathers, stroking his skin, his care felt like a promise Ritsu had done nothing to earn: agonizing in its tenderness, and yet utterly beyond him to refuse.