Work Text:
He sits solemnly by a window in a dimly lit room. It is the only light source besides a muted lamp. The lamp illuminates a single piece of paper and an egg timer that disturbs an otherwise silent space. Tick. Tick. Tick. He basks in the strands of sunlight that bleed through the hazy dust-covered outer layer of the window. Lazily, he lets his left hand find its way to his shoulder, and lets it fall slowly down, along the top of his right wing. He runs his fingers through the wing. He feels two feathers come loose and watches them as they drift to the floor, joining an already well-formed collection. Tick. Tick. He tests his wingspan, but cannot do so fully without hitting the walls on either side of the room. He gazes to each wing, taking in the blatant gaps in spots that were once flourishing and gentle to the touch. Now, at least for the ones that are still there, they are course and dull. Where they were once pure, they had now turned eggshell. He tucks them away. Tick. Tick. Tick. Slowly, he turns to the opposite wall. It is mostly bare, its color as bland as the rest of the room. The only thing disfiguring the wall is a mirror, which hangs dead in the center of it. It’s frame is gaudy, especially compared to its surroundings. On the surface it seems spotless, but upon closer examination, one could observe cracks and scuff marks woven throughout the entire piece of glass, indicative of years of improper care. Tick. Tick. He moves his gaze to meet his own eyes, then past his own eyes, and finally turns it to the table with the egg timer. Tick. Tick. Tick. He makes his way to the paper, picks up a pencil, and begins to write. His shoulders melt defeatedly, his posture slouched over his work. He can’t help his gaze wandering to the window from time to time, but is brought back by the incessant noise radiating through the room, bound to interfere with any sort of long train of thought. Tick. Tick. Tick. Diligently he works. Tick. Tick. Buzz.
She sits on a cold bench in a dark room. There is one window, which serves as the only feature of the room besides the bench and the door that sits open on the opposite wall. She gazes through it, past the echo of her own reflection, to see a boy sitting solemnly on a bed. She stands and walks closer, close enough to place her hand on the glass. It is cold. It bites at her skin and takes away what little heat resided in her fingertips. She watches him inspect his wings, watches as one hits a wall and immediately recoils. She sees it just as much as he does, but something about it doesn’t quite seem to register with him, not fully. Not yet. She rips away her gaze momentarily as she inspects her own wings. They blend in with the darkness of the room, but stand out because they are darker. She runs her hand through her own inky feathers, they are abundantly soft and many, but fragile all the same. Several have been bent, and some are shorter than the rest as a result of newly growing in. But from a distance, they look fully intact. She returns her attention to the boy, who is now looking at her. No, through her. She tries to speak to him, but it is clear he cannot hear her. She could scream, yell, pound on the glass, maybe then she could get his attention. But she doesn’t. She freezes. She stands silent. Gazes directly into his coffee brown eyes and does nothing. He makes his way across the room, breaking their connection. She sits back on the bench. A tear wanders silently down her cheek. Another follows. She wipes her eyes. She exits.