Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first time it happened, Namjoon freaked out.

They were all scattered on the lounge couches after a concert, aching in places they didn’t know could even ache. Namjoon had a cool towel draped over his eyes, satisfaction and pride pumping in his blood. He can feel the last dregs of adrenaline leaving him— leaving all seven of them boneless and lazy.

Even as his throat and feet ached, Namjoon thought, shifting the rapidly melting icepack propped on a knee, he wouldn’t trade this feeling for anything else in the world.

“I’m so dead,” Seokjin said, but the twitch of his smile is audible. “My feet. My thighs. Agony. I’ll fly everywhere from now on— you won’t ever see me standing up again.”

Someone snorted. “How’d you fly without standing up, hyungnim,” Jimin’s voice drawled, Busan accent thick past the heavy exhaustion.

“I’ll find a way to do it.”

“He’s just gonna have Jungkook carry him.” Yoongi said, voice a little hoarse. Hoseok laughed, and Jimin giggle-clapped.

“He’ll do it,” Seokjin said loudly through the chaos, and Namjoon heard patting noises— a palm smacking lazily against someone’s body part. “Yah, you’ll carry hyung, won’t you?”

“I’ll do it,” Jungkook confirmed, so sincerely in a way only eighteen year olds can achieve, that nobody even thought to disbelieve him. Then, cheekily: “I want lamb skewers first, though.”

“This disrespect,” the oldest in the room crowed, and Namjoon twitched at the tell-tale sound of Seokjin’s spotted white wings unfurling.

“Ack, hyung!”

Flapping noises, and then they’re all giggling at the struggle between the two. Intrigued, Namjoon turned his head sideways so the cold towel fell off of his eyes.

The sight that welcomed him is such a beautiful one; the leader isn’t quite sure how to react. Is it weird to stare? Is it normal that his own wings, tucked close to his spine never to see the light, is now begging to be set free?

Jungkook is the youngest between the seven of them, and everything about him is dipped in the color of white-gold.

The backs of his wings are a beautiful light brown, the flights a pure white. His wings stretched sixteen feet from tip to tip, each feather nestled perfectly in place thanks to hours of meticulous grooming.

Seokjin’s eighteen feet wings flapped playfully against the youngest, the two of them laughing and preening under the amused stares of their flockmates. Taehyung’s soft gray wings twitched, the way they always did when he’s feeling playful.

“Hey, wings down,” Namjoon murmured, wary that a three-way tussle would cause injuries. A smile betrayed his chastising, though. He loved his flockmates; loved their antics and the radiating warmth of nest.

“I haven’t done anything,” Taehyung said in that cute indignant way of his.

“You were thinking it.”

The youngest Kim chirped at him.

“Down, boy.”

“Ah, I’m so sore,” sighed Jin, opening his wings and making them stretch as far as they would go, the high ceiling and unflattering dimness of backstage lights somehow cradling his spotted wings and broad shoulders— like a fallen angel illuminated beneath hellfire— crowning them in worship.

Namjoon’s throat felt very tight all of a sudden. It doesn’t help that Seokjin is facing him; the older man standing tall with his wings spread. Eclipsing the overhead lights, casting towering shadows over him.

Instead of fear and intimidation, Namjoon knew there’s nothing else to find in the gesture than safety.

Feeling small and safe, he lets out a little questioning chirrup.

It’s such a faint little noise, but Seokjin caught it anyway, and stilled.

The older titled his head in a birdlike manner, approaching. His steps were careful; knees bent all the while.

Namjoon’s heartbeat was loud in the room’s quiet. He knew that gesture. He’d recognize those not-quite-bouncy steps, the flaunt and arch of Seokjin’s wings.

He’s presenting.

To a potential mate.

Namjoon can feel the sharp prickle of his own wings, ruffling and desperate to return the gesture— desperate to escape through the slits in his back and burst through fabric into the cold air— to present in return, to arch and flaunt and show off their colors—

And then Namjoon remembered who he is, remembered the color he bore on his back; the single note of black upon black upon black and oh, no, Namjoon thinks, Blackbirds were so frowned upon how could he ever think—

It’s through sheer miracle that he remembered how to speak, how to gather himself.

“What are you doing, hyung?” he asked, playing obliviousness; swallowing his beating heart and fears and hot, aching disappointment.

His flockmates turned away, the movements so subtle and casual Namjoon could’ve missed their stares, the hope, the want and courtship in their eyes.

“Just wanna check on you,” Seokjin diverted smoothly, picking up his discarded cold towel.

“Still dizzy?”

Namjoon swallowed. Again. His throat was so dry.

“Nah,” he said. “I’m okay.”

(Liar, liar,) shrieked his instincts, (why are you pushing away a mate, you’re supposed to accept and present back—)

He squashed the voice before it could hit a crescendo and groom itself into a nightmare.

“Water, hyung?” asked Jimin, already passing him a cool bottle of unlabeled water.

Namjoon took it wordlessly, sitting up and thanking his younger flockmate with a little pat to the shoulder. The liquid was blessedly quenching.

“Don’t force yourself, Namjoon-ah,” Hoseok was saying, rotating a shoulder. Adjusting his wings, probably, tucking it in and close against the spine.

“My stamina isn’t as good as the Winged,” Namjoon quoted, wiping his lips. He’s smiling, reciting the eight words dutifully as if they’re some kind of inside joke. Knowing his life, it probably is, somehow. A joke. “I know that.”

Jin stood next to him, still. He’s talking to a staff about some issue Namjoon currently can’t wrap his head around, because every single ounce of his attention was stolen by the way Seokjin’s wings were drooping— like they’re dejected.

Namjoon thought of the little dance, the fan of his wings. The way it was subtle yet graceful, like a question, like Jin is not expecting an answer out of him. But still hoping for one nonetheless.

He thought of five pairs of eyes, staring hopefully at him. Hoping a ‘Wingless’ would understand.

Namjoon closed his burning eyes and drank more water.

Chapter Text

Jimin is not jealous of the handsome TV show guest who offered Namjoon a palm-reading. He is not.

In the guest’s defense, Jimin gets why he chose Namjoon for the so-called fortune telling. He’s got a good eye for beauty, and even with spite burning his core Jimin can appreciate that.

“Namjoon-ssi, you’ve got such a pretty hand.”

He can feel Jungkook ruffling indignantly beside him. Ever the professional in front of a camera though, the maknae smiled through the praise directed for their leader.

Hmph. Of course. Their leader is the prettiest, it made perfect sense that his hands would be, too.

“Ah,” said Namjoon, face scrunched cutely and shifting in his seat— the way he always gets whenever he’s feeling shy. “Thank you?”

The camera zoomed in on Namjoon’s slender, long fingered hand. The guest’s hand cups Namjoon’s from underneath, and Jimin had to fight back a gigantic tidal wave of jealousy.

The guest— his name is Daejung, Jimin recalls, a drama actor— knows how to palm read. The TV host, vibrating in his seat at the prospect of two different entertainment worlds colliding, had urged the actor to read the idols’ hands.

He chose Kim Namjoon, for reasons Jimin refused to delve into.

It’s not like there’s anything romantic about the gesture. As a palm reader of course Daejung would have to touch Namjoon’s hand—but Jimin can’t seem to put logic in his brain when Namjoon is smiling so shy and preciously at someone else.

What’s worse, Jimin knew that adoring, precious look in Daejung’s eyes. He saw it reflected in his flockmates’ own whenever Namjoon was goofing off in the background; whenever their Wingless leader would coo at tiny crabs. He saw the look in his own face every morning in the mirror, listening to Namjoon unconsciously rap along to Epik High songs.

“Let’s see,” the actor started, hand cradling Namjoon’s carefully. “Your life line is clear and long.”

“Does it mean I’ll live past eighty?”

Daejung laughed, pulling Namjoon’s hand closer to his face to look at it. Yoongi cleared his throat, shoulders shifting. If Jimin strained his ears enough, he could hear aggravated feathers rustling.

“I can’t say. Life lines have nothing to do with how long you live. It reflects your health and physical vitality, which, in your case, they’re very good.”

The TV host ooh-ed. Namjoon nodded, polite, expression mildly curious.

“Here,” the actor continued, raising the rapper’s hand upward and tracing a line with his finger, “is your wisdom line.”

Jimin doesn’t miss the way Namjoon twitched at the light touch, the slightest tightening curl of the actor’s pinky on Namjoon’s wrist. He knows the camera is busy focusing at the two and not them, so he glances back at his flockmates and raised an eyebrow.

‘Can you believe this guy?’ The expression reads.

They didn’t reply, but yikes, if looks and venom-laced smiles could kill.

Daejung is still talking about Namjoon’s wisdom line instead of spontaneously combusting, to their dismay.

“It’s rather long, which means that you are a clear minded person and are very considerate of others.”

“Woaah, doesn’t that mean Rapmon-ssi would be an excellent lover?” the TV host reacted, playing it up to the squealing audiences’ delight. Jimin felt a pang in his chest, something in him crooning an agreement.

“It’s RM, not Rapmon,” Namjoon corrected with a fake, too-loud laugh. He doesn’t show it, but they know he’s uncomfortable. The TV host corrected himself with a boisterous laugh and steered away from the topic. “Is there anything in palm reading about love life?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah. Here is the love line.” Daejung hummed, using his ring finger to trace it. His flockmates watched as Namjoon’s interest piqued right back up. If he has wings, Jimin thought, they would do a little inquisitive flap.

“Your love line is long and straight.” The actor let out a little shy chuckle. “So that means you’d be a good lover— sweet, understanding, and romantic.”

The studio erupted in squeals and coos. The members, now in the spotlight, proceeded to titter and clap and laugh. The younger people in the audience glanced at their own palms, trying to see what Daejung can see, hoping that their love line is long and straight too.

“Aish, RM-ssi is truly a dangerous man!”

Their leader is busy trying to suffocate himself in his free elbow, red ears and dimpled laughter gracing the whole studio. “Ah, please, no, this is too…”

“Don’t be humble, RM-ssi! It’s true, isn’t it, everyone?”

“Yeees,” the audience cheered in delight, some of them waving their lightsticks. Jimin can see a huge banner hung in the back— all seven of them holding a trophy, picture blown to a huge scale. ‘Bangtan Seonyeondan Top Social Artist Award – BBMA 2017’, the text reads.

Pride filled his chest once again, indescribable and filling— mixing strangely with anger at the way Daejung is still holding on to Namjoon’s hand.

Jungkook, sitting to his immediate right, pulled on his sleeve to whisper in his ear.

“The window passed already— he already read his palm. So why is that dude still holding Namjoon-hyung’s hand?”

Jimin blinks. He didn’t think the others would take notice.

“I don’t know,” Jimin whispered back, eyes glancing at Yoongi and Hoseok’s toneless features; the set of Taehyung’s jaw. Even Seokjin doesn’t appear to be really smiling. All five pairs of their eyes are trained onto Namjoon’s hand in Daejung’s hold, targeting like a hawk’s.

“But I don’t like it either.” Jimin finishes, eyes meaningful on Jungkook’s.

“Should we create a distraction…?”

A casual disturbance sounds amazing, Jimin was about to say, thinking of swordfights and stage lights exploding and them bridal carrying Namjoon out of the burning studio, when the TV host switched the attention back to the members.

“Talking about hit songs!” the man waved his cue cards, making the six Winged perk up. At least the actor isn’t holding Namjoon’s hand anymore. “How could we ever forget about BTS’ newest title track, also appearing in the drama that Daejung-ssi starred in?”

The question and answer session is nice and professional, Jimin is pleasant to find out. And absolutely to nobody’s surprise— they were told beforehand, after all— a surprise song trivia before we end the show!

What they were surprised by, however, is the dance game that accompanied it. They shifted in discomfort. They hadn’t stretched and cooled their wings prior to this, so…

“Excuse me. Can we take off our jackets?” they heard Namjoon ask a staff during the brief break, referring to their layered clothing reminiscent of their Spring Day MV. “Of course,” the stylist noonas said. They’d been caught a little off guard by the dance game, too.

So, here they are, backstage with fifteen minutes to spare, shedding their hoodies and jackets. Jimin set his wings free and sighed in relief at the cool air that greeted his flights.

“Joon-ah,” Yoongi moaned, oblivious to the leader’s blush, “you’re a godsend, really.”

“It’s no problem, hyung,” their Wingless flockmate chirped, taking off his outer layer to change into something less suffocating. His dimples are showing, and suddenly Jimin is mad that Daejung had been granted a close proximity to that smile.

“I just don’t want your wings to fall out; else I wouldn’t be special anymore,” Namjoon quipped, referring to how he’s the only Wingless in the group.

“Yeah,” Jungkook said, teasingly. “He’s clear minded and considerate of others, alright.”

“Sweet, understanding, and romantic, too.” Taehyung chimed in, flapping his grey wings to cool them down.

Namjoon doesn’t have wings to overheat himself, but they can see him sweating a little. “Aren’t you cute,” he snarked, poking Taehyung on his side. The younger Kim let out a harassed squawk, ticklish. His wings did an aborted movement, about to curl in to himself.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Namjoon said, flapping the front of his shirt a little. “Be good!”

“Yessir,” Jimin saluted him, to which the leader shook his head good-naturedly, exiting the room.

The light hearted facade faded the moment they heard the bathroom door close. The six of them, now dressed appropriately for the dance, lounged close on the seat facing the open door. Just in case Namjoon returned early.

“What’s the deal with Daejung and Namjoonie?” asked Seokjin, breaching the subject with apparent annoyance. “Is he seriously flirting with our flockmate?”

“Ughhhh,”

“Did you see his hand—?”

“Yeah, I was talking about that to Jimin-hyung—”

“The nerve!”

“Right? We were sitting right next to Joonie, too!”

“Even I haven’t got to hold hands that long with him,”

The conversation went on for a bit, sounding possessive and somehow childish at the same time. Namjoon is their leader, and while it’s okay to have him cozy and cute in-between the six of them, they are not happy to see Namjoon with some other Winged, ever.

“Remember two years ago?” Seokjin started, and how could any of them ever forget? It was in Japan, and they were all exhausted after the show. One thing led to another, and Seokjin had proposed to Namjoon, wings spread in an elegant arch.

It’s too bad that their leader has little knowledge about Winged customs.

“Wish I could repeat doing that again,” Seokjin murmured, rubbing his face, feeling the wings inside his back shift. “Maybe he’ll respond differently this time. Then everyone would know that he’s ours.”

Hoseok sighed in agreement.

Jimin, in the middle of grooming out a stray loose feather, flapped his right wing. The light hit the shine of his feathers just right and he preened to himself.

“I’ve never tried presenting before,” he confessed, to the understanding of his flockmates.

Presenting is different from marriage or forming a flock.

It’s intimate. It’s about trust, and a promise to fly together in a burning sky in an ending world.

It’s… indescribable.

Who can fault Namjoon, a Wingless, for not knowing that?

“I can teach you,” Seokjin said.

“Where do you even learn this stuff?” Yoongi asked, puzzled.

“My grandparents are very traditional,” he muttered. “Having wings this broad makes you learn a lot of stuff.”

He positioned Jimin’s brilliant wings into place. The roots of his feathers are yellow, morphing and darkening into light brown at the tips. They’re smaller than Jungkook’s— only fifteen feet from tip to tip, but the way Jimin wields them, they always filled the room with an awe-inducing presence; a demand for your attention.

“Like this?”

“Bend your knees more.”

It was already seven minutes since Namjoon left for the bathroom, and they’re going to be called any time now for the dance game. But Jimin is already lost in his own mind. Knees bent, wings playing an extension to their arms, he flowed.

His steps were light and bouncy, heels springing him closer to an image of Namjoon, their beautiful, oblivious leader, imagining his eyes blown wide open with a flush high on his cheeks. Jimin thought about other Winged, like Daejung, wanting Namjoon for themselves.

Determination burned hot and molten in his core. His wings caught the light, the way morning sun would a quiet autumn forest. They arched higher, showing off and presenting for mate.

“Jimin?” Namjoon’s image croaked, and Jimin freezes.

Fantasy Namjoon isn’t supposed to say anything. Jimin would know. It’s his imagination, after all.

Namjoon cleared his throat, and horror dawned on him. This Namjoon is not a fantasy.

“That’s— woah, Jimin-ah, that was really, really, beautiful.”

Jimin voice clicked behind his throat. Crap, he’s not ready for this— his first ever presentation, in front of Namjoon. He hasn’t had any time to perfect it yet, to practice and flaunt in front of a mirror!

“What was— what was that dance?” Namjoon asked, walking into the room and not meeting his eyes.

Oh, thank god he doesn’t know yet, thought Jimin, relief flooding into his veins. He held eye contact with the rest of his flockmates, making a slashing gesture across the throat.

‘Abort mission, abort mission.’ He tucked his wings in just as Taehyung gave him a lazy thumbs up.

They managed to play off Jimin’s presentation as a playful, tension-filled choreography. “Think of it like, a sexy wings… art,” Jimin said unthinkingly, heart still racing. “We’re— it’s not— we’re not going to perform with our wings out, don’t worry.”

“Sexy wings art,” Namjoon parroted, smiling. Jimin cringes a little and rolled over into Taehyung’s lap, entirely missing the smothered panic in Namjoon’s eyes.

Chapter Text

On the way to the bathroom, Namjoon felt his left knee creak and had to suppress a wince.

“I’m still young, you know.” he warbled to himself in a low mutter nobody would be able to hear. (His flockmates find this habit very cute. Namjoon, ears hot, would like a refund from the soulmate shop.)

His short trek down the hall was interrupted by a sharp prickle to the spine. Using every bit of concentration he has to school his expression to a neutral one, the blackbird pushed the bathroom door open.

‘Jackpot,’ he thought, choosing a stall. Nobody’s here.

(His day had started out great. Hoseok made him coffee and Yoongi cooked breakfast for everyone. Moments after that, Taehyung shyly pulled him aside to ask his opinion on a song he’s working on. Namjoon, of course, was happy to give his input.)

To the leader, this is as normal as a clockwork; sneaking into bathrooms and walk-in closets away from his flockmates. He’s got it down to a tee —walk in, spread his wings for a couple of minutes, hide them immediately after— a routine brief enough that nobody would suspect a thing.

He winced as he shrugged his shirt off, the material already slightly damp from sweat. Namjoon should’ve been used to it by now but the blackbird just don’t do well with itching prickle and uncomfortable heat.

Even hidden, he thought grumpily, pushing his wings out the slits on his back, they are so determined to cause him stress.

Floom!

The blackbird almost moaned at the sensation, flaring his wings and burying his fingers in heated mess of plumage to scratch at skin underneath. His toes twitched; thigh tendons quivering. Gods, that felt like heaven.

Namjoon’s wings, their color aside, were not the prettiest sight for the eyes.

The flight on his wings were bent and uncared for, with waxy pin feathers sticking up all prickly-like on the downy parts. The rapper swore he’d groomed the unkempt things last week, but then again, you’re supposed to care for them daily; or at least once every two days.

‘I’ve got no time for grooming,’ Namjoon thought, pulling at an itching feather and shuddering in relief after. He twirled the plumage, watching the glossy sheen of it reflect light.

(No time for grooming?) A voice whispered in his head. It sounded mocking. (You just don’t want to look at your own wings.)

Namjoon ignored the voice.

The stall he’s in has shiny walls. Although it’s not a perfect mirror, Namjoon can still see the dark blob-like shadows his wings created. They’re curled around his body carefully like a shield; like a blanket of death— the cramped space not meant for flared limbs.

He pressed his lips together and plucked another feather. The things he would give to just have regular brown flights.

Just as he deemed his wings cool enough to retract into his back, the bathroom door opened with a soft creak. Through it, he heard murmured conversations of people milling out in the hallway and click-clacking footsteps.

Namjoon froze.

And then his senses screamed at him. ‘Run!’, they shrieked, flapping their wings with reckless abandon to take flight.

Namjoon panicked. Instincts took over logic, and with one quick motion, he pulled his wings in, sat down, and tucked his knees up against his chest.

Don’t let yourself be seen, hide, hidehidehide—

“Eh?” someone said just outside his stall. They sound strangely familiar. “Did you hear a bump?”

A second voice replied. “You did, too? Do you think it was from outside, or…?”

‘No,’ Namjoon thought rather hysterically, clamping both hands over his mouth. ‘That’s just my butt sitting down too hard on a toilet lid.’

The blackbird flinched when someone rapped their knuckle against his locked stall. “Hello?” they asked, speech polite. “Is there anyone inside? … Did you fall down?”

Namjoon was bare-chested. If someone took a look at his back; they’d see the slits there, indicative of a Winged.

Kim Namjoon is known by the world as a Wingless.

So he kept his mouth shut.

Another polite knock. “Hello?”

“Leave it, man. It’s probably just a mop falling down.”

“Hm,” the first voice said. “I guess you’re right.”

“You worry too much, Daejungie.”

That’s Oh Daejung, Namjoon’s mind helpfully supplied, drowning the frantic thumpthumpthump of his heart. Calm down. They’re not dangerous. Daejung is nice. He likes their music. In their interview earlier, just ten minutes ago, he called Namjoon’s hand pretty.

The actor snorted. “I prefer being called ‘observant’ than a worry-wart. Or ‘nosy’, if you’re my sister.”

“She called you nosy?” There’s the sound of laughter and rushing water on the sink.

“Yeah. Cheeky dongsaeng, she doesn’t like the way I nailed palm reading sometimes. She never let me read hers,”

“Must be a cool skill to have— you read RM-ssi’s palm just now, didn’t you?”

“Yes. He’s very charming.” Daejung said, admiration in his voice. A beat passes, then: “I noticed something unusual, though.”

“Unusual how?”

“He’s Wingless.” Oh Daejung whispered, like it’s a secret and not a fact well known to millions of people. “But somehow, his hand felt really light— not weighted at all. I find it impolite to ask so I didn’t, but aren’t Wingless’ bones supposed to be denser than our hollow ones?”

“Maybe he’s just not resting its whole weight in your hands,” replied the nameless voice. “Anyway. Wanna get lunch after this?” The bathroom door creaked open, the two’s voice slowly fading as they exited.

“Ooh, sure. Do you know that galbi place with the scary auntie—?”

The door closed.

In the stall, Namjoon tore apart the two feathers he plucked and watched them swirl down the toilet. The shadow they formed looked dark, wretched, and ugly; like a drowned rat.

He flushed one more time and exited the bathroom.

-

Namjoon watched Jimin present, watched the way his sunny songbird feathers fan open in a beautiful arch.

Minutes later, he had to turn away for a pretend-stretch and recite the alphabet backwards to stave off a panic attack.

-

(There was a believe, a long time ago, about blackbirds.)

The monochrome shades of his studio were comfortingly cool and quiet compared to the buzzing noises inside his head. Namjoon, sprawled miserably on his spinny chair, was glad for the space to think.

His phone pinged, notification lighting the LED screen.

seokjinnie and six babies: [you have 77 unread messages]

[…]

taeger: when are we filmign anyway

jimimi: in an hour

jimimi: it’ll be a fun ep the pd-nims promised lol

That’s right, Namjoon thought absently. They’re filming a RUN episode today. He hoped his mood recovers before then.

(Bringer of death they were called; for their wings are a black darker than the starless sky. So dark, that if they killed, blood won’t even show.)

Namjoon exhaled and rubbed both hands over his face, dislodging his beanie when the ten fingers buried themselves in his hair.

It must’ve been a coincidence. Because Jimin panicked, right? The dance wasn’t meant for him, it simply couldn’t be. Namjoon just walked in at a weird moment. Maybe he was just practicing. For someone else.

Throb. Throb.

(As if that’s not enough to believe that the devil himself created them; these birds don’t sing. They shriek. Sounds so unpleasant to the ears, that the world seek to silence their caws.)

The dances weren’t meant for him. Not Seokjin’s, all those starlights ago, and definitely not Jimin’s.

[It was only a year ago, when he wrote the lyrics with some sort of a detached focus.

I wish I could love myself. I wish I could love myself.]

Namjoon dug the heel of his palms into his eyes.

Throb. Throb.

(Laws were made. Old; though not quite forgotten. Only faded. People don’t forget where they are from. History shapes us all. It made us who we are.)

“What else should I hide?” his question rang out in the soundproof room. Nobody answered him. “My wings, my identity, and now I have to be careful about the way I shake hands,” Namjoon huffed, voice wet. “Who I shake hands with.”

He’d gotten away with a lot of sprains and casts in his career. But what if one day he broke something and had to be wheeled in front of an X-ray? Brought into a hospital; tended by faceless people hidden behind sterile green masks?

Not only would they find out his bones are light and hollow like a Winged— they’ll see his back and— they’ll hold him down by the neck and poke and prod and gauge his slits open to find— to find—

His flockmates, Namjoon’s breath rattled in his chest, a giant rubber band constricting his lungs. Oh gods, what’d they think of him— a fucking blackbird, of all things— how will Namjoon live with himself knowing they hated him?

Tears stung the corners of his eyes as he bit down on a nail. He doesn’t know what burned worse; his breaking heart or throat futilely trying to swallow the shards back in, pieces lighting his insides with gnawing pain on their way down.

Throb. Throb.

His wings ruffled weakly in their prison. They’re still howling in phantom pain from when Namjoon had to crush them back in— feeling the very close slip of a couple of feathers breaking out in a desperate attempt to respond to Jimin. Ailing in heartbreak, the black flights now lay mostly quiet and desolate.

He couldn’t. He— if they ever— he can’t, but— if they knew? Shame gnawed at him. There’s simply no way. He’d break their hearts forever, revealing his bent and uncared obsidian wings to respond to their beautiful sacred pledge.

Namjoon could imagine their horror. Wide eyes, open mouths; legs crouched low. Wings flaring and flexing to intimidate and defend. They’d turn and look at him as exactly what he is: a threat.

(Blackbirds had always been the symbol of bad luck and death.)

—Harmless, harmless little Wingless Kim Namjoon—

They can’t find out. It doesn’t matter who knew. Doesn’t matter who suspected or was curious— anybody but them.

Ping!

seokjinnie and six babies: [you have been mentioned (3) times]

maplestory master jinnie: joon-ah stop working the car is here

The blackbird, feeling numb and his mood very much not recovered, slid off the studio chair and into the car with what felt like a single blink.

That’s normal, probably. After all, he lost an hour thinking about things he shouldn’t be thinking. What’s five minutes more?

Behind him, Taehyung and Yoongi exchanged a worried look over his rounded shoulders.

(If you are a Winged born with raven wings, then you are not allowed to mate; because nobody wanted more blackbirds. The only mercy given to you is to leave.

Cruel? No.

After all, banishment is still much kinder than execution.)

Staring blankly at the passing building and roads, Namjoon pondered if overheating was really that dangerous; if that was the only price to pay to wrap his chest and back in bandages to keep those damned wings in; the way they were always meant to be.

Chapter Text

Taehyung was worried.

From the corner of his eyes, the younger Kim watched their leader stare listlessly out the car window. Namjoon looked tired. There was a faraway look in his eyes, relayed by the reflection in the tinted glass.

He pulled out his phone and texted Hoseok who was in another car.

taeger: hyung

taeger: did something happen at the studios

jjayeop: huh? no

jjayeop: unless you’re referring to the newest perch tower and how it didn’t really fit my studio…

taeger: waitwait it arrived?? aaAAA

taeger: plspls we have to talk more about it later but now theres smth more important

jjayeop is typing…

taeger: its namjoon hes acting a little off

taeger: like, im so worried

The replies flooded in immediately. Even though they aren’t in the same space, Taehyung can just imagine Hoseok’s downturned lips and worried frown. He smiled at his phone, watching the messages bump up one after another.

jjayeop: was it bc the tv studio?

jjayeop: was it oh daejung’s palm reading did he make namjoonie upset

jjayeop: im gonna google the least illegal way to murder someone

jjayeop: or maybe not murder that’s a little mean

jjayeop: did u ask joonie about whats wrong

Taehyung hadn’t asked him about what’s wrong. Mostly because he didn’t want Namjoon to turn around and burst to tears when Taehyung dared a poke. He didn’t want to see Namjoon’s face morph into a painfully structured smile either; the joy not meeting his eyes.

Taehyung was not afraid to soothe Namjoon’s demons away. What he’s afraid of instead is to set the leader’s dam off in a car in the middle of busy Seoul street, a filming not even ten minutes away rooted sturdy in their schedule.

taeger: i havent asked

taeger: its not the right time

(Taehyung wondered when, if ever, would be the right time.

His feathers ruffled in their home, agreeing.

Pining.)

The clapperboard hits and in perfect sync everything started rolling.

“RUN… Bangtan!”

“Waah, would you look at where we are!”

“Where, where?”

“This place seems familiar, doesn’t it?”

The familiar squabble calmed Namjoon down the way nothing else could. Tendrils of anxiety still clung around his shoulders but against the healing balm that is his flockmates, the heaviness doesn’t stand a chance. Slowly, while watching them, he grinned and spoke up.

“Of course it’s familiar! Our beloved army must’ve recognized this place, right?”

“So nostalgic,” Jimin crooned, hands excitedly linking around Jungkook’s shoulders, half hopping up unto his back. “It’s been a while!”

Here, the editors would slip in a little video clip of their previous comeback. Blood, Sweat & Tears practices were filmed in several spots— BigHit dance studio; their dorm; and perhaps the most memorable one, in a grassy flying hangar with high ceilings.

Okay, granted— the dorm MV was the most fun to watch, but for them, the flying hangar was magic.

From the moment you walked in; it was simply impossible not to gape and admire the indoor space. The hangar was seven times the area of a sport stadium; massive ceilings sturdy yet retractable to access the big blue above.

Equipped with weather modules to simulate all kinds of winds and temperatures, it was a heavenly space for the Winged. That first impression; it was the kind of awe that could only be experienced once in a lifetime; freedom in a cage, a private slice of the sky.

(Namjoon has questions. Several, actually; one of them being what on earth is he going to do in a space designed for Winged people?

Another voice; quieter and easier to ignore, is questioning if his ratty wings were developed enough, if they were strong enough to fly.)

The staff passed him a card. Namjoon took it, and was immediately assigned the role of the MC. A mischievous grin made itself known across the leader’s face as he read, in which his flockmates responded to by tittering amongst themselves.

A mischievous Namjoon is both a blessing for the audience’s entertainment yet a petty, passive-aggressive menace to everyone involved.

(They love him for it. Angry-ranting Namjoon with his wild hand gestures was a super endearing sight— not that they’ll tell him, of course.)

“It’s a competition, isn’t it.” said Yoongi grimly.

Hearing this, Jeon Jungkook positively bounced in place, eager and determined to win whatever was to come. Jimin whom he was wearing like a backpack bounced along with floppy blonde bangs and giggles scrunching his eyes closed.

“Welcome,” Namjoon announced instead, ignoring Seokjin’s loud continuous “aaaaa” when Hoseok told him Jungkook would murder them all in a flying race. “—to RUN Bangtan’s flying race!”

Yoongi dramatically walked out of the frame, hands raised up in the air. “I quit,” he said, almost drowned amidst everyone else’s storm of chirps and squawks.

Their leader laughed, shoulders loose, dimples showing. “It’s a team game,” he said once, and then twice, louder, when his flockmates hadn’t finished quarrelling. That bit is definitely going to be edited with a lot of ground-shaking and raging fire effects.

“So,” Namjoon continued, abandoning his cards. “As we know, Winged people made up 90% of the general population. As designing flight routes to avoid collisions weren’t as easy as having radio tower for planes; flying in the city has been difficult for everyone.”

The six Winged men voiced their agreement, nodding at the thoughts of flying-height restrictions applied to the Winged; at restaurants and public spaces plastered with warning signs saying “please do not flare out your wings for safety reasons”.

“Flying hangars solved the problem for the city-bound Winged who doesn’t have a lot of time and doesn’t own a free-flight permit— those who wished to stretch out their wings and take off to the sky no longer have to drive hours out to fly in a less populated area.

“In South Korea, the Seoul Arch— that’s where we are today in the outskirts of Seoul— was crowned the second biggest flying hangar in East Asia. It’s rivaled only by the icy Shinagawa Dome in Tokyo.”

“Shinagawa Dome is an ice hangar?” Jungkook asked incredulously.

Namjoon nodded and smiled in that particularly reassuring way that never failed to make people trust him with their lives. “It’s summer, so it’s icy right now! In winter the Dome will be warm.” He prattled off, easily handing out fun facts that few people knew.

“It used to have weather modules just like the Seoul Arch, but since it was hard to adjust to everyone’s needs, the CEO decided to built a second, smaller hangar and move the weather modules there. Shinagawa Dome now only has opposing seasonal temperatures.”

“Waah, I didn’t know that.”

“Namjoonie really knows everything!”

“Hyung is so cool,” Jimin added, making their leader hide his face behind the cue cards.

“Ah, you guys.” He fanned himself a few times, trying and failing to bite back a smile. “Anyway!” Namjoon exclaimed loudly, still red around the ears, his clunky glasses huge and squishing his small, button nose. “Go change into your flying suits!”

Cute, Taehyung thought at the flustered Wingless who’s trying to shoo them away, smitten.

So cute.

Ten minutes later found the six of them dressed in styled flight suits; their aerodynamic nature making the outfits a little too body-fitting. None of them minded since it was to avoid the red, tight-feeling windburns on skin after flying.

Namjoon took a quick glance of himself. He liked loose clothes. Flight suits wouldn’t be comfortable for him, the blackbird reasoned, trying hard to unearth some semblance of relief at not having to fly.

“You guys look reaaally good,” the leader crowed. He was only half teasing, not so subtly eyeing the graceful slopes of his flockmates’ arms. Their backless garments were tight around the shoulders and snug around the waist.

(It occurred to him that they’re being recorded on camera. The blackbird felt a little twinge of possessiveness. He stamped the flames down before it could catch and burn the entire internet to ash.

In the wise words of one Min Yoongi: fear the thirst tweets.)

“It’s okay to let your wings out,” a staff said.

Jungkook chucks a piece of grass he’d been playing with and whooped. “Yes!” he cheered, letting his flights unfurl with flourish. The others soon followed; laughing when the feathery limbs knocked the person next to them and making him stumble.

It’s extremely uncommon for idols to let their wings out on stage or in MVs, especially when the purpose of unfurling them is to preen and flaunt. It’s considered… inappropriate, for the lack of a better term.

The gesture resembled presenting too much; something that’s exclusive and intimate in nature. A few drama productions had received significant backlash for overfocusing on the main characters’ wings.

In a flight hangar though, wings were a requirement. It’s fun, it’s flight, it’s freedom.

It’s in every Winged’s nature to ride gales on treetops and climb tornadoes in a storm. It was ingrained in their body and instincts to fly and soar and twirl in the skies; it was part of them to be free and not whole without the big, open blue.

(And if Namjoon still hears the sky calling for him, the horizon and the winds crooning a sweet song asking him to spread his wings to deny gravity and pull himself up, well, it doesn’t matter, as long as he resists.)

“We have to get up there,” an off-screen staff announced, pointing to a tall platform in the distance. A sound effect sparkled at the sight. “There’s our starting point.”

As soon as the cameras cut, a little squabble broke out amidst the filming crew. “Why didn’t you say we’re filming there earlier?” Jiho-noona the light director demanded, half-whining. “Now we have to go back all the way to fetch the buggies.”

“Oh, crap.” The RUN director looked genuinely horrified. “We forgot about that.”

“I mean, I can stay down here.” She said, gesturing to the others and herself, at the lack of wings on her back. “Jaehoon too, some of you can take over his tasks. But Namjoon-ssi…”

“It’s okay,” Namjoon was quick to reassure, quiet guilt plunging down through his stomach. In a way, it was messed up to have an actual Wingless crew member worry about him not being able to fly. His hidden wings twitched in agitation.

“It’s okay, really. I’ll just MC from down here— you don’t have to fetch the car.”

“What car?” Taehyung approached, nudging the leader. “Hyung, what are they talking about? What do you mean you aren’t you going with us?”

Namjoon shrugged, uneasy. “It’s no big deal, Tae. Everyone else can fly, and just— it’s, ah. The platform is a little too far to reach by foot, you know?”

That’s an understatement of the century. Walking across the field to reach the platform probably would’ve taken them twenty minutes, not counting the time to climb up the ladder. The bold red marking on the pillar reads “30 meters”.

Taehyung’s grey wings spread and tilted a little in confusion, following the motion of his head. “But I don’t want to leave you here,” he said, like the mere idea of leaving Namjoon was a sin against humankind.

By this time, a couple of the staff had discussed going back to the entrance— via flying, of course, to fetch the buggy for their two Wingless crew members and Namjoon.

Taehyung’s ears perked. An impulsive idea popped into his head. He had to act fast, though.

Heart racing in his chest, Taehyung spun on his heel and distanced away from the others. As he walked, the Winged rolled a shoulder and flapped a wing. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, psyching himself.

Okay. Okay, let’s do this.

Heart and instincts pulling him up, Taehyung took off on a short run to propel himself off the ground. Then, his wings flapped. His feet lost contact with the ground. One, two, three beats later and he was airborne.

The wind kissed his face, the rush of it dizzying. Through the clear ceiling he watched the sun high above him, something so big and deadly and capable of going nova on them all yet all it did in that moment was warm his wings and bathe the world in a golden glow.

Taehyung flipped. Opened his arms, feeling the wind fight against him. It turned. Rippled. Smelling like leaves and heat. Distantly he heard his flockmates cheering, Hoseok’s phone unmistakably recording his stunts through the air; the device half hiding his smile.

He opened his eyes— not remembering when he’d closed them— and Taehyung with his wings out dancing with the wind felt reborn in a new world.

“Hyung!” He cried, feeling the blinding heat in his core build up to rival the sun, the bubbling warmth climbing up and out his throat in pealing laughter for his body doesn’t know how to contain the joy.

“Namjoon-hyung!” Taehyung called, swooping up just moments before collision with the grassy expanse below. He thought he heard Namjoon call back, the Wingless’ tone half in worry and half in exhilaration, but Taehyung couldn’t be sure.

The winds took all else away.

And maybe, he thought, impulsive idea coming back; maybe the winds could take away Namjoon’s thoughts; bat his demons away and leave them behind far enough that they’d have no idea how to catch back up.

That in mind, Taehyung dived.

(Later, after the adrenaline left him, they’d told him what he’d looked like.

Like a snowy owl, his fellow Winged said. Something deadly and fast, coming down to snatch up a prey.)

“Go limp!” Taehyung shouted at their leader, gaining speed with arms open and strong. He collided solidly with a body, feeling air in both their lungs escape in a single choked wheeze. A bruise was imminent after that, he thought, laughing all the while.

They’re still flying. Taehyung would never let them fall.

“Hyung!” he cheered, arms wrapped around Namjoon, feeling his skin under his fingertips; Namjoon’s chest against his own, the surprised chirp he let out.

“Tae??” he shouted, cheek pressed against Taehyung’s. “Wha— what the—?”

“You’re flying!” a voice they knew all too well whooped just above them, twirling and gliding. Kim Seokjin’s broad wings were shadowing the sun, shielding their leader’s eyes from the glare. “Namjoon-ah, you’re flying!”

That startles a laugh out of him, bright and surprised. “What on earth did I do to land myself with all six of you?” he asked, but the complaint doesn’t even pretend at carrying bite, and Taehyung grinned as Jungkook caught up with a giggling Hoseok in his arms.

“I’m not gonna lose!” he declared with puffed cheeks, and mirth claimed them all once again.

In the distance, a songbird laughed and a swan reared up, and before long Jimin and Yoongi were flying alongside them, wings beating against the wind. Their smiles rivaled the brightest stars.

“Fly a lap around the hangar?” Yoongi playfully dared, and Seokjin’s call pierced through the air— hawk accepting a challenge. Not a second later their oldest flockmate had folded his wings in a dive-bomb, swooping forward in an impressive burst of speed.

“Yah!” Hoseok cackled. “Hyung! JIN-HYUNG! That’s cheating!”

“Only if you’re too slow to keep up!” he echoed, and they’re all suddenly screeching and racing and Namjoon laughed until his cheeks hurt and he knew he loved them; he loved them all so much that it hurts.

(“We’re never leaving you behind,” someone said, once the hilarity of the sudden flying abduction had subsided down, Taehyung’s grip around Namjoon steadier and their speed considerably slower. “And you don’t get to leave us all behind either.”

“Ground or air,” another voice said, steady as a rock, “we’ll be there with you.”

“Yeah,” Namjoon’s quiet voice replied. They all knew it’s not about the buggy or the platform anymore. Nobody needed to point it out.

“Yeah, I know.”)

The platform was in sight and Namjoon wondered if they even had any strength left to race for the RUN episode. Taehyung landed them both without a single stumble. Namjoon, weak kneed, clung unto Taehyung for stability.

In the distance, their flockmates soared the air.

(Taehyung’s heart was beating so fast. He wondered if Namjoon could feel it, wondered if he could hear it.)

The Wingless pressed his flushed, breathless face against Taehyung’s shoulder, feet finding solid ground as a foreign thing for the first time in a whole lifetime. Their leader’s eyes were bright, his voice hoarse. He couldn’t seem to stop smiling.

“You— Taehyung-ah, that was— holy shit, you guys— that was so— you’re— you’re so beautiful.”

The hope and light he’d hidden for years now threatened to burst through the rickety barricades.

For once, Taehyung let them.

(His wings moved on their own.)

He stood unsteady on his feet as his wings arched and flaunted, asking; wanting; begging Namjoon to return the gesture and though they all knew it was impossible he didn’t want to resist his instincts for something as insignificant as a wing gesture unreturned.

One look at their beautiful, beautiful Wingless flockmate and Taehyung just had to present.

They’re standing so close that Taehyung could pick out the gold amidst Namjoon’s dark brown eyes; watching the way they widen and shrink in the fraction of a second—

Namjoon, like the balanced, steady-footed winged being that he is not, stumbled and flailed in Taehyung’s hold. Not ready to support his weight Taehyung dropped them both to the cold platform ground in a tangle of squawking limbs.

“Ah!”

“I’m so sorry, are you okay—” Namjoon asked, mortified, his voice urgent and face aflame.

“No, no, are you okay?”

“I’m— it’s just,” the Wingless huffed out a laugh, something wet and shining in his eyes. He must’ve been overwhelmed by adrenaline of a flight, the younger Kim reasoned.

“It’s just?” asked Taehyung a beat later when Namjoon seem unable to elaborate; half-teasing at the way he was eyeing the width of his grey wings.

Their eyes met in a moment of perfect shared understanding.

“It’s just the jelly legs,” he settled, already half forgetting what they were talking about.

Taehyung cupped the side of Namjoon’s face with a warm hand, slowly thumbing his cheek cold from the wind. Beneath his touch Namjoon turned red and small, letting out a content chirrup like he was something precious to be protected.

Something precious that they had to protect.

“Yeah,” Taehyung said, nonsense, mind buzzing with love and adoration. “It’s just the jelly legs.”

Chapter Text

“Oh, those actually looked nasty,” Taehyung commented mildly hours after the hangar, shirtless and surrounded with the contents of their first aid kit. Bruises, bold and bright, mottled the front of his torso.

“This is why you don’t tackle people and kidnap them off the ground.”

“It’s so worth it though,” the younger sighed, content, then flinched. “Hyung— Yoongi-hyung, that stings, ow, be gentle to me!”

“Hm, like this?”

“Hey— yah, you sadist, ouch, stop poking me—”

“Take it like a big boy— you didn’t hear Namjoon whining over his injuries, do you?”

Taehyung looked absolutely betrayed. “But- but Namjoon-hyung doesn’t have bones as frail as ours.”

“He did trip on the platform, though,” Yoongi mused. He wasn’t there, but he heard from Taehyung. Were Namjoon a Winged, he’d sprain something at the very least.

“And I fell on top of him.”

“Mm, aren’t you lucky.”

Taehyung bit on his lower lip to stop a smile. He didn’t deny nor confirm the statement, so Yoongi pettily plopped a dollop of cold balm over his sternum. Taehyung squawked.

The older grinned like the mandarin-smuggling gremlin-hyung that he is, big and gummy and so loveable it’s impossible for anyone to stay mad at the swan. Imperceptibly, Taehyung found the corners of his lips lifting up to a boxy smile— albeit to whine instead to laugh.

“Hyung-nim…”

“Sorry, sorry,”

They were so lost in their own banter that they didn’t even notice Namjoon sneaking away from the closed doorway; bandages and balms of his own cradled in nervous arms.

(It’s okay, Namjoon thought at the pair, fond. They’re having so much fun and besides— to hide his fragile bones and slits on his back, the blackbird’s already used to lick after his own wounds.)

The pain wasn’t noticeable at first.

It’s not like it’s numb, Namjoon struggles to explain to himself. More like, he knew something isn’t right. It felt like a pulled muscle somewhere in the depth of his back; a twinge so small that he didn’t even bother to worry about it.

(Namjoon liked to think it as the last few moments before you fall asleep— something sinking into the body so slowly and stealthily that he didn’t even recognize its presence; a freefall so swift it took his freedom to fly up.)

He just tripped. Fell onto his back. It’s no big deal.

(There’s a reason why Winged people are consciously light and graceful with their flights. There’s a reason why they have a natural-born instincts to be careful with falling and diving and throwing themselves off of a high place.

It’s just wrong, Namjoon can’t help but think, the brittleness of their bodies so out of place compared to how strong they actually are.)

The calendar reads the beginning of 2018.

(They’d been through slicing storms. They’d been through the depths of burning anguishing hell and came out crawling on all fours victorious and free and loved, loved, loved—

They’d cried and buried panicked gasping breaths unto each other’s shoulders; snuck each other food they shouldn’t have eaten; they’d had late night talks where eye contacts were avoided but hearts shared; and even then, even then—)

Sitting huddled close to one another; like an innocent song crowing about ring around the rosie but slyly telling of a plague hundreds of years ago— Namjoon just felt dread.

(They are loved, loved, loved—

But was love ever enough?)

The way Seokjin’s jokes fall flat; coaxing nothing but awkward stilted laughter out of the group; Hoseok’ s eyes dim and Jungkook too quiet to even fidget. He watched Yoongi try and fail to make eye contact as Jimin and Taehyung curled close to one another, seeking comfort.

Namjoon felt—

He felt—

(They loved. Namjoon knew this more than anyone. They loved, they still do— an unreleased song echoing “Is this love?” the beat nodding to I live so I love, I live so I love.)

Long ago; starlights and eons past when Namjoon liked to hold onto his mother’s pinky as they walked down the street; when his sister was so little Namjoon determinedly toddled around Kyungmin so he’d be there to catch her before she fell—

His father had sat him down, face uncharacteristically grim. Mother was crying, he remembered. Inconsolable; not even an offering of his favorite toy could soothe the bursting seams of her mourning heart.

“Oh, Namjoonie,” she sobbed. “Why you? My bright, darling boy,”

A single black feather sat quiet and unkind on top of their living room table. It’s a young little thing; one of the first feathers to grow after the fluffy plumage of a baby bird fell off of their wings.

Namjoon was so excited to fly, he remembered.

“We have to move.”

Mother couldn’t respond. Father continued, parroting. “We’ll go to Ilsan, to grandma’s house, okay?”

“Okay,” Namjoon said, though he sensed distressed and upset, because he was four and sleepy still after a nap interrupted. “How long we stay, appa?”

Father heaved a sigh and rubbed hard between his eyebrows. In that moment, the man looked as if he’d aged twenty years.

“As long as it takes, Namjoon-ah.”

The fledgling tilted his head, letting out a curious tweet.

His father’s arms wound themselves around Namjoon’s little body, holding him close as if he’d be snatched away the moment he let go. “… As long as it takes for people to forget you’re born Winged.”

(He never got to fly.)

Today’s meeting didn’t go well. By the end of it, Jungkook was holding back tears and Taehyung was so upset he couldn’t even say a word to the staff or his flockmates— Jimin included.

Terse silences took over studio meetings; small fights over lyrics and beats and practices sparking against stress; their heat burning through steel. Like an unholy demon it fed into the despair and birthed scum and rot, threatening to break the seven of them apart.

We might have to disband, Namjoon thought, clapping a hand over his mouth and prayed to gods he doesn’t believe in that he’d threw up quietly; that nobody would hear him retching in a locked bathroom stall.

How sad, that locked bathroom stalls seem to be the primary place for the blackbird’s silent freakouts.

Dry heaving subsiding, forehead leaning onto cool porcelain. Namjoon can feel cold sweat breaking out on stress-heated skin; his hidden wings not helping with the temperature.

“Fuck me,” he croaked. The foreign twinges are coming back, muscles pulling and demanding attention, demanding to be let out. Not for the first time in his life, Namjoon wished they would just suffocate and die— wished his pitch black wings would detach and go to whatever fucking hell they came from to burn if they’re just going to keep doing this to him.

His attempt to reach the slit on his back causes his shoulder to catch and he flinches with a hushed curse.

“What,” Namjoon breathed, wet and hitching. “What was that?”

When he forced those raven wings out into the cool bathroom air; panting and struggling against agony unbeknownst to him his whole life; when he tried to flap and reach out with them; Namjoon noticed a singular horrifying fact.

His left wing remained bent and aching.

It refused to flare.

.

(Years down the line, when someone asked: “Then what happened?” Namjoon would shrug and flash them a bitter grin. “I don’t know,” he’d say.

“I was too scared to find out.”)

.

The first time they met, Namjoon thought of Jung Hoseok as fire personified. He’s someone capable of warming a tundra, capable of burning so swiftly you wouldn’t notice the heat until char and phoenix ash flutter with passion at the tips of his fingers.

Jung Hoseok is the sun; their source of light and warmth. He’s their firebrand fury, comfort of a little candleglow catching gale into an inferno; to protect, to carve searing steel into whoever dare wrong his flockmates; whoever foolish enough to take advantage.

Hoseok, who is bright and playful yet dangerous when he wanted to be.

Hoseok, who was dancing his heart out until his face flushed fever-red; his same-age friend who got into a fight with a flockmate, who had to storm out of the room with quiet raging arms raised up in fear of saying something he couldn’t take back.

Jung Hoseok is their hope.

(”Hope,” Namjoon remembered a poem long ago, the foreign language still awkward on his tongue, soft vowels and lilting consonants clumsy on unpracticed pronunciation; “is a thing with feathers.”

He was fifteen and he was passionate; brimming with determination to be the best. Beneath the dim light of his computer screen were stacks of files he had to fill out. BigHit Entertainment, it declared in bold letters.

“That perches in the soul / And sings the tune without the words / And never stops- at all,”

In the biodata, in the very first page; like a prelude, an admittance; a foreshadowing, Namjoon wrote a lie.

Wing type:

>Other: Wingless

He didn’t know this yet; a sheltered little raven that he is; shielded from the cruel storm that is society by his parents’ broad wings. He didn’t know it yet, but this lie would spread rust and decay and soon eat him up alive.

“And sweetest in the gale is heard / And sore must be the storm / That could abash the little bird,” his voice rasps out, quiet amidst the blissful silence of 3AM wisps, “That kept so many warm,”

The streetlights flicker outside.

Absently, Namjoon wondered if gods of Ancient Greek were kind enough to gift their subjects with the blessing of flight, will Icarus have golden wings?

Will he shed sunlight as he fell unto his death?

Namjoon’s pitch black wings twitched inside their home. The pin feathers itch.

((It was an intrusive thought. That he’d rather be golden for the fall than to live a life hiding rot in his back.

It still emerges from time to time, when the care and protection of his parents felt more like a cage than a nest.))

“I’ve heard it in the chillest land / And on the strangest sea / Yet - never - in extremity, / It asked a crumb of me.”

The stars remained quiet overhead, hidden behind dark clouds of Ilsan. He wished he’d appreciated them more, because in Seoul, no stars were ever visible.)

Namjoon curled up tighter in the corner of the dance studio, watching with quiet fascination and mild concern as Hoseok danced, the movements a gale and an earthquake provoking a storm; watching those exhausted features relax as his anger melted away.

Namjoon watched, quiet, even as the hot pack on his back cooled to bring another wave of phantom pain of a displaced wing.

(The flying hangar was a mistake.

Namjoon was cursed to never kiss the skies.

And as Icarus fell—)

“Hah,” Hoseok gasps, starfishing on the ground, graceful and angry in all of the right ways only Jung Hoseok knew how to be. “Ha-ah, that was,” a puff of breath, “that was a mistake.”

Namjoon forced a grin, stretching his legs. After all, there’s nothing to worry. His left wing didn’t hurt as long as he kept it in. It’s just a sprain, he reasoned.

It doesn’t hurt, as long as he kept them hidden.

This, too, shall pass.

“Want some water?”

“Please,” Hoseok moaned, face buried in folded arms.

Watching Hoseok quench himself, body too spent to even sit up straight, Namjoon was thrown back in time. It catches him completely off-guard, like house of cards done in by a gust of wind; ribcage biting into itself and crushing stinging tears out of his eyes.

They were all like this, once, not too long ago. They danced their hearts out for hours and hours, practicing until they’re nothing more than hollow bones and croaking beaks; broken feathers and overheated skin fogging studio mirrors.

They survived that, Namjoon thought. His flockmates; his family; his everything. They survived that hell.

But this is a different kind of condemn; different from the overwhelming want to be known and loved. This time there were no bubbling determination boiling in their blood; only stress and tension stretching taut beneath their flesh.

What if, the quiet voice returned; the only reason Namjoon was too scared to seek medical help. What if my broken dark wings will be the last thing to sink us beneath the waves?

Namjoon can’t bear the thought.

What is he, without them as his lungs and heart and soul? How can he continue to exist, knowing the bent cursed thing on his back a garroter to their flock?

Namjoon took in a breath; an inhale; and something in his chest fizzles out, splintering, and he blinks and something searing hot rolled out of his eyes. He inhaled again, and the hitch of sobs or a panic attack in his chest made him stumble over his next breath.

“I— ah,” he gasps—

and because he cannot breathe, Hoseok startled and moved closer to him and—

“Shh, shh, hey, Namjoon-ah, what—?”

and he blinked and he cracked and shattered because his face is cradled so carefully in the crook of Hoseok’s neck, his shoulder strong, and Hoseok’s wings have bursted out of his tank to cocoon him, his hands clutching on to Hoseok’s sweaty arms—

“Hey, hey, Namjoon-ah, take it slow, okay? Listen— listen to me breathe, and, yeah, yes, there you go, there—”

And god knows Namjoon looked utterly miserable at that moment— who would want a bird with half his wings displaced, mind and thoughts all in shambles; broken and incapable of flight— but there it was, there they are; Hoseok’s wings flaunting and arching in a gesture crooning:

yes yes yes I want you I want you we want you, I will protect and bat your demons away please darling love mine tell me you want me back, please tell us you want us back, don’t cry don’t cry sweet songbird mine—

His heart bleeding and lungs breathing in rust; Namjoon’s godforsaken wings tried their damnedest to open up in return and it hurts, it fucking hurts to move and bite down on a flinch on a scream; to force his slits shut lest those dark feathers escape their prison.

Hoseok misinterpreted his gasp as panic resurfacing, so he crooned and held Namjoon steadier. “Tell me, tell me, you can tell me anything Joon-ah.” The voice was kind, a home, a sun. “I promise, you don’t have to hold it all in to yourself.”

The embrace is warm. Hoseok’s feathers were well groomed with blue-grey tint all in place, a patch of white shaped like a heart on his left flight. In his arms, in his wings, Namjoon felt small, protected.

But he can’t risk spilling the thunderclouds in his chest. Hoseok may be the sun, but he is also fragile and tethered only by their golden thread of trust.

So he opened his mouth and spilled the second-worst worry he held close,—

We may need to disband.

—the utterance broken and vulnerable.

“I don’t want us to break apart.”

Hoseok set his mouth in a heartbroken line, telling of a rain that’d fall from his eyes. He couldn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. The thought was echoed in seven different minds, all varying in wording but not in intensity.

“What would I do without you guys?”

There were no answers. The thought of being alone was overbearing. Of being without a flock.

So Hoseok held him closer. And Namjoon, broken in wings and mind and heart, allowed himself that golden warmth though he knew it wouldn’t last; just like Icarus was drawn to the sun.

Chapter Text

Crowds have life of their own, Yoongi marveled; bathed in the clamor and chorusing roar of the members’ names. It’s a sea of light, each and every dot of life jumping and dancing and singing in tandem with seven young men performing their hearts out on a stage.

Yoongi wanted to drown in them. He wanted to see them; a single raindrop from beyond the skies racing its way to join the ocean. He wanted to be them. To be a drop of water who sits on a pebble on a beach, adoring and falling in love with the ocean and her winds and tides.

”I see you!” Yoongi wanted to shout. Every single one of you. I love you, he wanted to say. But the song’s already starting, and if Yoongi speaks his love now he’d cry and wouldn’t find the words.

(He never could find the words.

How do you translate this blooming giddiness inside his chest? How does one pen the galaxies within a bound book? His wings ruffled, eager to fly.

There’s simply no words.)

The microphone was slick in his grasp. They’re sweating. The stage vibrated and shook beneath their feet, bars and melodies and syllables twirling around and shaking the stadium like an invisible giant; each note carrying their own weight in gold.

It’s the high. It’s the joy; the knowledge that they’re loved. It’s the feeling of his flockmates’ presence beside his, flowing with the beat; movements so practiced they’d be able to fall in even blindfolded.

(Yoongi loved them.

He lowered his mic, the last song curling sweetly to an end. His body felt loose and spent. His throat is aching.

Yoongi wished he knew how to tell them; to word it properly: I love you. I love you.)

“Thank you, ARMY!”

“We love you!”

Someone’s arm wound around his shoulders in the middle of an ending ment. The rapper belatedly realizes that he’s crying.

The crowd tittered and sang a song of a world written in a dream.

It’s Hoseok, head buried in the crook of his neck. He’s crying, too, so Yoongi hums contently and nudges his head against his, burying a damp nose in sweat-soaked hair. His arms wrapped around Hoseok’s waist and the younger let out a little croon.

A laugh escaped Yoongi, unbidden.

He nuzzled closer.

It’s okay, the gesture says. I get it.

This year has been incredibly hard on them all.

And they made it.

Love is (more than) enough, after all.

-

Namjoon let out a breath. Felt around for the calm to the throb in his head (and the ache in his back, which goes ignored, every single time,) and gathered himself to recite the speech again.

“Thank you, Mr. Secretary General, UNICEF Executive Director, Excellencies and distinguished guests from across the world,”

Absently he noted the airport lounge’s comfy seat; his flockmates warbling amongst themselves or glued onto their phones. They’re spent still from the concert, bodies one giant bruise waiting to happen once they forgot to ice their muscles— but the flight waits for no one, and Namjoon’s not sure whether to utilize the nine hour in mid-air to get some well deserved sleep, or to revise on his speech again.

He tilted his head up, cushion against the back of his neck. Closed his eyes, and went again:

“I was born in Ilsan, a city near Seoul, South Korea.  It’s a beautiful place, with a lake, hills, and even an annual flower festival.

“I spent a happy childhood there, and I was just an ordinary boy.”

(Lies, a voice rattled within the brittle seaglass cage of his ribs.)

Namjoon thought of warm hotteoks sold by the kind auntie back home; in a park near his elementary school. He thought of skating; stumbling and skidding, imbalanced, but never falling. So careful not to fall.

(It’s not a lie, the blackbird thought to that rasping darkness within. The voice does not budge. Namjoon doesn’t expect it to.

I was just an ordinary boy.)

“I had one sanctuary, and that was music.” There’s a plushie beneath his right arm— RJ, lent to him by Jin. Namjoon thought the gesture was dorky and so painfully Seokjin it’s adorable.

“But it took me a long time to hear music calling my name.”

Yoongi is mouthing along to something in the far corner. Namjoon, focused and unhearing, didn’t manage to catch anything; but if his hyung’s current obsession is of any indication; he’s rapping along to Epik High’s old songs.

“… Even after making the decision to join BTS, there were hurdles. Most people thought we were hopeless. Sometimes, I just wanted to quit.”

Namjoon poked Jungkook with a socked toe. The maknae was dozing on the seat right next to his; dead to the world. In his hair was a bunch of metallic confetti pieces, the very same thing used in their concert. Someone must’ve picked them up and placed them in Jungkook’s hair.

He smiled.

“I think I was very lucky that I didn’t give it all up.”

And the truth remains that Namjoon would sooner grit his teeth and tear himself apart withstanding a thousand storms than to give them all up.

(He can only hope they thought the same of him.)

He’s still clutching on to the worn papers by the time they boarded the plane. He’s still thinking about the speech, even when Jungkook strong-armed him down on the most comfortable seat on the plane, eyes closed to humor the younger’s light nagging to rest.

Namjoon wanted the speech to be absolutely perfect.

(And it was; he thought after; hands jittery and mind looping “holy shit holy shit I did it”; cameras flashing and people all dressed prim and proper beaming down on him, clapping.

He turned with a grin of his own and his flockmates were there; hundreds of times brighter, croons at the back of the throat and galaxies in their eyes.

They’re proud of him, and though he doubt his body ever will; Namjoon’s heart soars.)

[then a blink, a sigh; and time passes in a moment within a blooming dream come true,]

Namjoon sat back with a hand rubbing over his face, an unhinged sort of grin blooming on his lips. “It’s done,” he said, vaguely conscious of the camera. The staff is smiling at him and Namjoon’s not feeling giddiness yet, but the chills were there. It felt surreal.

“I posted it.”

His cheeks were aching from smiling. Here’s his heart and soul, laid bare in the form of lilting melodies and lyrics written with burned ache as the ink. “mono”, he named it. A playlist; a love letter to whomever weary enough to seek comfort in his songs.

The laugh was freeing. For once, the world was kind and everything felt right. “Finished!” he cheered.

[and heavy was the mind of one burdened with love, for it grows day by day with no restraint, for it bloom with time and care and nurture,]

To Yoongi, love looks like this:

His fingers filled with wanderlust and thoughts as they ponder above monochrome keys. A foreign city outside his hotel window. A hum within his bones, a dormant world waiting to be set free through a song.

A series of familiar knock on his door. Yoongi let out a wordless invite, eyes flicking to the clock as he got up from the floor. It read 3:42 AM.

“I brought dinner,” Namjoon’s voice said, muffled though through Yoongi’s headphones and a slab of wood with electronic lock. The floors were pleasantly cold beneath his bare feet as Yoongi opened the door.

“Eh,” he greeted, pleasant. To anyone else that would’ve sounded like a disinterested cheep; but to Namjoon who’d known him almost better than himself, it’s a question.

“Oh,” the Wingless said, breezing in like he owned the place. His hair is damp, and it smelled like peaches and something else Yoongi can’t place. “I got it from that one Korean restaurant Haru-noona can’t stop talking about.”

The plastic bags rustled as one of them moved hands. Yoongi felt a grin blooming across his face.  He had missed Korean food so much. “That place she said with the really good kalguksu?”

“Yep. I got us seolleongtang, also.”

Yoongi dropped his headphones on his neck and laughed. “Bone broth soup at this hour?”

Namjoon looked at him with disbelief written all over his face, all theatrics, scrubbing at his hair with a towel around his neck. Yoongi’s nearby desk cluttered with miscellaneous knick knacks is now Namjoon’s takeout food table, apparently.

“There’s no such thing as ‘this hour’ when it comes to seolleongtang, hyung.”

“True, true.”

“I also got your favorite.” A dimpled grin.

His heart stuttered. Throbs. “Thanks, Joon-ah.”

(Swans mate for life.

Yoongi knows this. Perhaps that’s the reason why he always knew when to pull back. To not to present, unless he’s absolutely sure.

He’s got three mates already, as of now. His (—greedy, aching—) heart pines for six.)

To Yoongi, love looks like this:

Soft carpet beneath his folded legs. The bed a perfect height for his instrument— Yoongi had hated the hotel’s too-wide chair and too-low table. Namjoon warm and full beside him, smelling of foreign shampoo in a city far from home.

The younger man is wrapping up a story with golden pen of a tongue of his, every syllable leaving Yoongi to wonder how his mind worked— the way he thought of the world— as galaxies spill out with the ebb of his rasping voice.

Sitting this close to one another, he’s suddenly very aware of Namjoon’s shorts riding up honey thighs to press against his. Scattered were empty takeout boxes for two, because he’d forgotten to eat and Namjoon’s been abusing the treadmill in the hotel’s gym for hours.

Yoongi looked at his clueless, Wingless leader and his flights rustled in the low-simmering heat of want, of aching love.

This, he notes, is the kind of feeling people write songs about.

In the quiet of the night; Yoongi’s eyes wandered. Roaming for the barest of a second, fraction of a breath, never staying long— admiring the sinew of relaxed muscles, the warmth and width of Namjoon’s palm, the minute tremor there invisible to naked eye—

“Are you cold?” he asked.

Namjoon looked away from Yoongi’s laptop and opened his mouth to answer, but all that came out was a muffled sneeze.

After the third sneeze in a row, Yoongi cackling his ass off and Namjoon indignantly squawking at his hyung, the swan let his wings out and wrapped both his arms and flights around Namjoon’s shoulders.

The Wingless froze.

And Yoongi’s too far deep in love to care. They’d known one another for almost eight years now. Yoongi’s been wanting him for half of that eight years.

(Swans love to rear up and honk when they’re happy. Namjoon loved Yoongi’s noises, loves his soft white wings and rare tender hugs. Namjoon’s not sure what to think of this one, though— doesn’t dare ask in fear of dislodging this softness amidst muted traffic outside the window.

Yoongi’s wings were wrapped around him. He’s presenting in a quiet voiceless way that only Yoongi knew how to make meaningful, and though Namjoon couldn’t see, he could feel.

And his heart breaks for Yoongi, because oh, if only his hyung knew what kind of a messy nightmare Namjoon is, the tattered broken thing he carried around on his back. He’d never present. His flockmates would never let him stay.

(You’d be banished,) whispered a small voice within his soul. It sounded like a child— a four year old with dark hateful wings not allowed to fly. (They’ll hate you.)

And Namjoon knew this. He knew this— it’s all he’s allowed to know. It’s all he was reminded of when children his age got their permission slips signed for flight lessons and he had to sit in a sparse classroom filled with napping Wingless students.

It’s all he was reminded of when the skies called for him and Namjoon had to fight his instincts and muffle sniffling tears behind a handkerchief, brushing off a teacher’s concern with some nonsense about pollen allergy.

—lies upon lies upon lies—

Speak yourself, he said before a crowd of people not even two weeks ago, a heartfelt speech he spoke as truth. Speak yourself, he said, but Namjoon would rather jump off a building first than tell anyone about his wings.

The four year old stared at him. In his little hand is a single black feather.

“We can’t keep lying to them,” the child said.

Namjoon crouched low. Held out his hand to take the fateful feather that changed his life.

“I’ll tell them,” Namjoon said, swallowing his fears and pain and mind-numbing terror. The feather twirled between his fingers. “But not now.”

The child smiled sadly up at him. “That’s what you always said.”)

Half a second passes. Namjoon’s arms came up to hug Yoongi back, the tension in his shoulders melting away. Yoongi turns over a question in his mind, smooths his thumb over it. Considers his bared, vulnerable heart and flaunting wings; thought of five other souls deserving to be there when he asked— when the Wingless inevitably answers— either to accept or to—

He pockets the question away, never to be voiced.

Instead he parrots: “Are you still cold?”

Namjoon laughs. The sound was trilling yet watery, and Yoongi knew better than to ask before the Wingless felt ready to tell.

“How can I be cold when I have you here, hyung.”

(And Namjoon looked at himself; at dark shadow of doubt on the face his four year old self, and said:

“Not this time.” And it’s a promise. “I will tell them, once we got home from tour.”)

Chapter Text

(Namjoon had spent many, many sleepless nights staring at the ceiling above his bed imagining how it would go; telling his flockmates about him having wings.)

Outside, cameras flash. Reporters murmured, equipments adjusted.

(He would hate for them to be pushed into the discovery so suddenly, so Namjoon thought about dropping hints. Maybe he’d mention having Winged tendencies. Like overheating, and the constant want to fold himself over the edge of a tall roof. Just to feel the wind.

Just to feel the pull of the sky— to lessen his hunger for flight.

Maybe he’d leave a few of his feathers here and there. Leave them puzzled and wondering for the day, then Namjoon could break the news.

(Or not, he thought, curling into himself, terror climbing up his throat— because they’d be appalled by the foreign obsidian feather. They’d be horrified; more anger and fear than concern— one of them picking up the phone to call the security—)

So maybe he’d simply tell them over dinner.

There’s a lot of things to stare at in their dining room— plenty enough that he wouldn’t run out of options while avoiding his flockmate’s eyes. He could cup his hands under a bowl of soup and sip from it painfully slow.

Like a sinner, desperately trying to prolong his life before execution.

Maybe he could just tell them out of nowhere. Drop the bomb like it’s nothing more than a water balloon. Maybe he could just joke about it. (But this is his life his flockmates his wings it’s not a joke it’s not a joke it’snotajoke-)

He could ask Sejin-hyung to tell them. Then Namjoon could slip away and hyperventilate in the safety of his studio (like a coward).

He could text them. (He could also take a butcher’s knife and angle his shoulder a certain degree to swing just right.)

I should probably just tell them, he’d thought, exhausted under the 3 AM moon; only for his mind to chirp back: (Or not? Definitely not. Unless you want to be shunned— hated— exiled—?)

It’s unrealistic and ridiculous, really; the scenarios he thought up before sleep. But can you blame Namjoon for imagining things when crippling anxiety sat heavy and cruel under the cavity of his chest?)

“Namjoon-ssi?” a staff called, her voice sounding like a crisp wake-up call. “We’re starting in five.”

The bile sleeps like a curled cat in his throat. Namjoon couldn’t say anything, so he nodded his thanks.

(His life, whenever concerned with his wings, has never went the way he intended it to go. Namjoon had simply accepted this as something he has no power to change, and moved along with the tides.

But this time—?)

Jungkook sidled up to him. His expression is unreadable.

“Namjoon-hyung?” he starts, careful.

(He wanted to tell the world himself. Before someone else, something else, cracked his secret open for all to see. His insides laid bare, translucent and yolky and broken and imperfect.

Namjoon refused to let his wings be his leash.)

His voice came out a croak. “Yeah?”

“You okay?” Jungkook asked.

Namjoon licked his lips. Weighed the question in his mind; wondering if he’d shatter the moment he launched the thing out of his mouth. His hands were still trembling.

“I’m not sure,” the blackbird finally said.

(It is the truth. He’d promised not to lie anymore, after all.)

“Jungkook. I- I don’t think I can announce the color of my wings.”

“You don’t have to,” Jungkook said firmly, taking his hand. His youngest flockmate’s mouth was set in a determined curve. “You never have to, in the first place. You don’t owe anybody anything, hyung.”

And Namjoon knew that. He knew that his flockmates and their staff would cancel the whole press conference in a heartbeat if the blackbird isn’t comfortable with the idea of the world knowing. They’d support him, no matter what.

Still Namjoon’s stomach is filled with cement. His heart beats in his throat. He just wants to go home. Be in the nest.

But he has to do this.

“I- I just won’t tell.” Namjoon said, feeling rather faint.

“If you’re sure, hyung.”

“Jungkook?” His voice came out a distressed croon. He can feel the youngest’s attentive stare on the side of his face. Dread pools in the depth of his belly.

Unconsciously, he grabbed the end of Jungkook’s sleeve. Like a bird seeking perch. “When. When I speak. To the reporters. Can we— will you guys— can you guys be by my side?”

Jungkook stepped forward and gathered Namjoon’s tense shoulders in an engulfing sort of hug— the kind of hug that reminds him of safety blankets and silly hiccupping laughter in a practice room. The blackbird unthinkingly melted into it, hands clutching onto the back of Jungkook’s suit.

“Hyung,” the word came out quiet.

He can’t see it, but Namjoon knows from the tone that there’s a shine in Jungkook’s doe eyes, a glimmer incomprehensible. Numbly, he heard confused murmurs from behind the curtains. The reporters have grown impatient. They were stalling for time.

The conference is starting.

“Of course we’ll stay, hyung.” Jungkook swore into his shoulder, a child soldier all grown up now; phoenix fire an immovable guard. “No matter what. We promised, didn’t we?”

Namjoon nodded. He stood there and breathed, feeling his lungs expand.

He’s not alone, anymore.

“Let’s go, then.”

-

Namjoon wanted to tell them himself. He really did.

Over dinner. If he lost his courage, he’d tell them after. A last ditch attempt. One way or another, he’d thought, noting that it is his turn to do the dishes today; he’s going to tell them.

(He’d do the dishes with back turned to the six of them. He’d rip the band-aid off. Tell the truth. No eye contact needed.

Namjoon just had to trust them not to claw and tear away at his back in disbelief to reveal those wretched, broken wings—)

It’s achingly hilarious, how they found out. No matter how many reveal scenarios Namjoon thought up, somehow he never considered… this one to happen.

“But why,” Seokjin was whining; his wings puffed up massively in distress. Seeing as they’re eighteen feet long from tip to tip, the blackbird is very much cornered where he stand.

“What do you mean why!” Namjoon squawked, face aflame in absolute embarrassment, oh my god. “That is my feather!” he stresses for the nth time, flapping his hands a bit.

“Yeah, someone gave it to you, I know. Though you could’ve told us earlier you were dating someone outside the flock,” Jin was saying, holding up Namjoon’s pitch black feather against the light. “I mean, bitter as I am, goddamnit, I wouldn’t blame your eyes for straying from the beautiful Kim Seokjin if your partner’s feather is this pretty—”

“What!” Namjoon half-shrieked, light-headed and red-faced and hot all over because god what’s this he’s hearing—

“Are they hot, at least?” Hoseok quipped, petulant. “This feather felt like it belonged to a hot person.”

“What!” Namjoon repeats, because, appropriately, WHAT!!

“They better be hot,” Seokjin tacked on somewhat pettily. “And they better treat you well.”

(“Or else,” someone muttered. Namjoon, the flustered oblivious fool, did not hear this.)

“You should introduce them to us,” Yoongi pipes up from behind Seokjin’s back, the tip of his nose barely visible over the hawk’s shoulder. “We would love to meet and talk to whoever you’re dating!”

“Right!” Jungkook was saying from his seat on the kitchen counter, suspiciously very cheerful. “We can hang out and have a pleasant… chat.”

Jimin was pouting in a corner, sprawled on the couch; wings sulking. Taehyung was curled into a mopey ball of grey fluff beside him. Faintly, Namjoon can hear them muttering: “glossy feathers… of course that’s his type… why can’t he like fluffy ones like ours…”

The blackbird made an aborted noise— something between a laugh and a cough. “It’s— it’s not. Oh, wow. I genuinely- I actually don’t know how to break this to you.”

“Break what?” Seokjin teased. “Haven’t you had enough of breaking my heart?”

“What?” Namjoon parroted, because it just seem to be that kind of day.

“I mean, I know you’re kinda dense—”

A deadpan, “Hey,”

“—but I just. Can’t imagine you having a Winged partner and not understand wings gestures. Did they not explain it to you? That’s kinda lame.” Seokjin’s rant was light-hearted and playful like usual, but even a deaf man would hard to miss the hurt underlying his voice.

“… tell me the truth.” Jin said after a pause. “Did you actually not know what they mean?”

“Hyung,” Namjoon said; a chill in the marrow of his bones, heartache throbbing in his blood. Terror pumped his heart to an overdrive. This is it. “I’m…”

“I mean, it’s possible that you found out what mating gestures meant after you’re already in a relationship.” Jin twirled a slightly bent onyx feather between his fingers. It is one of Namjoon’s best plumage— he’d chosen the best looking ones to present to his flockmates.

(Maybe if they thought he was pretty, Namjoon had reasoned that morning, fretting. Maybe they wouldn’t be too scandalized by its color. Maybe then he can stay.)

“I admit it is our fault, for never explaining what they meant. But. Was it— when you did find out what they mean— were you uncomfortable? With our presentations? Is that why you’ve been a bit distant with us lately? You can date whoever you want, you know. Just,” Jin rambled; sighs. “… If. If you found out what we’ve been trying to say. Tell us- tell us— I don’t know, just say yes or no. Don’t leave us wishing after you like fools.”

Namjoon felt guilt stabbing in his heart. He’s been trying so hard to protect himself and his identity, that he doesn’t even consider the hurt his flockmates must’ve gone through.

What had he done? The most important people in his life, presenting their wings and heart and soul in its barest form possible, hoping for an acceptance or a gesture returned, only for Namjoon to feign ignorance and turn away every time.

He wilts where he stands.

“Jin-hyung,” Jimin said, placating, stepping in to stop Seokjin from crowding the blackbird with his wide, wide wings. The bird of prey’s eyes have turned hard and defensive, instincts telling him to puff up.

“Namjoon-hyung might not even know. I think— you’re, you’re confusing him.”

Seokjin’s eyes were on his, and his alone. “Joon-ah. I mean it. We- we talk a lot about you being ours, but you know you’re not an object to own, right?” Namjoon couldn’t move. His legs refused to budge. “Just because we’re flockmates doesn’t mean you’re obligated to be our mate. You can date,” Jin waved his hand holding Namjoon’s feather and laughed,  trying to be nonchalant, trying to be funny,

“You can date whoever this person is, the supermodel bastard with beautiful dark wings, whatever. Just. Don’t hide, or be scared of what we think. We’ll still love you. Nothing is going to change.”

(Nothing is going to change.)

Namjoon felt heat climb up his throat, stinging his nose and causing tears to pool in his eyes. He averted his gaze. Tugged at his sleeves to cover his palms before proceeding to bury the sweater-covered heels into his burning eyes.

“I think we have to sit down and talk.” Taehyung said tentatively, voice a little croon to calm the tense mood the room has fallen into. “I think it’s time for us to explain,  uh… intimate Winged gestures. And what they meant. Whether Namjoon already knew or not.”

And the blackbird laughed.

Because of course he already knew. It was the worst day of his life, years ago backstage in Japan, knowing that they desired him— this Wingless Kim Namjoon, to be a mate. It ruined him, actually having wings and not being able to reciprocate the gesture.

It ruined him, knowing that they would no longer want him the moment they found out what he carried on his back.

He’s still laughing. In hysterics, almost, as six concerned Winged flutter around him, unsure whether to soothe him or call their therapist.

It’s just all so… achingly hilarious.

“No, no,” Namjoon gasped through his laughter. “There’s no need to explain what they meant.”

The room quietens. “… hyung?” Jungkook asked, his voice small.

“I already knew what they meant, ever since the- the first time in Japan. When Jin-hyung presented his wings.”

Humiliation colored the air. Yoongi reeled back as if he’d been slapped, blood flushing his ears and neck red. “You knew?” he demands, thinking back to the night in his hotel room, the way Namjoon had barely reacted. Had hugged Yoongi back and continued eating.

Like he didn’t see a swan’s once in a lifetime arching wings. Like nothing happened at all.

“I know,” Namjoon snaps, angry and shamed. “But there’s- I’m— it’s, it’s so much more than that. I- it truly is so much more than that. There’s nothing I could’ve done,” Tears still clung unto the corners of his eyes but he doesn’t have it in him to wipe them away.

He doesn’t have it in him to compose himself, because beneath his cardigan he’d put on a backless shirt for the first time in his twenty-five years of life. Because the moment he stop trying to futilely defend himself, he’d unfurl his wings— wing, and they’d be shocked to silence.

What’s the use, composing himself and trying to lay things out the proper way, when his wings are the furthest thing from proper? His left wing had not been treated since its injury last year. It remained bent and tucked close to his spine, aching every night it rains.

His wings had never been used to fly. The shrunken things have no muscles— barely twelve feet from tip-to-tip. His feathers were a mess. Namjoon might have chosen the most beautiful ones to show them to lessen the blow, but still.

There’s nothing about his wings deserving of love.

“What do you mean there’s nothing you could do,” Hoseok was saying, more hurt than anger, and Namjoon can’t keep doing this. He can’t. “You could either accept or let us down. You have a choice!”

“No, I don’t!” Namjoon lashed out; ears ringing, “because I am a blackbird!”

The silence hurts.

It hurts.

So Namjoon filled it with more hurt, because if he’s going to be thrown to hell after all, he will not be going with his voice jailed anymore. Twenty-five years is enough.

“I can’t reply to your dance when my wings are like this,” Namjoon said, half babble and half panic bubbling beneath a cauldron of hysteria. He tugged at a sleeve, seething, vulnerable.

“It’s— I know it’s bad, and I,” he struggled to say past the shortness of his breath, shrugging the cardigan’s soft fabric off a shoulder, “a- and I- I tried grooming them the night Jin-hyung presented. I tried. I- I thought about looking for you, to present back and accept.”

The cardigan hits the wooden floor, silent. Cool air kisses his back, making Namjoon shiver.

“But I hated my win— I hated them, hates them, and,” he pants, tries to push out his uninjured wing, “and if I can’t bear to look at them, what about you?”

A broken crow. A blackbird left to die in its golden cage. His right wing slipped out, and Namjoon averted eyes to the left so he wouldn’t have to see the shadow unfurling.

Someone gasped. Namjoon flinched.

“I- I don’t want this, either. I—”

“Namjoon,” Hoseok said, stunned. The dancer’s hand was raised up half in the air, reaching then stopping, as if he’s not quite sure he’s allowed a touch. “Joon-ah, you have wings?”

Namjoon’s tongue has turned into sponge. Chills bloomed all over him. “Yeah,” he croaked.

“How long have you hid your wings?” someone asked, horrified. “When was the last time you’ve flown?”

(Namjoon furrowed his brows. Are they not seeing the problem? … maybe it’s the shock.)

He flapped the limb, feeling blissfully cool air against the heated gaps of his feathers. “I’ve. I’ve always been a Winged. The last time I— with Taehyung? The, the flying hangar from last year?”

“You haven’t flown in a year?”

“Is your left wing okay—”

“Hyung, what—?”

Seokjin let out a wounded voice, eyeing the dark mess of feathers. “Joon-ah. Can I- can hyung touch you?”

“Can we,” Jimin said, eyes never leaving his wing. “Can we groom you? Please?”

“I don’t understand,” Namjoon said, sounding small. His ruffled wing, grotesque and unsightly, curled into himself. “I don’t understand.”

They aren’t seeing the problem. Something’s wrong. Namjoon glanced at his wing just in case it changed color by some miracle— but no, it’s still- still the wing of a crow. He inched backwards, wary. “Why?” He found himself asking. “Why’d you want to touch it?”

“Joon,” Yoongi whimpered, almost a plea. “Joon, can’t you see? Your wing is hurting.”

(His primaries itch, their stems brittle. Below the flights, the feathers were not glossy. They were dull and drab, a result of never seeing the sun. Painful pin feathers poke out of his skin.)

But that doesn’t matter, Namjoon wanted to shout. That doesn’t matter!

Why wouldn’t they acknowledge the obvious?

“I’m a blackbird,” Namjoon dragged out slow, like he’s talking to a bunch of oblivious children. “Blackbirds aren’t meant to be lov— groomed. We- we’re not even supposed to exist.”

Jungkook and Taehyung’s eyes started to water, and Namjoon felt like such an asshole.

“Shit,” he cursed, backtracking, “Sorry. I, I know it’s a shock that I’m not actually Wingless. It really isn’t my intention to hide this- to hide my- to betray your trust. I wish there is something I could do,” Namjoon rambled, helpless, burying his face in his hands,

“and I should’ve known better— shouldn’t have played dumb when you guys presented to me— and for that. For that I’m sorry. I’m so, so, sorry.”

Someone’s warm palm was placed on his shoulder, moving up his neck; the curve of his jaw. Namjoon let out a pained croon, leaning into that touch.

“I’m just so tired.”

The words never ring truer.

(Even now. Even after everything he’s done. Namjoon will always lean into their touch. He will always want their comfort.

He’s just not sure if he deserves it.)

“I’m tired.” Namjoon muffled into his hands, fingers digging into skin painfully, “I can’t keep lying to you.

I’m done hiding.”

(And the blackbird knew fairytales are not real. He knew happy endings are written only by the ones hurt. He remembered reading a storybook as a child and loved it only to scoff when the princess befriended the dragon in the end.

Monsters were not meant to have happy endings.

But maybe—)

—maybe, he thought, as six bodies crowd close around his, as gentle hands pry clawing hands away from his face, as he fell unto his knees and they follow suit—

—they murmur kind words against his hair, his neck; and they croon and chitter sweetly to drown his gasping sobs—

—maybe even monsters are allowed to heal, after all.

Namjoon breaks.

He breaks and his flockmates don’t seem to mind his hiccoughing tears nor the violent trembles enveloping his whole body. They didn’t seem to mind Namjoon clinging unto Jungkook’s soft hoodie, his white-knuckled grip potentially ruining the fabric.

All they cared about was to comb through his wing, careful hands aligning crooked feathers, brushing out soft broken fluffs of his plume. Namjoon had to suppress a full-body shiver when expert fingers rubbed off the hard keratin sheath of a pin feather.

Jungkook’s hands are gentle in his hair. He heard the question: “Hyung, do you have— can you let out your other wing?”

To which Namjoon shook his head, gasping through his tears still, burying his face in Jungkook’s chest. “Can’t,” he coughed out, “hur- hurts too much.”

His flockmates exchanged alarmed, worried glances over his head. Yoongi shook his head, and just like that no questions were asked. They went back to grooming.

And though he did not expect this; though this is the farthest thing he expected to happen, Namjoon can’t deny that he loved the feeling.

Because when he did it himself, it’s not done with care. It’s just a quick preen— plucking feathers out when they bend too much, careless tugging to shift them back in place.

It’s a hurried shake of feathers in cramped closets and bathroom stalls. There were never a lot of thought put into the action. It’s just necessity.

His flockmates’ meticulous hands though; the quiet knuckles and kind, petting palms; they felt a lot like love.

They felt a lot like acceptance.

For the first time in his life, the blackbird is finally home.

-

Lights flash. Reporters crowd the room. Greetings are made.

Kim Namjoon steps up to the middle of the podium. Behind him, not too far away, his six flockmates stand. Their faces are unreadable.

A reporter notes this with solemnity. Is this a repeat of last year? Are they going through another hard time, and cannot handle the strain? She scribbles down some questions, eager for a headline.

The leader taps his mic. Thanks the staff and everyone for coming, and apologizes for the lateness. The hall quietens, ready for the news.

“This announcement is not an easy one to make. However, after an extensive discussion with all parties involved, I would like to tell the world a truth regarding myself.”

Kim Namjoon pauses, and visibly braces himself.

“I am, truthfully, a Winged.”

The hall explodes with questions.

Chapter Text

Bae Junseok has practiced as a wing doctor for forty-two years.

He’d treated countless patients; from balding flights to bent bones and torn wing-pockets. He had clinked whiskey glasses with important (and dangerous) people, whose dying wings he brought back to life. Bae Junseok had held and comforted sobbing children wracked with pain, swiftly as he can plucking bloody broken feathers from their flesh— because learning to fly do come with its stumbling and crashing.

He had handled a man screaming on a gurney, face down begging for death— going into shock, flapping what remained of his wings. Stubby, gory mauled things— clipped cruelly by loansharks.

They rushed. The gurney clacked colorlessly through sterile hallways.

(Bae Junseok was thirty one, having just proposed to his fiancée two months ago. They’d been planning to adopt a dog. He was young.

He watched the man sob and grasp desperately at a crushed feather. White, he noted with a trained fog of calm. Pure white wings, worth their weight in gold if you know who to speak to and where to dig to reach hell.

The crushed feather was tainted with blood.)

There had been so much blood.

(The operation room held its breath for nine hours. The clipping was cruel. It was not clean.

They could not save his nerves.

It’s a terrible thing to recall; that the worst development of all is that the man survived.)

Now, in the present, the elderly doctor stared at the sixteen pages of NDA contract atop his office table.

“Take your time,” the woman sitting across him said.

This feels rather excessive, he thought, not resigning himself to read the absurdly long contract yet. He scanned his guest— noting business-casual attire and perfect posture. Her wrists were bare— no marks or tattoos indicative of… questionable origins.

Not the underground people. Rich folks, then? An organization?

He understands these kind of people always get their way.

… Doesn’t mean the doctor is going to make it easy for them.

He knew the game well, and it has no rules.

Junseok adjusted his glasses with a polite smile, entirely professional. “Non-disclosure agreement,” he read. The papers were left untouched.

“May I question the intent behind these contracts? Our hospital is one of the most respectable in Seoul— patient-doctor confidentiality is something we take very seriously.”

The jab did not go unnoticed. The woman sat straighter, meeting his eyes. “The NDA contracts are necessary precaution. It… was not meant to be any form of disrespect, seonsaengnim.”

The woman’s smile turns strained. “The patient has had… records, of causing danger to himself. Through neglect, mostly. The ones who are to know of his identity and health problems will exclusively be the staff who signed the NDA contracts.”

He nods. Patient-doctor confidentiality may be broken if a doctor deemed his patient dangerous to their own health. So far, the ‘precautions’ seem to make sense.

“I have the right to refuse.” Junseok tested. It was not a question.

The woman nods. “As it stands, the contracts’ terms will only apply when you’ve signed and met the patient.”

“Clear enough.” The doctor said. He flipped through the first page; reading. The digital clock on his desk glows a soft muted blue.

Bae Junseok feels rather than see the woman glance around the room, noting the abundance of plaques and certificates and medals of achievement in the medical field; displayed in a tall glass shelf towering to the ceiling.

“Do you enjoy flying?” he asked, breaking silence.

Her eyes wandered back to him. There’s a twinkle in them, a wonder not many retain after childhood. “I do.”

Junseok smiles. It was nice to see younger generations enjoying flight, even if they had to share the sky with skyscrapers and giant neon billboards.

“I have macaw wings,” she continues. “It’s hard to find hangars with high trees in the city, so it’s not quite as satisfying. Flying twice a week helps the itching instinct though.”

He nods. “A healthy amount.”

(The sixth page gave him a pause. A lengthy requirement stated that he shall not discriminate or make any prejudiced comments toward the patient. His brows furrowed.

Isn’t that a given? Any good doctor worth his title would not dare show disrespect toward a patient in need.

Page fourteen stated that medical staff are allowed to take bodily fluids back to lab as samples, but not, under any circumstances, feathers.

A growing wonder expands in the depth of his chest.

It tweets, curious.)

The doctor flips the pages close and weaved his fingers together. The woman queried at the sudden movement: “Bae-seonsaengnim?”

“I’ll handle the patient.” He uncapped a pink bunny-shaped pen— exquisite gift from his seven year old granddaughter. It’s a character made by a singer or something; he’s not really familiar.

Surprise and joy colored her face. “Thank you so much—”

“That is,” he cuts, not unkindly, “if you will answer a question from me.”

The woman nods in enthusiasm, eyes sparkling. She looked proud of herself, and Junseok is happy for her, really, but he needs to know.

(Childhood bedtime stories niggled his mind. Of crows and sharp talons hiding behind cloak of night.

Neglect, the woman had said. Do not discriminate, and do not take any feathers.

Who else would fear people knowing, going as far as hide behind NDA contracts in order to seek medical help; if not a crow?)

The tip of the pen started a looping signature as the doctor asked: “Is the patient a Raven?”

This morning, when he woke up, Bae Junseok believed that he had seen every horror the Winged world could offer him.

He’s done surgeries where he had to work with more exposed flesh than skin. Crushed wings, broken beyond repair. Junseok had looked them all unflinchingly before rolling on disinfected gloves and got to work. Not much can shock him at this point.

Yet, in all his years, Junseok has never treated a blackbird.

The doctor isn’t even sure if he’s met one before Kim Namjoon.

(Junseok has a firm belief on underdeveloped wings: there is always a road to recovery. Plenty of rest— long languid hours beneath warm sunlight. A healthy diet. A support system. Long grueling physical therapy.

It’s never impossible to fly.

But with a blackbird?

A hidden blackbird, that also is the leader of one of the biggest music groups in the world?

That made things a little difficult.)

“How,” the doctor tried to phrase it delicately, “how have you managed this long?”

Kim Namjoon laughed. The young man is charismatic and good natured despite the poor health of his pitch black wings. His shoulders shake with the movement, and Junseok wanted to sit him down with a hot cup of coffee and write an entire thesis on him.

Too bad about that NDA contract.

“I’m just super sneaky, I guess you could say.”

‘Fascinating,’ Junseok admired but did not voice aloud.

Theoretically, he knew blackbirds existed. He’d read about them in history books, about how resourceful they are, about how malicious and flinty-eyed they can be. He had marveled at horrifying paintings created of them, cloaked in fogs and dark nights— poets of old weaving tales of death and misfortune.

He knew blackbirds existed, and consequently, with a sad pang in his chest, he understands why they feel the need to hide from the world.

It’s just surreal, knowing the pitch black wings you’re going to treat belong to a very well-known person who spoke in United Nations last year.

“Can you flex your wing…? If you’ll excuse m— yes. Please hold still.”

His patient bit back a pained noise. The doctor noted this.

“Rotate your shoulder... Try spreading it as far as it would go.”

The wing stuttered. Muscle atrophy, no doubt about it. The presence of unruly bent feathers indicate that pin feathers were groomed off recently, but not routine enough for it to stay healthy… mistreatment and neglect, indeed.

“It looks painful,” a voice mumbled.

“Yeah. Hyung is sweating so much.”

Namjoon’s back muscles tensed. The flock’s anxious, concerned musings were audible even from the far side of the room.

Check-ups don’t have to be private, it’s perfectly alright for them to be here— however Junseok had expressed that it’d be best to give Namjoon a little space during all the inevitable probing.

(They really tried to respect the twelve foot distance. The staring is not subtle, though.)

“You’re doing well, son.” The doctor croons, the same way he did to his own child many years ago. The tension lessened, if by a fraction. “We are almost done.”

He scribbled down more notes, pausing to think.

That was a white lie.

(Kim Namjoon’s check-up is far from being done. If his right wing has this many issues; what did his injured left one hide?)

Lifting up the wing, the doctor found some bald patches beneath; scabbed over. Doesn’t seem like the remains of a fight. Rough grooming? Stress plucking? A twinge of concern washed over him. What have you gone through?

“They could use more sunlight, but your primary flights are overall healthy,” Junseok explains, petting said feathers; admiring. They are pennaceous and stiff; the barbs glossy and intact. It’s the stem he’s worried about since they looked rather brittle and dull.

“When was the last time you’ve flown?” he asked, already having his answer from shrunken, underdeveloped muscles.

“I have,” the words were hard to utter, shame and embarrassment clouding his patient’s face. Junseok chose kindness and turned away— pretending to rummage through his kit— so Namjoon can gather himself. Eventually, when the doctor returns, he spoke.

“I have never. Um, flown. On my own. I did rent a flight chamber when I was younger. The feeling of strong wind pushing up my wings spooked me too much, though. And I didn’t want to leave any feathers behind by accident, so. I didn’t dare try again.”

“How old were you?”

“I was sixteen.” He laughs, and it sounded genuine. “It was so stupid. I spent so much for an hour of private chamber, and I didn’t even use it. I just… sat there, and played with the remote, because I was too scared of some wind blowing out the floor.”

The doctor mentally went through a list of co-workers who were proficient in handling… delicate patients. He’s aware that the agency provided the boys therapists, but it would be better to have Ah-jun instead, who specializes in flight related traumas.

“Regardless, you were very brave to try.” Junseok told him kindly.

Something bitter flashed in his eyes. “I spent an hour sitting in an empty chamber the size of a bathroom; playing with a remote. I was scared of literal wind. There’s nothing brave about that.”

… yeah, he’s definitely contacting Ah-jun after this. She’s signing the NDA and taking Namjoon under her wing, no matter what.

He nods, letting the conversation drop. It is not his place to pry; and he is no therapist.

So instead he directed his attention to urgency at hand.

Tentatively, with a gloved hand, the doctor touched the swollen slit on Namjoon’s back. Through the small gap Junseok saw ruffled feathers and nothing more. “Can you tell me more about your left wing?”

The blackbird paused. Fiddled with the ends of his sleeve. “Injured,” he settled with. “I… fell.”

(It did not escape their notice; the way six Winged on the other side of the room had gone quiet and attentive, leaning in to listen.)

“When were you made aware of this injury?” he prods carefully. “Was it recent?”

Namjoon’s ears burned red. He’s clenching his jaw. Gone was the persona of charismatic young man he’d met at the beginning of check-up; this Kim Namjoon was prickly and apprehensive and scared.

This Namjoon does not want to talk about his injured wing.

“I don’t know the exact date,” he said, vaguely.

The doctor leaned in to whisper. “Namjoon-ssi, would it be easier if your flockmates weren’t in the room?”

The blackbird recoiled as if he’d been poked between the eyes. “What?”

“I understand if you require privacy. Your comfort takes priority. I can request your flockmates to leave momentarily, if it’d make the check-up easier for you.”

The dark wing twitched inwards. Though Namjoon caught the movement at the last second, Junseok recognized the motion. Wrapping wings around oneself is defensive. It’s a skittish body language to seek comfort. His eyes sought for his flock.

(The doctor reconsidered. Was the patient uncomfortable with the thought of them being away?)

“It’s alright,” the blackbird spoke after a pause. “It’s— I’m okay. I’ve resolved not to hide anything from them.”

“Then, if you can tell me about this injury? Discomfort of any kind you’re experiencing?”

“I can’t get the wing out,” Namjoon said, doing his absolute best to ignore his flockmates’ stare; burning into the back of his head. “The pain… it used to be subtle. I thought it wasn’t serious, but then it got worse.”

The doctor stayed silent. The blackbird stumbled to justify himself.

“I didn’t— it wasn’t a big deal, I thought. It wasn’t a big fall! I’ve had worse muscle pains performing concerts. It— I just tripped. I didn’t know it’s going to- to be like this.”

Junseok nodded. “Do you have an estimation of when it happened?”

Resignation colored Namjoon’s face with sunset shame. He crumpled a feather between his fingers. “I think it’s about- about a year old.”

A beat, then—

“A year?” Kim Taehyung whispered; soft as a child’s plumage, unable to hold back— and Namjoon had to continue speaking lest his anxiety caught up to him, before he got shot out of the sky like a helpless prey.

“It’s been hard for me to sleep,” he dared to meet gazes with Hoseok once before flicking away; unable to bear the heart-rending mourn in his eyes. “My wing itches. All the time. Molting season last month was unbearable. I have loose feathers stuck in my wing pocket. It’s— it aches. It’s so prickly. So— so stuffy and hot and it’s driving me insane. I can’t maintain any semblance of proper body temperature, because my wings felt disgusting and unbalanced and I can only air out my right one.”

Namjoon rubbed at his face, half-laughing, exhausted. Under layers of foundation, his eyes were dark and heavy, begging for sleep. “Last month I had half the mind to jump—” he shook his head a little here, hurrying to cover the slip, “I mean, to rebreak my wing— or to force it out no matter what— so I can pull the fucking thing out and groom it. But what if I can’t stuff it back in?”

“What if everyone found out?”

(Across the room, six hearts splintered and shattered. They didn’t know. They lived under the same roof for years, they’ve been by Namjoon’s side the past molting season, and they didn’t know.

They’d had no idea Namjoon had been suffering for that long.

Just how many more hardships had Namjoon endured alone? Just who had made him this terrified of his own wings?)

“Good thing they’re small, though.” The blackbird said wryly, half-smiling. “They’ve got plenty of room back there. They barely bother me whenever we’re performing. They’re just— kind of there. Prickly and itchy. Especially when I sweat.”

The doctor pursed his lips, not in disapproval but in worry. “By any chance, Namjoon-ssi. Have you experienced unexplainable bruising around your shoulder area?”

The smallest of sounds came from Namjoon as he drew in a short breath. He didn’t answer in detail. Instead he just nodded and said, “… yeah, on my— there’s a big— um. Yeah.”

“Do the bruises appear subsequently with your flares of pain?”

The blackbird nods.

(Namjoon never mentioned anything about his left wing locking up; how the muscles felt like they want to shrivel up and die as one white-hot point of blinding agony tucked close to his spine every time the temperature drops.

The blackbird never mentioned the bruising either; he’s never really bare-chested in front of the guys anyways— always wearing a thin shirt or a tank top to hide the slits in his back.

When he realized the flares of pain in his back has brought him giant, purple bruises, Namjoon didn’t react. He waved off the make-up noona who pointed it out and laughed: “I bumped against the wall during this one RUN filming, don’t worry about it.”

The blackbird then went on to muffle wet curses in the bathroom in the middle of the night, icing shoulder that felt like it’s been hit by a sledgehammer.

The ice had helped.

He was managing fine on his own.

He was doing fine.)

Junseok stood and walked around his chair, drawing up a small instrument from his lab pocket as he did. “I’m going to take a look at your wing pocket, if it’s alright.” He clicked at the thing with a gloved hand, revealing it to be a flashlight.

Namjoon took in a deep breath, stamping down the panic that came with anyone mentioning doing anything near his slits; wrestling instincts that are hackling high like a rooster challenging a threat.

“Yeah,” he said, knowing full well he’s not getting out of here without an x-ray and surgery date planned. The hard rock in the middle of his throat made it very hard to swallow. “Yeah, sure.”

It’s not fair to say that Namjoon… disassociates. Yet he can’t help but feel it’s giving him too much credit to describe it otherwise.

There’s a disconnect between his body and mind— vocal chord moving and answering questions he did not understand, shoulder and wing shifting; throbbing, aching.

He knows he’s gritting his teeth in pain, all knuckles buried in sweaty hair, digging into the scalp as the doctor attempts to locate the break in his bone. He knows he’s holding back bile and nausea as Junseok-seonsaengnim soothes him with mild pain sedative to the hip.

He barely felt the needle.

(The doctor shook his head.

“The bone healed wrong. We’ll need to run a CT scan.”

Namjoon can’t comprehend him. It’s like trying to listen from beneath murky water surface.)

He understands, in a sense, that in order to avoid further injury to the wing, they’ll have to do surgery. Cut open the slit on his back, carefully pull out the limb, stitch the incision, then to rebreak and reset the wing before his body is allowed to heal on its own time.

Recovery is going to take months, Namjoon registered the doctor say. “Light physical activities only for the first two weeks,” Junseok was saying to his flockmates, and hey, when did they crowd close?

Burbling seawater filled his ears. It sounded like a croon, pressed right against his back.

(Everything is pleasantly warm. His nest is warm.)

“… I can’t say for sure, not until the surgery is underway. We’ll have to see how his body react to the medication.”

Namjoon hummed absently, playing with Yoongi’s warm, warm hand in his. Strange. His brow furrowed: he did not notice a blanket draped on his lap before. And when did he put on Jungkook’s hoodie?

Absentminded, he brought up a soft sleeve in front of his face and inhaled the scent of boy and laundry softener.

“Is there… is there anything we can do, during home recovery?”

“Patients recover faster when they feel loved and emotionally supported. Be there, but don’t overwhelm him.” The doctor’s voice took on a smile, and it made Namjoon warm in a way that his elementary school teacher’s does— like a praise and a kind pat to the head.

“He’ll be well with you all. Your flock is truly something special. Even if all fails, even through the worst pain, I know he can depend on you.”

Blinking slow, snuggling close to a sturdy, warm shoulder, Namjoon can’t help but to be content and agree.

Chapter Text

“Wait, that can’t be,” Namjoon insists, heated and maybe a little offended. His blankets rustle. Nearby, medical equipments emit a gentle hum. “That’s not how you splint a wing.”

Jimin laughs so hard he’s actually curled up on the floor whimpering. Every once in a while he wheezes on an inhale before going off again, clutching his stomach and begging for them to stop.

“It is how you splint a wing!” Jungkook barely bit back a shit-eating grin. His phone flops on the bed; Namjoon struggling to pick it up to take a closer look. “It’s like a bandage hug.”

Namjoon stared at their photoshopped monstrosity in horror. They can’t help the teasing, their hyung’s reactions are simply too cute. “But— that’s— how’d you use your arm?”

“You don’t. For at least two weeks.”

“What?”

“Please,” their songbird begs, genuinely crying from laughter. “Stop it— I’m gonna pee myself.”

“Don’t soil Namjoon-hyung’s pee-less floor.” Taehyung deadpans.

That just made Jimin laugh harder.

“No way,” the blackbird announces, reaching at his phone. “There’s no way. I’ve never met anyone with a broken wing looking like a harassed mummy— you guys are messing with me.”

“They might heal at home out of necessity. That’s why you never met one.” Jungkook offers, giggling, bracing for their leader’s outburst. The search page is already loading. The blackbird barely registers the time; fifteen minutes until he’s wheeled into operation room.

“They’ll roll you around in a pile of bandages and then—”

“I hate you guys so much,” Namjoon laughs, scrolling through pictures of actual Winged in slings, the tension in his shoulders lessening. There are, to his relief, much less casts involved.

“The audacity.” He smacked the closest person with a pillow. The IV line does not seem to bother him. “I can’t ever trust you again.”

The maknae line isn’t even listening. Their laughter and clapping echoes in his private hospital room.

-

Before the surgery, Bae-seonsaengnim did mention that Namjoon won’t wake up right away after. It might take him anywhere between twenty minutes to an hour to rouse.

And usually, that’s not a big deal. It’s not the first time any of them had been admitted into a hospital. It’s not the first time drugs had been used to put a flockmate under.

It’s just the sight of Namjoon lying face down on the hospital bed, pale and unnaturally lax in anesthesia-induced sleep. His wings were out in semi-public place for the first time in his life.

Not even Namjoon’s mother can resist making concerned cooing noises, fluttering about her son’s bedside with obvious worry.

(Namjoon’s wingspan is not that of a healthy adult Winged. It was growing fine, the doctor reassured, though confining them for extended period of time had stunted their growth. It’s as if the wings just gave up growing after Namjoon rejected their existence.)

Now said wings lay draped over the blackbird’s body like a blanket of night. The left wing, the one that had to be rebroken, can barely be seen beneath its splint. Soft, downy feathers lay tattered on the floors. They need to groom him again, soon.

It took the flock all they had, to not ask Namjoon’s mother questions about his wings. Why go to such lengths? Why nurture loath and shame upon those dark flights?

Did her son grew up having to hide in their family home, too?

But those questions were not appropriate to be asked, and the answer might not be Mrs. Kim’s to give. So Jimin, Taehyung, and Jungkook sat down with Mrs. Kim; peeling mandarins and speaking quietly as not to disturb their flockmate’s sleep.

(Not even in their own roost— in the comfort of their nest, had Namjoon let his functioning wing out. It’s not easy to undo twenty years of habit and conditioning. Not even when it’s molting season. Not even when it’s just them and nobody else in the dorm.

His wings would stay in. Out of sight, out of mind; he’d joked once. They didn’t really like that joke, and Namjoon simply shrugged and moved on. Unaware of the war of conflicting looks he’d left behind.)

Yoongi hums, putting his bag down.

To lay eyes upon Namjoon’s wings under bright hospital lights— it didn’t feel right.

He’s not awake to know that people are looking. It doesn’t matter that everyone involved already knew, doesn’t matter how these strangers are sworn to silence by signature on papers…

It felt… dirty, almost. To look. Wrong.

Here’s their beloved’s secret, one that he’d fought so hard to hide from the world, bared for all to see. To show them took Namjoon unbelievable amount of courage. (Like picking up pliers with his own hands, clamp upon a tooth, and—)

Wordlessly, Yoongi pulled on the curtains around Namjoon’s bed, hiding the gloss and shine of those ruined flights.

Machines hum. The plush chair sighs as Yoongi made himself comfortable, taking notice of Jimin’s jacket draped along its back.

The swan held a limp hand in his own. The smile that fought its way to his lips felt like relief. A little anger, perhaps, directed towards himself, for the inability to do anything in the moment.

“Looking good, Namjoon-ah.”

Gentle breaths through an oxygen mask answered the room.

“The surgery went well,” Yoongi relayed after a pause. “It took longer than expected— did you know your flights were misaligned a little? They had to cut open the top and bottom part of your wing pocket to get it out. You’ve got thirteen stitches.”

Inhale, exhale. The blackbird does not stir.

“I wish you’d wake up soon. The surgery was two hours ago— I just came back from the studio. The guys are down in the cafeteria, eating. Your mother went to make another thermos of hot tea.”

A pause. Yoongi bit his lip. “… Everyone is worried about you.”

Platinum bangs were cast aside by gentle hands. The swan kissed that temple, lovingly, before settling down to wait in vigil.

-

They had a month of break.

Ever since he put on his big boy pants to speak up at the conference, Namjoon’s life had changed so swiftly and violently like the handles of a bicycle being yanked; he found himself helpless but to categorize events into capitalized Before and After.

Before, he’s the only Wingless member of his flock. After, he’s an enigma of a Winged idol; feather type and color and wingspan unknown. He starred in every headline. News station won’t stop chirping about Bangtan’s Winged Leader. Phone calls and messages flooded in— many exclamations, questions, requests, inquiries and invites and congratulations from friends and family and fellow idol acquaintances.

It’s thrilling and a relief that the world knew, but at the same time, this amount of attention in such a short span of time is extremely overwhelming.

So a month of break it is.

With surprisingly no persuasion, Namjoon agreed to take time off the internet. When approached with the question why, the blackbird simply snuggled deeper into a blanket pile.

“It’s just a lot,” he yawns. Pauses to think. “I seriously considered doing a VLive, to— you know— but I don’t think I’m well enough to talk about my wings to millions of live audience.”

A soft smile, unseen under dim lights of their flock bed. “You’re handling this really well.”

Rustling in the nest. Namjoon hums. “Well. My therapist encouraged me to identify the source of my stress and what is within my control to change. This is within my control. I’m /not/ touching Twitter for at least a month.”

He turned to Hoseok’s relaxed gaze; the dove also swaddled in blankets. “Can we spoon?” he asks, shy. Namjoon is immediately rewarded with the reply of a happy twee.

(The world was lit ablaze after Bangtan’s press conference. The month-long silence doesn’t help. The internet wanted answers, it seemed, which is strange since Namjoon said all that needed to be said in the conference.

“WHAT TYPE OF WINGS” trended worldwide for two days, shadowed beneath the very loving tag ARMYs had made; “WingedMoonchild”, which trended for eleven days.

Even in those supportive tags, many curiously queried about the leader’s wings. Their appearance; their shape, the reason Namjoon hid them in the first place.

Namjoon did not know this. Not that it mattered; his flockmates thought. The blackbird owed no one explanation. The agency’s official accounts stated so in a much, much kinder tone than what the internet deserves.)

The flock travels during break. Eats a lot. Excitedly discusses the possibility of flying together, and then made a point to stop bringing that up when they realized the topic made Namjoon extremely nervous.

(Because his wings might never be strong enough to fly.)

The break helps. Namjoon reads. Tried new things, went to specialized therapy under Ah-jun seongsaengnim. He happily did not interact with social media at all. A detox; of sorts.

Pain lanced through his entire being every now and then, taking him out at the knees. Before, he’d stumble and lean against a wall to play it off. But it’s After, so Namjoon crumples to the ground and whined for his flock to help him up.

They’re very endeared by this. Also very concerned. Extremely concerned.

How the hell did he hide this from them Before? How did he mask this kind of knee-buckling, cold-sweating, teeth-grinding pain?

Before they knew, the date of his surgery creeps closer and closer.

Perhaps it’s a coincidence that ‘Intro: Persona’ dropped two days before the big day. Before he’s doomed to weeks of ‘light physical activities’; whatever that means.

At least Namjoon can entertain everyone with tweets and old selcas without straining himself.

He snorts, hitting play.

I just wanna go, I just wanna fly. I just wanna give you all my voices 'til I die.

Something mischievous and terribly nervous slithered into the blackbird’s grin. He can’t wait see their responses— the altered way everyone will undoubtedly analyze the song now the world knew he’s a Winged.

Namjoon flicks through the calendar app in his phone.

Two days until the surgery.

The blackbird inhales through his teeth, chucks the phone in a vague direction of their couch, and picked his novel back up.

-

“… wh—?”

At the hoarse mumble, Jimin jumps. He abandons the mindless card game they’ve been trying to distract themselves with, and scrambled to Namjoon’s bedside.

“Hyung?” he asks, quietly, very much aware of five other flockmates trying their best not to crowd the confused patient. The songbird reaches out, winds his fingers through Namjoon’s. “Hyung, are you awake?”

“Mmh,” the blackbird sighs, glassy eyes blinking open. “Where..?”

Taehyung knelt next to him, lips quirked into a smile. The doctor mentioned they had to increase Namjoon’s anesthetic— that he might woke up disoriented and plagued with nausea.

“Namjoon-hyung,” the snowy owl coaxed. “Wakey-wakey.”

The only answer he got was a miserable moan. The blackbird shuffled, pushing against the mattress. “Heavy…?”

That’d be the wings. Namjoon had never had them splayed out before, and shrunken though they are; the limbs are akin to an enormous blanket.

Gently, Hoseok pushed the blackbird’s shoulder back down. “Down, boy. You can’t lay on your back for a bit.”

The door opens and closes. Someone had went out to alert the doctor.

Namjoon frowns, looking unfairly cute and mussed. He made a cooing noise, warbling off into nonsense at the end.

Jungkook clutches at his chest. “Oh, no. He’s adorable.”

From the loveseat just across the bed, Yoongi bit back a laugh. “I’m warning everyone now. No cuddling Joon in the foreseeable future— there’s some fragile recovery happening.”

“I can make it work.”

“Sure, I guess, if you let Namjoon sprawl on top of you.”

A happy chirp. “That sounds like an amazing movie night.”

Namjoon huffs, fogging up his oxygen mask. His eyes threaten to close again, slow blinking. “’m heavy,” he slurs sleepily, in response to the cuddling comment.

“No, you’re not.”

“’m tallest.” Their leader complains, entirely unaware of Hoseok’s giggles and a recording camera.

“And we have a tough, scary, bird of prey in the flock. Seokjin-hyung can handle you.”

Jimin squints playfully, the songbird taking that as a challenge. “I’m not a bird of prey, but I can handle hyung. I can handle all of you.”

“Minnie, you’re being spicy.”

“Please do not manhandle the patient,” a nurse’s voice filtered in through the open doorway, amused. Her eyes wrinkle with a teasing smile. “Healing from a rebroken wing is a delicate process.”

Laughing, Jimin faceplanted on the bed, embarrassed. “Ah, no, I was just—”

Seokjin trails in after the nurse, patting Jimin’s head as he passes with little sympathy.

“You deserved that,” he supplied.

“Whyyy.”

They laughed. Some built-up tension eases out of the room. They’re okay. Everything is going to be alright.

“Namjoon-ssi?” the nurse prods gently, picking up a clipboard. “How are you feeling?”

Honestly? Slight nausea aside, Namjoon thought, watching various colorful shapeless blobs dance on the hospital floor. Pretty darn good.

He let out a warbling twee.

Someone stifled a laugh. On the floor, a purple blob is tackling a green one. They went flying, tumbling and rolling off his field of vision. The blackbird is understandably rather concerned about this.

“… give it two months, before the wing can be tucked back into the body. Until then, no dance practices, and no strenuous activities.”

Two months? The blackbird felt his right wing twitch. No, not two. They’re only taking a month of break. Someone is being very silly right now— the math is way off.

“Nno,” he managed, halting the hushed conversation. His eyelids felt very heavy; Namjoon’s not sure when he closed them. “’oo long.”

A beat passed. “Huh?”

Namjoon shook his head, trying to dislodge a pink blob hanging by his bangs. It’s a failing quest, and the motions just made him dizzier. He chitters, confused and a little annoyed.

“No. Too long.”

Realization dawned three seconds after.

“Well, this is not negotiable.”

“Nnnnno.”

“You need the rest.”

Namjoon made sure he’s got his angry eyebrows on. He’s not going down this easy! “Hmpf!”

(An amused laugh in the background. “He’s so goddamn high right now.”

“I know right? Joon tripping balls is the best thing ever.”)

The portly, motherly nurse put one of her hands on a hip. She’s a tiny lady, top of her head barely coming up to Jiminie’s shoulder. For some reason though, everyone leaned away at the display— subconscious reminded too much of nagging school cafeteria auntie.

Namjoon wanted to stick his tongue out, but that’s rather difficult considering the oxygen mask. He bats at a yellow blob clinging on his nose instead. His hand smacked the mask.

Ow. Forgot about that.

“Namjoon-ssi.” she started. For some reason, it sounds exasperated instead of stern. Hm. Cafeteria aunties are usually rather scary. And stern. What changed, he wonders.

He blinks, slow. Holding his head up like this is surprisingly exhausting. Namjoon flops back forward into a mound of pillows, feeling very sleepy. Something squished against his face.

The blackbird is about to reach up and wrench the thing off— when a hand started petting his hair and oh—

There’s also hands combing through his feathers and scratching gently at one of his wing.

That— this is- kind of nice…

Very nice, actually…

Namjoon melted into the sheets, crooning happy noises. His head pushed into the hand, wanting it to never stop. Someone pressed their lips against his forehead then and it’s warm, warm— full of aching, unconditional love— making something throb in the cradle of his ribs.

There are people talking softly. They’re saying something. He should pay attention, probably. Right?

Or not. It’s getting increasingly difficult to think. To stay awake.

It’ll be okay to sleep, right? He’s not in pain for once… it’ll be too bad to waste this chance. It might never come again.

Someone is calling him. Softly, testing— wanting to know if he’s awake or not.

Namjoon rather liked the shape of his name in their mouth. It feels right. It feels safe.

He’s in safe hands. The blackbird can’t imagine anywhere else more serene— can’t imagine anywhere else he’d rather be.

His breathing whistled through the strange object stuck to his face, and with an exhale, Namjoon sank like stone back to sleep.

Chapter Text

“I find it really funny,” Namjoon starts to say, in the tones of someone who’s about to say something not funny; his wild hand motions that of a drunken teenager.

A stifled laugh. It’s good to know at least the painkiller is working.

“What’s funny?”

“That I'm being viewed by- by the doctors as some sort of victim. A society-victim. A— an unfortunate soul with unfortunate colored wings.”

“Mmhm,” continued Seokjin, amused.

Namjoon took it as an encouragement. Social hierarchy in all of its nonsensical ways is a perfectly acceptable thing to discuss to your flockmates at 4 AM, right after a crying session about wireless mouse and magical properties of cotton candies.

The mood is strange, and slightly hysterical. Today has been particularly draining and they shouldn’t have had sugar-loaded drinks past 11 PM.

Namjoon took a sip of his blue soda. It took an effort since his silly straw was bent in many ways straws shouldn’t be bendable.

“I mean, I mean.” He zones out for a few seconds, processing his drink and most likely hearing colors. Namjoon’s head almost dips forward— Jimin’s hand readily out to prevent head-bonking just in case— but the blackbird managed to catch himself, straightens a bit; squishes at a Tata plushie.

“Yeah, it’s weird. The way people think about me.”

“What, that you’re unbearably hot and also the perfect son for every mother?”

He laughs, a loud, giggly thing. “Blackbirds, I mean.”

The hospital room is quiet— a nice kind of quiet, the kind of silence where you know a loved one is well-cared for. They’d turned off all the lights expect for a little one in the corner of the room; fluorescent and kind.

“Hyungie?” a prompt, testing after a beat. Either to see if Namjoon’s still awake or to ask him to elaborate.

A dark wing flaps. He’s sitting now, tired of laying on his front all day. Placed on his lap to support his body is an enormous Tata plushie, happily squished.

Jimin shuffled close so Namjoon’s uninjured side can lean against his shoulder. Pliant, their leader went. His head lolls happily into the songbird’s neck, who does not mind the slight dig of oxygen mask.

“Have you—” his voice rumbles quietly, “have you ever thought of why it is, instead of accepting it as it is?”

“It?” Hoseok asks, encouraging. He’s tracing lazy circles into the back of Namjoon’s hand, who’s barely seem to notice the touch. Whenever Hoseok tried to move away, however, the blackbird will shoot him this heartbroken betrayed look, so the dove happily accepted his temporary job as a hand masseuse.

“The, the whole thing.” Namjoon frowns, and the effect was lost behind his oxygen mask. He mostly looks like a disgruntled bird, all ruffle and fluff. It’s horribly distracting. Jungkook’s face scrunches in adoration despite Namjoon’s woozy effort to make them pay attention, yah, I’m— I might— I’m running for president.

God. What a dork. A kiss probably would shut him up. Probably. They have to run tests on that. Multiple tests. Just to be sure.

“Do you think- did you ever think- when people don’t know anything better. When. When it’s all they’d ever been taught. That blackbirds are bad luck and- and death. Aren’t they all victims, then? Everyone. Us. Victim of the system.”

Hoseok paused, his hands warm on Namjoon’s.

“That’s— well, that’s one way to look at it.”

“They don’t know any better,” Namjoon hiccups, slurring his words.

“They— there’s exceptions, of cours’. Some— some people don’t believe in- don’t believe all that. Like you guys. You— you don’t ssseem to care that I’m a crow. You’re not— you’re not grossed out. I think so, at least.” His forehead scrunches in distress, and the following moments are filled with so much indignant protests and reassurances and heartbroken whirring noises at the back of the throat, that the blackbird just looked at them blankly, overwhelmed.

He laughs. The warm, wet press of his eyes against Jimin’s neck did not go unnoticed.

His wing twitches again. His left one lies limp and heavy in its cast.

“Aw. What would I ev’r do without you all?”

(Namjoon, high on painkillers and distress, would not be able to remember what they’re talking about the following day.

Six souls vow to make sure he knows, nonetheless, how much he loves and is loved by return. Doesn’t matter if it’ll take a while for the lesson to stick—

They have forever, after all.)

Half an hour later had Taehyung glancing down at the sleeping blackbird, smushed between at least three flockmates’ limbs and deep asleep on top of the massive hospital bed. It’s been a long day.

“It’s like how flightless birds were treated as the weirdos in high school,” Jimin rumbles quietly. The clock blinks; it’s almost sunrise. They’re going to tease Namjoon mercilessly once he’s conscious and sober— he’d been so adamant he’d sleep last.

“Ooh. I had an ostrich classmate in fourth grade. She always picked fight with teachers every time we had flight lessons.”

“Mm, yeah, they had to sit out and do tryout booklets with Wingless classmates.”

“Wh— your school made the flightless do homework while the rest get to fly the entire school day?”

“That’s messed up.”

“I know… Now that Namjoon-hyung brought it up, I realized how unfair things had been for those who cannot fly.”

A frustrated sigh. “They did not choose their wings. Namjoon didn’t choose his wings. Nobody knows what their wing type and colors are going to be— it’s dumb. This is so dumb. Things— some things have to change.”

Nobody spoke after that. They’re all sprawled on an overcrowded bed, clad in comfy pajamas and thinking of the same thing— Namjoon; disoriented and grumpy, sitting with hands wrapped around a mug of hot tea. His face was lined with sleep creases and pink marks where the oxygen mask dug into skin.

Namjon’s mother had been wiping his neck with a damp towel, scolding him all the while. ”Why didn’t you say anything,” she’d demanded, worried and at verge of tears. ”What’s wrong? You should’ve spoken to me. Or your father. Talk to Kyungmin. Your sister misses you.”

The blackbird was quiet throughout the whole thing. They’d been a flock long enough for the six Winged across the room to read his face— he’s thinking. He’s got a thousand thoughts stuck in his head, and he’s unable to pick one to voice.

So he glued his mouth shut, and did not talk unless directly addressed.

His mother were so worried, she did not press for answers. Her hands were shaking as she caressed his rumpled feathers— the brittle and bent stems shivering under her touch.

She had to excuse herself, after a while.

Namjoon’s shoulders dropped as soon as the door closed.

His tea has gone cold.

(“Do you want some space,” they had wanted to ask. “Do you want us to leave?”

“Do you want us to call your sister? Do you need alone time with family?”

“We can go back to the dorm. Make the nest. We’ll pick you up in the morning. Welcome you home.”

The words never came out. Namjoon raised his head, catching their hesitant gazes; knowing they’re unsure whether or not to leave the room the moment his mother’s scolding voice started wobbling. To choose between Namjoon’s pride or his need for their company.

(Namjoon would later laughingly tell them, that they needn’t have worried. He did not have much pride left in the first place.))

He speaks, quietly.

“How many people are out there, just like me, hyung?”

(A watery voice reassures the worried nurse outside the hallway. ”No, no. I’m fine. I’m proud of my foolish son. He’s. I’m just—”)

“Blighted and cawing, just waiting for the shoe to drop. Just waiting for people to find out.”

(”I— what— what have we done? Why did I ever tell him to hide?”)

“Do you think we exist, still?” The blackbird’s gaze is faraway; skin sickly and pale. He looked the way a forgotten god looked, sitting serenely in a shadowy grove in a forest. His rage hums ghost-quiet and bone-tired; nothing more to give to a world that doesn’t know to stop taking.

“I can’t— I can’t be the only one, can I?”

Again, they didn’t get to answer. Mrs. Kim walked into the room with a fresh damp towel.

Namjoon didn’t even flinch at the coldness.

Back home at their apartment, Namjoon is getting kind of tired of passing out.

And just really tired in general.

He’s really, really got to pee, though.

“Oh my gosh,” the blackbird breathed out, wobbling for balance after standing up. The entire world seem to spin for a moment; extra limbs hanging from his back flapping instinctually and making him hiss in pain.

“Are you serious,” he said, futilely finding no balance after full seven seconds. His tone was horrified. “This is absurd. This makes absolutely no sense.”

His wings are the dumbest thing to ever happen to him. The stupid things had displaced his balance, a deadweight dragging behind his body and knocking into things that usually are not within reach.

Emerging from the bathroom, Namjoon winced as his feathery limbs knocked down a painting hanging next to the door. For the third time today.

“You okay?” asks Yoongi, his voice carrying from the kitchen.

He mumbles a little in embarrassment. “I might’ve broken the frame this time.”

“That’s okay,” Yoongi said, and it sounded true, and something tingly-warm bubbles beneath Namjoon’s ribs. “Are you hurt?”

“Can I put my right wing in a cast too, so the weight balances out?”

“Eh, you’re okay,” the swan concluded.

Namjoon contemplates laying on the ground to whine. It’s going to be a blow at his image, but not enough to top the group hug thing from their last concert. He’s got nothing to lose, basically.

“Hyuuung.”

“Whaaat.”

“I can’t even sit on a chair.”

“We’ve got perfectly fine backless stools to sit on.”

“Everything itches!”

“Kim Namjoon, you swore an oath not to itch until your stitches come off.”

“Auh. I’m gonna go crazy.”

“A little too late for that, don’t you think?”

Laughter rings out as Namjoon pitches at Yoongi with a couch pillow.

“Bad aim, you brat—”

The blackbird collapses face-first into the couch. Carefully. Gingerly. Bone injuries are such pain. Woe is he. “How dare you.”

“You’re a damsel. You’re in distress. We get it.”

“Dang. Some knight I have.”

“Keep disrespecting your knight and you’ll lose your hot chocolate privileges.”

At that, the blackbird’s eyes lit up. “Hot chocolate?” he perked up, head nowhere close to peeking over the back of the couch.

“Don’t strain your neck doing that and you might get extra mini marshmallows.”

The blackbird flops down, grinning, aching wings forgotten. “Yessir.”

It was a rainy night, one week after Namjoon’s been released from hospital when Jungkook dreamed.

Flickers, fragments. Something along the edges of reality, foggy and slow. Like wading through syrup. Taffy.

Doctors clad in scrubs bursts through Namjoon’s operating room. They’re faceless, indistinct. A nurse sat the flock down in the waiting room while the doctors chattered to themselves.

There are bad news and good news, Jungkook overheard. Should we tell them individually? Should we call the family first? They may not take it well.

Somehow, Jungkook isn’t consumed by panic. Nothing but quiet, inside his own head.

He turned, and the nurse was talking to Hoseok. “Can I get you anything?” She asks. “Some water? Coffee? I can get you some of the Raven’s feathers.”

“Why would I need Joon-ah’s feathers?” Hoseok asks.

The nurse blinks at them, as if taken off-guard by the question. “Oh.” She said. “I thought you’d like some for keepsake.”

“Keepsake?” Someone asks, to no answer at all. Jungkook blinked, and the waiting room had vanished.

He’s in a hospital room, somewhat familiar. He remembered falling asleep in that loveseat shoved into a corner, listening to Namjoon’s mother chatter about his childhood and how stubborn he had been about not wanting seafood in his noodles.

In front of him is a bed.

Namjoon-hyung laid on top of it, sound asleep.

“Hyung?” Jungkook called. His feet wouldn’t move.

A grim-faced doctor, no, a surgeon, approaches them. She told Jungkook that Namjoon’s wings were damaged beyond repair. But they couldn’t just remove the wings. Wingless, the corrosion and rust will continue to infect his back. Soon, he’ll crumble. They wouldn’t be able to save him then.

“So, that’s the bad news.” Jungkook said, not daring to look away from his sleeping hyung. He looked peaceful. He wouldn’t let Namjoon crumble away to dust like a broken marble statue. He wouldn’t.

“What’s the good news?”

The surgeon drew out a clipboard hidden behind her back. “You’re a matching donor.”

Jungkook nods. “Then give him my wings.”

“It’s not going to be easy.”

“It’s okay.”

“The procedure would hurt. Things would change.”

“It’s okay.”

“You’ll regret this. He won’t love you anymore, Icarus, if you threw away your golden wings.”

Jungkook raises his head, and looked straight at her hollow, soulless eyes.

“Do it.”

The clipboard turned into a scalpel in her hands. The surgeon croons; a nightingale singing above loved one’s gravestone.

Funny, Jungkook thought, feeling the jab of cold needle into his arm. He’d never heard a female nightingale sing before.

He awoke on top of a hospital bed with Namjoon beside him, hands clutching his. There are relief and pain in his eyes as his hyung begged: “Please take them back, Jungkook, you don’t know what you’re— you don’t have to do this, it’s not too late to tell them you changed your mind—”

But Jungkook wasn’t looking at Namjoon’s face anymore.

The blackbird’s wings were furled out, dragging his beloved down. Namjoon’s shoulders don’t look right— they looked unbalanced; bones crumpling in— with rust and marble-cracks creeping up the side of his neck. The wings are poisoning him. They’re killing him.

Death, and misfortune. The wings of a blackbird will be the death of his hyung.

“I’m okay,” Namjoon was still saying. “It doesn’t even hurt anymore. I don’t want to fly, if this is the cost. I’ll be okay. Please don’t hurt yourself for me.”

“You’ll die.” Jungkook said. They’re wheeling him into the operating room, now. Namjoon is still on the chair, left behind, wings a dark sludge melting the walls, the floors, eating the blackbird’s very bones—

“You’ll crumble and break.”

“I won’t,” his hyung said, now laid in a bed just next to him, tears in his eyes. The door closes, and the beeping of a heartbeat lulls them all to medicated sleep.

“Your wings—”

“—will heal. As long as you’re all with me. I will heal.”

“Hyung…”

“I’ll fly with you. Not without you.”

And Jungkook loves him.

Jungkook loves him so much, it has never mattered whatever the cost, Jungkook will lay it down all for him. For them. For this.

He closes his eyes, and woke up.

Early morning finds his flockmates lazing around the living room, a couple of them yet to emerge from bed. The shower’s on, and there are soft gaming noises and low conversations. The sun is low and the roost is yet to wake.

Jungkook’s heart, the one that lifts with the wind and pines for the sky, tugs him forward in the direction of Namjoon.

His leader has sleep-rumpled hair and the scent of lemon shower gel, sitting with folded legs— shirtless— with Taehyung at his back changing his damp bandages.

“It’s hard not to get them wet,” he was saying to the owl. Sheepish, but not ashamed at accepting help. They’ve gone quite a long way from that one.

“It’s okay, hyung,” Taehyung chirps, bangs held back with one of Seokjin-hyung’s clip. “I like changing your bandages. I get to see your skin and feathers heal. Hey, Kook-ah.”

The last part of that sentence made Jungkook blink— he’d been standing there groggily for a couple moments, not saying anything.

“Hey, hyungs.”

Namjoon’s lap looked so soft and inviting.

He dropped himself into it, earning an ‘oof’ and a lot of squawking protest from around the room.

“Kook-ah, not fair!”

“Namjoon-ah, you okay—?”

“Look at this sleepyhead.”

The blackbird merely laughs, carding his hands through Jungkook’s hair. “Good morning,” he hums. The vibration of his voice and the warmth of him— with what remains of that dream— Jungkook just— he wants—

“Mornin’, hyung.” He manages, snuggling closer to Namjoon’s neck, enjoying the expanse of warm, delectable skin. “How are th’ wings?”

“We’re removing the stitches today,” Namjoon says, and this close, the youngest can feel him suppress a shiver. “Mmm. And then I’m meeting Ah-Jun-nim for an appointment.”

He scoots backwards, off of Namjoon’s lap, but still close enough to hold his hand. He tried to catch the blackbird’s eyes. Therapy sessions are good for Namjoon, but they always left him a little wrung out afterwards— kind of spacey and quiet.

“Will you be back for lunch?”

“I hope so.”

“Alright. ’m gonna cook your favorite food.”

Namjoon softens. It didn’t help that Taehyung was nuzzling him from behind, deft hands grooming at dark feathers, combing through and preening at loose stems.

“Thank you, Kook-ah,” he said, at an edge of something rumbly, odd and a little rough, and was that— did he—

Did Namjoon just caw?

Oh. Oh, Jungkook is going to cry.

“Hyung—”

But Jungkook didn’t get to finish. The words wouldn't budge from his throat. His wings— the very pair he was ready to sacrifice in a heartbeat for Namjoon’s happiness, the ones that he grew in this flock; learned how to groom and care for, trained to take his own weight off the ground; learned how to tilt them just the right way, how to unfurl them and present—

They bloomed out of his back, ripping through his thin sleep-shirt— and damn, he’s held back so well the past few months— the past few years, because he knew Namjoon wasn’t ready— because he knew now, that Namjoon’s wings were unwell—

Still they arch and flaunt, catching the light and reflecting a warm gold-white sparrows are not normally known for. His face floods with heat, but there are no forces in the universe capable of stopping them now. Jungkook can’t fight it. His very being pines for Namjoon to know how much he meant to them.

The blackbird’s mouth hangs open. His eyes were starstruck, but still, still, there’s something shattered and impossibly sad wedged within.

Dark feathers flutter. Namjoon tried damnedest to present back, but only one moved.

“Hyung, it’s okay, I—” Jungkook tries again, throat dry, watching him, feeling a ray of light warm his soul at the movement—

Still hoping against hope—

Sharp pain flashes across Namjoon's face and—

“Hyung,” Taehyung broke the silence, gently catching the injured wing before it attempt to flaunt and stretch high. His voice grew quieter. “You’ll pop a stitch.”

Jungkook felt the tendrils of dread creeping in. The last thing he wants is to upset Namjoon, of all things because his wings were not healed enough for him to flap, to fly, to present back.

A heartbeat passes.

A sad, quiet creature flits by in Namjoon’s expression. Then the caged bird puffed itself up, mule-stubborn and determined. It refused to back down.

He lowered his wing, tilts his head at them. At the roost he’d helped built, at this little flock he’d come to made home with.

At the mates he’d hoped to have.

The blackbird smiled, and for once, after someone presents to him, it is hope instead of panic growing at the depth of his chest. Nothing to hide, no lie to tell. “I guess I owe you all a speedy recovery huh?”

Oh, how far they've come.

Jungkook lets himself cry, this time.

“Hyung, you punk. You owe us nothing, big dummy.”

Startled laughter fills the room, and Namjoon scoots forward to fold him in a hug and kiss his forehead, though it’s more teeth than lips because his hyung couldn’t stop smiling, and—

Yeah.

They’ll be all right.