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There were certain things Wilbur did the fight the emptiness.
He had a routine of sorts. He started the day by waking up his flock, hugging them to his chest and making sure they knew he loved them. The rocks never said it back but he tried his hardest to believe the affection was there.
He hoped that whenever he hugged the rocks, the hollowness would cease. The want for something more. More than these items he clutched with his wings curled despite the hurtful strain of his coverts.
Though, whenever he did this routine, of stroking the smooth stones and rearranging where they sat in his bundles of ratted blankets, nothing came of it. No warmth or solace. No running heat or fondness. Nothing to ease the cravings to be wrapped in the arms of someone else, someone with wings bigger than his, that puffed out further than his shoulders and could engulf him into a massive hug. A hug he couldn't get out of even if he tried—and he never would try. He'd stay there forever. Because he yearned so deeply for it.
A whining chirp broke from his throat. He swallowed the rest down. Faltering on his instinct to let them run wild. But he didn't want his loneliness to echo any longer in his little cave. Especially not in front of his flock.
He was grateful for them. For the rocks to not leave or push him aside. Not like the others he'd tried to cling to. The bigger avians and their flocks, ones that rejected his calls and desperate trills. Instead of invitations, their wings raised, quill feathers arched into an attacking position. Warning him to leave.
But Wilbur was fine like this.
It didn't matter that the emptiness sept in closer and closer with each day. That the corners of his cave seemed suffocating in the nights where his peeps remained unanswered. No responses or caresses to the feathers around the back of his ears. No hands and fingers ran through his wings, fixing the bent feathers and matted fluff.
He couldn't reach the middle section of his wings. It was itchy and tingled. He scratched it against the cave walls because it needed something. Needed to be adjusted but there was no one except the rocks to keep him company.
No, no, it was fine. Wilbur was fine. He was good on his own. Fine to adventure and hunt like the big avians did. He could gift things to himself, collect more rocks and pebbles just for him and then, he didn't need to share anything. It was fine.
Until it wasn’t.
Wilbur didn't mean to venture out this far, especially with the grey rainclouds nearing him with each hour. Darkening with their closeness.
He should have started to make his way back to his flock when it began to rain. But it was little rain. Light spitting. He could glide in this weather, not fly—his wings never allowed it, not with the middle sections all spiky and red (he didn't know if the feathers were coloured red or if blood covered his primaries).
His wings had never gotten this wet before. And it was cold, really cold. His shirt had holes in it and the dirt squished like ice against his bare feet. He sneezed and sniffled as rainwater drenched him all over.
He couldn’t glide . He couldn’t do anything but shiver as thunder struck with heavy rain.
Wilbur coughed as he pocketed the last rock to join his flock. But this one, even in his hand, didn’t bring what he needed . Especially now. The screaming in his head for someone else, the same bigger birds and avians, for them to come to collect him, to swoop him up into their arms. He'd snuggle into their side and broadened wings. Relish in the warmth of the dry feathers and required chirps. The purring calls and consolation rumbling from their chests.
But no one came.
No one answered his desperate chirps. The descending whines, taken with more sneezes and coughs, all broken just like him.
He curled under a log, the right arch of his wing still open to the pelting rain despite how he tried to hug it around himself. And he laid there—letting the ground freeze him to his core and the rain strike him down. All because his flock wasn't here to save him.
As he snivelled once more, something landed beside him. A figure beside the log.
They had shoes on their feet, big brown ones. Polished and the raindrops slid off the boot. He sunk further into the log. The rough bark dug into his back. It hurt. Scraped against the itching of his back wings.
A sound stood out to him under all the thunder and rain. A cooing sound, lulling something inside of him.
Wilbur stilled. He stopped shuffling back into the log because the sound was so safe. It was safe and warm. The cooing continued, easing him deeper and deeper, making his head turn to fog. A nice fog, all doughy and hazy.
The emptiness that followed him everywhere dulled for just a second as short warbles enticed him out from under the log. The rain hounding on his wings and clothes didn't matter because of what he saw.
It was an avian. A man with wings. Wings bigger than any others he had seen. And they were black. The same colour as his cave walls, where his flock stayed waiting for him. Calming shadows that led him to sleep and were still there when he woke up. The shade of constancy and routine. Something that stuck with him.
Black wings were much nicer than his own. His were wheat-coloured, a pasty shade from what he could reach and see.
The man bent down. He had blond hair and slight stubble. A green cloak covered him and he did that sound again. The soft murmur and Wilbur rushed forward. He ran before his legs knew what he was doing because his head screamed at him to go, go-to-him-be-his-need-comfort.
As he rushed forward, the cloak wrapped over him. Keeping him dry under the rain. His head fogged, delirious as to if the sky was blue and if mud continued to reside under his feet.
But none of this mattered. Not with the churrs gushing out of him and them being answered. Trills called back to him from the man. Deeper than his, not as high-pitched and uneven. These were low and solid—called in certain tones and Wilbur melted.
"Where's your flock, little fledgling?" the older avian asked. The rumble was still present in his voice, a continuous hum.
Wilbur buried himself deeper into the man's side, searching for the warmth in his black wings. The softness of the feathers which were so clean, so maintained and smooth. No bent tips or dead feathers that needed plucking out. They were beautiful.
The man reached down and stroked the feathers poking out from the back of Wilbur's ear. He sunk into the touch, keening under it. "I need an answer," the man whispered, soft and pushing. "Who do you belong to? Where's home?"
He whined and leaned more into the touch, chirping as the man's fingers set the feathers straight.
"'M flock's back at the cave," he wobbled out, coughing as he finished speaking. He trembled, head clouded. Both from the cold rain and warmth surrounding him.
Wilbur just wanted to stay here though. With this big avian and his even bigger wings.
Hands separated from his feathered ears. A peeping howl left his lips. He shivered and tried to get the hand back, for the touch to return and make him feel so whole again. Because the bad was gone. The emptiness, the isolation that came with screaming and cravings in his head that wouldn't let him sleep some nights.
The man adjusted him under his cloak. The comfort of resting against his wings ripped from Wilbur. He cried out but was hushed gently. Cooed once more and Wilbur sniffed.
"Hey, hey, it's okay, you're hurt, I need you to take me back to your flock," the man said as he wiped the rainwater dripping on Wilbur's forehead. It was warm, warm against his icy forehead.
"Okay," he mumbled. "M' Wilbur," he introduced, his teeth chattering. "Who're you?" he angled his head to look up at the man as he let him pick him up. The man began to walk in the direction he pointed. His arms were so long, able to wrap Wilbur up and tug him so close.
"I'm Phil," the man answered, sounding another pacifying call as Wilbur coughed again. He hummed and brushed his face against Phil's fluffy covert feathers. Nestled his nose in the rounded blades and smooth pointed ends.
As Wilbur relaxed in Phil's hold, his back itched more and more. When it knocked against Phil's chest, it stung. He winced and rubbed away the tears welling in his eyes because he was a big avian too. Big avians didn't cry. They weren't small or young or weak. He was big too.
Phil seemed to still with every wince Wilbur let out. He mumbled something with curses and disappointment; he mentioned Wilbur's flock with the same tone. Wilbur frowned, his flock was fine. They were good. The rocks were good to him. He didn't like Phil cursing at them.
Eventually, they reached the steps to Wilbur's cave. A chirp flared from him, less broken than the last.
"This it?" Phil asked, kind and prompt. Wilbur hurried to nod.
Phil sighed and mumbled something else, something about readying himself for a confrontation of sorts, an argument. There was slight anger to the furrow of Phil's eyebrows, but not anger at Wilbur. The expression softened when Wilbur matched his gaze.
It was protective. Possessive. Warm and filling—almost like he wanted Wilbur to be safe.
When Phil stepped into the cave, he hugged Wilbur closer to his chest. With more agency this time.
The torchlights Wilbur lit this morning had dimmed and his nest blankets weren't laid properly. A section of the wall had a red patch, the patch where Wilbur scratched the middle of his back against when he couldn't reach his itchy feathers.
"Where's your flock-mates?" Phil asked urgently, reworking his grip on Wilbur so he faced him. There was that frown again. The angry one but this was sadder. Wilbur bit his lip and his face flushed, embarrassed.
This was his flock. Just because it wasn't as big and busy as the other flocks didn't mean it wasn't one. It had members in it, his rocks and pebbles from the river creeks. He held them, cared for each and every one of them, and let them inside of his nest. They were his.
"They're here," Wilbur pointed at the rocks, upset.
Phil gulped. Something dark flushed over his face. It stomached an emotion Wilbur didn't know how to explain. Something more than just sad and angry. Wilbur's vision blurred as his unshed tears swelled. His back hurt, his shoulders ached from the cold and rain still drenched his entire body.
He blinked out the dizziness. Tiny peeps voiced from his hurt. He just wanted to go back into his blankets, to rearrange them into the position he liked—even though it was never as comfortable as he wanted it to be.
Phil tugged him tighter, his own chirps muffled into Wilbur's hair. Different to the calming ones from earlier. These were distress calls. Sounds of alarm and shock. Wilbur sniffed and bit down a reply. He shrank back, his wings flinching.
"Are you all alone, nestling?" Phil whispered and Wilbur broke. It was so soft, the voice, the rumbling, cooing sounds and love.
Nestling. Just being called that sought out all what Wilbur wanted and remitted it greater than he had ever wished. It was like he was someones, like he belonged to another person. Someone who could protect him, keep him safe and preen his wings. Arms to cuddle him close and bring him more blankets in the nest, items that he loved and just... he wanted someone to love him. To be his flock.
Tears streamed down his face as he nodded. He nodded and cried, whined into Phil's chest because he was alone.
He didn't have a flock, not a real one with actual people. People who could speak back to him, to give him what he needed and answer.
Wilbur yearned for this. A flock with Phil. With him, his arms and big wings.
"It's okay, it's okay, little one," Phil consoled, rocking him as Wilbur cried. "I'll take you back to my flock, alright?" Wilbur keened, more wailing sounds leaving him, longing for it. "Tommy will love you, Techno too. Your wings are similar to his."
There was more to Phil's flock. More avians, more wings and feathers. More people to love and nest with.
His tears dried as Phil flew them somewhere. It wasn't raining anymore. Instead, it was nice. The wind sweeping past him as he tucked himself into Phil's side. They were flying, he was flying.
They landed on a treehouse, high in the sky. So high up that it felt nice to breathe. Not stuffy or suffocating, rather it was refreshing and full. Phil set Wilbur down.
His head was still clouded but for happy reasons. He could hear people. Feet running around, shouting and laughing. His flock.
"They're inside," Phil said as he hung up his cloak to dry on the line. "I'll sort out your wings after you all get acquainted."
Sort out his wings? Wilbur made a longing sound, something so primal and desperate. Phil was going to preen his wings, he would fix them, get to the areas he couldn't reach.
His eyes pricked with tears, happy tears. Ones that were glad and so relieved because he had been alone for so long. For as long as he could remember and he didn't even know how old he was—either six or seven, according to the length of his wingspan.
He stumbled inside, legs still shaking from the cold. There were two boys there. One younger than him, identical to Phil but with bright red wings. And another a similar age to Wilbur, the same brown hair too. Their wings were golden, almost like his own but more healthy and shiny.
"Who the fuck is that?" the younger one asked once he stopped chasing the older.
"Tommy!" Phil reprimanded, but he didn't seem angry, more amused than anything.
"Techno taught me the word, blame him."
"No, I didn't," the other one, Techno, denied as he glared at him. "He's lying, Dad."
Dad.
These were Phil's children, his hatchlings. Wilbur bit on his cheek to stop himself from chirping because now he was with them. Phil said he would take him back to them, meaning he was one of them. He was Phil's hatchling too. His son and fledgling. Someone he instinctively protected and cared for.
Wilbur's chest bloomed with warmth. The heat matching the redness of his cheeks. It couldn't be real. This was what he hoped for and now it was here. In arms reach, right in front of him for the taking, to have and treasure forever.
"I'm Wilbur," he said, tempted to hide behind Phil's leg as the golden one, Techno, scowled at him.
Techno stepped forward, wings arched. Almost in an attacking position like the other avians who shooed him out of their flocks. Though, Techno didn't look hostile. He didn't squark or hiss, didn't appear like he wanted to hurt him. Instead, he was assessing. Just protectively curious.
He eyed Wilbur's wings, which shrunk closer to his back in worry.
Then, a timid smile made its way to Techno's mouth. "We match," he announced. "Well, Dad's gonna have to take out all the dead and ugly feathers, but then we watch. You have the same colour as me."
Wilbur trilled. He couldn't hide his glee any longer. Techno's smile widened as he returned the trill, chirping at the end, which made Tommy run up to them both.
"Red is cooler," Tommy grumbled, tugging on Techno's arm. "Isn't that right, Dad? I'm cooler, my wings are cooler. Just because they outnumber me doesn't mean anything."
Phil laughed heartily and rolled his eyes. "I thought you said my wings were the coolest."
"I lied."
"I'll keep that in mind next time you want to go flying with me and my uncool wings then."
"Wait, no, nonono—" Tommy scrambled to take it back, only to be interrupted by more of Phil's laughter.
Wilbur watched, his smile brightening so much that the corners of his mouth ached.
This was a family, a flock. A complete flock made of people rather than rocks and pebbles. Something fulfilling and able to love him back.
"Wilbur, you ready?" he blinked, snapping out of his thoughts. Phil had moved, now crouched down over the nest, pointing for him to join. "Your wings," he clarified and Wilbur leapt forward.
Though, he hesitated before joining the nest. Tommy sat in the middle, attached to Techno's side so his golden wings perched over him. Phil was on the outer edge and made space so Wilbur could sit next to Tommy in the centre too.
Tommy let out a high-pitched call, one of impatience and hurry-up-join-us-already. Wilbur nestled down in the bundle of blankets, sheets and pillows. Fuzziness overwhelmed him. It was so soft, softer than anything he had ever touched and known.
It was home.
"I'll start on the left side and avoid the cuts to your back for now."
Cuts. That was what they were then. The parts that brought the red and pain. He had scratched it too much.
Wilbur readied his wings for hands to be comforting for once, rather than rejecting. Phil began to hum, a calming tune that eased the tension in his shoulders. He had never had his wings preened before. They were supposed to be in the hands of those you trusted and even though he had just met Phil, he trusted him with the entire world. With every feather on his back and each passing day from this point.
He trusted Phil to keep him safe. As his flock leader and new Dad. The parent he never had, the protecting force absent from his life.
Phil's hands ran through his feathers, slow and gentle. Wilbur churred into the touch, melting. He threatened through his wings, taking out any crooked feathers and straightening his bent auxiliaries. He smoothed down the fluff so it didn't poke out in the wrong directions.
Then Phil scratched at a certain spot, in his upper wing coverts. Wilbur giggled. He liked it, he liked this. It felt safe and homely and nice.
Techno scoffed, though he looked amused at his reaction. "I knew you'd be a covert guy," he said.
"That's because you are too," Tommy retorted, shoving at Techno, making the other slam a pillow into his face.
Phil let the two play fight as he continued to correct the shaping of Wilbur's secondaries. More peeps and chirps left him as he did. He kept having to straighten his back as he slouched down. He just wanted to lay in the nest and cuddle with everyone else.
No more shivers from the cold wrecked him as this warmth was all he needed.
When Phil finished cleaning the injuries to his back, he turned Wilbur around and kissed the top of his head. "There," Phil said, smiling so sweetly down at him. "All fixed."
Wilbur chirped lightly and Phil returned the sentiment.
Small hands dragged Wilbur down into the blankets. Tommy tugged at his arm until it was wrapped around himself. Techno grumbled and settled beside them both. Phil adjusted the sheets so it didn't ruin the smoothed down patterns on Wilbur's wings. Then he joined them, his wing brushing underneath so it grabbed them all closer together.
"Can I stay?" Wilbur asked, hesitant.
"As long as you want," Phil replied, so earnest and open. "You have a flock now, my flock."
And that was all Wilbur ever wanted.