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It howls and screeches and burns, the guilt buried within his chest. It twists more and more and he keeps his eyes squeezed shut and his body curled into the sheets. Too soft, too comfortable. Quicksand to swallow him whole. It hurts. It is too heavy. Too much to carry. Too much. There is nothing and no one and only apathy misery all-consuming.
The touch to his shoulder startles him less than it should.
“Hey, birdie,” Aventurine says. “You haven’t eaten in over a day. Want to honor us with your presence in the kitchen? I promise I won’t singe a hair on your pretty head.”
He is too kind and too worried and the voice stings like the hot irons that lies let descend on unblemished skin. Sunday quivers and stays put.
“Ah,” Aventurine says. “Real bad, huh? Okay.”
Sunday wants him to leave. Sunday wants him to never go away. Aventurine clears his throat.
“Can I touch you?”
YEsyesyesyesYesyesyes.
“There is no need, I am-“
“Sunday.”
He makes a strangled noise, nothing more. It is breaking, tearing at the seams, ripping asunder like the first cut to soft feathers, the first clipping-
“Yes,” Sunday gets out. “Yes.”
The touch to his hair is tender but not uncertain. A few slow strokes over his scalp, fingertips and blunt nails raking from his forehead all the way to his neck. It tingles under his skin, so intensely he feels it down to the marrow. Aventurine repeats the same motion over and over, occasionally shifting the angle. Brushing close to his ears sometimes, reaching down to his spine on other motions.
“Wings, too?” he asks.
Sunday shivers but nods eventually. He has to stifle a gasp as Aventurine runs his fingertips along the wings behind his ears, the sensation so strong he sees stars. He bites his wrist instead, gnawing without breaking skin.
“They’re not in great condition,” Aventurine says. “I’ll sort them out a little bit, okay?”
Sunday nods, teeth against bone.
Wings need to be preened and allowed to stretch and cared for but there was never time. Never occasion. If they move it is unsightly. Keep them rigid and stiff. Accessory, not body part. Presentable. Appropriate. Orderly.
“Hey,” Aventurine says and nudges his jaw. “Stop biting, birdie, you’re hurting yourself. If it’s too much, tell me.”
Too much and never enough. It hurts and aches and there is blood on his wrist where he bit and the fingers preening his wings are too gentle. Why don’t you rip them out? Pluck every feather until it is all gone, until the skin comes with it?
“Because I don’t want to do that,” Aventurine answers to what shouldn’t have been voiced aloud, what slipped out unbidden. “I’m trying to help you, not give you a second breakdown two seconds after the first.”
TRYING TO HELP, Sunday’s thoughts screech but he relaxes his jaw and closes his eyes and just breathes in a rhythm with Aventurine gentle caresses. Massaging the quivering wings and his aching head and his spine down to where his other wings are cramping against his body. Clipped and flightless, midnight blue feathers always wrapped around his middle.
Aventurine nudges his flight wings to spread, however useless they may be. Sunday allows him because he fears being left alone more than being seen. However unsightly his crippled wings, however disgusting, it is still better than-
“They’re beautiful,” Aventurine says, simple and devastating. “Thanks for letting me see. I know that’s kind of a big deal for you.”
Sunday cries quietly, because he has to, because he can’t not. Whywhywhywhywhywhywhy would you do this.
Aventurine hums something under his breath. Not a lullaby or a calming song carefully chosen. He hummed this yesterday, too, complaining about having it stuck in his head because it was played on the radio three times throughout their drive.
Sunday laughs, quietly, too, remembering the shape of his frown, the indignation over such audacity.
“Pretty bird,” Aventurine says and the smile is in his voice. “Can I help with these, too?”
Sunday nods, nerves fried, thoughts muddied with guilt and shame but less and less of both. It feels too good, the careful fingers urging his flight wings to spread out across his back and the cover. He sees some of the feathers in the corner of his vision, ruffled and crooked and the tears sting at his eyes again before long.
“Must have hurt,” Aventurine says and begins at the tip of the leftmost feather, smoothing it down, kneading the cramps from the wing itself. “Did they clip them after you were detained? That’s cruel, even for them.”
“No,” Sunday replies and his voice is scratchy and weak. “They did it… earlier.”
The hand on his wing stills before picking up the gentle movements.
“Funny, isn’t it?”
Sunday shudders, feather after feather settling back in a comfortable place.
“What is?”
“How similar we are, birdie. When we first met I thought you were all high and mighty, born with a silver spoon in your mouth.”
“I didn’t like you, either.”
“I know,” Aventurine says and rubs his knuckles against the nape of Sunday’s neck. “And look at us now.”
Sunday worries his bottom lip between his teeth and it is hard not to dig his fingernails into his skin again. He shifts and the weight of his left flight wing is comforting now, relaxed and spread out on the covers. It is all the more obvious how badly the right one aches.
“Relax,” Aventurine says softly. “I’ll get to it soon.”
“Aren’t you busy?”
“Well, there are boring reports for me to type up. Or I could make twenty calls to people I despise. Or I could help a pretty bird through a breakdown and get to touch his wings. I know what I’d rather be busy with.”
Sunday wishes it didn’t send heat to his cheeks and tears to his eyes again but he feels raw and fragile and exposed shivering on the bed with his wings on display. He can’t stifle the gasp as Aventurine directs him to rest his wings and then lazily pets his hair for a moment. Rubbing the wings on his head has tremors running through Sunday’s body.
“Sunday,” Aventurine says and rubs his side, his tone so soft it hurts. “You trust me, yeah? Just let me worry for a while.”
Sunday can only close his eyes and nod. His chest hurts with the urge to beg- for forgiveness, maybe, for the truth because this tenderness can’t be it. For punishment, penance, and most of all, nauseatingly of all, his heart twists to beg for more of this undeserved kindness. Please don’t stop. Please mean this. Please don’t use me.
One careful touch at a time Aventurine straightens out the right flight wing. Feather by feather until it feels light and warm and comfortable.
Sunday sucks in a breath when Aventurine stops to place a hand on his hip, tugging him closer.
“Turn over for me, birdie.”
Sunday doesn’t. Can’t. Not this.
“I’m-“
“Can I see you?”
The sweetness of it all takes his breath away until he feels suffocated by it. And yet Sunday follows the direction, rolling onto his back. He must look terrible, eyes puffy from crying, bottom lip bitten bloody, his hair a mess. His flight wings stretch out below him. A mockery. He can never fly again.
Aventurine looks at him with a smile that is equal parts fond and teasing and Sunday can’t take it, not like this. He closes his eyes, averts his face but there is nowhere to go. The hand on his cheek does not startle him.
“Too much?”
Sunday shakes his head.
“No. I just-“
“So eloquent all the time unless it comes to asking for something. Good thing I’m such an excellent guesser, birdie.”
“Yes,” Sunday replies, raspy. “It is a good thing.”
Aventurine cups his face, fingertips running below his jaw. Small circles into the spots where the tension has Sunday clench his teeth too tight.
“I wish we had known from the start,” he croaks out. “So we wouldn’t have had to hurt each other quite so much.”
“Is that what would have happened in your perfect dream?”
Sunday shudders.
“No.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I would have been gone.”
“Because you would have been gone,” Aventurine echoes and runs his fingers through Sunday’s hair, right above his ear. “Your perfect world doesn’t even have you in it anymore, pretty bird. So it’s good it never came to pass.”
Sunday bites his lip. His wings flap, both sets, however useless.
“Thank you.”
Aventurine caresses his hair.
“Look at me.”
And Sunday obeys. It does not feel like order or blind faith. He opens his eyes and looks up at Aventurine, at his beautiful mesmerizing eyes and his no longer enigmatic smile. His heart squeezes in his chest.
“What has you so wound up?” Aventurine asks. “Bad dream?”
Sunday nods.
“I dreamed of my father,” he replies and the memory is too bright in his mind. “The sting of his disapproval.”
“Quite the disapproval that must have been if it left your wings clipped.”
Aventurine’s voice is sharp but it quells the nausea gathering in Sunday’s stomach immediately. A flicker of extra gratitude.
“You are angry on my behalf.”
“Yes,” Aventurine says. “As anyone should be. Would you say you are a big fan of my enslavers?”
Sunday grimaces. It’s not the same.
“Of course not.”
“Exactly. Now c’mere, birdie.”
And Sunday goes willingly, getting up and settling in Aventurine’s lap. Pressed close together and he buries his face against the familiar sweater. A cozy new addition to Aventurine’s extensive wardrobe, picked out carefully just a few weeks ago.
“As much as I love when you are this cuddly,” Aventurine comments, “I wish you didn’t have to break down to allow yourself to do it.”
“I do not enjoy being a burden.”
“Shush. You are not.”
“I want to give to you, too.”
“I can’t believe you’re making me tell you that not everything is a transaction,” Aventurine sighs. “You can hum something for me if you insist. That way we both can have some nice dreams.”
Sunday nods.
“I can do that.”
“Try to eat something when we wake up, though? For me?”
“I’ll try.”
The melody is simple but it feels good reverberating in his chest. Sunday hums the tune, a comfort not a compulsion. He shivers at the touch to his hair, his sensitive wings.
“Sleep,” Aventurine whispers. “Pretty bird.”
Sunday sleeps. He does not dream of better times. It will be morning before long.