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Soul collects Heart’s feathers where he can.
They trail behind him, divinity divided into pieces. A gift stepped on.
Soul isn’t one to waste things like that.
And so he has a shelf lined with jars, feathers in their rightful place. Heart lets himself go far too much. If Whole gave Soul those wings he would not let a single feather out of place. Here, in Soul’s room, Soul can take care of them as necessary.
He stares at them. His eyes stray towards them without a thought. They mean so much, Soul could never line up the words.
He never tries.
This is a secret he keeps to himself. Not the feathers in jars, but the significance of it all. Heart and Mind can think he’s strange, obsessed with something that doesn’t matter. Soul doesn’t care. It’s a confession from him to Whole. Not in words, but in actions.
That will always be enough, for Soul.
He opens his window curtain so he can ask the world if He sees him. If He appreciates his effort. Soul would accept any answer Whole gave. {He hopes it’s a yes. He hopes he can look at the fog and find approval. Find that someone understands his work here. He hopes.}
At night, starlight glints onto the jars, and he imagines stitching feathers together and sewing them onto his back.
It would be blasphemy, to desecrate Whole’s design in such a way.
Yet it pains him for Whole’s gift to be thrown away.
{Soul would wear it better.}
Why would Whole gift those to Heart? Faithless, undeserving target.
The three of them are art. Thought through.
Soul doesn’t question it.
{Why not him? What did Soul do wrong? Soul was supposed to be Whole’s best angel.}
{Soul has never been holy.}
{Soul has never been anything.}
{Why did Whole bestow this gift upon Heart? Heart, who scorns it at every turn? Did Whole have hope for him?
Was there divinity in his smile? In the palm of his hand, soft, warm, real? In a different way than him being one of Whole’s parts?
Could he be an angel?
…He’s the most human thing here.}
Heart splays his {His} wings out across the couch. Soul memorizes it as much as he can covertly- he doesn’t want Heart to hassle him about this, again.
So careless. Really, Soul would tear those pretty wings off his back if they weren’t Whole’s decision. He would split the bone, tear the muscles in half, paint his hands with their blood. That would be it. Soul smiles.
When Heart leaves, Soul picks each feather up, cradling them in his hands. He clutches them tight- but not tight enough to hurt them- as he opens the door to his room. Soul unscrews the latest jar and arranges the feathers. {They’re soft.} He does so once or thrice, absorbing himself in the movement, until he’s sure it’s all right.
He sets it back down. Runs his fingertips over the glass, reverence clogging his throat. “{Dearest Harmonia…}” He starts. “{I do this all for you, you know?}”
{I wish I understood your design, but someday, someday…}
He steals a feather from the open jar, screws it back up, and tucks it over his ear. It’s a promise.
“{Only you.}”