Chapter Text
“Lilia, how long does it take a bird fae to regrow their feathers, approximately?”
He can see the confusion in Lilia’s red gaze as he looks up from his classwork. All the homework is easy to complete for the two fae, who have had years to learn and master every topic the school has to offer. But, it still must be handed in in order to graduate. Neither of them wants to be held back like Kingscholar.
Lilia does not ask the question Malleus knows is on his mind and instead hums thoughtfully, “Well, the answer depends on a few things. Are we talking primary flight feathers? Secondary? Or the fluff that keeps them warm?”
Malleus frowns, thinking it over, “Primary and fluff.” He doesn’t recall seeing any of Riddle’s secondary feathers clipped, just the flight ones. However, he could be wrong. He is not an expert on bird fae and their many feathers. He’d never met one before Riddle.
“For primary feathers, it can take anywhere between six months to over a year,” Lilia answers, thankfully not commenting on the wince the response gets from Malleus, “But the fluff tends to grow quicker, almost as fast as standard hair. Both depend on whether or not the site where they grow is healthy or not.”
“Healthy?” Malleus echoes.
“Yes,” Lilia nods, “If the skin where the feathers were growing was damaged while either molting or by an outside force, then the feathers do not have a healthy spot to grow from and may hurt the fae when they try to come back.”
“…What about clipped feathers?” He asks after a moment, “Is it possible for them to grow back?”
Lilia silently studies Malleus’ expression for a moment, face set in a way that is unreadable to the prince.
“Malleus, who is the fae with their wings clipped?”
“I cannot say,” He crosses his arms.
“Malleus.” The tone Lilia’s voice takes is warning and stern, making Malleus feel like a child about to be scolded.
“I cannot,” Malleus insists, “I know he wouldn’t appreciate it if I went blabbering about the situation to others. I’m sure you could figure it out yourself, but I cannot tell you for I’m already risking his trust in me by asking you this.”
Lilia is silent for another long second before he sighs and shakes his head.
“Yes, clipped feathers can grow back, but only after they’ve been molted or removed. At that point, all they can do is eat foods rich with vitamins and nutrients to help their feathers grow back strong.”
“And the removal must not leave any damage, lest the growth process harm them,” Malleus reiterates, earning a nod.
“Yes, it could get caught under the skin and irritate it, much like an ingrown hair. Flight feathers are at much lower risk of such a thing, but fluff feathers are more susceptible to it,” Lilia explains.
Malleus soaks in the information, committing it to memory. He’s been helping Riddle with preening whenever he can since that first night. He cannot deny that he finds pleasure in it; it is very soothing to hear Riddle’s sweetened coos when Malleus itches a spot under his feathers at the right angle. He adores seeing his partner’s feathers puff up with happiness when Malleus brushes his fingers through them.
Riddle has learned that there is no danger in exposing his wings with Malleus. He is much more open about letting them wiggle and stretch, soft chirps escaping his lips completely unbidden when he hears Malleus’ own pleased rumbles.
(Something bitter in his chest spawns at how Riddle becomes pained from a single beat of his wings. He’d only done it once, when Malleus teased him and his wings jolted out of reflex. Riddle’s expression immediately shifted into a grimace and he quickly tucked his wing back against his side.
Malleus massaged out the knot for his beloved, ignoring the hatred festering for the one that left his dear Riddle in such a state. Riddle was more important.)
He does not want to shatter the already fragile trust Riddle has placed in him. He knows that he could never just ask Riddle if he could pluck his feathers. But they are already so far into the school year. He would only have a few months to help Riddle recover his feathers before they’re forced to part, even less so if he has to wait to breach the topic of removing the feathers until Riddle is more comfortable acknowledging his wings as more than a burden.
Really, Malleus understands why Riddle would think such a thing. It’s clear that Riddle’s wings are on the verge of disfigurement, with how the muscles have grown to only hold themselves around him and not to fly.
Malleus thinks Riddle’s wings are beautiful. His feathers are soft, they remind him of freshly fallen snow, perfect and smooth without a single blemish in sight. They’re just as bright too, standing out amongst the drab colors of the world around him.
Malleus adores Riddle’s wings. It saddens him to see that they’ve been marred in such a way, that someone disrespected him enough to destroy such a beautiful pair of wings.
He has an inkling of who could have done such a thing, but he chooses not to delve into the thought. It would enrage him, he’s certain of that much. He would be so blinded in his furious state, thinking of who hurt his beloved, that he may end up causing more damage to the very person he is trying to help.
Malleus does not want to hurt Riddle.
He wants to protect him and help him in any way he can. Riddle is not ready to talk about the details of what happened to his wings, and that is okay. Malleus is patient. He will wait eons if that’s what it takes for Riddle to feel comfortable with sharing his burdens.
“How safe is it to pluck the clipped feathers so that they may regrow?” Malleus asks.
“There isn’t much risk to it, in fact it’s preferable to pluck them over cutting them,” Lilia tells him, “That way the stem is removed and can be replaced.”
Malleus nods and considers his options. He wants to help Riddle but he cannot do so if Riddle does not want the help.
He’ll have to figure it out. He won’t leave his beloved little bird to struggle alone like he’s been forced to for years now.
“Thank you, Lilia. You have helped greatly.”
Riddle runs his fingers over his cheek as he gazes at his bare body in the full length mirror.
Or, rather, what is supposed to be a bare body but is instead decorated in thin patches of fluff.
He frowns, studying the way the feathers trail down his neck, over his shoulders and the planes of his torso, down to his thighs. His hands move to his hips, a sense of unease flooding his chest when his claws nick a few feathers.
His wings drape around his legs, feathers brushing the floor.
He sighs, picking up the nail clippers and tweezers.
Plucking his feathers isn’t necessarily a painful process, or at least it isn’t now that he’s gotten so used to it. He only feels a small pinch when the root of a feather leaves his skin. He remembers thinking it much worse when his mother would do it for him years ago.
The snipping of the clippers feels like it reverberates in the space around Riddle. There’s a sense of unease and regret when he watches the cuts of his nails fall to the floor for him to sweep up later. Riddle doesn’t stop despite the deep pit opening in the bottom of his gut.
Feathers and talons are not normal. Riddle is normal, so they have to go.
With his nails dulled, Riddle picks up the tweezers.
The first pluck always feels the most daunting. He likes to start with the feathers on the back of his hands. Then, he slowly works his way up his shoulders, and down his sides. He tries to get the feathers over his chest and front done with as quick as he can.
They always hurt the most.
Piles of baby feathers and stray fluff build up around his feet as each feather is meticulously pulled where it’s rooted in his skin. When it comes to his back, Riddle has to turn around and look back into the mirror to reach everything. He’s gotten quite good at maneuvering to reach even the hardest feathers.
He runs a hand over the now bare skin of his shoulder. It’s smooth, much smoother than it would be if his mother were here to do it. He’s learned to pull the feather out at the angle that it naturally grows out in. It leaves less damage to his skin, makes it less rough, like something is wrong with it.
His mother does not extend as much care when she plucks him.
He’s not so lucky with his back. While he can reach just fine, pulling the feather out at the right angle is significantly harder. He cannot see it as well, having to rely on touch to figure it out how the feather sits naturally. He’s not always right.
He picks up the washcloth he keeps nearby to dab at the beads of crimson that form where he tugged too roughly. His skin burns, inflamed and irritated.
He remembers the coolness of Malleus’ hands over the hot skin. A weight settles in his gut. Nothing had felt more relieving than his boyfriend’s touch over the bumpy skin.
A touch he does not deserve, he reminds himself.
Malleus is beautiful in ways Riddle could never be. He is strong and powerful, but so tender and caring. He makes Riddle feel warm and protected when he doesn’t have his feathers to do so for him. He’s the shelter in a tumbling storm that Riddle can never seem to escape, a shield of safety in a whirlwind of doubt and fear.
Malleus is everything Riddle loves and admires, everything he wishes he could be and more. Malleus is perfect. His faults are only something to be admired, just the same as his strengths. There is not one part of Malleus that Riddle could ever shun or dislike.
His talons click against the flooring as he walks to his bed, picking up the strands of cloth as he sits down on the mattress. As he binds his feet, Riddle can’t help but wonder what Malleus would think if he knew Riddle did this.
Would he be angered? Disappointed? Disgusted?
A lump forms in his throat at the very thought. He doesn’t want Malleus to be upset for any reason, much less because of him. His wings huddle closer to his sides as he curls up on his bed.
Why does Riddle have to be so wrong? Why can’t he just be a normal boy like his mother wanted? Why can’t he be content with what he has instead of wishing for more?
Why does he have to be so selfish?
Why can’t he be enough for the one person that matters so much to him?
He wishes he could be more like Malleus. Maybe then he’d be more deserving of the affection he seems so keen on gifting Riddle. Maybe then Riddle wouldn’t think of it as wrong.
Maybe then, Riddle would be enough. Just for one person.
Riddle forces himself to stand up and head for his closet. He steps into a pair of sweats, ignoring the ugly shape of his legs and feet. He reaches for a sweater, pausing when he spots the hole torn in the back.
The fabric is soft, a light pink with a fluffy inner lining that reminded Riddle of the warmth his own feathers provided him. It’s baggy, a guilty pleasure Riddle only allows for the clothing he sleeps in.
He runs his fingers over the soft material, an odd sensation of a chill and warmth fighting for a position in his chest.
The chill wins out.
He dumps the sweater into his trash bin.
He tugs on a tighter shirt, wings settling into their usual place guarding his torso.
He sweeps up the feathers and nail clippings into a dustpan. The sweater is quickly buried beneath them as he dumps them into the bin.
Riddle convinces himself he doesn’t care as he turns off the lights and climbs into bed.
He doesn’t care.
Because he’s normal, he has no reason to care.