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Wignall winces, a quiet sound of pain slipping past his teeth as he plucks out another feather.
It's one of those days again – the bad ones that tug at his insides and make his hands shake no matter how hard he tries to keep them still.
They're trembling now, too. He should probably be thankful that there’s no one around to see.
He sucks in a deep breath, pausing in his… well, to call it preening would be an insult to everyone with a functional pair of wings, so he shakes his head sharply to rid himself of the thought. In an attempt to find something else to focus on, Wignall glances out of the nearest window.
A crow flies past, its caws filtering in through one of the cracked open windows. The sound is oddly comforting, and Wignall finds himself scooting closer to the wall.
He quickly regrets it when a sudden chill wafts in through the opening, making him shiver in his thin uniform shirt.
Unwittingly, it makes him think of how the Terminaria is almost too close for comfort, bringing with it the unremarkable end of his fifth winter at Rigarden. The ache always gets worse during this time of the year – long-healed scars flaring and sending sharp stabs of pain all the way to his fingertips with each movement.
It’s like even the season insists on goading him.
The thought almost makes him laugh, but then he realizes how self-centered it sounds. After all, nature has already forsaken him when his wings came in, so why would it care for him now.
He runs his fingers through brittle feathers again, looking for any that are about to molt. The sparse, coarse plumage makes his chest feel tight, each touch of his fingertips against a burned patch and stretched-out scars serving as a harsh reminder of his inadequacy. Of his place – or rather lack thereof – among his people.
(In a way, he's glad he can't see it.)
He looks out of the window again, absentmindedly rolling a pathetic ungainly plain feather between his thumb and pointer finger.
Another crow flies past. Or maybe it’s the same one as before.
Either way, all Wignall really sees is the flap of its wings – night-dark against the diluted afternoon light – and feels nothing but contempt for the jealousy lodging itself in his throat at the sight. He hates the feeling; hates how every day, every step he takes and every pair of wings he sees makes him so viscerally aware of what his illusion spell is hiding under a mirage of pure white.
His pity party is brought to an abrupt end when the sound of footsteps reaches his ears.
The door creaks open, and Wignall feels his heart drop to his stomach. No one ever comes here at this hour – he knows because he's been using the same infirmary room to take care of what little remains of his wings for the past five years.
And yet, when he turns to look at the entrance, his gaze meets a pair of falcon-sharp eyes as Sion Ulster of all people freezes in the doorway. In any other circumstances, the wide-eyed look on his face would be amusing at the very least, but now–
Wignall shoots to his feet, swiveling around to face the noble and knocking over vials and bottles and Mercedes knows what else in the process. He feels his wings tighten and pull close to his body.
His hands are shaking again.
Sion has yet to tear his eyes away from him, mouth opening and closing, all fish-like, but somehow managing not to take away from the sharpness of his gaze, and honestly, damn all birds of prey and their perfect vision.
Wignall glances at his wand – lying discarded near the salve he had been using – then back to where Sion has yet to move. Maybe if he grabs it fast enough…
“Don’t even think about it,” is the first thing Sion says to him, crimson eyes narrowing into one of his usual glares.
Wignall feels himself tense, can taste his heart on the back of his tongue as it hammers against his ribcage. “Oh? And who are you to tell me what to do?”
The Ulster heir scoffs. “Whatever… illusion you’re using to cover up those–” he cuts himself off, and Wignall would rather not think about what words were going come out of that vicious mouth next. He shares enough classes with both him and the infamous Serfort to know Sion is capable of hitting where it hurts – can only wonder how the laggard hasn’t given up in the face of his hostility yet.
(Wignall refuses to think about how even a person without magic has a pair of strong, falcon wings that–)
“I already saw, so there’s no point in hiding them.”
He doesn’t say wings. Perhaps because he doesn’t want to overstep – as unlikely as that seems – but to Wignall, it merely rings as confirmation of something he’s known since that day.
They aren’t. Wings, that is. What Wignall has on his back are naught but useless husks of what had once been a pair of wings so unsightly, that the rest of his kin had deemed it necessary to–
He can’t even think it. And isn’t that proof enough of how much he’s still lacking? That he hasn’t learned his lesson, after all.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and frankly, I do not care. Besides, whatever you think you saw is none of your business, so if you would be so kind as to leave, I would greatly appreciate it,” Wignall says, the smile on his face so strained it wouldn’t be enough to fool a toddler. He can only hope Sion will prove sensible enough to know when he’s not wanted somewhere. Or that he’s on the same level as a toddler, which… no, Wignall isn’t that lucky.
Sion bristles in response to his words, an angry flush coloring his cheeks. He steps away from the threshold and into the room, the decision punctuated by the slam of the door behind him.
Wignall speaks before he could reconsider possibly angering the person currently holding his fate in their hands. “What did that poor door do to you?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
The words earn him another glare. “Stop trying to deflect, Lindor. I think you owe me an explanation of what I saw,” Sion says, stalking closer with his shoulders squared and jaw tight, like he’s bracing for a fight.
Wignall wonders what about his own tense posture and still-trembling arms screams ‘confrontation’, but finds that he’s unwilling to ask. “I still fail to see how any of this could be considered your business,” he says instead, taking another step backwards when Sion moves closer.
“It’s my business when your wings look like–” his voice goes high and breaks, and he turns his head sharply to the side. Sion clicks his tongue, frustration clear in every line of his body as he returns his gaze to his. “That,” he says, looking at Wignall like he–
“Why do you even care?” It falls from his mouth with no preamble and even less grace, the headboard digging into his lower back when he leans further away from the other.
Sion runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck if I know,” he says with a wry huff, a few loosened red strands falling into his face. “But I can’t just walk away and pretend I didn’t see anything.”
Hackles rising, Wignall takes a step towards Sion and tries to will down the panic bubbling up in his chest by glaring at him. “If you tell anyone–” he says through gritted teeth, his eyes flickering to his wand.
“I won’t. If you let me take a look,” Sion retorts, resolute. He lifts his chin as if daring Wignall to refuse, and raises an eyebrow at the feathers peeking out behind him. “Because those certainly don’t seem like the oh so coveted swan wings of our resident wonder elf. What would people say if they found out that–”
“Fine,” Wignall spits out, his nerves frayed all the way to Alfswood and back. He doesn’t understand Sion’s insistence, doesn’t want to picture the disgust on his face once he sees the damage up close, but if that’s what it takes to keep him silent, then so be it.
Before he could lose his nerve, he yanks his hair over his shoulder and turns so that his back is facing Sion, sitting down on the edge of the mattress with his arms crossed over his chest.
So Wignall sits there, his back fully exposed to someone for the first time ever. His blood is a deafening thrum in his ears, shoulders pulled so taut he’s afraid something will snap as he waits for Sion to laugh or leave or do something–
Something warm touches the bend of his right wing.
It takes Wignall a too-long moment to recognize the touch as fingers, and even longer to equate the impossibly gentle contact with Sion. He’s frozen, thoughts halted until the hand comes to a rest over a particularly rough patch of exposed scar tissue, and Wignall jerks away like he’d been burned.
“What do you think you’re doing?!” he snaps, twisting his torso to look at Sion, uncaring of what his wings slam into. He’s expecting Sion’s expression to be one of disgust, morbid fascination at most, but–
Sion is biting at his lip, ramrod straight with his brows drawn together in a deep frown, and the hand not hanging awkwardly in the air between them curled into a white-knuckled fist at his side. He looks furious, lips twisting into a snarl as he keeps staring at Wignall’s back, and–
There’s a wet sheen over his eyes.
Wignall blinks, his anger ebbing away as he tries to make sense of what’s happening. “Ulster…?” he says, and averts his gaze when the other brushes a rough hand over his eyes.
A silence stretches between them, Wignall’s wings tingling in the spots where Sion’s touch lingered.
He leans back on his arms, then looks up at the ceiling, letting his eyes follow the decorative patterns and arches as Sion’s controlled breaths echo in the room. “No one ever comes here after classes let out. So what made you?” Wignall asks, and it comes out more tired than anything. Indulgent, rather than accusing.
It takes a couple more seconds for Sion to reply, and when he does, his voice sounds rough. “Ran out of bandages. And I wasn’t in the mood to listen to the nurses’ scolding, so…”
Wignall turns his head to look at him, arching an eyebrow in confusion. “Bandages?”
Wordlessly, Sion holds up his arm and Wignall winces at the sight of burned skin – a raw, shiny pink line slashing across his forearm. He adjusts his sleeve, then turns his head, those sharp crimson eyes flickering to the top of the medical cabinet Wignall had rolled over to the bed months ago. “Is that what you’ve been using for the burn scars?” Sion asks, not waiting for an answer as he steps around the bed and grabs the green vial.
With a nod he’s not even sure Sion notices, Wignall watches him pick up the ointment before making a sound of dismay. A ‘why aren’t you leaving?’ is on the tip of his tongue, but the words refuse to come out. He refuses to ponder the reason behind that.
Sion whirls around, dark wings barely missing Wignall’s head as he stalks over to the cabinet at the opposite wall.
While he rummages through the mess of jars and bottles, Wignall uses the opportunity to properly take in the wings presented to him – however unintentionally.
Hieros, he’s overheard students whisper at the sight of the imposing falcon wings, their brown-black colouring rare even by Ulster standards. Despite their considerable size, Wignall knows Sion doesn’t lack for any of the species’ swiftness; bested perhaps only by Lihanna’s Goshawk agility or the laggard’s Peregrine speed. Still, even amongst noble bloodlines, it is an exceptional status for one’s very species to be considered sacred.
The longer he looks, the more Wignall feels something well up in his chest beside the envy smothering his lungs. Something much lighter, almost sweet enough for admiration.
They’re truly beautiful wings.
Sion lets out a triumphant sound, and it pulls Wignall right out of his reverie. “What are you–?” he starts to ask, but Sion is in front of him in a blink and the rest of his question gets stuck in his throat.
“This one,” Sion says, holding up the vial of ointment Wignall has been using on-and-off whenever the pain got too bad for him to ignore. “–is for treating fresh burns. Helps them heal quicker, but doesn’t do much for old ones.” His tone is a little chiding, dark eyebrows drawing together as he puts the bottle down and presents Wignall with a different jar. “You should be using this. It’s good for scars overall, though it needs to be applied quite often,” he says, and grabs Wignall’s shoulder to force him to turn around so that his wings are right in front of Sion again.
“Hey– you could stand to be more…” Wignall trails off, watching over his shoulder as Sion scoops some of the cream out before those warm hands go back to touching his wings.
Sion doesn’t meet his eyes, his cheeks and ears glowing a bright red. “Shut up and let me do this,” he says, and keeps massaging the cream into an uneven, patchy section where Wignall’s secondary coverts would begin.
Wignall opens his mouth to retort, but the lack of the usual bite in Sion’s voice and the sheer care in every touch of his hands has him hesitating. In a way, Sion is… helping. Or trying to, as much as anyone can, really, and that–
That has to count for something. He’s not laughing, either, which is already more than Wignall would have expected, so. Not nothing.
(Enough for Wignall to let him touch him. Because if those who ruined his wings are worthy of respect, then surely so is someone who’s willing to–)
Sion’s fingers begin carding through his feathers, much like his own had before the fire mage appeared, and Wignall stiffens on reflex. He knows how his wings feel, knows there’s barely any of the silky smoothness Sion must be used to, and he doesn’t want to imagine how revolting this all must be to someone who’s probably had people taking care of his wings his whole life, but–
He had no idea that having someone preen his feathers would feel so impossibly good.
Wignall swallows, throat tight with shame and something else he can’t identify. Despite himself, he feels his muscles slowly relax under Sion’s ministrations, the methodical touches lulling him into a strange ease. “You seem to know your way around these things,” he muses after a couple more beats of silence, nodding towards the jar Sion had placed back on top of the rolling cabinet.
Sion snorts in response, and Wignall has the sudden urge to turn around to be able to see what face he’s making. “What do you think the first few years of training look like for a fire mage? Burns are an everyday occurrence,” he says, and it almost sounds like he’s smiling around the words. Or smirking. Yes, that is much more likely. “And unlike you lot, we don’t have healers to take care of them for us.”
“As you can clearly see, I don’t, either.” Wignall manages to keep the bitterness from his voice, arching an eyebrow Sion over his shoulder.
Sion clicks his tongue, clearly unimpressed. “But they could? Heal your wings, I mean,” he clarifies, and sounds only a little stilted. “Once you get to the Tower…”
The thing is, Wignall has thought about it. Many times. Has spent entire nights staring up at a dark ceiling imagining how if he could just get accepted by the Fairy Faction, could prove that he’s not useless, then maybe–
“Perhaps,” he says, and something in his voice makes Sion’s hands stop moving. “If they deem me worthy of such charity. After all, they–” his teeth snap shut around the damning remainder of that sentence. “It doesn’t matter,” he manages, clumsy and transparent like the cracks forming in his façade.
Wignall doesn’t even need to see Sion’s face to picture his indignation when he bites out, “Worthy?” Sion says the word like an insult, pulling his hands away from Wignall’s wings and making him turn around to face the fire mage.
Wignall doesn’t chase after the touch – he still has some dignity left.
But Sion is far from done. “And what the fuck do you mean by ‘it doesn’t matter’? Of course it matters, you Mercedes-damned fool – you can’t possibly fly with these! Does anyone know? Lihanna? How do you even make it through praxis exams in the dungeon without–”
“Haven’t you prodded enough already? Just–” Wignall snaps his teeth shut and lets out a frustrated sound, feeling more exposed than he ever wanted to with anyone, least of all Sion. “Please, leave it,” he says through gritted teeth, and it comes out more pleading than he’d have liked. He really can’t seem to do anything right today.
Sion’s expression flashes with something Wignall doesn’t have the energy to try to identify, his frown easing a fraction. “Fine,” he says, oddly subdued as he uncrosses his arms and reaches for his wings again. “But don’t think I won’t be keeping an eye on your ass during the next exam,” he adds, but doesn’t push further for which Wignall is silently grateful.
He takes the offered out. “Must you be so crass?”
“Does my swearing bother your delicate sensibilities, your highness? Well, tough fucking luck,” Sion retorts, because of course he does.
Wignall sighs. “I honestly don’t know what I expected,” he says, trying to sound exasperated, but the effect is most likely ruined by the way he keeps relaxing into Sion’s wandering touches.
“Well, I know what I expect. A lot of gratitude once I’m done with this,” Sion says with a huff.
Despite the put-upon tone, Wignall doesn’t miss how his touches stay gentle, and a newfound fondness slots between his lungs as he lets his gaze drop into his lap. His voice sounds soft to his own ears when he says, “I suppose that is fair. It feels… surprisingly nice.”
“Yeah, no shit. Your wings were a mess. When was the last time someone–”
Wignall feels himself stiffen at the words. He lets out a slow breath, giving Sion what he hopes is a flat look over his shoulder. “I think you can figure that one out on your own.”
“…sorry.” Then, just as quietly, “Just– don’t take everything I say to heart.”
The mumbled-out apology throws him off so thoroughly that Wignall barely catches the rest of Sion’s sentence. He blinks a few times, unable to tear his eyes away from the flush across the Ulster’s cheeks, and gets the sudden urge to tease him about it just to see the rosy hue darken.
His gaze snaps forward and away from Sion at the thought, an uncomfortable heat filling his own face. “If I did, I would have blasted you out of here twenty minutes ago,” he says at last.
“Oh, really.” The usual strength is back in Sion’s voice, and Wignall doesn’t let himself wonder why he’s so relieved by it. “I’d like to see you try,” Sion says, haughty as ever and Wignall feels a smile tug at his lips.
“Do not tempt me, Ulster.”
Sion huffs out a laugh behind him, his breath brushing over the back of Wignall’s neck and making him shiver slightly.
The silence that settles between them is a comfortable one, only broken by the distant sound of voices outside and the rustle of Sion’s clothes as he finishes grooming his wings.
“I know I’m not the best person for it, but I could–” Sion’s voice is sudden and hesitant, his eyes refusing to meet Wignall’s when he turns to face him.
“…yes?”
“I could do this. Again. The cream and the uh, preening, too. If you want,” Sion says like he’s expecting Wignall to make fun of him, and before he could say anything, that crimson gaze snaps up and practically dares him to. “You can’t just leave them without care, you know. Wonder elf my ass, more like I’m surprised something hasn’t used your wings as a nest with the state you–”
“Okay,” Wignall cuts in, surprising even himself.
The way Sion doesn’t dance around the subject, how he’s not even trying to placate Wignall with hollow sympathy and reassurances is… nice. Grounding. It makes Wignall feel like he can breathe a little easier now that someone knows.
But still–
He wants to ask why. Wants to prod and push until Sion admits what ulterior motive is the driving force behind his offer. Wants to sneer at Sion once he finds out it was all just a way to mock him, tell him I knew it as he kicks himself for falling for the first glimmer of kindness that someone bothered to waste on him.
Even so, he’s already misjudged Sion once, and, if nothing else, Wignall is willing to admit and learn from his mistakes. It’s all he can do, really.
“But you do not have to. I hope I’ve made it clear that as long as you don’t tell anyone about my– my wings… then there is no need for us to–” he clears his throat, suddenly desperate for Sion’s earlier reluctance to look him in the eyes. The intense focus is making his thoughts increasingly muddled. “What I’m trying to say is that I wouldn’t want you to feel obligated to do it out of some misplaced pity,” he manages at last, distantly aware of how awkward he sounds.
Sion gives him another long look, and it takes everything in Wignall to keep himself from squirming. Then, “You are… an idiot.” Before he could voice his protest, Sion hmphs and juts his chin out. “Are you sure you’re the second-best in our cohort? Because I feel like I’m losing brain cells just listening to you.”
“Oh, come on!” Wignall cries, but it’s half-hearted at most. Sion is honestly the last person to make an offer he isn’t serious about.
Sion doesn’t deign him with a response before turning on his heel sharply and heading towards the door. “This Friday after class,” he says, and Wignall considers throwing something at him for assuming he can order him around now. “Don’t keep me waiting.”
(This is how it starts.)
