Chapter Text
“I just don’t understand it,” Luke was saying, and although his smile was sympathetic he was still smiling. “You literally look just like them, how can you be afraid of them?”
“I just don’t like them!” Sam said, wide eyed and carefully skirting the square, where pockets of pigeons were cooing and doing their usual thing. Tom smiled despite himself. None of them could really make sense of it, because, well, okay, being afraid of birds wasn’t unheard of, most people felt some kind of kinship with those that copied their appearance. The science behind who got what wings was still very much uncertain and whilst there was usually some correlation between area of living and species of parent, sometimes oddities did occur. Usually looked on with suspicion, unfortunately, especially so if a hunting bird was born to non hunting parents or vice versa. Some folks were born with wings so missized to their bodies that they couldn’t fly at all.
Now, admittedly, all of them in the group could fly. Sam wasn’t particularly good at it, especially since he’d gained more weight on his keel in the last few years, and they still tended to walk unless it was absolutely necessary to take wing. Most of the populace was the same, admittedly. It tended just to be easier, to take cars and trains or walk; and whilst it wasn’t uncommon for groups of teens to be flapping about on rooftops, clutching cigarettes and cans of cheap beer and avoiding the cops, that sort of behaviour wasn’t all that common in adults.
Tom had been going on mental health flights more recently. The result had been fairly rapid; whilst he very much did fit the appearance of his heron grey wings, being as limby as he was, the musculature across his chest and down over his keel was showing marked differences from just a few months of regular flight. Of course, generally he kept his wings held tight to his frame, not wanting to be a nuisance. Both his parents had been waterbirds, although neither herons, it wasn’t that surprising when his plumage came in all soft greys around the time he shot up to six and a half feet. Grey was a bit of a pattern in their group, but, admittedly, a neutral colour worked very well for them as improvisers.
Sam, of course, in his feral pigeon monochrome check; hints of purplish iridescence if he caught the light right, strong, sturdy wings which really did fit him and made the pigeon fear all the more ridiculous. Luke’s were much smaller, easy to fold down, bold in their white and strips of black. It had taken his family a long time to figure out what he was, but as a shrike, he was the only truly predatory bird in their group. Not that Tom really put much stock in the whole idea of wings as personality traits; it was as ridiculous as the horoscopes they printed. He had seen more than one book on the whole ‘discover who your wings make you’ kind of attitude, and honestly, it very much got on his nerves.
Then there was AJ. His mallard wings were mostly understated, soft in their browns but with that vivid blue and white splash across them. He was probably the best flier out of all of them, incredibly powerful, and the more he’d bodybuilt the more skilled he had become. For such a heavy set of wings, he carried them with aplomb. Tom shuffled his own wings self-consciously. Yes, he’d been going on mental health flights but, well, the last few weeks… they’d become more… walks. He was choosing to walk around the park rather than take wing, and the others hadn’t really questioned it much. It was still exercise. It was still good for his brain, it was just… different. He was doggedly continuing to do them, even as the edges of the world had become more and more grey.
Sam’s own wings had fluffed up, instinctively making him bigger as they rounded the edge of the square on their way to the theatre. Luke was giggling, although his hand was over his mouth. They weren’t ones for making fun of their friends, not in any seriousness, but there was something truly ridiculous. Of course, the pigeons that bothered to look over seemed remarkably undisturbed… until some kid with their barely-formed flight feathers flapped right into the middle with a waddling run and set them all into the air like a feathery explosion. Sam yelped and took off at an awkward jog, wings flaring just slightly open as if he was going to take off, but a skyward glance clearly made him reconsider that plan of action. By the time the others caught up, he was by the side of some shop, doubled over, hands on his legs and wings still somewhat unfolded, although the flight feathers were brushing the ground now as he panted.
“Mate, you good?” AJ was the first to reach him. “They weren’t coming for you, you’re alright, yeah?”
“I fucking hate them.” Sam exclaimed, “They’re so big and loud and they’re so – so -” he gestured vaguely, and AJ nodded sympathetically. Now Tom was feeling a little bad about this whole situation, and it seemed Luke was too. The smaller man moved up next to him, carefully scooping the edge of the wing that was trailing in the dirt, lifting and pressing it until Sam’s muscles took over and folded it shut, the other side following. AJ pulled him into a hug, and as Tom approached, he saw a few people staring. So he unhinged his own wings, considerably larger than everyone else’s, resting a hand against Sam’s shoulder as he loosened them into something like a tent, arching them around, a wall of grey and white against watching eyes.
“Thanks, guys.” Sam sniffed. “Sorry, jesus. Didn’t get much sleep last night, think it’s… didn’t expect to, um. Well.” he offered a half-smile. “Yeah, that was fucking embarrassing.” he mumbled. Tom squeezed his shoulder sympathetically. He couldn’t lift his wings much higher without forcing his shoulder joints to shift, so he had to hope that them being open to this degree was enough to provide a shield.
“I shouldn’t have laughed.” Luke said, “That was shitty of me.”
“No, it’s okay. You’re right, it’s a dumb fear.” Sam snorted. “Especially when I look like this. I dunno, maybe that made it worse. People definitely got weird about it when my flight feathers started coming in and I looked just like the fuckin’ things. I don’t really like birds, honestly, at all, just… pigeons, man.” he grimaced.
“You’ll be okay.” Tom said, smiling softly, and then slid his arm around Sam’s back. They all shuffled in, Tom still encasing them in his wings. It was something intimate. Touching the inside of someone’s wings, especially in the areas near the body, that you only did when you truly trusted the other. There were horror stories; kids with awful parents, sometimes people in abusive relationships, forced to clip their wings so they couldn’t fly any more… lessons and posters on how to identify non consensual wing clipping. Usually right next to the posters about how to spot plucking in depressed children, and then about over preening in mothers, and so on and so forth. After a moment, they drew away, and Sam at least seemed to be standing more steady. He glanced at his watch.
“Is it worth us trying to fly to the show?” he asked, after a moment, “I’m a bit worried if we go on foot, we might be late.” Tom glanced up. There were a handful of people flying there, far up enough to be out of the way, mostly looking harried about it. He always had to be so careful because he took up so much space. Luke and AJ were nodding, though…
“Is it a great idea?” Tom murmured. “I mean, sorry, Sam, but last time we flew you were uh… I don’t know if turning up out of breath and sweaty is the right play?”
Sam grimaced, but he nodded.
“Right, well, we need to move, then.”
Tom took the lead, allowing his natural stride to keep up the pace, and made sure to tuck his wings down tight as they went.
-
“Ow.” it was just a mutter, a slip. On stage, it didn’t matter if you bent the wrong way for a moment or got trodden on or a dozen little moments. He was very good at not revealing if things hurt unless it was something that was a genuine issue, or, alternatively, if he’d been caught offguard. They had no real barriers with one another, complete and utter trust. Christ, they’d spent enough downtime with one another preening, especially at university. Tom trusted them all implicitly. So for that tiny little sound to slip out – Luke drew back, brows raising, breaking his character for a moment. He was playing a love interest, Luke Womanning at full force, and had slid his arm fully around Tom’s back – under where the feathers lay, brushing against the joint. The crowd’s ‘oooo’ giving away just what a tender moment that was, the trust. The area where the first joint of the wing emerged from the shoulder and pressed against the skin was incredibly sensitive; a sign of complete and utter dedication to allow another to touch or preen there. Of course, in the moment, in the role, Tom didn’t care.
But Luke drew back, trying to keep it in character, even as his eyes flickered over Tom and the lankier man found his cheeks starting to heat up a little. Whoops. From the sidelines, he caught Sam and AJ’s glances, knowing they’d seen his change in body language. Maybe they would misunderstand. He hoped they would misunderstand. Shaking his feathers out with an audible noise, Tom fell back into playing the role of a lovestruck teenager, and the show continued on. Hopefully that would be forgotten. It was nothing to do with the touch on his skin or the delicacy of the area – but with any luck, that was what they would think, if they had to pick up on it again. They managed to get through the ending of the play, the crowd went wild, and they were offstage, catching their breath.
“Tom.” Sam caught his hand, moving him away from the others, who were chatting enthusiastically, seemingly not noticing that they were no longer with the group. “You okay?”
“I – what? Yeah, ‘course I am.” Tom frowned, subconsciously resting his hand on the other wrist, rubbing his thumb over the back of it. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You flinched when Luke touched you. I’ve never seen you do that before?” he said, voice heavy with caring in a way that made Tom’s stomach clench and bile rise in his throat. He hated when he made the others worry.
“He caught one of my downy feathers by accident,” he invented, quickly, “Just caught me offguard when I felt it tug.”
“Really?” Sam asked, “Huh. Okay. If you’re sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, you know me.” he offered a half smile, heart thumping against his keel, trying to stay casual. He forced his wings to still, the urge to lift them and hold himself with them, not wanting his body language to give him away.
“Yeah, I do.” Sam said, slowly. “If you’re sure, mate. Let us know if – y’know, if you’re not comfortable with anything.”
“I will. Promise.” Tom said, and the lie stuck to him like glue, trying to seal his throat shut.
-
[txt] AJ – you wanna go for a quick fly? Like 2ish?
[txt] Tom – nah sorry I’m swamped w admin
[txt] Tom – might go for a walk this evening tho
[txt] AJ – we could fly tonight? Make it a real workout?
[txt] Tom – not sure I’m up for that, sorry.
[txt] AJ – no worries mate. Another night.
-
“Tom, mate, there’s blood on your wings.” AJ said, his voice concerned, reaching out and brushing his fingertips against the patch. Tom felt himself tense, looking around, stretching the limb out as best he could to get a look. On the back? That was – huh. “Did you break a pinfeather or something?”
“I… didn’t feel anything, if I did,” he mumbled, and that was unusual, he knew that was unusual, you normally knew when you caught a freshly growing feather and managed to snap the stem.
“What did you even brush up again to do this?” AJ was working more closely, now, rubbing away the residue but automatically soothing his other hand over the top, encouraging the glossy oils to slide down and soothe the damaged area. As his hand brushed a sensitive area, Tom flinched slightly, unable to help himself. AJ stilled, then moved his hands away.
“I can’t see a broken shaft.” he commented, voice very quiet. “Tom -”
“It must have already shed.” he said, shuffling his wings back into place, “I need to go set my mic up.” he turned on his heel, knowing his behaviour wouldn’t make things better but not being able to stand the concerned expression in AJ’s eyes.
-
“Knock it off!” Sam was giggling even as he objected, flaring his wings out to try to shove the others away. No matter what he’d tried, he hadn’t been able to get the glitter off his beard. AJ was currently doing his best to attack him with a beard comb, but unfortunately, Sam was ticklish, and even though he insisted that it would come off in the shower, AJ was just as stubborn about getting it dealt with before it became entirely ingrained. He squirmed, and Luke moved behind him on the sofa, reaching down to rest his elbows over where Sam’s wings were the widest, forcing him to stay still. They weren’t wide enough to force Sam’s shoulder joints to rotate, so he still had his arms even as he tried to bat away AJ with his comb. “It’s fine! It’s fine! It’ll wash out!” he declared, but AJ was straddling his legs to hold him still. Tom couldn’t resist the urge to laugh, too, a hand over his mouth, before he scrabbled for his mobile to film it. The social media accounts would go crazy for this ridiculous moment.
Sam tried to beat his wings but Luke had too good a control over them, easily tensing to make sure they didn’t throw anything. Yeah, he was stronger than Luke generally, but there was always an instinct to make sure your wings didn’t get broken by smacking them against things. That was often the warning; make sure you don’t let fear make you lose your instincts. Wingbones were fragile, and many often lost their ability to fly at all by breaking them young. Society, of course, was able to work with them, and there were enough folks that living groundbound was dealt with as easily as glasses. Tom sat back in his chair, holding the camera so that it could be seen easily as AJ managed to finally start brushing out the sticky glitter, Sam caught between laughter and squirming discomfort.
As he filmed, his wings relaxed, half opening; he wasn’t paying attention to them, really. So he missed Luke’s stare, how it lingered, and the concern that started to fill his eyes.