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Connor is twelve years old when his feathers come in.
Similarly, he is twelve years old when his mom catches him in the bathroom, trying desperately to pluck them out with tears streaming down his face because he came out wrong. Good Mormon boys aren't supposed to look like this, aren’t supposed to proudly display mesmerizing hues of green and blue, aren't supposed to show signs of what must be inherent vanity. Aren't supposed to be peacocks. The members of his family are all subdued natural colors, birds that blend in and don't scream for your attention. Doves and egrets, all good birds with a strong connection to spirituality. So Connor must have done something wrong to turn out like this, must be wrong on the inside.
Connor is twelve years old when his mom crouches down next to him with a pair of scissors, and tells him never ever to let his tailfeathers show if he wants to go to Heaven, tells him that he must have sinned but that he can still make up for it if he prays and prays, if he cuts away this part of himself.
He doesn't struggle while the scissors set to work.
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God bestowed humanity with the gift of wings and feathery coats so they could be closer to Heaven. Made them in His image, filled them with the divine light of creativity and soul. Having them walk with their back straight and head held high in one form, riding freely on the winds in another.
It is a privilege, it is a divine right.
It is a burden, when you’re not what you’re supposed to be.
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Connor is still twelve when he learns why he's like this. When Steve Blade makes him feel warm and gooey inside, makes him feel like opening up the phantom tail to make his friend pay attention to him and only him, parade him around and tell the world they belong together.
The tailfeathers keep growing back, like an especially persistent fungus, so trimming them becomes part of his daily routine. Then a weekly routine, then monthly.
By the time he gets anointed as district leader, the stress of keeping himself in check is enough to prevent the feathers from growing back altogether.
But it’s worth it. This is what he’s been working for all his life, what’s expected of him, what he needs to do to be accepted. And who needs a lustrous tail when you don’t plan on using it? When the people you want to show it off to aren’t the people you should be looking at, and the people you should like wouldn’t be impressed by such an uncouth display anyway?
So it doesn’t matter that his tail has all but disappeared by the time he’s boarding the plane to Kampala, Uganda, doesn’t matter because he never shifts anyway, has made up his mind.
Connor McKinley may be a peacock, but he vows to act the part of a much more unassuming and devout bird every step of the way.
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“Zero baptisms, Elder Thomas. Zero! What we need is a miracle. One I am positive Elder Price can provide.”
The look Elder Thomas sends him a highly sceptical. And Connor knows he shouldn't get his hopes up this easily, shouldn't put all his eggs in one basket. But the moment he received the profiles of their two new recruits, he felt like Heavenly Father Himself had sent down a divine messenger for guidance.
“I mean, look at him! Perfect grades, nothing but the highest praise from his peers and teachers.” He wisely keeps his mouth shut about Elder Price's stunning good looks. Knows he shouldn't be noticing them in the first place. “And he's a woodpecker, to boot!”
Woodpeckers represent determination, consistency and perseverance. They’re resourceful and resilient, steadfast. If Elder Price is anything like his avian counterpart, they can expect great things from him.
Elder Thomas makes a noncommittal sound. “You believe in that stuff?”
“I believe we are given our birds for a reason,” Connor says resolutely, using a tone that leaves no room for counterarguments.
The other elders don't know what kind of bird he is. Everyone always keeps their backs and shoulders covered up, so no one would be able to tell from the feathers that grow there. And he never shifts. Easier to keep it all locked away, because if he allows himself that one sliver of freedom surely the rest will come undone as well. As for the matter of the tail…
The feathers aren't growing back anymore. He’s read about this; how stress and a decrease in health can make the process take much longer, or even terminate it altogether. Becoming a district leader in the middle of goshdarn nowhere and suddenly having to lead a group of still-teenagers will do that to you. Add to that the heat (he almost had a sunstroke his first day here), add to that planning and being responsible and double-checking every little detail and trying to respond to the letters from home, the ones telling him this is his chance to prove himself, add to that the nightmares where he’s choking on his own feathers or he’s standing there in birdform with his tail fanning out and have everyone laugh in a multitude of caws and hoots, it's- well, it's quite a lot.
Connor has simply told everyone he'd had an accident as a child, and that he wouldn't be answering questions about it. And that was that. So no one knows of the proof of his digression, the source of his shame, and he plans to keep it that way. Of course, they know he's had them- gay thoughts, that is- but they also know how successful he's been at repressing them. No need to reinstate speculation by telling them he's the flashy type of bird completely unbefitting a good, straight young Mormon.
Elder Thomas puts a finger to the other file and drags it closer for scrutiny. “What about him, then? A crow.”
Crows. Often seen as a bad omen. But they also represent transformation, intelligence and mystery, act as messengers.
“Elder Cunningham… well, we'll simply have to see.”
Though he’s already made up his mind: Connor is most excited about meeting the golden boy.
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Elder Price is something else. Something incredible, even.
Connor almost trips over himself in his enthusiasm to greet the newcomer. Gets some strange looks from Elder Thomas and Elder Church which he pointedly ignores.
He's even more dazzling in person, standing taller, taller than Connor, oozing the kind of charisma only found in people who know the world owes them a favor. He looks like a moviestar, like he crawled his way out of Connor’s wildest dreams to come rescue him from this hellscape. A white knight to sweep him off his feet.
Not that Connor is thinking about any other type of sweeping than the one that requires a broom, of course. He tells himself to keep his cool, to stop reaching out to briefly touch the other's arm like he thinks this a dream and the bubble is about to burst. To stop feeling his heart skip a beat every time Elder Price smiles, every time those dark eyes skirt back to him. He needs to stop, because he's a district leader, and everyone is looking to him for guidance. Looking at him while he makes a fool out of himself. He can’t play favorites, can’t act like a teenage girl with a crush (even more so because he can't be gay).
Elder Cunningham seems to be his polar opposite. Laughs when it's inappropriate, seems intent on being seen as likeable and fitting in, is smaller and chubbier and has wild curly hair and glasses, immediately asks if it's alright to shift in the living quarters. Connor doesn’t say he dislikes the other elder, but he knows where his preference lies.
He thinks Elder Price is the perfect man, the perfect example of what a good Mormon is and what they all should strive to be.
But he's never heard about turning it off. Something so ingrained in Connor's life, so synonymous to the Mormon experience that he almost has to laugh. But maybe, he tells himself, maybe it's only that Elder Price has nothing to turn off in the first place. Maybe he’s just that good.
That image of the perfect boy last for all of one second until Elder Price interrupts his explanation by leaning in, big doe eyes looking so earnest while he speaks the words no good Mormon has ever said.
“But Elder McKinley, I think it’s okay you’re having gay thoughts. So long as you never act upon them.”
Connor falters, sucks in an almost painful breath that pushes against his ribs and stays trapped there, trapped alongside his wildly beating heart. That’s absurd. You can’t be okay with the thoughts, because that’s a slippery slope to being okay with the behavior.
Besides, what does Elder Price know about gay thoughts anyway?
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Connor is wrong about Elder Price.
He’s wrong about Elder Cunningham, too.
But mostly, he’s wrong about himself.
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“Elder McKinley, he’s doing it again.”
Connor is rubbing circles around his temples, trying to keep the headache at bay.
“I know, I can hear him. I’ll…” He lets out a long-suffering sigh. “I’ll go talk to him.”
In a fashion that’s almost become routine he trots down the hallway, ignoring the sleepy bedheads poking out of their rooms to see what all the fuss is about. They know what the fuss is, and his name is Kevin Price.
Kevin Price, shifted to his woodpecker form, jackhammering away on the old sausage tree planted just outside the mission hut. Uncaring that he’s making a racket, or that they all actually quite like that tree (at least the others do; Connor’s been told it’s a great place to take shelter from the burning sun).
Connor plants his hands firmly on his hips and squints up at the small dot of red on a black-and-white body. “A-hem!”
Kevin doesn’t seem to hear him. Connor feels inclined to throw a rock at him, but that probably wouldn’t be very nice.
What Connor has learned is that Elder Price is not the savior Connor thought him to be.
Instead of consistent he is flippant, a whiny brat who (until recently) thought the world really did revolve around him and needed life to take him down a peg or two.
Steadfast? Psh. A steadfast pain in the ass.
What he also is, is twitchy. Must come with the territory of banging your face against wood all day long.
Instead of determined he is irresolute, acting on a whim and making an enemy out of delayed gratification. Wishy-washy on his fate, on his role in the grand scheme of things, on their roles as missionaries. On the rules, on the things they’ve always known as truth.
Then again; once he bit the bullet on stepping down to make room for Prophet Cunningham, he has become determined in a new way, a star actor casting himself as the supporting role. And then it was Arnold who proved the true driving force; symbolic of transformation indeed.
Connor wants to hate him, wants to blame him and Elder Cunningham for all the bad hands he’s ever been dealt, but he simply can’t. Not just because he is their district leader and they are therefore his responsibility, but also because Arnold is too darn likeable and Kevin-
Why. Elder Price is the kind of pretty that makes something stir in some deep dark part inside of him. Makes him want to puff out his chest and strut around, showing off his best moves. Too bad he gave up the assets to do so when he was the delicate age of twelve. Or not too bad- good, because this way he can't make a complete fool out of himself.
“Elder Price!” he yells instead of throwing a rock, and his favorite pain in the ass finally stops pecking away to look at him.
Elder Price swoops down in an exhilarating tumble that almost makes Connor nervous, mostly makes him envious. Makes his back ache. But even if he were to shift, peacocks aren’t exactly known for being the most graceful flyers. (That doesn’t stop a pang of want from stabbing him in the gut.)
The elder shifts back right before hitting the ground, touching down like he was born to do this. “I told you to call me Kevin,” he says the moment he has vocal chords that know English.
“And I told you to stop using our tree to sharpen your beak,” Connor throws back.
Kevin flinches, smiles semi-apologetically. “This one’s closest by. And if I don’t shift often enough I just get this, this itch, you know?”
Connor does know. Connor doesn’t. He’s felt that itch for so long it’s become a consistent throbbing, a dull ache he’s learned to think his way around.
“Be that as it may, there are plenty of other trees for you to pick.”
Connor makes a gesture with his hand like Kevin’s dismissed, then starts moving back indoors. He doesn’t want to get a sunburn from standing outside for longer than five minutes, and he also doesn’t want to have Kevin stand so close when he’s being like, like that. Flush with happiness after just having shifted, flapping his hands to get rid of the excess energy (at least, that’s what Connor thinks he’s doing).
It’s a little too much like staring into the sun.
“Why do you never shift?” Kevin asks, doggedly following behind.
Connor feels his hackles rise the way they always do when someone tries to ask him about his feathers. That’s another thing; some of them have taken to no longer wearing the undergarments. To wearing looser and thinner clothes, rolling up the sleeves over the shoulders. Proudly displaying feathers in different hues of bluejay and stork and the flashgreen of a wild duck. Connor’s one of the last remaining still covering up.
“Maybe that’s none of your business.”
“Maybe you’re dodging the question.”
The more Kevin leans in, the higher crawl Connor’s shoulders.
“Maybe I just don’t like shifting.”
“You don’t sound like that’s true.”
Connor stops walking so abruptly Kevin almost crashes into him. He’s sticking his nose high in the air and keeping his back ramrod straight, trying not to let show how much this simple line of questioning is affecting him.
“Well,” he huffs primly, “not all of us can be woodpeckers, Kevin.”
Any other person would drop the issue, would be able to tell that Connor really doesn’t want to talk about it. Any other person wouldn’t be Kevin Price. Kevin who gets twitchy again, whose hands keep rapidfire flicking and grabbing onto walls as he leans even closer, eyes shimmering like he’s a bloodhound that smelled prey.
“Is it that you’re really tiny? Does your bird have a funny name?”
“Kevin.”
“Or maybe you’re really really big? Ostrich McKinley? Albatros? Is there not enough wind here for you to take off?” For some reason there’s a sting of jealousy to his tone, something wistful; maybe Kevin doesn’t really like being a smaller type of bird.
“Kevin.”
“Or are you actually a chicken-”
“Kevin Price!” Connor snaps, probably far too harsh for the situation but Kevin is way too close and he’s still beaming sunshine while talking about Connor’s most shameful secret, and he simply cannot deal with this.
Kevin, finally, seems to sense his mood and rolls back on his heels. His face gets something a little petulant, a little like a child about to get a scolding.
Connor grips his shirt above his heart, willing it to calm down. He breathes in deep and slow to steady himself. Best get this over with.
“I really, really don’t want to talk about it. Not everyone gets given a bird they’re comfortable with.”
Something flashes in Kevin’s eyes. Like he understands far too much all at once. “Ooooooh,” he says, “is it a gay thing?”
Connor takes a reflexive step back. Thinks he stopped breathing. Is gaping up at the other, jaw working without sound coming out.
Kevin sort of nods his head at nothing, scrunches his eyebrows together in a confused puppy look. “Because I really don’t think anyone would care?”
“No one would care,” Connor repeats, feeling like he stepped outside his body, like the world moved an inch to the left and he lost his footing as a result. Falling into oblivion.
“I mean,” Kevin amends, and finally he averts his gaze to awkwardly scratch at his neck, “you’re our district leader. We all, like, accept and respect you. Doesn’t matter if you’re, a flamingo or a hummingbird or something like, like a tit-”
“A tit,” Connor snorts, and there’s something thrilling through his system as he lets Kevin’s words wash over him.
“Yeah like, something really cute or, or pink.” He adds that second part in a rush, cheeks darkening.
For a moment, Connor wonders if he’s being flirted with. Wonders if he should flirt back.
But- no no no that can’t be real. Kevin Price isn’t gay. He’s probably just trying to be reassuring in his own bumbling, golden retriever-esque ways. Truly too much canine in that boy for a bird shifter.
“I can assure you, I am not pink,” Connor mumbles. I am not gay lies at the tip of his tongue, almost a reflex at this point, but what's the use in denying it any longer? What's the use of keeping up this game of make-believe? With all the rules they've been rewriting, what is one more tiny, minuscule life-altering detail?
As the thrilling continues he realizes he’s shaking with it, finds it’s wracking his entire body.
Oh. He doesn’t quite think this is entirely a good thing.
Connor breathes in, steadies his voice. “While I appreciate the sentiment, I still don’t think it’s a good idea for me to shift.”
Kevin deflates a little, lip jutting out. “What about letting all your feelings out? What about no longer turning it off?”
“Why are you being so insistent on this?” He needs to end this conversation, right now. He can feel something coming on, and he really doesn’t want Kevin to be present for it.
Luckily, that question seems to do the trick. Kevin shuts his damn mouth, goes a little wide-eyed panic, before stepping back and giving him space.
“Sorry,” he stammers out, and finally excuses himself.
Connor doesn’t have time to wonder about his behavior, to dissect and overthink it. He walks himself to his bedroom, gently closes the door behind him, and sits down stiffly on the edge of his bed.
Is it a gay thing, he thinks, and No one would care.
No one would care. As if.
As if he hasn’t been hiding himself his entire life because he’s terrified the world would care too much. As if his mother didn’t tell him he has sinned and needs to atone, as if him being a peacock doesn’t mean anything.
As if there’s people out there who would look at his feathers and call them beautiful, and not condemn him for it, not reduce him to stereotypes.
As if there exists a world where he never needed to cut off his tail, where he could shift at will and be wild and free with the rest of them, not caring that they’re actively cutting themselves off from the Church and from everything they’ve ever known.
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Elder Thomas walks in, takes one look at him, and walks back out.
A couple of minutes later Elder Thomas walks back in with a steaming mug of tea in his hands.
Connor wordlessly takes it from him and almost burns his tongue.
“Rough day?” Elder Thomas asks, and he looks at him like he already knows. Like he can guess what this is about.
“You could say that,” Connor replies in a small voice, but also, “I think I’m going to write back home. Tell them everything that’s been happening here.”
Elder Thomas looks at him like he’s scared he’s losing it. “Everything? You sure?”
Connor smiles. “Yeah. I have some thoughts I need to get out.”
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Connor puts everything in that letter. Everything from how could you do that to a child to maybe it wasn’t punishment but a gift, maybe God wanted to show him something beautiful and he was so scared he threw it all away long before he ever got a chance to enjoy it.
Well, he wants to stop being so scared. He wants to start living as himself, from now on.
Too bad the damage is already done; his tail is still massacred, and he’s spent so long without shifting that he barely remembers how. But he can at least work on being more genuine as a human.
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Everyone has their own needs. Elder Church as a duck gets restless if he can’t go for a swim in the lake every so often, but he doesn’t like going by himself so he’s usually joined by Elder Thomas or an excitable Elder Cunningham. Aforementioned elder is chatty, likes collecting things, shiny things, likes gifting them to people he cares about. Elder Thomas likes shifting into his vibrant bluejay, hopping onto the roof of the mission hut and whispering melodies to the wind. Michaels has a wider wingspan and needs to do a lot of arm exercises, Davis is constantly hoarding food, Neeley physically can’t make himself stay up after dark, Schrader can’t sit still. A lot of them flock together, no solitary raptors or nighttime hunters in their midst.
Kevin Price is a more solitary type of bird. Hangs around with Elder Cunningham or Sister Hatimbi, joins the rest of them for the occasional game of Ludo or Monopoly, but otherwise spends a lot of time by himself. Goes for long jogs or flies off to go assault the local flora. Connor sort of likes leaning out of a window and listening to the faraway ticking, knowing Kevin is diligently hacking away at the bark of some hapless tree somewhere.
Then there’s the villagers, who come in all sorts and sizes. The Hatimbis are both kingfishers, Mafala a sober black and white while Nabulungi’s vibrant blues and yellows can be spotted from miles away whenever she drops by for a visit. There’s green pigeons and hornbills and herons, a kite and a mourning dove and a single parrot. Now that the vultures working for the General have finally left them in peace, everyone’s colors truly get to shine.
There’s quacks and whistles and chirrups and caws. Connor never tries joining in, flushes at the thought of letting them hear the loud and awkward peafowl screech. It’s tempting, though, hearing them all join in, hearing the cacophony of voices calling his name.
He yearns. Wants to belt like a Disney Princess singing her I Want song, and almost doesn't care that he hears a little voice in the back of his head nagging about how that's gay, Connor. Almost doesn't hear it. Almost.
But there is work to do.
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Connor is finally adapting to the life in Uganda. Will still get crippled by the overwhelming afternoon heat every single day, but has learned to take more breaks, has learned to trust that his boys can do the work themselves without needing him to micromanage them every step of the way.
Today is one such day, where he’s retreated to his room for a moment of respite during the hottest hour of the day. But even there the heat is overwhelming, draping itself so heavily over his skin it feels like he’s in a sauna, like he’s breathing smoke instead of oxygen.
The others have all gone to the lake for a dip in the cooling waters, asking him to come with but he can’t. Because they’ll all be shifting, and he’ll be left alone on the sidelines feeling sorry for himself, or having others feel sorry for him, and he doesn’t want that.
Shifting…
It’s been so long since he’s done it. He used to, back when he was a teenager. In the quiet moments after he got home from school and before his mom called him down for dinner, dropping his schoolbag to the floor and stepping out of his skin in the same fluid movement. He’d always feel guilty afterwards, would feel like he was giving into temptation. So he started doing it less and less, until he began repressing it altogether.
It’s been years now, and he sort of forgot how to do it. Or at least, if he consciously thinks about it he’s sure he won’t be able to remember. But it’s not a conscious thing, it’s an instinct whose roots settle deep within his bones. All he needs to do is let go.
It’s so tempting. Just a quick change, and little dipping of his toes in the pool of his desires, and then he’ll be out again. There’s no one here to see him.
Connor sits down on his bed, closes his eyes. Feels the collar of his shirt clinging to his damp skin, feels the tie constricting around his neck. Feels it all slowly start to fall away as he follows the roots down into the core of him, down to the parts of him that dream of wide open skies and belonging.
Connor opens his eyes, and immediately knows it worked. Sees the world from a different angle, a new vantage point, colors desaturated and vision spreading outward. He doesn’t go to look at himself in the mirror, doesn’t want to see a peacock without a tail. But he does spread his wings, rejoicing in the flapping sounds, rejoicing in spreading wind around, cool freeing wind.
Better. Much, much better.
Connor doesn’t dare to fly, but he does take to hopping around. Is almost scared by how easy it is to fall back into it, into himself. Feels like coming home after an arduous voyage and seeing himself sitting on the couch, smiling up, saying took you long enough.
Connor thinks he’s laughing, feeling like a boy again. Thinking about years wasted, about how much he missed feeling like himself. Heart speeding up as he jumps and flaps his wings, jumps to the bedpost to the nightstand, thinks about getting all the way up on top of the closet until-
The door swings open. Connor freezes with his claws still clinging to the bedframe, wings spread by his sides. Ducks his head as Kevin Price stares back at him, hand still on the doorknob, eyes blown comically wide.
For one long pause Connor thinks about playing dumb. Nothing to see here, just some random peacock who accidentally wandered into the mission hut and can’t find its way back out.
“Elder McKinley, I know that’s you.”
Connor flinches. Knows he’s busted, because there is no way he can explain his reactions away as normal bird behavior. But he still can’t make himself shift back and face this confrontation. Can’t think of what he’d say, how to explain himself, the words getting stuck in his uncooperative throat.
Kevin closes the door and slowly walks towards him, slowly, like Connor actually is a wild animal that Kevin doesn’t want to startle. Connor tucks his wings back in and straightens up, hating how much height the other has on him until Kevin crouches down, getting on eye level.
“You’re a peacock,” Kevin says simply, and he doesn’t sound mocking, doesn’t even sound all that surprised. What he does sound like instead is perhaps a little bit in awe, a little bit in wonder, eyes skirting over his form to take him in.
Getting stared at like that is finally what brings him back; Connor hops behind the bed and shifts back, knowing it’s cowardly to hide but also knowing his face is beet red and he really doesn’t want Kevin to see.
“Well,” he says shakily, back pressed against the bed and staring at a wall while he holds his face in his hands, “now you know.”
He can hear Kevin settle down on the other side, for once in his life knowing to give others space. “Are you…” he swallows, “are you ashamed that you’re a peacock without a tail?”
“I’m ashamed I’m a peacock at all,” Connor hisses, and he really wishes he’d remembered to lock the door before shifting. But then again- “What are you even doing here? I thought everyone was at the lake.”
“Wanted to see if I couldn’t get you to come with after all,” Kevin mumbles, and Connor really doesn’t know what to say in response to that. “Why are you ashamed of being a peacock?”
Connor barks out a humorless laugh. “Because I couldn’t be more of a stereotype, Kevin. Mormons aren’t supposed to be- to be colorful, to show off, be flashy and gay.” He says it like it’s a slur. “It’s vanity, it’s sinful. You can’t fit a tail like that in a white shirt and black slacks.”
“Your tail,” Kevin remarks, and Connor knows immediately he said too much, “you said it was an accident.”
Connor doesn’t say anything. Brings his hands up to cover his eyes, block out this conversation.
“Was it really?”
Connor still doesn’t speak, but his silence must say enough.
He hears a lot of shuffling, and when he lowers his hands Kevin is crawling around the bed. He has this worried frown pulling down his eyebrows in a way that really doesn’t suit him.
“You know my parents wanted me to paint my feathers white?”
“What?” Connor asks, lowering his hands all the way. Kevin sits down beside him, not caring that their thighs press together. Even though Connor’s mind immediately zooms in on that tiny little point of contact.
“I have this red spot on the top of my head when I’m in woodpecker form. My parents told me red isn’t a good color for Mormons, and they wanted me to paint it.”
Connor blinks, stares at him. “Well, obviously you didn’t. Because I’ve never seen you with a white spot.”
Kevin’s lips quirk up. “Been staring at me?”
Connor averts his gaze, hates the knowing way Kevin looks at him. Hates how he has to wonder if Kevin actually means it like that, and that he can’t just know.
“Just answer the question, Price.”
“It was Kevin a moment ago.”
“You must have imagined it,” Connor sighs, leaning his head back against the mattress. He feels a little lighter with the way Kevin’s teasing him; not teasing him about the things that really matter. Lighthearted, friendly, like they are friends. Connor would like that. He would like that a lot.
Kevin mirrors Connor’s position, keeps staring at him from the corner of his eyes. It makes Connor feel self-conscious in a warm, squirmy way.
“I told them red is also the color associated with the blood of Christ, and with redemption. All I had to do was quote the Book at them, and they left me alone.”
“Oh yeah?” Connor chuckles.
Kevin lifts his chin, projects his voice towards the ceiling. “And the Lord shall be red in his apparel, and his garments like him that treadeth in the wine-vat.” He looks back at Connor. “I think pretty birds fit in there as well.”
Pretty birds. Connor doesn’t need to think about why those words spoken by Kevin Price when he’s looking at him like that make him feel even warmer.
“How so?” Connor asks, maybe a touch too hoarse.
Kevin continues, speaking the words like he knows them by heart. He probably does, probably spent hours pouring over the paragraphs and committing them all to memory. “And it shall be said: Who is this that cometh down from God in heaven with dyed garments; yea, from the regions which are not known, clothed in his glorious apparel, traveling in the greatness of his strength?” Kevin looks at him in a really intense way. “If Jesus is allowed to wear nice clothes and still be called divine, then surely it’s okay for people to have nice feathers too.”
“I’m not Jesus,” Connor weakly protests, “that sounds like blasphemy.”
Kevin lowers his gaze, smiles a little self-deprecating thing at Connor’s chin. “And I’m no longer Mormon.”
Neither of them speaks for a while after that, letting the words sit heavy in the air around them. It’s Connor who finally breaks the silence.
“I want to… I want to be okay with myself. To not feel ashamed, to actually let all my feelings out. But it’s hard, you know? When I’ve been hiding that part of myself for most of my life.”
Kevin is still smiling at him, trying to be encouraging. There’s this delicate thing between them, living in the way they sit close together but not all the way touching, how their heads are almost in each other’s space. One wrong move and the spell will be broken. Connor almost doesn’t dare to breathe.
“I won’t tell anyone if you don’t want me to,” Kevin promises, and his eyes look so darn earnest it makes Connor shudder.
Connor briefly smiles, looks down at their joined hips. “Anyway, I can’t exactly fly like this, so I couldn’t join you boys for a lot of things even if I wanted to. With my tail gone I’m way off-balance.”
Kevin’s eyebrows shoot up, and he somehow looks even more intense. “Actually…”
Connor leans back. “What?”
“I think they might be growing back?”
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His tail is growing back.
It’s funny how he didn’t notice it before; then again, he sort of stopped paying attention months ago, when it became clear no new feathers were coming in. But now as he studies himself in the mirror, lo and behold. There’s only a few and they’re still tiny, almost like fluffy down, but they are nevertheless present.
Connor doesn’t know how to feel about it at first. He’d expected the sense of wrong, the years of self-hatred that have become so ingrained it’ll probably take even more years to get rid of. But he also feels…
Excited? Jubilant? Like weeping tears of joy? Like calling up his mom and telling her where to stick it, and isn’t that bad of him, and isn’t it good to be able to think things like that without immediately feeling hellfire licking at his heels?
It must be because he’s finally settling into his role as district leader, as caring but stern mother hen. Finally getting used to the environment, and the people, and the routine. It must be because he has people around him that make him feel younger, make him feel like he doesn’t need to bear the weight of the world on his shoulders all by himself.
(It might be because there’s someone around that makes him wish for assets to show off.)
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Connor doesn’t cut off the feathers. Doesn’t make a statement about it to the others, doesn’t tell anyone of his decision.
And apparently Kevin is good at keeping promises, because the first time his feathers have grown long enough that he needs to start cutting holes in his slacks to let them through (most pants come pre-cut, but Connor never had a need for those) Elder Davis looks at him like he’s witnessed a miracle.
“Oh my gosh!” the elder says, and soon all the others are flocking around him and Connor tries not to feel self-conscious about the fact they’re quite literally staring at his ass.
“Your feathers, they’re growing back!” Elder Church says, and he sounds so excited for him that it makes Connor want to preen, makes him impatient for the feathers to grow out all the way so he can truly start showing them off.
Elder Thomas gives him an encouraging squeeze to the shoulder, and that means more than Connor could ever hope to convey.
“That’s so cool!” Arnold caws, shifting to his crow form so he can do joyful loopity-loops in the middle of the living room.
“Alright, alright, settle down,” Connor scolds them, even though he can’t keep the grin from his voice.
No one is saying anything about the shape and color of the feathers, how it’s abundantly clear he can’t be a corvid or finch. Peacock feathers are pretty sober at the base, brown quills you’d find on any type of fowl, but with the rate these are growing soon he’ll have the long painted eyes peafowl are most known for.
There is one person he can’t help but seek out in the crowd though, one person he’d most like to gauge the reaction of.
Kevin is already staring back when he finds him. He’s grinning at him like a proud parent, like he’s ecstatic in Connor’s place. It makes Connor’s heart feel too big for his chest. It fills him with a sudden and all-encompassing desire.
How would Kevin Price react to seeing a peacock in his full glory?
-
o
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Connor has taken off his undergarments and rolled up his sleeves. He keeps his head held high as he walks into the kitchen, acts like he doesn’t notice people staring. Like he isn’t even a tiny bit aware of the vibrant blue feathers dusting his shoulders, covering the wings of his shoulder blades.
It’s only after he sits down that Arnold plops down beside him. “Looking good, district leader!” he yells in a distinctly Arnold volume, and that must have been the sign the others were waiting for because suddenly there’s murmured agreements coming from all directions.
Connor tries to hide his pleased grin in his bowl, tries not to make a big deal out of it.
Not a single person makes a comment about how he’s a pretty bird, though. And he’s glad for that.
There’s only one person who gets to call him that and get away with it.
-
o
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Connor doesn’t think Kevin is gay.
Correction.
Connor didn’t think Kevin is gay.
Now though…
But it’s a little too much to hope for. Too much at once, his self-acceptance coinciding a little too smoothly with a handsome boy suddenly lavishing him with attention.
That doesn’t stop him from dreaming about warm eyes and an easy smile.
-
o
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“Kevin, get down from there. We’re having dinner in five minutes!”
Kevin is grinning at him from his favorite branch way up in the sausage tree. Legs lazily swinging back and forth, one hand held to the trunk for safety. Not that he needs it; Kevin is an expert at shifting midair. He is in no danger.
Kevin is grinning down, trying to challenge Connor with his eyebrows alone. (He’s winning.)
“Why don’t you come up here and make me?”
He has to know how that sounds. What it’s doing to Connor, who is rapidly blinking up and trying not to act shy about it.
“You know I can’t fly,” Connor throws back, even though the thought of actually spreading his wings is…
Kevin shrugs. “Well I’m not coming down, soooooo.”
Connor worries his lip. Looks up, tries to calculate the distance he’d have to traverse. Kevin is pretty high up, but there’s plenty of branches to hop on. Still, he hesitates.
“You won’t know if you never try,” Kevin interrupts his overthinking, and Connor makes a split-second decision before he can slip again.
One moment he’s looking up at Kevin looking down at him. The next he’s rushing through the air, desperately flapping his wings to lift him up up up past the first branch, the second, then-
Kevin is laughing joyfully by the time Connor touches down next to him, shifting back so he can shakily cling to the branch but he’s laughing, too. Wheezing at the sudden rush of endorphins, adrenaline still chasing blood through his veins. He hasn’t felt this alive in ages.
“See? Easy.”
“You couldn’t have caught me if I fell,” Connor grumbles, if only to have something to berate Kevin about. He tries sitting up, hands almost growing sore from how hard he’s pushing them against the branch.
“I would have made a valiant effort,” Kevin lies, and Connor elbows him.
Kevin is still holding a hand to the trunk, is still looking at him like he’s something special, and Connor’s wobbly heart forces his gaze away. He whistles.
“Look at this view!”
“You were missing out,” Kevin agrees, and for a moment dinner is the last thing on their minds. For a moment they’re just two boys, staring at the beginnings of a sunset, knowing if they wait a little longer they’ll see brushstrokes of orange and pink you can’t find anywhere else.
Connor’s hand is resting between them. He sucks in a breath when Kevin, bold lovely Kevin places a hand on top and gives a quick squeeze. Before Connor can ask what on earth that is about Kevin jumps, shifts and flies away. Finally uncovering the spot on the tree trunk he’d been holding his hand over all this time.
In the bark there’s the distinct shape of a heart. Cut out by a diligently working beak.
-
o
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His tail has finally grown back. It’s taken months and patience and almost resorting to praying, but his tail is back.
It’s a heavy weight to be dragging along all day. Plus he ends up accidentally sweeping the floor and corners, and then has to pluck the dust from between the feathers every night before turning in. More than once someone accidentally steps on his tail or he gets stuck in the door, more than once he has to look sullenly down at another knacked feather. Maybe he should start trimming them again, if only to be practical.
But also he really, really doesn’t want to.
Now that his tail has finally grown back- has finally grown, for the first time since his feathers came in, he wants to cherish it. This is me, he wants to scream, deal with it. Doesn’t matter that it makes him feel like a blushing bride dragging her train down the aisle; he likes feeling young and fresh and in love.
Of course this means that the secret is out. No denying he’s a peacock any longer.
But he doesn’t get a single comment haha even your bird is gay, only a Nabulungi saying she wishes she could have a tail like that and an Arnold telling him with his tail up he’d probably be the tallest of all of them, and a Kevin who keeps telling him too much without saying a single word. Holding entire monologues with his eyes alone, and Connor knows he…
Knows he should probably say something about it. Maybe confront him, maybe tell him there’s more they could be doing than simply making eyes at one another.
But he’s also enjoying getting ogled perhaps a little bit too much. Who knew it could be fun to look colorful and attract attention for it?
-
o
-
Spring comes around again. They slowed down a lot in the winter, some of them wrestling with the instinct to fly south, others getting sluggish and sleepy even though Uganda during wintertime is still plenty warm. But now spring has come again. And with it, folly.
People don’t exactly have mating cycles, not the way birds do. That doesn’t stop them from going a little crazy whenever spring rolls around, doesn’t stop love from being in the air.
There’s festivals and parties in town. There’s Arnold constantly going out to find gifts for Nabulungi, flowers or accessories he buys from the market. There’s fights breaking out in the mission hut over girls that looked too long at one of the elders when they went into town, fights over no she looked at me first!
There’s making meaningful eye contact over breakfast, making meaningful eye contact while they walk into town, Kevin bumping into Connor on his way to the shower and suddenly they’re standing almost chest-to-chest in the too cramped hallway and Kevin half-closes his eyes and Connor’s breath catches, there’s Kevin touching two fingers to his pulse and Connor tilting his head up until Elder Davis rounds a corner and then Kevin moves into the bathroom like he wasn’t thinking about Connor following behind at all.
There’s Connor losing one of his feathers, and later, much later when the others are out and he’s doing a routine sweep of the floors and checking if the beds are made, and he walks into Kevin and Arnold’s bedroom, there’s finding his own feather stuffed hastily beneath a pillow.
There’s Connor plucking out a second feather and joining it with the first, placing them in such a way that together they form a heart.
-
o
-
Connor is trying to find a strong enough argument to negotiate for more supplies with the zone leader when Arnold walks into his room and jumps onto his desk.
“Do you mind?” Connor huffs, knowing his papers are probably getting crinkled.
Arnold ignores him. “When are you gonna do something about it?”
Connor pretends not to know what he’s talking about. “It being…?”
Arnold rolls his eyes. “He’s my best friend and I can tell he’s stupidly in love with you. Hell, at this point I’m pretty sure everyone can tell he’s stupidly in love with you.” He raises both eyebrows. “And that you are stupidly in love right back.”
Connor tries to pull the letter free from underneath Arnold’s butt. It starts tearing, so he gives up.
“Maybe what he and I are up to is none of your business, Prophet Cunningham.”
Arnold smirks. “Best friend privileges. Kevin’s love life is all of my business.”
“Ew,” Connor scrunches his nose in distaste. “Don’t say it like that.”
Arnold jabs a finger at his chest. Who knew starting a new religion would fill him with such newfound confidence?
“You like him, and he likes you. I don’t see why the holdup. You know you’re wasting precious time that you could be using to make out with him, right?”
Connor really wishes he had something clever to throw back. But the thing is- Arnold is right.
They’re only here for two years, and that first year is already gone. He hadn’t noticed, because Kevin and Arnold arrived a little later than the rest of them, but they’re really straining for time.
As fun as it is to flirt, to draw out this fun little back-and-forth they find themselves in, wouldn’t it be even more fun to actually do something with these fluttery feelings?
Connor chews on his pen. Wishes it wasn’t Arnold telling him this, but sometimes you have to make do.
“I’ll think about it… I’ll think about how to. Stop wasting time.”
Arnold smiles goofily. “Weeeeell, Kev did tell me there was this dream he had, and he’d probably like it a lot if it happened in real life…”
-
o
-
“You wanted to talk to me?”
Connor has called Kevin into his office. He made sure all the elders have business outside today, and he managed not to blush when Arnold sent him an entirely unsubtle thumbs-up.
Connor is leaning against his desk, is trying to dig up the courage needed to do this.
All his life he’s been telling himself that his tail is a sign of sin. Has only assigned negative connotations to the type of birds that show off, that use their feathers to attract mates. Birds-of-paradise with their psychedelic colors, grouses puffing out their necks, manakins who perform a twitchy-jumpy sort of dance. Not at all good little Mormon boy behavior.
Well. Maybe he’s done trying to be something he’s not.
Connor smiles at Kevin, and Kevin smiles back a little unsure, probably still wondering why he was called here.
“I was told there was something you might be interested in seeing. Something I might be interested in seeing your reaction to.”
Kevin furrows his brow but keeps smiling. “Yeah…?” He’s not catching on.
Oh, well. Here goes nothing.
Connor pushes off the desk and walks forward a little, giving himself some space. Folds his hands together in front of his stomach, keeps looking at Kevin looking back at him.
Kevin’s smile drops when Connor puts up his tail.
It takes an almost herculean effort, because man is that thing heavy, and also he’s never done this before it probably would have been the smart thing to practice beforehand. But when Arnold told him about Kevin’s desires, it made his thoughts run a little wild. And seeing his reaction now makes it all worth it.
Kevin is looking at him with eyes the size of dinner plates. Mouth hanging open, and it feels immensely satisfying that he has to look up for once. Connor really is the tallest with his fail fanning out.
“Do you like it?” Connor says, half to be coy, half because he’s still a little nervous. He’s being extremely forward; everyone knows what it means when a peacock does a thing like this. You’d have to be living under a rock not to get the picture. He’s practically propositioning him.
“Wow,” Kevin breathes, “I um, yeah. Yes.”
Connor feels emboldened by his reddened cheeks, the widened pupils. He shakes the feathers a little, swaying his hips in a way that would probably put his mother in an early grave if she saw him. Well, good thing she’s not here then, because Connor is planning on doing a lot more than just dance.
Kevin’s gaze drops from the mesmerizing eyes of Connor’s feathers to the eyes centered on his face. He looks absolutely stunning like this, blushing but sure of himself, firing his arrow and hitting his target dead-center. It makes Connor want to try nocking an arrow of his own, aiming it at Kevin’s heart. What type of bird would Cupid have been?
“You can do more than just stare,” Connor reminds him. Then, less seductive: “This thing is, um, kinda heavy.”
Kevin makes a noise that is entirely too wanton for a first kind of anything-type situation. Not that Connor is complaining. Not when Kevin almost trips forward and he’s safe to let his tail collapse, because Kevin won’t be able to see anything with his eyes closed anyway.
Kevin kisses him for heart-shaped confessions, Connor kisses back for finally feeling glad, proud that he’s a peacock. He lets Kevin push him up against his desk and thinks mine, uncaring of the objects that get knocked over. He runs his hands through Kevin’s hair and is glad Kevin never tried to paint the red spot, never tried to hide that colorful messy part of himself.
He runs his hands through Kevin’s hair and over his shoulders, over the feathers covering his wings and feels their heart beat in tandem, sees the coming year spreading out lazily before him in images of walking hand-in-hand down to the market, in crawling into the same bed, in joining Kevin up in the tree as he carves out another heart to join the first.
Imagines everyone up on the roof and himself in the middle, and from his mouth comes the peafowl screech he once would have called ugly.
This is me, he’ll say, screaming into the night sky alongside this little family they’ve gathered.
And Kevin right there by his side, real and bright and beautiful and calling him pretty.