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“Do you not enjoy grooming?” Yuder stops the swing of his sword as he looks at Kishiar. In the moonlight, his hair glows. Yuder’s breath stopped momentarily.
“I see no need for it,” Yuder says indifferently. He knew why it was brought up. Earlier that day, Gakane had offered to groom his wings after seeing how tattered they were. In the communal dining rooms, Yuder had stared blankly at Gakane. Behind Gakane were a whole group of people who all liked and respected the Alpha Awakener, and they stared at Yuder with varying levels of indifference.
Yuder had refused. He’d retreated to his room that night, now aware most groomed on a daily basis. His grandfather had done it for him as a child, and afterwards Yuder had simply ripped out feathers whenever things got too messy — his feathers always grew back quickly anyways.
Kishiar fell silent again as Yuder went back to the first set. He exhaled and inhaled, controlling his breathing as the sword follows precise movements.
“Your left foot is turned too outwards.”
Stop. Reset. Yuder did not thank him, and Kishiar did not ask for thanks.
“Do you want me to groom them for you?” His muscles stuttered and the next swing turned wildly off course. He looked up, eyes searching. The Commander did not seem to be joking, but he often had an air of levity around him. Yuder found that much of Kishiar’s thoughts were incomprehensible to him.
“…No.”
That night, he went back to his room. There was surely a way, he reasoned, that he could use the wind to help groom his wings. He found no need for it himself, and yet the thought of Gakane’s offer found himself sat on the bed, wings held at an awkward angle.
His control over the wind was better than most other wind users, and yet he found that it was lacking for this delicate ritual of grooming feathers, that others tended to speak of with much joy.
Yuder found that it was just painful.
Kishiar’s gloved hands often found themselves wrapped around his waist as they fucked. On those days, Yuder came away with purpling bruises in the shape of hands on his skin.
Kishiar never touched his wings, which were black and often tattered — a consequence of using the power of wind to groom them himself. He’d learned painstakingly after many days of observing others surreptitiously the proper way to groom them.
It was never a pleasant experience, ripping off the smaller feathers and shoving the larger ones into place sent small twinges of pain up and down his spine. He couldn’t fathom why others liked grooming so much. Did they, perhaps, like pain? Yuder barely found the patience to do it to himself, and yet there were people who sought for others to do it for them.
Kishiar’s wings, on the other hand were always immaculate. They were polished and sleek, white and golden. Yuder had only touched them once. They had been in the office, behind the desk as they so often were. Kishiar had pulled him into his lap. Yuder, more annoyed than usual, had stepped up and away immediately, holding onto him for purchase.
In his action, his hands had slipped and brushed against Kishiar’s wings. Like iron, he’d jerked back, and only Kishiar’s gloved hand on the back of his head stopped him from banging his head onto the sharp corner of the table. Yuder had grunted out something unintelligble and stormed away.
Irritatingly, the sensation of the smooth feathers had replayed in his mind for days after that. Soft and sleek and unlike his own commoner wings.
Sitting up now after another round, he watched dimly as Kishiar dressed himself. Yuder sat on the bed, still naked, aching all over. His wings were ruffled, so he sent them flying back in place, ignoring the by now familiar pain streaking thtrough him.
His chest felt cold.
He looked up again to see Kishiar looking at him curiously, and his hand twitched slightly.
“Do you want me too —”
“No.”
Humiliation struck him. Kishiar knew that Yuder himself never showed up at the communal grooming rooms; no one had offered apart from a one-off question from a now deceased comrade, and Yuder had never offered or asked himself.
Yuder wasn’t Kishiar, who everyone looked up to. Yuder wasn’t Gakane, who everyone had mourned with aching ferocity and blamed Yuder for letting die.
Yuder got dressed.
Ever had offered once. It was after a ball, wherein nobles had whispered incessantly about the poor condition of his wings. An omega commander, someone who didn’t even groom his wings. What poor showing of the empire.
Katchan had been about to order him to be groomed by someone. Yuder did not want to suffer under the hands of a stranger, didn’t want to when he couldn’t bear to let the previous commander touch it.
So Ever had offered.
It had been quick, and clinical. Quiet. Yuder had told Ever to do it as quickly as she could, and she had obliged; she was dependable like that. It hadn’t hurt as much as it’d expected. He never asked again, only learnt the motions and used the wind to mimic it.
He’d gotten better at it over the years, able to groom his own wings well enough, and yet he found that he had no need of it in the second game. So this is why they spoke of grooming so fondly, he belatedly realised even as Kanna’s hands — calloused from years of work — scratched at the base of his wings while Gakane straightened them out.
The oil they worked onto his wings smelt neutral, and the warmth of their hands seemed to emanate out, sinking into Yuder’s bones.
It was like heats, and scents: just another experience in the long list of small joys he’d never entertained in the previous game. It was nothing like sitting in his room along, straining to wrench his feathers in place. Nothing like Ever’s quick and quiet brushing of feathers, an offer out of solidarity at best.
It was pleasant, and warm. And, Yuder realised, it drove away a coldness that had lingered over him for as long as he could remember — since he became commander, killed Kishiar, joined the Cavalry, lost his grandfather.
Yeah, he thought, somewhat resigned. Mostly warm. I do enjoy grooming after all.