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Your name isn’t important, because you are THE MOUNTAIN. You are freshly EIGHT LAPS OLD. You define yourself by your PHYSICAL STRENGTH, the area of excellence you have selected as every Satyr must. You are ONE BEEFY MOTHERFUCKER due to your rigorous training, with the only part of you that didn’t get the memo being your WINGS. You generally avoid mentioning this fact, because not only are your wings SMALL, they are also UGLY.
The growing feathers break out unevenly without preening, leaving empty patches where the unshed pinfeathers gather. Even the ones that do manage to break out of their shell poke out in all the wrong directions, some splaying downward and outward like they’re trying to escape your body all together. You hate them the most just like you understand them the most. They’re the only feathers you really work with, desperately pulling and picking at them whenever your hands aren’t occupied. The feathers you can’t dissect, too centred in your back where you can’t reach yourself, are the only survivors. Patchy, ugly, unshed— anything is better than wrong. Anything is better than the screaming, blaring signal that you’re wrong. Anything is better than what you really are.
You’ve scoured the internet for cures, fixes, some way to pluck the stubborn feathers away and make them stop growing back, but there are no answers. Every Pegatulp care guide is written with the assumption of wings that make sense: tips on how to preen when your beta is occupied (as if you even have one) that depend on sweeping wings you can wrap around yourself to reach. Reminders to be gentle, to roll away the pinfeathers rather than pulling, as if pulling isn’t exactly what you’re trying to do. Old and unkempt websites listing names and definitions you’ve read a million times. Dropped Wing, Twisted Tip, Persistent Fracture. Angel Wing. So, you make your own methods, ignoring what you can’t reach and removing the ugliest offenders. You have how they look untouched, poking out against the other uniform feathers. You hate how they look removed just as much, patchy bald spots left in their place. They’re both ugly. Your wings are ugly. They always will be.
Being around people other than your Coach has put a dent in that routine. He would chide you for the patchiness, sure, but he understood there was nothing else to do. He never even thought about your nonexistent preening routine. It wasn’t part of his job. You and he alike both long accepted that you would never fly, so your training had focused on physical strength instead as long as you can remember. Endurance, weight, speed— being STRONG. That’s what you’re good at, and you’re damn good. Good enough to make up for being a Pegatulp bound to the ground.
Mountains never reach the sky, but they’re immovable. Solid rock that can’t be broken or beaten, reaching up to the sky higher than any other chunk of earth. That's you. You’re The Mountain. Your new companions don’t understand that yet. Their eyes linger on your back when they think it’s turned. You can feel the unasked questions: Does it hurt? Can you fly? Are they supposed to look like that? Can I help? It makes your throat burn, makes you grateful for the mask covering your face. The only one who’s slightly bearable is the new Stallion. He doesn’t ask questions, and you like that. He (she?) does tell you your mask looks stupid, which riles you up, which makes Swiss start yelling, which makes the red Nymph start yelling, which knocks over a row of dominos that ends in at least half of you scuffed up. You wouldn’t say you like the comments, but it’s better than the alternative. If you have to be judged, you’d rather it be for a choice. A way you’ve decided to be to be different, rather than the thing you can’t change. If they all look at you, you’d rather it not be pity. You hate pity, and they all pity you.
Well. Almost all of them. There’s Dagger, and Dagger always finds a way to be the exception.
He follows you with his eyes like he can see through your clothes and skin and right into your soul. Even when he stands far off with his own kin, you catch him staring with an undefinable expression. Hunger, rage, fondness all alike. As if he wants to be your everything. It would be a lie to say you didn’t want it, too. You trust him to a point that scares yourself, and that’s how he manages to corner you like this again and again.
DAGGER: ct!! \(//o^)/
THE MOUNTAIN: dagger my beautiful boy
DAGGER: y r u standin all aloooone?
THE MOUNTAIN: the mountains phone is charging so he may access his library of important fiction later tonight
DAGGER: zomg
DAGGER: do u have any new recs 4 meeee~
THE MOUNTAIN: perhaps i will once theyve been read
THE MOUNTAIN: the menu tonight is mainly pegatulp/stallion
DAGGER: oooooo~h u filthy dawg (//u<)
You laugh, socking your friend in the shoulder. Dagger’s expression falters, like he can feel you holding back. Like he can tell you’re hitting softer because he’s a Nymph. You try to ignore it.
THE MOUNTAIN: HUHUHUHU the mountain is not craving anything filthy actually
THE MOUNTAIN: its a fluff kind of night
That makes Dagger perk back up.
DAGGER: liek preening?
THE MOUNTAIN: most pegatulp centric fluff is
DAGGER: u know im an expertttt~
THE MOUNTAIN: HUHUHU! perhaps in the written area!
DAGGER: *frownz with my evil eyez* so u dont think i cud do it irl??
THE MOUNTAIN: its more complicated than the written word expresses
Dagger raises an eyebrow, grin still plastered on his face.
DAGGER: i bet i can prove u wrong~~
THE MOUNTAIN: the mountain would like to see you try
You can see the fire in Dagger’s eyes as he leans forward. His body crashes against yours like a challenge, sending you both to the ground. You’re ready to retaliate until you feel his arms loop under yours and find their way to your back. Instead of shoving him off and readying your fists, you freeze.
THE MOUNTAIN: uh
DAGGER: dont worry i read about dis ik how to roll da pinnies~ (//u0)
He takes one of your pinfeathers between two fingers experimentally, rolling slow and careful until the keratin starts to flake away and free the feather beneath. He doesn’t stop there, gently running his fingers along the new feather like he’s helping fan it out.
DAGGER: am i doin ok?
Your voice catches in your throat.
THE MOUNTAIN: i dont know
DAGGER: do u want me to stop?
THE MOUNTAIN: no
THE MOUNTAIN: please
He doesn’t. He keeps his attention on the first feather until he’s satisfied and then moves on to another. His skin is cold like water, fresh and new and clean against even the irritated patches of your skin. He moves slowly, one feather at a time, a pace that would be unreasonable for any pair not your size. You can feel him hesitate with each new feather, so you lean in closer and let your chin rest on his shoulder. He should be able to see better, now. You’ve never been so okay with someone seeing you.
THE MOUNTAIN: you dont have to be so gentle
THE MOUNTAIN: they wont break
DAGGER: i kno
DAGGER: mayb i wanna b gentle w/ u anyway
He runs his palm flat against your wingspan as he speaks, like he’s petting you. When he pulls away to start again, your wings stretch out as if they’re reaching for his touch. Your own hands grip his back as you bury your face in the crook of his neck, desperate for any way to be held even closer. You’re the one feeling that fire in your heart now, the ache to be his everything. To take care of him like this, too. To hurt him, fist against blade, to show him just how strong you are. To bandage every bruise you mark him with after the fight. To challenge and be challenge and hold and be held and to never stop circling around each other like this.
THE MOUNTAIN: dagger
DAGGER: u can call me delfi
THE MOUNTAIN: delfi i
You can feel his smile. It makes you choke on your own words, the noise coming out like a hiccup instead. The tears soak through your mask and you bury yourself deeper in to Del’fi’s shoulder as if enough pressure can stop the flood.
DEL’FI: ur wings r so pretty
You can’t answer. You can’t. You cry, loud and ugly like everything else about you, but he still doesn’t let go.
DEL’FI: ur face too
He brushes over your ears, rubbing them between two fingers until you poke your face back up. His hand moves to the edge of your mask, finger hooked under the fabric, and you nod. He cups your cheek as he pulls it upward and off your face, careful and gentle and unfairly sweet when you’re what he’s dealing with. Hand still on your face, he brushes the hair away from your forehead and looks at you. You must look like a fool, face paint smudged by sweat and tears. It must be staining his hand. It must be making him filthy just by touching you.
THE MOUNTAIN: sorry
DEL’FI: shoosh
THE MOUNTAIN: i warned you that i knew how you felt
DEL’FI: shooosh
DEL’FI: ur so freakin cute
DEL’FI: dont even start u hayhead
You don't start. You lean into his touch, closing your eyes. His other hand moves back to your feathers, gently petting them and rolling away pinfeathers between strokes. You didn’t know it could be like this. You didn’t know anything to do with your wings could be good.
DEL’FI: zomg
You open your eyes to see his face. His eyes are glimmering behind his glasses, smile wide and quirked at one corner.
DEL’FI: ur chirping
THE MOUNTAIN: what
DEL’FI: ur freakin chirping n nuzzling
DEL’FI: i thought that wuz a trope
THE MOUNTAIN: the mountain is not fucking chirping
DEL’FI: s~ooooo kewt (//_<)
THE MOUNTAIN: grrrrr
DEL’FI: supa kawaii~~
THE MOUNTAIN: the mountain is being fucking emasculated
DEL’FI: if ur so mad then pull away from da nuzzle
THE MOUNTAIN:
THE MOUNTAIN: no
DEL’FI: lolz
You huff through your nose and push your head against Del’fi’s hand impatiently. He laughs, but obliges, scratching at the corner of your face idly. More confident with preening now, he moves through the remaining feathers with less caution. It doesn’t make his touch any less soft as he weaves through each one, watching your face with every movement. When he’s done, he brings his other hand up to fully cup your face.
DEL’FI: whatchu think
THE MOUNTAIN: the mountain deems you fairly skilled for a novice
DEL’FI: aw yusss
He pulls you down to the ground, your head against his chest. You can hear his body working under his skin, moving in ways you don’t understand. There must be things he doesn’t understand about you, either. Even with his knowledge about Satyrs, there must be things he’s missing. Maybe that’s why he wants to be everything with you. Maybe that’s why he looks at you like you’re a whole and not the extension of your broken pieces, why he looks at you in ways Swiss and Bo never manage to. Is it that simple? It can’t be. It can’t be that simple, because the others still linger on you too. The moment they understand you aren’t what a Pegatulp is meant to be, they can’t see you anymore. They can’t see you the way Del’fi does. He’s the exception. He’s the water lapping at the foot of the mountain. He’s everything there could ever be. He hums happily, knowing he’s won, knowing you’re putty in his hands, and you can feel the vibrations in his chest. He’s cold. Against the heat of your own body, it’s a relief.
Your name isn’t important. You are THE MOUNTAIN, and your wings might not be so ugly after all.