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Luke was used to waking up with his wings spilling out of the bed, by now. Even when he fell asleep with them tucked away - less frequently, now, he was becoming used to keeping them out - they always seemed to unfurl as he relaxed in the night. He did not think Elliot would ever stop teasing him about it, either.
Elliot, of course, had quickly noticed the correlation between kissing and Luke's loss of control of the wings. It was a rare display of compassion that Elliot had not shared this discovery. Luke was privately worried he was saving it up for an embarrassing moment. Or perhaps he liked being the only one to know. Luke was beginning to understand what Serene had meant, saying Elliot was a private person. And he had always known Elliot's fondness for secrets.
He was lying lazily half asleep, enjoying the quiet sound of Elliot breathing against his chest, when he realized there were rather too many feathers drifting lazily in the morning sunlight. He was used to the down feathers shedding, and the occasional loss of the various small feathers that covered the top of the wing. He had almost given up on picking them out of his hair. But this was far too many. He shifted his wing from where it wrapped around Elliot and was distressed to see a downy pile of feathers covering his back. One - as long as his forearm - even looked like a small flight feather.
He shook Elliot's shoulder, and hissed, "Elliot! Wake up! There's something wrong with my wings!"
Elliot shifted and half-opened his eyes. He did not, Luke thought, look nearly as distressed as Luke's panic warranted. He yawned, coughed on a bit of down, and finally opened his eyes.
"Oh," he said, quite calmly. "You're just molting. Go back to sleep, idiot."
He snuggled into Luke's shoulder and proceeded to do just that. Luke was having none of it. He shook Elliot again.
"What does that mean? When does it stop? Do they grow back? Why is this even happening?"
Elliot grumbled and sat up. He looked secretly pleased that he was, for once, actually being asked to lecture on one of his favorite subjects. Two of them, in fact, if you counted both Non-Human Biology and Knowing More About Luke's Body than Luke Did.
"Harpies, as you'd know if you played attention to the notes, Luke, molt catastrophically. No, don't look at me like that, it doesn't mean this is a disaster. Well, except for your dignity." He grinned. "It just means all your feathers fall out at once, once a year."
Luke buried his face in his hands and groaned. "Why, exactly?"
"Feathers are very finely-tuned and delicate parts of your body, Luke. They get worn down and damaged when you fly, or run into things, or God forbid use them in battle. I mean, look at this!" He scooped up the flight feather that had fallen on the bed. "See, the barbs are supposed to fit together smoothly - like this - so the feather catches the air. But where they're crushed or broken, it gets gaps, and dirt in it, and - God, Luke, is there blood on this? Do you preen at all?"
"Preen?" Luke repeated uncertainly. "Is that another of your weird human-world things?"
"No, dumbass, it's a bird thing." He sighed in exasperation. "I assumed it was instinctive, but apparently not! Come here."
He pushed Luke's shoulder bossily so he could reach the back of Luke's wing. For all the exasperation in his voice, his hands were very gentle. He explained what he was doing as he worked.
"See, the feathers have to fit smoothly against each other, so they don't make too much resistance against the air. And of course the individual feathers have to stay clean and smooth! They can get rumpled and dirty, so preening is how you put them straight again. Like so." He dipped his hands between the feathers above Luke's shoulder blade, turning some that had rumpled sideways, wiping away dirt that clung to others, ruffling his fingers around the base of the shafts to shake loose dust and down. Luke did not quite manage to bite down on a moan.
Elliot continued talking as though he had not noticed, though his tone was rapidly shifting from exasperation to teasing smugness.
"The whole point of the molt is to replace damaged feathers, but it only happens once a year. Those feathers have to last, and that means you have to take care of them. Or - " the teasing tone sharpened abruptly " - you could let me take care of you." He leaned in over the curve of the wing and bit down at the base of Luke's neck.
Luke could not help the moan this time. Elliot seemed just as pleased with that. He ruffled his fingers again, laughing at the sound Luke made. His hands brushed against a loose feather and he tugged it free. It was a sharp feeling - almost like hair being pulled - but also a relief like an itch finally scratched. He had not entirely realized how itchy and uncomfortable his wings had been, the past few days. He pushed back against Elliot's hands, making a low needy sound that might have embarrassed him if it had not pulled a similar sound from Elliot in reply. He tipped his head, giving more space for Elliot to trail kisses up his neck. Elliot's fingers worked deeper among the feathers, a magical feeling Luke never wanted to stop.
Elliot stopped. "Seriously, do you wash these wings? There is blood caked on some of these feathers, it's disgusting."
Luke squirmed, embarrassed and flushed. "I do! I wash them when I bathe. But I can't exactly reach my own shoulders, Elliot."
He hunched, feathers puffing up defensively. He was mildly offended that Elliot seemed to find this adorable.
"Well then!" Elliot said brightly. He pushed Luke out of bed. "The solution is obvious. We're going to the lake!"