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Delirious’s wings were just like his room; quiet blue overtones with dark grey undertones. Like his walls, light only lessened the darkness of the grey rather than highlighting the blue. Sometimes even to the point where the blue became but a soft blur on the outside of his feathers.

When he curved them, they looked like old paint rags clinging to his back.

When he stretched them, they looked like pavement that had been ripped up and strung to his back.

They were small and weak and ugly. On the days when Delirious could barely manage to look at them, he wondered how anybody could ever love someone with wings like his.


Vanoss’s wings were too bright. In light, they turned a murky yellow, like a golden paint with black spilled in. In dark, they turned a sharp pale brown with even harsher edges.

His feathers remained forever flattened, turning spikey rather than puffy when his mood worsened. Their square shape made them ugly when they fell out. They made his wings look clipped and he hated it.

They were his, but on the days he hated them most he wished he never had them at all.


Lying pressed together with limbs tangled and wings hooked around each other, Vanoss looked at Delirious and said,

“I hate my wings when I’m alone, but here against yours I’m glad to have them.”

To which Delirious plucked out a feather of his own and said,

“With you, my wings look proud and bright and beautiful. With you, I don’t have to worry about no one loving them, because when they’re with yours I love them myself.”

Lying there, pressed together, their wings looked like gold and silver, sun and moon, water and fire. Light and darkness only served to make them even more beautiful.