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Wings. Bold, burgundy, beautiful wings.
Every morning, 03:38 AM, they would fly right by you, and every so often one feather would fall right in front of your eyes, making its way down to the concrete below, vanishing into an alley.
It’s a sight to behold, one worth sacrificing hours of sleep over. Tonight, you’re holding a bottle of beer in your hands, picking at the label with your blunt nails. It’d be easier if they were long, but you don’t want to accidentally cut yourself.
The deep purple colour is hard to see in the moonlight, having gone from lilac to plum in the years since your Quirk manifested. At least they maintain themselves, so it’s one less thing to worry about.
The flutter of feathers has you looking up once more, at the way the wings soar towards a hidden destination, controlling the wind rather than letting the wind control them.
Majestic, like when a queen might swing her coronation mantle, or when two fish jump out of the water at the same time, narrowly avoiding each other. You can’t not watch, bottle gripped tightly in your hands, awe in your eyes.
Awe and jealousy.
You watch the beer bottle drop to the floor when you’re sure no one’s walking, ears ringing in delight at the sound of broken glass. You step off the ledge and walk towards the fire escape, done with your watch for the night, the fireworks long dispersed in the sky.
Down on the concrete, you start your walk home, kicking at the glass fragments as you pass them. The hairs on the back of your neck prickle when you feel someone behind you, but you just shake it off, taking your hands out of your pockets, nails sharpening by instinct.
The moment they step out of the shadows you make a small cut under their chin, watching the fear in their eyes as they realise they can’t move. You don’t smile as their body crumples, just raise your hand in front of their eyes, splaying your fingers.
“Instant paralysis. Sorry. You’ll feel better soon.” And that’s it. You continue walking.
It’s not exactly a Quirk worthy of a hero, but the good news is you have no interest in being one. Picking a side and sticking to it is too much work, so as long as you’re using your Quirk how you want to, morals don’t really influence what you do.
You’d been asked to spare someone’s life so many times, it irritates you every time it happens, tired of being seen as a villain. It’s why you avoid people in the first place, going out only when it’s dark or when there’s no one around. Other than that, you’re holed up at home, sleeping away the days until you’re tired of sleeping.
It’s not far, two or three blocks away, but the view isn’t as good compared to the roof you’re usually on. You’re okay with making the journey every night just to see something no one else can.
Your nails are like talons to you. Dangerous and poisonous, but the talons that belong to those wings are different. They’re kind, reassuring, nothing like yours. People trust those talons. Trust them to save them.
Putting the kettle on as you walk in, you toe off your boots and hang up your jacket, taking a look at yourself in the mirror. The veins under your eyes are prominent, the price of having a Quirk so strong. The more you need to use it, the harder it becomes for you to see.
You shake the dizziness off, heading towards the bedroom, forgetting about making tea. Right now, all you want to do is hide in the darkness, wrapped in all the blankets that cover your bed.
It’s not just that people don’t trust you. When it’s still light out, you become irritable, eyes strained by having to keep them open to actually see. You’re terrified of losing your sight, so you do what you can to keep your nails short and veins covered by skin.
Winter is on its way. You already know you’re going to be holed up more than usual, no matter if the sun is going to be hidden away most of the time. Too many people that are able to make the season happy for themselves, simply because their Quirks have such a subtle influence on their lives.
You grumble at the feeling of jealousy, pushing it down far away. You don’t like the emotion, pure hatred for it the only thing you know. You should be happy you even have a Quirk in the first place, right?
The sensation of peace is quickly wiped out of your mind when you hear something on the floor outside of the bedroom. You tense, still hiding in the nest of blankets you’ve made. Did the person you paralyse somehow follow you here? You don’t know if you have the power to take them down again.
When the door opens, you don’t make a single sound. You don’t even breathe.
The moment the intruder takes a step towards the bed, your talons are inches from their eyes, veins growing deeper in colour by the second. Honey-layered pupils stare back at you, confused, and then you hear a ripple of feathers.
Wings. Bold, burgundy, beautiful wings.
You stumble back, putting in distance between the two of you. You hadn’t predicted that those wings would visit you tonight, and it knocks you off balance, every bone in your body shaking. You don’t want those wings here, so close. You need them in the air, far away from your touch.
“Hey-”
The window is open and you run for it, down the fire escape and through the alleys, hiding as best you can from the rising sun. If you keep running, you can get to Akari’s apartment a few streets away and wait out the day.
You’d nearly killed those wings. You’d nearly made the colour drain from them, made them wilt and wither. It would have been everywhere. Everywhere would be speaking about the death of those wings. Everywhere would be speaking about the killer.
You, the villain, finally living up to the name everyone always gives you. Your nails dig into the inside of your palms, and even though you can’t hurt yourself, the sensation still stings.
Nearly there. Nearly there, nearly there, nearly there. You can make it before sunrise, just as long as you keep running, and then you’ll be hidden safely under a duvet, waiting for darkness to fall.
The ladder isn’t down and there’s a ringing in your ears as you realise you can’t make your way up, leaving you trapped in the alley. You’re going to burn in the sun, you think, back sliding against the brick walls. You press your palms into your eyes, desperately trying to trap out the light.
They hurt, skin delicate and raw, but you can’t look at anything. You’d tear them out if you could, throw them away, but not being able to see is still your greatest fear. Being alert to every threat is what keeps you going half of the time.
That’s when you feel it, the small pinch in your side. Opting to tear your palms away, you glance down, and realise that even if you had paralysed the person gunning for you, they’d managed to get you too.
How long had you been bleeding? You hadn’t noticed at all, too preoccupied with losing strength after using your Quirk. You take a deep breath, standing back. If you time it right, you might be able to jump high enough to reach the base of the ladder and maybe even pull it down.
“You’ll hurt yourself.”
The wings are back, facing you, closing the distance between you. Ashamed of what you look like right now, you bow your head, avoiding the wings’ eyes. You can’t hurt yourself any more than you already are, so you shove the words away and jump, catching onto the very last railing.
You take one last look at those wings and make your way up to Akari’s apartment, not trusting yourself to stay any longer. Tomorrow, you won’t be up on the roof. You’ll sleep through 03:38 AM and the flutter of feathers the hour brings.
Start at nine, go home at half to two, the rest of your time is yours. The owner was never too stressed with making you work longer shifts, and she’s respectful of your Quirk, so as long as you’re here when you’re supposed to be when she asks you to.
Barely anyone comes down to this part of town anyway, so at least you have your anonymity intact. It’s further than two or three blocks, but it pays well and, to some extent, grounds you.
You glance at the clock. 01:17 AM. Not long then, and no one’s been rowdy tonight, so you doubt there’ll be any commotion. Just a quarter of an hour and you’ll be going home, taking a shower and changing the dressing on your wound, hiding in your cocoon.
“You’ve been wiping the same spot for ten minutes. You trynna see your reflection?” The comment doesn’t mean a thing to you, and, in silence, you refill the drink you poured earlier.
You don’t talk much, and the regulars know that by now. It’s when the new toys come along, trying to strike up a conversation, that you get prickly, your nails wishy-washy in length.
You’re not the cliché therapist or best friend bartender you see in books or movies.
“If you need another one, let me know,” you say softly, turning away to put the bottles back on the shelves. Akari eyes you from the other end, but you wave her off, letting her know that you’re capable of handling yourself.
You touch the skin under your eyes gently, hoping it’s not too obvious that you’re in pain, but it seems you’re okay for now. “When’s your shift end?”
Your nails dig into the wood surface as his question meets your ears. You don’t know if he’s a regular civilian or not, but you hope that if you’re silent, he’ll get the hint and leave you alone. After all your blood loss, the use of your Quirk under stress could prove fatal. If you can, you want to avoid testing that theory.
“Fine fine. I won’t push it. You’re too frigid for me anyway,” he says, slamming his glass down; even without turning around, you know you’ve served him one drink too many. However, when you go to take his glass, your relief is wiped away as his hand grabs your wrist. “Oops. Guess I lied.”
Just a pinch, you think, and you manage to restrain yourself enough so it’s only his arm that goes lack. 01:28 AM. You can go home, so you pull your wrist away and leave the bar.
You’re dizzy again, lightheaded, but you need to go home, back to the one place that makes you feel safe. You know the road to take you there, the broken pavement familiar beneath your boots, but you realise too late you’ve taken the left turn you vowed not to and you’re standing on that ledge again, two hours before those wings will show.
Your feet don’t move when you ask them to, locking you on that ledge, forcing you to look at the sky in vain. Too early, too eager. They won’t show if you’re begging for them to fly by you, but you can’t leave. Why can’t you leave?
Your nails dig into your palms as you will your body to move, eyes burning. You manage to step back once, then twice, and you’re off the ledge, seeing just enough to keep walking.
But you’re shaking. You know you should have headed straight home, to a place where those wings can’t be harmed. What if they’re early? What if they see you first? What if you can’t stop yourself from touching them?
The headache is already forming so you get down off the roof as fast as you can, actually walking home this time. You’ll ask for tomorrow off so you can sleep off the nerves. You figure you’ll feel better if you spend over a day at home, far away from people you can hurt.
You’ll make tea today, the English kind, with milk and sugar. You’ll keep your eyes glued to the TV in your room until you can’t keep them open and you’ll sleep until it’s time for your next shift.
The cup clinks against the wooden countertop when you set it down, pouring the water. Teabag out, sugar in, milk mixed. One step away from the door to the bedroom, you stop, facing the open window.
They’re back. Bold, burgundy, beautiful. They’re back, and as is the jealousy and awe.
You don’t say a word as they climb through, staring at you, their boots thudding lightly on your floor. They’re going to close the distance and that feeling of not being able to move is back. Your heart thuds, a pitter-patter against the ribs in your chest.
“You were bleeding the other night. It’s why I followed you. I’m sorry if I scared you,” the wings say, voice hushed like it’s your ears that take the damage.
Your fingers burn around the cup you’re holding, but you make no move to put it down. You stare into those eyes of gold that belong to the wings, of how they watch every miniscule movement of your body.
Scare you? The only thing you find yourself scared of these days is yourself, your power. To hell with being happy about having a Quirk — you wish you were nothing more than human, whatever that meant these days.
Your fingers tighten around the cup. “You should go,” you whisper. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Are you okay?” The question reminds you to change the dressing on your waist before you go to sleep. Stupid wings and their sense of responsibility.
“I’m fine. I’m not bleeding anymore.” If you’re being honest, you’ve probably left the changing of the dressing a little late judging by the way your knees are swaying, but you really want the wings to leave.
They come a little closer and you cast your gaze down. Why, why, why are they coming closer? “The blood on your shirt tells a different story.”
Right. White shirt, red stain. It’s easier to see in a dimly lit apartment than in a shady bar and lonely street. But you’ll be fine, because it’s just a cut that you can treat with ease. You don’t need to be looked after anymore, not like you’re a little kid who can’t reach the top shelf in the medicine cabinet.
“Guess it does,” you shrug. You’re not in pain, so you’re technically not lying. “But I’m still fine.”
The wings ruffle slightly, probably shocked at how lightly you’re treating the situation. You go into the bathroom, placing the tea down on the edge of the bathtub, and take out the antiseptic and bandages.
You realise too late you’ve never done this on a wound of this size. You curse yourself internally for not paying more attention when Akari was explaining things.
“Here,” say the wings, taking the antiseptic from your hands.
You’ve undone the bandage already, so all that’s left is cleaning the blood and placing down a gauze before wrapping the wound again. You look at those talons, kind and reassuring, talons that people entrust their life to. Jealousy rises like bile in your throat.
You feel your nails going wishy-washy again, so you press your palms into your eyes, hiding your veins and shutting away the light. You need to relax, remember to breathe. Those wings will be gone soon and you can curl up and hide.
Your ears perk up when you hear another flutter, and something tears your palms away from your eyes. “You don’t like the light, huh?”
The wings envelop you, and in this man-made darkness, you see the man they’re attached to, the hero who uses them. You see him. He’s more than burgundy, more than gold.
“Eyes hurt when I use my Quirk. I shouldn’t have used it,” you mumble.
He takes your hands in his, talons in talons. The two of you start walking, out of the bathroom, into the corridor, into the bedroom, cup of tea on the edge of the bathtub long forgotten.
“I’ve got you, kid. Come on.” You want to tell him that you’re not a kid, that you’re grown, but no words come out, not even when the back of your knees hit the bed and he stretches out his wings leisurely.
Bold, burgundy, beautiful. You fall asleep to that view.
You manage to avoid them — him — for over a week. Keeping your Quirk in check, you avoid any eye strain, and your wound heals, slowly but surely. There’ll be a nasty scar left over, but you can live with something like that. A reminder of what not being cautious nearly cost you.
You can’t put it out of your mind, that night. How gentle the coarse fingers were against your skin, how your pain was noted and solved. It’s not just the wings you’re looking at anymore; the man who bears them on his back has become an object of interest to you.
So, you allow yourself one night of weakness, thermos in your hands, tea finally drank without interruptions. 03:53 AM. They’re late as they land, ruffled and shaking, and no words pass as you realise it’s been a rough night. They happen sometimes, but you’ve never talked about them.
“You’re gonna open your stitches up with all this climbing,” they say. He says. It’s hard to wash away a painting you’ve been perfecting.
Your fingers subconsciously move to your side, feeling them out. They’re okay, they’re standing strong. You sit down on the ledge with him, legs swinging, passing him the thermos, hoping it will help him somehow. As much as someone like you can help someone like him.
“How many were there?” you find yourself asking.
You hear him chuckle and look up, surprised at the noise. “You know, I’d tell you, but I can barely remember.”
He’s covered in scratches on his face, and not from shaving. You stand, wordlessly, dragging him up with you. You pull him over the ledge and the ruffles happen again, but your feet land firm. You walk him home, through the streets you know so well, through the midnight hours that feel like home.
He doesn’t walk often, you can tell. Tiring as those flights might be, they’re normal to him. They’re his cocoon.
For once he comes in through the front door, wings just barely squeezing in, and you lead him to the bathroom, taking down that bottle of antiseptic and some cotton pads. The wings block out the view to your sides and the lack of light helps you focus as you wipe at the scratches, cleaning them.
He winces, feathers fluttering in anguish, and you freeze. You’ve hurt him. You look at your nails — talons — and are surprised to find them short. Hands gather yours in theirs.
“I’m okay,” comes the voice. “It wasn’t you.”
But how? What else could have possibly hurt him?
“But it could have been,” you say, backing away, only to find yourself trapped. He wants to talk things out, make you hear him, but your own voice is louder, angrier. If you close your eyes, he’ll be gone, but you can’t press your palms into your eyes right now.
You let him in. You let him stay. You let yourself hurt him.
“You don’t have to be scared of me. I’m not-”
“I’m scared of killing you.” The wings open a path, and you take it, bedroom so close. But they follow you. They pull you out of the blankets and into arms and hold you, hiding you. You’re melting before you know it.
“Show me.” You shake your head, terrified as you look at him, at how serious he’s being. “I trust you. Show me.”
He won’t back down, won’t let you have your way. I trust you. It’s fuzzy in your mind, unclear. Why would he trust you? Why would he want you to show him? Why would he put his life in danger just to ease your pain?
Just a pinch, you remind yourself, watching as the cut on the back of his hand immobilises his entire arm. He doesn’t talk even though he can. He just watches with you, waits. Jerks a finger after a couple of minutes and then his whole wrist after a couple more. He’s strong.
“Instant paralysis. It’s great and all, but the price is my sight.” You’re still watching him regain the use of his arm, knowing that if he saw your veins, your heart would drop those couple hundred metres into the ground. You don’t even like it when Akari sees you like that, but she’s been around for so long it’s easier.
He leans down, looking up at you, and you’re too mesmerised to look away. “It’s a pretty colour on you. Did you know your pupils go purple when you use it?”
Flustered is the only word that comes to mind, and you’re sure if you had wings, they’d be going berserk. No one’s ever called your Quirk pretty before. Useful, dangerous, a stroke of bad luck — never pretty.
“Thank you.” The corners of your lips are slightly tugged up out of their own volition. Honesty feels warm, warmer than your nest of blankets and his arms.
You’d made an agreement for sunrise, your way of showing him that you wanted to make an effort. You haven’t seen all the colours in the sky like this for so long now, it takes your breath away before you can stop it.
Your hand reaches out to the furious oranges and yellows subconsciously, wanting to touch that which you cannot have. A flock of birds flies overhead, but there’s no twinge of jealousy.
“Ready?”
Your arms wrap around his neck. “Yeah.” There’s no twinge of jealousy. You already know what it’s like to fly.
The bouts of fear haven’t gone away completely. They linger behind, a broken shell that you step on from time to time, but now there’s someone to wipe away the blood. It’s the silent vow you both took, your apartment’s bathroom becoming as busy as a hospital.
Today he’s taking you to his apartment to apply the antiseptic. “I want to show you something” he’d said, and you couldn’t say no.
It’s big, larger than his wings, and you suddenly feel out of place. Why keep coming back to your cramped home if he’s clearly more comfortable here? You toe off your boots at the door, hand slipping from his grasp as you walk forward.
Clutter lines every open area, shiny things and random objects filling the emptiness. The floor is fine, plenty of space left to manoeuvre, but everything else seems like the inside of a time capsule filled by millions. This is him, you think, everything about this is him.
You don’t hold much admiration for the sun, but the way it filters through the glass windows is majestic, just like when he flies, controlling the wind.
His jacket is off and he’s unravelling his bandage, heading to the bathroom. You wait silently, leaning against his sofa, still taking it all in. He has what he needs and he takes your hand again, pulling you to his bedroom.
Any will you had left to speak shatters at the sight in front of you. Out of gold and plum and burgundy blankets, he’s made a nest and drawn the curtains. Feathers puff behind you. One step, two step. You pull him down onto the bed with you and wipe at the gash in his arm.
He’s putting on the tough guy act, the one where he won’t make a sound even if it stings, and you know it’s because he doesn’t want you to run. “I’m not going anywhere,” you say at the head that won’t face you. “I’m not scared.”
The fresh bandage is on. He won’t face you. They won’t face you.
You shift so your knees stray either side of his hips, fearlessly taking his frowning face in your hands. The talons stay short, unthreatened. Your thumbs push the blonde hair out of his eyes.
“I love the nest. Thank you.” You rest your forehead against his and you smile as his wings jostle and spread, his body pushing yours down into the blankets, arms wrapping tightly around you.
“Really?” comes the murmur.
He pulls his forehead away and looks at you, at the fact that you’re actually smiling. “Real-”
You’re not finished speaking. He kisses you. You’re terrified. You kiss him back. You’re terrified. No, you’re not. You love it.
What are you supposed to say when someone kisses you? Thank you? No, that doesn’t sound right. Sorry? What would you be apologising for? Are you even supposed to speak?
“You’re pretty when you’re flustered,” he says, your cheeks hot. There’s that word again, the one only he speaks to you. Pretty. It sounds so perfect falling from his lips. You almost find yourself believing it.
“Why’d you do all this? I’m sure your normal bed is fine. Definitely bigger than mine.”
“‘Cause I want you to feel safe here. I want you to feel at home.”
He’s pushing something into your hand. Small, metallic, silver key. You’d always kept your window open so he could come inside, but you don’t have wings. You have legs and fingers, and to come inside, you need a key.
Oh.
“I’m not home most nights. I usually come in around sunrise, but the times I finish earlier, I’ve been at yours.” You find it inexplicably easy to read between the lines. On the nights I finish later, it’d be nice to have you here.
He’s worried that you’re not talking, but you look at him with misty eyes, assuring him that you heard his plea. “It’ll be nice having a bigger bathroom to wipe the blood away in.”
You’re not supposed to say anything when someone kisses you. You’re not supposed to thank them, apologise. There are no supposed words you’re supposed to speak.
Hand on the back of his neck, you push him to you again. Soft and supple, he’s the one melting now, and even though your eyes are closed and the curtains are drawn, all you see is crimson. All you hear is wind in a place where there is none.
Hands under your shirt, in your hair, tapping against your thighs. Your spine cracks when two fingers slide and push, when a mouth kisses and coos.
You move up the bed, pushing the blankets out of the way, needing as much space as possible. The touch is hot, feverish; it’s made for you, belongs on your body. Anything you felt when you were flying is replaced by this.
Your mind is the nice kind of fuzzy, the nice kind of dizzy, crying out for more. You don’t want to think, you just want to feel, and everything he does, everything he says, has you right there, pulling him onto the ledge with you and down off it.
Pretty.
If he actually says it, you can’t tell, but it’s enough to have you unravel. They span out, a few feathers whooshing out, back arched above you. A God coming down from the heavens that scoops you up in his arms and refuses to let you go.
He can sense there’s something on your mind as his fingers drum at the side of your skull. “Can you kiss me again?” He does.
Your head lies against his chest as he sleeps, tuckered out from nights without rest. He just about managed to squeeze in through the balcony doors before dropping onto the floor, leaving the picking up and dragging to bed up to you.
Flicking through a book on how to take care of wings as part of a Quirk, the TV humming something in the background. It’s probably the news channel. These days it’s the only thing either of you two actually watch unless it’s movie night.
You’re knocked off balance when his outer wing wraps around the two of you and his arm pulls you in, squashing your face. You tap lightly on his forehead. “Keigo I can’t breathe.”
“Mhmmokay.”
This is hardly the domestic bliss he promised you when you agreed to move in permanently. You wriggle out about halfway before the two of you are rolling and your eyes go wide as you desperately try and hold on. You’re going to fall off the bed at this rate, so you press your nail behind his ear and the two of you drop back down again.
It wasn’t a lot, but you made sure it’d be enough to disperse from the neck down. It’s not the first time you’ve had to do something like this, but it still makes you uncomfortable. You hide your eyes in his shoulder.
“You should do that more often,” he says once he can move again. “I’m actually able to rest when I can’t move. Thanks, birdie.”
He untangles himself from you, still slightly rigid in his movements, and reaches for the cream on the nightstand, turning off the reading light while he’s at it, brushing away any stray hairs from your face. His fingers feel wonderfully cold against the tender skin under your eyes and you eagerly lean into his touch.
“Better?” he asks when he’s done.
You nod, but you still don’t understand how easily he forgives you every time. No, you’re not doing it to hurt him. There’s nothing to forgive. You lean in and press his lips to yours, banishing those thoughts away.
When you pull away, you sigh, and look at him head on. “Sorry. I got in my head. You’re not hurt, right?”
“No antiseptic needed. We’re all good,” he grins. You relax a bit. “You wanna make me some breakfast?”
Now, you may have been worried about him, but you are not someone who just runs around doing errands. You shuffle away from him, unimpressed, leaving the bed and heading to the kitchen to make yourself breakfast. He can go about the day on an empty stomach if needs be.
They flutter behind you, apologising, but you pay them no mind, even when they completely cover everything around you, so the only thing you can see is crimson and the floor beneath you.
His head comes to rest on your shoulder and you stare daggers at him when your eyes meet. He’s pouting. “Do you want pancakes? I’ll make pancakes, with the lemon flavouring you like. How’s that?”
“Wings.” They stop shrouding you. You flick his forehead, but you’re smiling, and he’s smiling too. “Go shower before work. I’ll take care of things here. And not just water and steam, actual soap too.”
You like having someone like him around, and Akari is more than happy to drop by all the time to see the Pro Hero, using the excuse of ‘work schedule’ way too much whenever she knocks on the door.
The two of you took to a nicer part of town, where there still aren’t too many customers and the nights are rarely rowdy, but it’s closer to home and safer. Easier to keep an eye on you, he’d said.
You like your pancakes a little more acidic, but he prefers them a little sweeter, so you compromise by adding some blueberries to the mix. He’ll have purple teeth if you don’t remind him to brush before he leaves, because there’s no way he’d notice himself.
The first pancake is barely off the pan before he comes strolling back in, shirtless, and the smell hits you hard. You take a glance through the half-drawn curtains, at how the sun is rising faster these days. He tries to catch your attention from the other side of the island.
“It’s not spring yet, Mr Pheromones. Calm down.” His eyes go wide and you just point at the book lying on the coffee table. He runs towards your copy of Animal Quirks and Seasons faster than lightning, like it hasn’t been there for months now.
He flies over to your side in an instant, hiding the book behind his back, sheepish. “So how much do yo-”
“It’s my third time rereading. I know a lot.”
They prickle and a few of the smaller ones fall out from nerves. You didn’t think knowing the details of his Quirk would make him this anxious, so you take the latest pancake off the pan, turn off the gas, and face him.
“Hey, what’s wrong? Tell me.” He mumbles something incomprehensible under his breath. “Keigo.”
“I didn’t want you to find out from a book. I wanted to tell you.” He hangs back, so it’s up to you to close the distance.
You take the book out of his hands and place it behind you before looking at him again. His cheeks are running red, flustered. You take a mental picture of how cute he looks.
You hold your hand out. “Give me your phone.”
He does so reluctantly, and without breaking eye contact, you dial the number to his office, waiting for the line to stop ringing.
“Hawks?”
“Hawks isn’t coming into work today. He’s sick. Goodbye.” He tries to grab it back from you, but you don’t give him the chance. “You’re staying home today so you can tell me all about your springtime.”
You’re staring each other down. There’s something in his eyes you can’t quite place, and when you try and move away, he’s faster, grabbing you and flying to the other end of the room and dropping you on the sofa, looking down at you and… laughing?
“I love you.” Oh, thank God. You thought he was angry at you.
He brushes his nose against yours and you laugh, in disbelief at his foolishness. “Yeah, yeah, okay, birdbrain. I love you too.”
He helps you sit up, feathers ruffling and puffing in excitement, and you don’t have time to say anything more before he’s babbling, like a kid talking about his favourite cartoon, and through it all he never lets go of your hands.
He talks for hours. You smile for hours. You listen, noting down the details specific to him, pancakes growing cold on the island. Though he’s the reason you talk so much these days, you both know he’s the chatterbox out of the two of you. You don’t mind — it’s nice to have someone to listen to, to keep your ears out of the silence.
You miss lunch, and by the time he realises his hunger, it’s well into the evening. He stops short in the middle of his sentence, stomach rumbling, and when he catches sight of the clock, his mouth falls open.
“I’m sor-”
You squash his cheeks together so he can’t speak. “Don’t even think about it. Apologising is my job in the relationship.” You let him go.
“You’ve been apologising since I met you, I think.” His legs wrap around your waist, drawing you closer. For a bird, he’s as clingy as a cat. “It’s sweet, though.”
He compliments you a lot, even if you don’t need it, even if your heart only really flutters when he calls you pretty. You smirk as your fingers dance on his still shirtless form, trailing to his back, brushing past the feathers at the very centre of his back, before tugging mercilessly.
“So, about these pheromones you’re going to be producing…”
They expand more than you’ve ever seen them and as scared as you once were to have them anywhere near you, now you touch them without worrying about repercussions, without fear. It truly is a sight to behold, more magnificent than your rooftop view.
Wings. Bold, burgundy, beautiful wings.
Your wings.