binomial | and after all, i can see your halo

[ The initial reveal of angels had Alby scoffing to himself -- not to say he doesn't believe in them, but he doesn't know why one would ever find him. Funnily enough, he doesn't doubt for a second that Newt is telling the truth, doesn't doubt that he is, actually, an angel, because Alby's been saying that since the first time he laid eyes on the dumb shank, from the first time they shared words, the first time they held hands. It just made sense, really, strange as it was.

And really. If Newt's saying they're soulmates, Alby's not going to say otherwise.

Things were fairly easy from the very beginning, falling into habits and each other's space in a natural flow of things. Alby grew easily used to the soft tickle of Newt's feathers as he slept, got used to having a presence beside him at pretty much any given moment. Got used to cushions on the sofa going missing, only to find them propped around their round bed minutes later.

When he comes home today and sees a bare couch, Alby can't help but shake his head, smiling to himself.

Padding softly over to the bedroom, he's already prepared for the sight he sees -- their bed covered in a border of every pillow and blanket and soft surface in the house, and the small bundle of a soulmate laying in the middle of it, good wing wrapped around himself like a blanket. Closing the distance, Alby reaches his hand forward, touching the tips of his fingers to the space between his wings, stroking the soft skin there. ]

Rise and shine there, birdy.

[ finding alby had been, in the end, a blessing and a curse. an angel who wandered the earth never to find his soul mate could never die, and all newt had wanted since he fell was to just that. to wander the world alone was the cruelest torture for any man, and every day he lived made him want to pull feathers from his broken wing, to try and find a way out save for the soulmate he was sure he'd never discover. hundreds of years passed; newt lost count, drifting from place to place and watching the world grow up around him, wings hidden from the naked eye, and then.

and then, he met alby.

short, kind of sour faced, absurdly handsome and his soulmate. newt had known it from the moment he laid eyes on him, felt that struck-to-the-bone shiver of true love, and all he could do was find ways to insert himself into his life. he charmed his way into a job at alby's work, and became his assistant, which led to a thousand other things, but the more time he spent not touching alby and being in his presence at the same time, the less and less easier it became for him to hide who he was. the secret came out in a horrific whirl of feathers and words, and he had confessed everything when he was too weak to do anything but. and alby? alby reciprocated. he did so with aplomb, taking what must have sounded like lunacy for total fact. where lifetimes had passed by slowly before, things seemed to speed through with alby--he'd felt like he'd just met him, and now they were living together, and newt found himself grasping with his fingertips to try and hold onto every day, so it wouldn't simply disappear.

the trouble was this: newt had wanted to die. now that he had alby in his life, he wanted to live with him forever.

today had been kind of a slow day, a slow week. alby had a business trip and newt knew he couldn't truly accompany him; he stayed behind and took care of the dog, and grew a little weaker by the day. by the end of the week, he was exhausted and miserable, and had taken to building up a nest in the big, round bed alby had bought the first time he'd ever done something similar with his old one, curling up in a sad little ball of downy feathers, with his face mushed into a pillow that smelled like alby's shampoo.

to be woken by his soulmate is a surprise--newt stirs at the soft touch almost immediately, because it seems to put warmth and light and everything good in the world back into him, and he blinks open sleepy, bleary brown eyes to gaze up at alby with nothing but affection in his eyes and smile softly, lazily, at the way the sun seems to light up his entire being. as it should be. ] You're home.

[ Despite being instantly captivated by the small bundle of wings at the center of the bed, Alby spares a glance around the room to see the kind of damage its taken in his absence. Ignoring that every flat surface seems to be covered in freckled, plucked feathers, everything else seems well put together, as Alby remembered it. It's not that surprising -- after all, Newt loves his order.

He tuts his tongue in mock scolding, moving his hand to flatten on Newt's side and tug the skinny little angel until he's flat on his back. While his wings don't look bare there are some underpopulated areas that Alby has the instantaneous thought to run his fingers into, touching lovingly at sore glands underneath the bundles of soft feathers, being especially careful with his bum wing as he always is. It's not even a conscious effort to treat Newt as something to be protected anymore -- since he's been in Alby's life, Alby has been set on taking care of him, like he hasn't been this last week.

Handling Newt's constant presence and having it suddenly gone hasn't been easy on Alby, either, but he knows it's different. He knows it's harder on Newt, and he can't help the guilt that plagues him -- the hurt he feels at looking at his literal sunshine, who's been alone and lonely, without his soulmate. ]

Yeah. [ Alby nods, kneeling in between Newt's legs, bending down to kiss his cheek. ] You've been pluckin' at your feathers, birdy.

[ for just a second, newt's embarrassed--the habit is one he never quite kicked. it gave him something to do when he was hurting, a way to try and hurt himself when he couldn't die. newt was the last person in the world to have ever wanted to be gifted immortality, but now, he wishes he could take it with him and gift it to alby instead. alby deserved to live, deserved to love and be loved forever, and newt would do everything in his power to make sure his tiny, tiny time on this planet would be as bright as possible.

however, he has kind of made a mess of the apartment with his feathers. half plucking, half molting--he'll have to clean it up later.

but that can happen when his soulmate isn't in front of him again, for the first time in a week. newt's smile widens a little as he's rolled over, as he's never been much of a morning person and he's completely fine with being vulnerable with alby over him. his wings stretch out, bum one taking a little longer to reach full wingspan as always, and when he tips forward to kiss his cheek, he lifts his arms, sliding them around his shoulders, as the cage of freckled feathers follow after, wrapping safe and warm around alby's back. ] Sorry. [ he feels bad, really, for disappointing him, like he always does. ] Got a little anxious, I guess. Thought you coulda missed your flight.

[ the last part is a joke, though, and his lazy smile widens as he tips forward to return the favor, soft lips pressing to a dark cheek. ] Welcome home.

[ Shaking his head at Newt's apology, Alby shushes his with another kiss to his cheek, right after the first. It's not Newt's fault, of course -- not that it's entirely Alby's either, but he's almost happy to take the blame for it, if Newt's pain didn't cause him so much displeasure. Anyway, there's not much he can do about it now. He knew what it would be like, to leave for more than a few days, and he went anyway -- had to, or he never would have left Newt's side -- so now he only hopes he can make it up to him.

He squints a little when Newt kisses him in turn, following through with the movement to push their noses together, Alby like a cat who got the canary. He lets out an amused huff of air at Newt's words, leaning in like he's going to kiss him, but pulling just slightly back before reaching his destination. Teasing, maybe. ]

Good to be home. [ Alby nods, mainly to push their noses together. ] Wing's sore?

[ he hardly minds the sweet gesture--it feels like it's restoring him, to be honest, bringing back his mood to it's usual comfortable keel. he's had a bad few days, but nothing in this world can possibly be bad when he has alby here in front of him, being kind and affectionate and loving. he returns the nuzzle sweetly, too sleepy to be properly annoyed at the lack of a kiss--though he does pout for half a second--and drops his arms to rest on his elbows so he can sit up a little more. ]

Lil bit, nothin' more than usual. [ but if alby's going to preen him he's really not gonna complain. ] What about you? How was... [ it's punctuated by a yawn, and a full body ruffle of his speckled feathers, which fluff up around alby's shoulders until newt himself shakes with it, comfortable and happy. ] ...your trip, how was your trip.

[ proper conversation is much better than "i want to attach to you like a barnacle and never let go". ]

[ Toying around with Newt's feathers in a way he knows he likes, Alby hums a bit in understanding. His jacked up wing is always a bit of a nuisance, a cripple probably ( Alby doesn't really know how angels would see it, doesn't even think about asking ), but Alby hardly sees it like that. It's part of Newt, just like his arms or his legs -- and if it's a part of him, how could Alby not love it? ]

Bad, if I'm gonna be honest. [ He admits, sitting back to loosen the tie around his neck, set it delicately on the bedside table. He wouldn't want to make a bigger mess by throwing in on the floor, after all. ] Missed you.

[ Which is definitely the worst thing about leaving home for long -- Newt feels like a part of him, easily enough, and not being around to shower him in kisses and love just feels wrong, ultimately. But he's here now, so he doesn't bother feeling bad for them -- only taking a second to lean back on Newt, pressing his lips against his. ]

Missed you too. [ newt's eyes flutter shut the moment alby gets his hands in his feathers just right--he's sore from all the nervous plucking he was doing, and newt could swear alby has magical fingers, for being a human or not. everything about him is magical, to be honest, but that's a story for another day.

his wings flutter contentedly as he unwinds them from across alby's back, falling flat and wide open. he trusts him completely and this is no different, so newt simply stretches while he sits back, long arms reaching up towards the ceiling before he eventually folds them behind his head to keep that sleepy smile focused on his soulmate. ] Do you wanna talk about it?

[ cause he'll listen for hours, he really will. at the moment, that's not happening, and he leans happily into the kiss instead, making a content little noise that's vaguely birdlike in the back of his throat. he breaks the kiss softly, but keeps just an inch from his mouth, murmuring-- ] Or we could not talk 'bout it.

Nah. [ And he really doesn't, because if Newt's here then he wants to focus on the good things instead, wants to remember what life is like when two halves of a whole meet up once again. It really has felt like a part of him has been missing for all the time they've spent apart -- feeling his fingers run and lace through Newt's feathers, he feels rejuvenated, happy for the first time in a week that felt like an eternity.

He does tempt and tease to tickle Newt's sides, but instead settles on preening his wings, smoothing the matted and hard feathers out until they're softer, more malleable. Careful to not pull too hard on the sore skeleton of his wings, Alby is sure to stroke his fingers on the inside of his wings, the tender spots he knows of Newt's wings from -- well, a lot of this in times prior. ]

How was everything here? [ He kisses his cheek thereafter, moving down to kiss the bend of his wing, the top of his shoulder. ]

[ although he squirms when alby's fingers ghost over his sides--a reflex, from similar motions that ended with him in a heap of giggling, swearing feathers on the floor--newt practically melts when alby starts petting him just right. getting his feathers preened is his favorite thing in the whole wide world, because it's personal time for the both of them, and it always feels ridiculously amazing, makes him just want to curl up in alby's lap and never move again.

so lifting his arms up and out of the way, he stretches a little, hands curling and uncurling into fists as he tries to wake up properly and lets alby do as he will. he's considering something but he waits--answers his question even, first. ] Mmm...boring. Quiet. Took Greenie out on a lot of walks. [ since it's not like his wings are visible to the mere mortal eye, after all--not everybody's as special as alby is.

which, well.

there's a hint of mischief in his eyes as very suddenly, his freckled wings flutter madly and he wraps his arms, his legs, and his wings around alby--in one quick motion he rolls them all the way to the edge of the bed, so this time newt's resting on alby's chest, has him wrapped up tight in his wings and his arms and he just smiles at him, obviously feeling a little invigorated now that alby's come home. ] Missed you like bloody hell, though.

[ Enjolras can't remember the Fall, but he presumes it was some great feat by God to establish empathy with the humans. Or something like that, it's all pure hypothesis, but it might explain why the whole soulmate aspect exists, might explain why he got kicked out from his home and forced to live in what he would name "purgatory". To humble an egotistical angel he can't remember ever being -- it's easier to think like that than to think of what he might have done to get kicked out of heaven.

And living with the humans isn't so bad. Living with Grantaire is certainly nothing to sneeze at -- after years and years and years of waiting and searching, the ultimate outcome had managed to live up to expectations. Of course, he and Grantaire butt heads and fight at every turn -- but he still misses steps in his breathing when Grantaire touches him, still feels his heart beat like rapid fire when they sit too close. It doesn't feel like he's been completed much as it feels like there's a new layer to life now, less that he can't live without Grantaire and more that he would never want to.

Stretching his wings out for a change is nice, though, he's grown used to having them cramped against his sides even in the safety of his home, but Grantaire seems to like them and, moreover, Enjolras likes when he touches them, so he keeps his wings unfurled, bent near the ends to not bump into the furniture. Sitting on the floor in their main room, Enjolras grooms himself like a real bird -- shuffling through his feathers and catching the loose ones, setting them into a shiny red and gold pile beside him. And, similarly, beside Grantaire to add into the piece he's working on -- Enjolras peeks around him after a second, looking at his work. ]

What are you making? [ He asks and, of course, a wing curves over Grantaire's shoulders, feathers brushing against his back. ]

Edited (red and gold wings just kidding) 2014-07-16 05:11 (UTC)

[ Angels are a fascinating thing that Grantaire... well, has mixed feelings about. He'd been fairly sardonic when he first started encountering the winged beings, as if it was simply his default setting when interacting with any and every one of them. But then he'd met Enjolras, and it was as if he was the one with wings, because despite their arguments he hasn't once touched the ground since the first moment that he'd laid eyes on him.

Nevermind his wings. Where Enjolras is a work of art, his wings are bright and gorgeous, like the light of the sun contained in one place. He wants to collect his feathers and put them in all of his works, to decorate everything in his home with them until everything is red and gold and radiant as the sun itself.

He's sitting with his back to Enjolras at the moment, one paintbrush tucked into his short ponytail, another behind his ear, and a third in his mouth as he applies plaster to his canvas piece by piece, feather by feather. He's already got a sketch laid down, he just has to slowly fit the feathers into place before he can actually start painting. Which will be interesting, but regardless.

Enjolras' touch doesn't startle him, but he does pause in what he's doing so that he can take the paintbrush from his mouth and set it aside. Without hesitating, he strokes the inside of his wing, almost absently and simply seeking the contact out. ]

You, or an attempt thereof.

[ Looking curiously over his shoulder, Enjolras' eyes widen only minute amounts in clear interest -- maybe he should be annoyed, maybe he should think no, R should use his talents for the greater cause but in the end, he can't be mad that Grantaire finds enough inspiration in his wingspan to make the works of art that he does. He feels honored, in place of annoyance.

Often times angels are misinterpreted in art works -- it's understandable, really, to want to make things more feminine, more beautiful than they are. Maybe you could call it human nature. If it irks Enjolras that cherubs are always fat babies, or that angels of all kinds are portrayed as the perfection of man in divine form -- well, he imagines Grantiare won't play it like that. He never shies from the truth, never sugarcoats or pretends. As Enjolras peers over his shoulder, he looks for that -- the truth that Grantaire always paints, the honest way he sees Enjolras.

Which is still somewhat divine, in man's way. It's just a preliminary sketch, of course, so he can't get all the detail of what Grantaire sees. But it's clear he's spent time on it, worn some areas down with eraser marks, made sure it was entirely perfect before proceeding.

And he's touched, even though he knows he shouldn't be. ]

It's good. [ Enjolras says, scooting in to sit beside him, curling his wing protectively over Grantaire's shoulder. He inclines his head to kiss R's cheek, keeping close so each of his words accentuate with a brush of his lips. ] I don't know much about art, but I think I would watch you paint until the end of time.

[ Oftentimes, people tell Grantaire that he's far too honest-- too brutal-- in his work. But he thinks the truth of it is that he just doesn't like to lie, not really. Does he get into a lot of trouble in his life? Well, absolutely. That's just his lot, of course he does. So here he is, surrounded by finished and half-finished and barely-started pieces that aren't through rose-tinted glass, aren't so coated in sugar that they'll kill the unsuspecting viewer.

Even the pieces with angels, who are violent and gentle in turns. But this is a new one, this is perhaps a biased work that will show that there is more than a cynic living in his skin. Enjolras is a different entity in his mind, most days, than other angels. He upholds a certain variety of justice, of free will and outright freedom that even he gets drawn in.

So, he draws him. Paints him. Crafts some semblance of his light. ]

Come here, then. [ Grantaire reaches to take one of Enjolras' hands, smoothing worn fingertips over the backs of his knuckles as he does so. Positioning it, he guides him down along where he's set the feathers into the plaster, following the course of his wing that hopefully mirrors the one that the angel is, in fact, in possession of. It's one thing to imitate life, but it's an entirely separate thing when it comes to Enjolras. ]

It'll take a while, but with you here watching I think I can finish it. [ He turns his head to nose against his cheek, a crooked little smile on his face. ]

[ Enjolras does grace his side when he's told to, curling up with his knees bent over Grantaire's legs. He's not trying to be a pain, or get in the way or anything, but it's honestly impossible for him to fight the constant urge to be in Grantaire's space, touch him and hold him in physical, intimate ways. At least he never seems to be a bother, he hopes his isn't, but he can't deny the interest he has in watching Grantaire work, using Enjolras' own feathers for design.

When he touches the feathers plastered down, he sighs contentedly. Not because of the feathers because he has a million of those, but because of Grantaire' rough and forceful hand, guiding Enjolras down the red-gold path, getting wing dust on the tip of his finger. He can't help himself but to keep the path going, off the canvass and onto Grantaire, pushing his hand underneath his shirt and laying it flat against his stomach. ]

Maybe I'll paint you next. [ Enjolras says, leaning over to kiss his cheek before returning to looking at the painting, and Grantaire's hands in turn. He loves every inch of him, but his hands, honestly. ] I can use your hair in it. You need a haircut, anyway.

[ It's softly teasing ( although he does definitely need a haircut, Enjolras doesn't mind that he has something to tug on ), Enjolras letting out a happy chuckle as he leans back on his free palm and just watches the dance commence. The hand under Grantaire's shirt strokes his belly reaffirming, gently, though it's mainly to put Enjolras at ease instead of vice versa. ]

[ His free hand settling on the curve of one knee, Grantaire regards the design in front of him as he guides Enjolras across it. There's no real reaction otherwise to having him in his space, not when he craves it as much as the angel must, to a degree. He doesn't feel the same draw as he does, true, but there is still that connection there that has him wanting more and more every time that it happens. So he reaches out when he can, ducks into Enjolras' space even when he feigns business, interrupting and being a (playful) nuisance when he can.

Giving a little grin with his sigh, because he knows that sound-- it's the one he makes when he begins to comb through the feathers still apart of him, and it comes from his touch, not from the feathers he touches-- he doesn't resist as his hand drifts further down. Rather than follow it, he flicks a little free plaster away, eyes focused forward. ]

You very well could. I wouldn't mind. [ But then he laughs, arm curling around Enjolras' leg affectionately at the tease. ] Ah, again with this. Probably be able to braid it at this point, if you really wanted.

[ There's a small shift as his angel strokes his fingers against his stomach, though it isn't a ticklish one, and he just huffs a softer laugh before he takes a paintbrush from the various perches he's left them in so that he can start to sneak color into the spaces where plaster still shows. He makes no attempt to dislodge Enjolras where he's attached, and in fact keeps his arm around the leg it had been hugging earlier. ]

[ Apparently, a solid seven hundred years isn't enough time for Thomas to find any amount of grace in his unruly long, lanky limbs -- not to exclude his wings, which are skinny and long like the rest of him, matted and navy blue, and pretty in theory but not execution. Newt's tried to help him along with it, tried to teach him how wings move and how this should all come naturally, but ultimately, Thomas holds himself like a human with wings slapped on the back. Discourse and disconnected.

It doesn't help that Minho manages to turn him into a stuttering, flailing mess -- feeling most of the time like he's walking on roller skates, tumbling and tripping over his feet, slapping Minho in the chest with the side of his wing. Most times, he tries to keep his wings hidden, tucked uncomfortably to his back so they stay out of the way, but other times, he can't really help himself. If having them is supposed to be natural, then it feels natural to have them out in the open or, more often than not, wrapped around Minho.

Laying in bed while trying to sleep, he finds it difficult without being completely wrapped up in Minho -- so, naturally, he rolls over and and fits himself into Minho's space, laying his head atop his chest, arms snaking their way across his torso, and then snuggling impossibly closer, throwing a leg over Minho's. Tentatively, Thomas outstretches one of his wings and slowly brings it over to curl around Minho too -- and only just when he thinks he has it, does he slap Minho across the face, feathers poking at his nose. ]

Oh. Shoot.

[ He goes deadly still, hoping not to have stirred Minho ( but also kind of hoping he did, because he's an angel who need cuddles, preferably immediately ). ]

[ Truth be told, Minho is fascinated by Thomas. It's just a collection of things all put together, from his long limbs (though short stature, at least compared to him) to his doe eyes to those deep blue wings of his. But when he looks at the whole picture that is Thomas, he's not sure whether to be irrevocably charmed, amused yet endeared, or sympathetic to his plight. He's not exactly the most graceful creature on God's green earth, and yet here he is, a bit like a newborn deer.

Just, you know, winged.

But Minho has a bad habit of not being able to keep his hands to himself, especially when it comes to those wings of his. He can't help but reach out and touch them, comb his fingers through his feathers in an attempt to figure out how to smooth them out and preen away the matted ones. Newt's tried to give him a couple pointers, and Alby has told him a few things, so it's kind of helped. He thinks he's got it mostly figured out, but there's just something about being able to tease Tommy. Verbally and physically, really, giving little pulls to the tips of his feathers or saying things that'll get him to puff up.

Maybe this is revenge. When Thomas curls up closer to him, Minho immediately accommodates, wraps his arm around his middle even in his sleep and gets comfortable. There's no real question of what's going on, they're just snuggling up, but then, well.

He splutters with the smack to his face, but winds up sneezing from the feathers against his nose, and all in all he just lays there dazedly for a second. ]

[ Wing twitching back in offense at the sneeze, Thomas at least manages to hold that wing-half-extended position. For a second, that is, until his muscles spasm again ( because that sneeze was cute, actually ) and he winds up slapping Minho in the face again. Thomas groans, jumping back automatically in fear of hitting him again, finding a spot at the foot of the bed to sit down at. ]

Sorry! [ He whispers, like Minho might still be sort of asleep, cringing in an apologetic way. Feathers poofing up like he's flustered, Thomas shies behind the bend in one of his wings, dipping his nose into the soft padding of dark blue feathers. Of course he's embarrassed that he's disconnected from his wings, like a toddler who can't figure out how his legs work, made even worse by the fact that this is definitely not the first time something like this has happened.

Anyway, he figures at this point that if he wants to sleep next to Minho ( which is does ) without hurting him ( which is doesn't want ), he'll probably just have to keep his wings to himself -- a loss, but not major in comparison to the Minho-sized hole left in him whenever they aren't together. Draping himself shyly over the edge of the bed, Thomas collects Minho's discarded shirt, fumbling around with it to get it facing the right way. It's hard to tell, in the dark. ]

Jesus-- [ Minho brings his hand up to try and shield his face from the assault of Thomas' wings, squinting through his fingers as he jumps back from him and much too far away. But he uses the moment to right himself, shifting up onto his elbows and looking around the room. There's no sign of anything coming to kill them, so he's pretty sure Thomas' wings just-- spasmed, or something. Smacked him in the face, with a mind of their own.

A small huff of a sound leaves him, and he moves around so that he can actually sit up. ]

Tommy, hey. [ Rubbing the heel of his hand against his eye, he sighs but then rocks forward so that he can resettle on his knees. There's barely a pause before he reaches to take his shirt from him, tossing it over his shoulder somewhere... on the bed, he thinks. But he doesn't care, he's just more focused on Thomas. It lets him dust his fingers over the arch of his wings, the softness of his feathers a soothing thing even after he just got smacked around by them. ]

C'mere, you doofus.

[ His wing twitches in a happier sort of way -- not going to smack him again, but vibrating in a hope for more touches, silly as that might be. Thomas' wings have a mind of their own and they very well could hit Minho again, but god do his fingers feel nice on the delicate swell of his wing, it's an unfairly good type of feeling, better than any massage or casual touch from another person. All bits of Tommy are sort of in a buzzing, constant state of waiting to be touched -- his wings just more than the rest.

Thomas listens to Minho without a fuss, scooting in closer to sit on his lap, even the most simple of touches on his sensitive wings making him pliant and malleable. He's still blushing, of course, head bent down in something similar to shame, while his hands find the sides of Minho's neck, thumbs swiping over the soothing beat of his pulse. ]

... Sorry. [ He says eventually, burying his head into Minho's neck to hide away his stupid embarrassment. His wings give repetitive rises and sinks, like they're following along with Tommy's breaths. ] I wanted to cuddle.

[ Shifting around to cross his legs, so that he can nestle Thomas in his lap comfortably, Minho angles his head to allow his hands to fit along the line of his neck. His pulse remains steady and comfortable, now that he's no longer being assaulted by feathery appendages, and he just brings his hands up along the soft skin of Tommy's sides to slide up his back to his shoulder blades. His fingers find that tender space where wing meets back, pressing soothing little circles against tender skin and downy feather as he shushes him quietly. ]

You're okay. Just scared the klunk out of me, but no harm done, you big baby bird. [ Voice soft but teasing, he turns his head so that he can kiss his dark brown hair, since he's hiding himself against his throat now.

Instead of a reprimand or warning, he just pets his wings now, hands rising higher after massaging at him so that he can pet gently across the back of them first. Just small, loving things, seeking out the loose feathers to pluck them free before they start getting matted and messy. ]

[ If he was planning on being difficult with cuddling, there's actually no way he can with Minho touching the -- not quite ticklish but -- delicate parts of his back and wings, the scant area where the two of his wings meet. If he could purr he would, immediately falling in line with the touch and relaxing into Minho's arms, sighing a bit as he keeps sifting through his feathers. Like an "off" switch located right on his back, really -- panicking, apologizing, all of it dims down in favor of his drunken desires to find more pets, more scratches.

But he doesn't say that out loud, of course, because it's embarrassing and he's not an animal. His physical reactions aren't exactly being silent about it, though, his whole body rolling into Minho's, wings stretching out to give him more room to pet ( and also having them unfurled feels a lot like flexing muscles he didn't know he had, stretching out bits that haven't been stretched in a long time ). ]

Oh. That's nice. [ He murmurs very nearly incoherently, shutting his eyes while his hands splay out on Minho's chest, curling and uncurling against his skin. ] Real nice. Keep going.

[ An amused sort of smile curls across his expression, sickling his eyes the slightest bit as he works on preening Thomas' wings a little. It's not as extensive as it can get sometimes, where he makes the angel sit on the floor in front of him so that he can sift through his fingers for the ratty, tattered ones that come about because he has no limb control when it comes to... well, literally any part of his body. His wings can get kinda scuffed up because of his inability to keep his appendages to himself, but it's fine. He'll just take care of him every time he needs the attention.

Even if it's just because he wants to cuddle, and wants his wings petted and scratched at. Letting him stretch his wings a little more, he combs his fingers through them, turning his head properly to leave absent kisses across his shoulder, neck, jaw, cheek while he works. ]

Yeah? [ He huffs, following the roll of his body with his hands and keeping him held close. ] Think I can manage that for you.

[ When Akihiko first saw Shinjiro, he looked like the kind of guy who had been through some things, to put it simply. Tall, with a look to him that made it seem, although Akihiko couldn't get a good look at his muscles through his coat, that he could knock off Aki's head in one swift strike. It's just how he held himself, closed off and hunched over, apart from everyone else, different. A separate entity. Alone.

And Akihiko didn't want to fight him. He wanted to help him.

The first time Akihiko every saw his wings, he had to fight back a gasp. Naturally the first reaction being angels exist? with the close second being why are you in pain?. They aren't pretty to look at, all an offset black-purple color, feathers bunched and cracked off in certain spots, bare and empty in others. Even the skeleton behind them was weak, nearly impossible to open up all the way without immense pain -- not that Shinji would ever say as such, but Akihiko can tell, because they're linked like that. Soulmates, the whole nine yards.

And Akihiko doesn't want to help anymore. Now he knows he has to.

Letting himself in to their shared apartment, Akihiko kicks the door closed again, carrying in arm fulls of groceries ( mainly meats, some vegetables ). He bypasses the couch Shinji's sat at, only so far to deposit the bags in the middle of the room, before he comes to the back of the sofa, lifting a hand up so he can tug Shinji's beanie off, placing a kiss at the top of his head. ]

Hey, Shinji. [ A hand reaches out to touch against his wing, stroking the feathers in a way he knows Shinji likes, without being to rough on the tender bits of them. He's always careful, he never wants to be the bringer of pain. ] Your wings are looking better! How do they feel?

[the look on akihiko's face when he caught a glimpse of his wings sent a pang of hurt through his body. he didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to explain to him that the drugs he had used really screwed him up. wings are what someone once was-- the way they're colored, the length, everything. there is no escaping who he is, no hiding it.

shinjiro did a lot of napping when he first touched down. the fall had taken a lot out of him, but aki had been understanding and kind and seemed to brush off his glares with grace. the pain made him agitated, but as time went on, the pain started to calm down. the amount of ramen that aki ate before shinjiro came around was ridiculous. he went so far as secretly writing down "necessary" shopping lists and leaving them on the kitchen table. aki kind of got it. he didn't cook as much as he should.

when he comes in, shinjiro straightens up just slightly from his usual slouch, but is soon relaxing back into the warmth when aki gently tends to him.]

...Welcome back. [his wings shift, pressing into aki's touch.] They're fine. Stop askin' about them, will you?

[which is a stupid thing to say, considering he knows they look awful.]

Nah. [ No debate in his voice there, sorry Shinji. There's not a chance that he'll ever stop being worried over him, now or ever.

Ruffling up his hair affectionately, Akihiko pulls back from him to grab the groceries and set them in the right spot -- stocking up the fridge and feeling mighty proud of it. Not that he gives himself much time to reflect on it, because he's rushing through the task, leaving things in plastic bags to get rid off later, all so he can quickly scurry back to Shinjiro's side. Much like every other aspect of their lives, always running back to Shinji.

But not on his own, a bowl of water and a towel in tow. Padding back into the living room, he takes a spot right in front of Shinji, kneeling down in between his legs, settling the bowl on the floor. Automatically, so much that he doesn't even ask if it's okay, he dunks the towel in the water and sets about washing Shinji's wings, delicately, kindly. It's good for Aki too, anyway. He's pretty sure there's nothing he loves more than preening Shinji's wings ( and they've been looking better recently, but Aki isn't really sure who he has to thank for that ). ]

Did you do anything today?

[ The Hale Flower Shoppe is a booming business, parked right on the corner between two busy streets, in the center plaza of the city. Double decked with an apartment hidden on the top, where the Hale siblings make their home, it's a huge flower shop, filled with rows and rows of colorful flowers, dyed and natural, home grown and hand picked. Day in and day out, the shop is thriving with seemingly endless customers, strange of a flower shop, but the busy business keeps people's minds from thinking about it too hard.

A Business Touched by Angels, a local newspaper once printed.

Of course, they have no idea how close to the truth they are with that, but Scottie has no plans to clear that up anytime soon. The headline is now framed above the mantel in their living room because Scottie thought it was funny enough how perceptive humans can be, or how ironic the whole nature of the situation is, or whatever it is. Maybe just to bring some humor into their lives, touched and dissolved in the bounties of turmoil, distrust, death. Either way, Scottie smiles when she passes by it every evening after the shop closes, sparing a second to straighten the frame before kicking off her shoes, stretching her wings out behind her back, arms above her head.

Her wings are a sight, black truffles of fluffy, ruffled feathers at the height of her wings, honey auburn making up the body of them. Golden white splotches cover their entirety, in happy, tiny little dots, and her wings as a whole just give off a homey feel, warm, soft to the touch. Like Derek's used to be, when Scottie was a child up in heaven, tugging on his feathers with tiny, baby fists, hanging from the strong skeleton of his wings. She can't really do that anymore but -- it's something she doesn't focus on, doesn't think about. Derek has sacrificed a lot for her, including the beauty of his wings, and it just -- hurts, sometimes, to think about. How happy her brother used to be, how beautiful.

( Not that he isn't still beautiful, because he is, trust Scottie. His wings are just as pretty as the day they found their way up to heaven, and there's nothing that could ever make her see him as less of the perfect being that he is. But sometimes, sometimes the loss must get up to him -- the pain of a lost home, of lost family. Sometimes he gets a glower in his eyes akin to burning flames, and Scottie thanks god, her other father, for making Derek as kind, as good as he is. )

Padding across the apartment, Scottie picks off her shirt and quickly throws on a discarded one of Derek's, long sleeved and huge on her, but it smells like burnt wood and cider and she sighs happily when she presses the kitty paw sleeves of it up to her nose and inhales deeply. There's very little in this world ( and the next ) that she loves more than her big brother, and the smell of him is comforting, reminds her of clouds up in the sky and pearly gates, of family she can't quite remember, of a life she left behind and a life waiting for her return.

Wings spread out, Scottie finds her way into Derek's bedroom, leaning against the frame of the door, smiling at her big dumb lump of an older brother, fingers itching to reach out and touch his wings. ]

Hey, Derek. [ She says with a happy smile, glancing across the room a couple times. ] Is Stiles here?

[ Truth be told, the flower shop had been a little Scottie's idea, shortly after they had gotten settled down on Earth and his wings had... well, had healed as much as they ever would. And it'd been a good idea, in the end, because flowers thrived under their attention. It helped, as well, that it was fairly therapeutic to take care of them in the shop. Between giving Scottie something to focus on that would brighten her day (and the days of others) and Derek something to nourish and take care of, it works pretty well for the both of them.

Because they'd lost so much, in the fall. And it was difficult to feel as if they would ever get anything back. There was the constant reminder of his wings, every single day, as he looked at himself in the mirror and feels the weight of them. They're a physical form for his guilt, ugly and mangled and burnt, heavier than they ever were when they were whole and perfect. He goes about his life looking as if there's a layer of ash over the feathers, charred and burnt even when they're newly grown in, and whatever color was in them before seems gone now.

But it was worth it, to save Scottie at least. To get her away from the hell he'd brought to a place that should have kept it at bay. For his remaining sister, he'll do all that he can.

Wings shifting at his back, a slow stretch and shuffle of strained muscle and charred feather, Derek turns a little onto his side from where he's been laying on his stomach. One wing hangs off the edge of the bed, after he moves, and he rests his cheek against his arm as he looks at Scottie.

His brow furrows a little, in a vaguely disgruntled face. (But the look doesn't reach his eyes, really.) ] Why would Stiles be here?

[ In his room, specifically, but it's not as if Scottie doesn't have good reason to ask that question.

Sighing out, he shifts a little more so that he can push himself up and to sitting. Though his wings are damaged, they're still huge, most obvious as he opens them so that they can hang off the edge of the bed rather than drag across it. Arms raising above his head and stretching with them, he doesn't quite drop them down when he finishes. Instead, he reaches out towards her, making c'mere grabby gestures with his fingers. ]

[ Scottie wonders, briefly if she should take the bait with that -- if she should let Derek continue on living in his innocent, soulmate-less little bubble, where Stiles is just an ordinary human to be discovered. In one day, out the next -- alive and then dead in the blink of an eye ( though, thinking of Stiles passing away makes Scottie's heart clench something awful, and she promises herself, he definitely won't die alone ). But ultimately, it proves too much of a pain to bother with, too sore to go in prodding around that heaping mess of self-doubt.

Not that she's planning on letting this Derek and Stiles thing go, but she'll have to find craftier ways. Subtle ways! ]

Oh, you're totally right, big brother. I've got no idea. [ She rolls her eyes purposely, pushing herself off the wall with a look that says you know exactly why he'd be here, you big dumb bird. Crossing over, she drops unceremoniously onto the bed with a bounce, leaning back so she can rest her head in Derek's lap.

Derek is all Scottie has in the world -- well, and Nico, of course. She doesn't have a soulmate she can pretend is nothing out of the ordinary, or a soulmate she can ignore and push aside. One day she'll find hers, and they'll be everything Scottie's wanted and more, but for now she has to steal what affections she can from her brother, reaching her hands up and cradling his upside down face, pushing his cheeks together. Obnoxiously. ]

Your wings look better, you know.

[ Is there a reason she's mentioning it right after talking about Stiles? Noooooo. ]

[ When she doesn't try to poke and prod further, it's the slightest relief. For as much as he knows that accepting the fact he has a soulmate would heal him, would take away that physical pain that comes from having known them but never approached them, the emptiness that separation pushes on an angel... well, it's a hard thing to do when he's loved once before.

(Twice, when he remembers an old life, a past before his Scottie, before fire and ruin were all that he'd known. Before his wings.)

But, of course, Scottie is nothing if not persistent.

Derek grumps down at her as if on cue when she squishes his cheeks together, brow furrowing and lips pursed - or, well, as pursed as they can be in their position. His hands drown down to card fingers through her hair, a thumb brushing across her eyebrow gently as he regards her mock sourly. He knows why she's looking up at him like that, knows why she's playing with him the way she is. And he just sighs, wings twitching behind him when she points them out.

Even if they hurt, when they do, it's a faint burn as opposed to the constant ache that's plagued him since they fell to earth. ]

Do they? [ As if Stiles' proximity hasn't mended them at all, as if he doesn't know why that is. As if he isn't exactly aware of what she's up to. ]

[ Derek can very easy be compared to the moon, mysterious and dark, alone, surrounded by shadows. But to Scottie he's something else entirely -- he's the sun and all the millions upon billions of stars exploding in space, supernovas and rebirth, the light of the world at any hour or the day. He's her savior in plenty more ways than one. He's the reason why Scottie bothers getting up in the morning, why this existence seems meaningful at all in light of time passing, history around them.

Which is why it hurts so much to see him acting like a big loser, sometimes. Is it selfish, she wonders, to hope Derek would put his feeling aside for a moment, just to see the effect Stiles has on him? She's already seen Stiles and his ways, how he fits perfectly into their lives -- a forgotten video game console in the corner of Scottie's room, empty pizza boxes filling up their garbage can. The way Scottie can make healthier flowers when he's around, the way Derek offers quarter smiles to him like teases. They could live like this ( more importantly, almost, they could die like this ), if her two favorite guys would wise up at some point. ]

Yessir, indeed! [ Still, she grins, bright and cheesy, keeping her hands up to frame the sides of Derek's cheeks. She knows subjects that are all right to breach, and the subjects with gnarly branches protruding out like a tree in a forest, fighting to get a glimpse of heavenly light. A lot like the Derek and Stiles subject at hand -- and she knows that's a tree that has to fight on its own. That she can't help.

So she changes the subject, dropping her hands out to either side of her, turning her head to kiss the top of Derek's thigh. ]

Nico called earlier, I think he might be coming home. We should throw a party! I know you miss him.

[ Watching her flop her arms down, Derek cocks his head down at her. Even though he narrows his eyes in response to her grin, her affection causes him to soften briefly, fingers carding through her hair still as he lets himself settle there. His wings are bulky and constantly aching, an unfortunate thing, and he shifts them behind himself rather than try to tuck them away and let the tattoos form along his shoulders and biceps.

One pain is more manageable than another, and he'd rather deal with the physical manifestation of his guilt.

He bows forward over her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head before he tweaks her nose between thumb and forefinger. (Nevermind that he pretends he doesn't, afterwards, because that's a gesture he's given to someone else that he's not going to talk about right now.) ]

Is he? [ It would be a lie to say that Derek didn't live for his family. Scottie was the only reason that he left heaven - didn't even think of his soulmate, then - and his found family is the only reason he continues with his life, doesn't descend into something like what Newt's living through.

So he does lighten up a little, mood shifting from warily avoidant to quiet happiness. ] We'll have to set his room up again, I think it's gotten dusty since the last time.

and after all, i can see your halo

yes hello

waggles eyebrows at

ôuô

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Sisi's keyboard settings are dumb this took too long for sth simple

she's just the worst

only sometimes

fair enough

no subject

no subject

no subject

idk what this is have it anyways

takes it runs with it

bursts into laughter

WORST

What a useless angel.

how rude

But true!

well you're not wrong

I am not.

grumbles aggressively

x( faces

oh no this is so cute and im heartbroken already

aggressively tends to angel boyfriend x(

harrumph

puffs up

squishes cheeks

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject