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At first, you thought it was a trick of the light and that his wings were merely ruffled from stress. The gap wasn’t too noticeable, the top layer looked a little thinner. It wasn’t until you noticed more tiny feathers near his mirror in the closet or in the bathroom that you considered, perhaps, something else.
He’d been so focused on the preparations that he hasn’t been sleeping enough. Even your time together was a compromise: reading a report next to you on the sofa and occasionally explaining every time he scoffed or muttered. Of course, he only ever shared so much with you because none of this was for you to worry about.
Sunday was wrong, only in that you were worried about him and always would be.
Another evening, you were relaxing next to him, and you watched his bare hand idly go to one wing as he read. He smoothed, preened, but then seemed to fixate on one spot, over and over. You reached over and took his hand gently, and he looked up, blinking at you like he only just realized you were there.
“Do you want to talk about what you’re reading?” you asked.
“It’s…not particularly interesting. Budget proposals for each Branch. Some of these just seem…superfluous. The Oak Family has final say but Alfalfa will be…adamant in negotiations, asking where the extra funds will be pulled from…”
Something crossed his face as his wings flexed and that’s when you spotted it.
It was a gap most wouldn’t have spotted, one he no doubt spent an extraordinary amount of time trying to fill. A primary feather, towards the smaller secondaries and a little less prominent. He’d once told you that, although Halovians weren’t birds, some of the same principles applied; his feathers molted, they helped regulate his balance alongside his more human-like traits, and any major changes to them would have lasting effects for months, if they ever truly recovered. Even if they were trimmed for fashion, it was never beyond a certain length.
He gave you the congenial smile he gave everyone and your lips trembled. Why was he lying to you? Or did he not recognize this as…
Adeptly, he moved his hand to take yours and kiss it.
“It’s fine. I’m fine. It’ll grow back in time. Please don’t worry.”
When he looked away from you, your hand yours again and eyes back on the papers as if this was nothing more than an inconvenience, you carefully reached over.
It probably hurt to move that wing now, because of the picking. He was always handsome, and it wasn’t so much the gap you cared about as his comfort and wellbeing…he had been candid that he struggled with balancing his workload, but this…
“Sunday. Please look at me.”
He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and then looked at you, eyes scanning your face. He cast aside the papers to the coffee table without glancing away.
“Do you even know that you’re doing it, my love?” you asked.
Sunday sighed, considering your words.
“Sometimes. Other times, all I can think of is how the feathers aren’t laying right, they didn’t molt properly, and it bothers me so much that I…” he paused, looking towards his wing, wordlessly finishing his sentence.
“I know you’re under pressure and I can’t do much except help so you don’t have to think about anything else,” you started. “But it hurts to see you in pain like that.”
“I’m sorry. You won’t have to see—“
His knee-jerk reaction was to apologize and fix; you hadn’t lived with him for years at this point without experiencing that first hand. You cupped his cheek, mindful of his wing, and brushed your thumb along his lower lashes.
“It’s not me you need to apologize to; you’re the one who experiences the consequences. Your wings are special. If they’re in pain, I can’t touch them, and I want to be able to do that. Can we see if there’s a way to keep your hands busy, so you don’t feel like plucking?”
Sunday shifted on the sofa, his hands seeking yours and holding, clinging even, as he kept his gaze down. He brushed his thumbs over your knuckles and leaned his head into your other hand. At times, he reminded you of a cat, and you resisted the urge to touch his other wing, a little healthier than its brethren. They were sensitive, and depending on context, you were able to lull him to sleep or keep both of you up all night.
Only you could touch them. Even that only came after years together.
They were important to you.
Sunday was important to you.
“I’m sorry for what you’re dealing with,” you whispered. “Please take care of yourself a little more.”
He pulled and you immediately relented, melting forward to lean into him as he arranged himself along the length of the sofa. Instinctively, you curled up, and nestled him between you and the back of the couch. Sunday buried his face in the curve of your neck, one wing carefully folded as the other extended to caress your cheek.
“I will, beloved.” His promise was implicit, steady and unwavering. “I love you.”
You stroked the back of his head and then carefully traced his wing bone, soft and gentle. The way he taught you how to pet a Charmony Dove.
“I love you, too, Sunday.”