131
ad libitum; your choice; at will
McFly (groupslash)
2,600 words, r, third person. So, back in January, I wrote in the night we will find you, about a Tom born with wings. Recently, I decided that I wanted to expand on that, and thus, this story was born. It takes place before, after, and during in the night. Not precisely a sequel, so it's not necessary to have read the other one.
Tom buckles the wings down with slim cloth belts, pulling tightly enough that they almost don’t ruin the line of his t-shirt.
o1.
Tom buckles the wings down with slim cloth belts, pulling tightly enough that they almost don’t ruin the line of his t-shirt. He tugs a sweatshirt on over it, just in case - this audition is something he wants so badly he can almost taste it, melted sugary-sweet on his tongue like candy.
His mother tells him, “Tom, baby, I just don’t want you to have to hide all day for the rest of your life. It hurts you.” Tom can see her point, can understand that, if he gets this, his life might be different forever, but. It’s what he wants. He’s not going to let the wings stop that.
So he buckles them down tight with soft cloth and ignores the ache in his shoulders.
o2.
He manages to keep it a secret from Danny for two months worth of writing. Two months of t-shirts and hoodies, the belts that are worn from daily use, scabs across his ribs from where they rub and chafe. Two months, until the day Danny presses a hand to his back, casual and friendly, and Tom can’t do anything but gasp in pain and curl inward.
“Shit, sorry!” Danny says, bending over to peer at Tom’s face. “Are you okay? What did I do?”
And Tom says, “Nothing, it’s nothing. I’m fine.” He bites his lip and forces himself back up straight, and it’s half true. He can do anything he needs to do for this band. He can do whatever it takes. If what it takes is constant pain, the sores on his wings where the belts rub, skin cracked and bleeding in the evening, than. He can do that too.
“No, seriously, Tom. A pat on the back doesn’t hurt that much when you’re okay.” Danny steps closer, starts to push at the hem of Tom’s sweatshirt, trying to pull it over Tom’s head, and Tom gasps.
“Danny, what the fuck?” He wrenches himself away, ignoring the lightning that shoots down his shoulder blades, and turns to face Danny. Danny is biting his lip, expression somewhere between worried and determined. “I’m fine,” he tries again. “Really. Don’t worry about me.”
“You’re lying,” Danny says with absolute certainty, and Tom can only hate him for half a second. Most of the time, he values how well Danny knows him. “Why would you lie? You’re not cutting yourself or - anything like that, are you? Because, Tom, I knew a girl who did that once -”
“No, I’m not fucking cutting, Dan. Hell.” Tom shakes his head and - he’s not sure what else to do. He starts to pull off his sweatshirt, wincing. “If you hate me for this, I swear I’ll never forgive you,” he says, meeting Danny’s eyes.
He pulls his shirt over his head, seeing peripherally the way that Danny’s eyes widen at the belts. There are four of them, soft patterned cloth, stained with blood where they rub against the sensitive skin of his ribs, cut into his wings. He has to hold his breath as he unbuckles them, one by one.
“Jesus, Tom, what -” Danny starts, and then cuts himself off as Tom uncurls his wings from his back. Tom can see the way Danny’s hand reaches out unconsciously, as if to touch them, and he takes a short step back.
“They’re mine,” he says, and then makes himself stop. He can see the way the possessive tone of his voice makes Danny’s eyes widen, and he doesn’t want that. It’s just - he won’t be anyone’s science experiment. He sucks in a deep breath and tries again. “I mean, I can’t take them off.”
“What did you do to them?” Danny asks, something in his voice that Tom can’t quite name - horror, maybe. Or shock.
“I belted them down almost every day for the past six months.” Tom can’t see the scabs and fresh blood from here, so he’s not sure what they look like to Danny - feathers askew where the belts push at them, bald patches where they haven’t had time to grow back, yet. He hates it, the way he looks. He just wants to hide them again, or go where he won’t have to hide them at all.
But he wants the band more than that.
“Fucking hell, Tom -”
“You can’t tell anyone,” Tom says, ignoring the pleading note in his voice. “Please, Dan.”
Danny doesn’t say anything, just takes a step forward and hugs him carefully, hands strong and warm against the bruised skin of Tom’s chest and back. Tom manages not to shiver when Danny rubs a hand down a patch of undisturbed feathers. He wraps his arms around Danny’s shoulders and holds on, letting his eyes slide closed.
“We’ll figure it out,” Danny says, mouth pressed to the side of Tom’s head, breath stirring his hair. Tom knows that they will.
o3.
More often than not, Tom finds Dougie bent over the sink in the toilet before interviews, hands clutching at white porcelain, breath heaving in his chest. Tom is used to the hectic red splotches on his cheeks, the white around the irises of his eyes. He puts a hand firmly in the centre of Dougie’s back, and he can feel the warmth of sweat where it’s sticking Dougie’s t-shirt to his skin. He can feel Dougie breathing in, just a touch too fast.
“Are you going to puke?” he asks, keeping his voice as calm and measured as he can make it. The idea that one of them is in control is sometimes comforting, he knows.
“Already did,” Dougie says, and Tom can hear the hoarseness in his voice, grating like sandpaper. “Sorry.”
He sounds so resigned, pathetic and wretched, that Tom can’t do anything but press his lips to the top of Dougie’s head, soft hair against his mouth. “It’s okay,” he says. “Just not on camera, maybe? Think you can manage that?”
Dougie laughs, but the sound is sick, stuck in the back of his throat like he’s forcing it out. “I’ll see what I can do,” he says, and turns on the water, gulping down a few handfuls. “Tom,” he starts, and almost seems to think better of it. Tom knows what’s coming by the time he manages to continue. “Can I? Please?”
Tom wraps a hand around Dougie’s wrist and pulls him around, holding in a sigh. “Sure, Dougs,” he says, and bites his lip when Dougie pushes his hand under the fabric of his shirt, digging until he finds feathers, the wings that are strapped down, almost comfortably, to Tom’s back. He forces himself to relax - he knows Dougie won’t do anything harmful, not to Tom and certainly not to the wings. Tom doesn’t understand what it is about them that helps calm Dougie down, but if touching the feathers is what gets Dougie stable enough to go onstage, then he’ll do it. “You okay?” he asks, eventually. They probably have another ten minutes at most, and Dougie’s breathing has evened - Tom can feel it against his collarbones, where Dougie has leaned closer. He presses his cheek to the top of Dougie’s head.
“I’m okay,” Dougie says. His fingers sifting through Tom’s feathers are almost soothing, at this point. “Thanks, Tom.”
“Not a problem,” Tom says.
o4.
Harry slams the door behind him when he storms into Tom’s room, fists balled up at his side.
“I can’t fucking believe you,” Harry says, and Tom looks up from his piano. He’s shirtless, wings spread out behind him - he wasn’t expecting anyone to be home.
“What?” he asks. He really has no idea what he’s done to get Harry so worked up. “What did I do?”
“You’ve stopped fucking eating, you utter bastard,” Harry says. He’s somewhat calmer, his voice soft, and Tom lets his fingers rest on the piano keys.
“I haven’t. Besides, who was it who told me frontmen have to be skinny fucks, anyway?” It’s true - he’d said it three days earlier during a band meeting, and then poked Tom in the gut. Tom is fucking tired of the whole thing. He figures that if he gets skinny, none of them will be able to bother him about it.
“I didn’t expect you to pay attention to anything I said,” Harry collapses back on Tom’s bed, staring up at the ceiling. His anger seems to have melted away, the way that it normally does.
“Well, say anything enough times,” Tom says, trailing off with a shrug. “I’m fat - I know it, you know it.” The movement makes the feathers rustle, a noise he almost never notices anymore. Harry looks over at him, and reaches a hand out, catching the bottom tip of Tom’s left wing in his hand. He tugs a little, and Tom wriggles at the feel of it - it’s nice in a way he’d never gotten used to.
“I’m an arsehole,” Harry says. “We both know that, too.” This is also true - Harry went to public school for too long - the only way to survive there was to have either unmistakeable athletic talent or a razor sharp tongue. Harry had the latter. “You shouldn’t listen to anything I say.”
“Can’t help it, mate,” Tom says. “Sadly.” He plays a few minor chords on the piano, going for joking but not quite making it. “Besides, you’re right. I have to lose the weight.”
“You don’t. You don’t if you don’t want to.”
Tom shrugs, and the movement pulls most of his wing out of Harry’s hand. “I do. It’s best for the band - marketable, presentable.” Tom lets his fingers move over the keys, aimless and effortless.
“Crap,” Harry says, working his fingers back into Tom’s feathers, soothing, gentle, and at odds with the sharpness of his voice. “Do what you want. Who the fuck cares about presentable?”
Tom half wants to say, me, I care, and you do, too, you do, but most of him knows that Harry only means about half of the things he says. He’s just not sure how much that will matter, in the long run. Harry’s mouth tends to get ahead of him, and Tom can only deal with the name calling for so long.
“Now eat an apple or something, Jesus.” Harry runs a hand over Tom’s spine; Tom plays major chords in all the correct intervals.
o5.
“Hey, Harry, can you help me get the rig on?” Tom asks. They’re in their dressing room, getting ready for the show, and Tom has to suit up. They came up with the rig sometime after Danny put his foot down about the belting - Tom wouldn’t stop doing it unless there was a viable alternative, so Danny set about making one.
It’s makeshift in most ways - it’s not like they can get him fitted at a tailor’s, or anything so simple - but it works. Mostly, it’s just two sleeves of black fishnet that slide up over his wings, soft and snug, and attached straps that wrap around his chest, pulling the wings tight against his back without ruffling too many feathers. It doesn’t hurt much, although the straps sometimes bite into his skin if he’s too rambunctious onstage, but he’s not going to let that stop him.
The main downside is that he can’t get it on by himself.
“Sure,” Harry says. “Give me a second.” Dougie’s too short, and Danny’s nowhere to be seen, so Tom doesn’t really have a choice. Harry’s fucking with his hair, staring at his reflection in the mirror. Tom rolls his eyes, stretching the fishnet between his fingers and blowing his fringe out of his face.
“I hate it when you do that, Tom,” Dougie says, his voice almost petulant as he wraps his fingers around Tom’s wrist. Looking in the mirror, Tom can see the way Dougie’s eyes stray to the wings folded against his back. Dougie’s fingers press against Tom’s pulse point - Tom can feel the beat of his blood in his veins, rhythmic and soothing.
“What? My hair’s in my eyes, what’m I supposed to do?” Tom is perfectly aware that Dougie wasn’t talking about that, but he doesn’t exactly love talking about the wings, just about ever. He’s never gotten used to having people know, not anyone but his mum and his dad and his sister.
“You know that’s not what I meant,” Dougie says. “You have fucking wings, you shouldn’t have to tie them back. They’re too rad for that.” Dougie presses his forehead against Tom’s shoulder, sighing as he exhales. Tom likes the feel of Dougie’s warm breath on his skin. When he looks up, Harry’s raising his eyebrows at his reflection in the mirror, eyes flicking back to look at the two of them, touching, in the middle of the dressing room.
“What else is he supposed to do? Be seen as the freak he is by the rest of the population of the country?” Tom wants to wince, but he holds it in - Dougie would be able to feel it with his fingers, against his face, and Tom doesn’t want that. Harry’s better about his words more of the time, nowadays, but being called a freak is not something Tom’s ever relished.
“He’s not a freak,” Danny says from the doorway. He’s got a roll in one hand and a banana in other, clearly having raided the lunchroom. He crosses his arms over his chest - it would look more intimidating without the food, but Tom appreciates the effort. He smiles at Danny, and Danny lets himself grin back, that wide spread of teeth and lips.
“You know that’s what they’d say, no matter what we think,” Harry says. He’s still facing the mirror, but he’s looking at Danny in the reflection, not at himself.
“Still,” Dougie says, biting his lip as he pulls away slightly. “It sucks.” He holds out his free hand, and Danny tosses him the banana, leaning back against the doorframe and biting into the roll. Harry finishes with his hair, and swivels his chair around.
“That it does,” Harry says. “You needed help?” He looks at Tom, then, and Tom knows he didn’t mean it, freak, so he smiles and holds out the rig. Harry smiles back.
o6.
Piled into one hotel room, movie still running, forgotten, on the screen, rumpled covers and empty beer bottles on the floor, minibar empty of chocolate and crisps. They leave the lights on while they touch.
Harry kisses the line of his spine, one vertebra at a time, something like an apology and something like a promise. Tom doesn’t care enough to want the difference between the two, just the feel of lips purposeful on his skin.
Danny’s mouth pressed against the curve of his shoulder, open gasping breaths and humid air. Tom can see the way his hands fist into the sheets, crumpling the thin cotton, and wants to fit his fingers between them, hold Danny’s hands and the sheets and the warmth of him.
Dougie’s fingers on the curve of his ribs, fingers fitting into the spaces between, like the notes on a xylophone. Fingertips slick with the sweat from Tom’s skin, he licks the taste of it off and presses in closer, salt on his tongue.
Tom folds his wings around them like benediction, like a prayer that only he knows the words to, slotting them into place in his head. The air rustles the feathers, and the sound is louder than their shared breaths and scrabbling fingers, toes pushed to mattress and carpet.
The stirring of wings cools the air.
o7.
Tom won’t give this up for anything.
McFly (groupslash)
2,600 words, r, third person. So, back in January, I wrote in the night we will find you, about a Tom born with wings. Recently, I decided that I wanted to expand on that, and thus, this story was born. It takes place before, after, and during in the night. Not precisely a sequel, so it's not necessary to have read the other one.
Tom buckles the wings down with slim cloth belts, pulling tightly enough that they almost don’t ruin the line of his t-shirt.
o1.
Tom buckles the wings down with slim cloth belts, pulling tightly enough that they almost don’t ruin the line of his t-shirt. He tugs a sweatshirt on over it, just in case - this audition is something he wants so badly he can almost taste it, melted sugary-sweet on his tongue like candy.
His mother tells him, “Tom, baby, I just don’t want you to have to hide all day for the rest of your life. It hurts you.” Tom can see her point, can understand that, if he gets this, his life might be different forever, but. It’s what he wants. He’s not going to let the wings stop that.
So he buckles them down tight with soft cloth and ignores the ache in his shoulders.
o2.
He manages to keep it a secret from Danny for two months worth of writing. Two months of t-shirts and hoodies, the belts that are worn from daily use, scabs across his ribs from where they rub and chafe. Two months, until the day Danny presses a hand to his back, casual and friendly, and Tom can’t do anything but gasp in pain and curl inward.
“Shit, sorry!” Danny says, bending over to peer at Tom’s face. “Are you okay? What did I do?”
And Tom says, “Nothing, it’s nothing. I’m fine.” He bites his lip and forces himself back up straight, and it’s half true. He can do anything he needs to do for this band. He can do whatever it takes. If what it takes is constant pain, the sores on his wings where the belts rub, skin cracked and bleeding in the evening, than. He can do that too.
“No, seriously, Tom. A pat on the back doesn’t hurt that much when you’re okay.” Danny steps closer, starts to push at the hem of Tom’s sweatshirt, trying to pull it over Tom’s head, and Tom gasps.
“Danny, what the fuck?” He wrenches himself away, ignoring the lightning that shoots down his shoulder blades, and turns to face Danny. Danny is biting his lip, expression somewhere between worried and determined. “I’m fine,” he tries again. “Really. Don’t worry about me.”
“You’re lying,” Danny says with absolute certainty, and Tom can only hate him for half a second. Most of the time, he values how well Danny knows him. “Why would you lie? You’re not cutting yourself or - anything like that, are you? Because, Tom, I knew a girl who did that once -”
“No, I’m not fucking cutting, Dan. Hell.” Tom shakes his head and - he’s not sure what else to do. He starts to pull off his sweatshirt, wincing. “If you hate me for this, I swear I’ll never forgive you,” he says, meeting Danny’s eyes.
He pulls his shirt over his head, seeing peripherally the way that Danny’s eyes widen at the belts. There are four of them, soft patterned cloth, stained with blood where they rub against the sensitive skin of his ribs, cut into his wings. He has to hold his breath as he unbuckles them, one by one.
“Jesus, Tom, what -” Danny starts, and then cuts himself off as Tom uncurls his wings from his back. Tom can see the way Danny’s hand reaches out unconsciously, as if to touch them, and he takes a short step back.
“They’re mine,” he says, and then makes himself stop. He can see the way the possessive tone of his voice makes Danny’s eyes widen, and he doesn’t want that. It’s just - he won’t be anyone’s science experiment. He sucks in a deep breath and tries again. “I mean, I can’t take them off.”
“What did you do to them?” Danny asks, something in his voice that Tom can’t quite name - horror, maybe. Or shock.
“I belted them down almost every day for the past six months.” Tom can’t see the scabs and fresh blood from here, so he’s not sure what they look like to Danny - feathers askew where the belts push at them, bald patches where they haven’t had time to grow back, yet. He hates it, the way he looks. He just wants to hide them again, or go where he won’t have to hide them at all.
But he wants the band more than that.
“Fucking hell, Tom -”
“You can’t tell anyone,” Tom says, ignoring the pleading note in his voice. “Please, Dan.”
Danny doesn’t say anything, just takes a step forward and hugs him carefully, hands strong and warm against the bruised skin of Tom’s chest and back. Tom manages not to shiver when Danny rubs a hand down a patch of undisturbed feathers. He wraps his arms around Danny’s shoulders and holds on, letting his eyes slide closed.
“We’ll figure it out,” Danny says, mouth pressed to the side of Tom’s head, breath stirring his hair. Tom knows that they will.
o3.
More often than not, Tom finds Dougie bent over the sink in the toilet before interviews, hands clutching at white porcelain, breath heaving in his chest. Tom is used to the hectic red splotches on his cheeks, the white around the irises of his eyes. He puts a hand firmly in the centre of Dougie’s back, and he can feel the warmth of sweat where it’s sticking Dougie’s t-shirt to his skin. He can feel Dougie breathing in, just a touch too fast.
“Are you going to puke?” he asks, keeping his voice as calm and measured as he can make it. The idea that one of them is in control is sometimes comforting, he knows.
“Already did,” Dougie says, and Tom can hear the hoarseness in his voice, grating like sandpaper. “Sorry.”
He sounds so resigned, pathetic and wretched, that Tom can’t do anything but press his lips to the top of Dougie’s head, soft hair against his mouth. “It’s okay,” he says. “Just not on camera, maybe? Think you can manage that?”
Dougie laughs, but the sound is sick, stuck in the back of his throat like he’s forcing it out. “I’ll see what I can do,” he says, and turns on the water, gulping down a few handfuls. “Tom,” he starts, and almost seems to think better of it. Tom knows what’s coming by the time he manages to continue. “Can I? Please?”
Tom wraps a hand around Dougie’s wrist and pulls him around, holding in a sigh. “Sure, Dougs,” he says, and bites his lip when Dougie pushes his hand under the fabric of his shirt, digging until he finds feathers, the wings that are strapped down, almost comfortably, to Tom’s back. He forces himself to relax - he knows Dougie won’t do anything harmful, not to Tom and certainly not to the wings. Tom doesn’t understand what it is about them that helps calm Dougie down, but if touching the feathers is what gets Dougie stable enough to go onstage, then he’ll do it. “You okay?” he asks, eventually. They probably have another ten minutes at most, and Dougie’s breathing has evened - Tom can feel it against his collarbones, where Dougie has leaned closer. He presses his cheek to the top of Dougie’s head.
“I’m okay,” Dougie says. His fingers sifting through Tom’s feathers are almost soothing, at this point. “Thanks, Tom.”
“Not a problem,” Tom says.
o4.
Harry slams the door behind him when he storms into Tom’s room, fists balled up at his side.
“I can’t fucking believe you,” Harry says, and Tom looks up from his piano. He’s shirtless, wings spread out behind him - he wasn’t expecting anyone to be home.
“What?” he asks. He really has no idea what he’s done to get Harry so worked up. “What did I do?”
“You’ve stopped fucking eating, you utter bastard,” Harry says. He’s somewhat calmer, his voice soft, and Tom lets his fingers rest on the piano keys.
“I haven’t. Besides, who was it who told me frontmen have to be skinny fucks, anyway?” It’s true - he’d said it three days earlier during a band meeting, and then poked Tom in the gut. Tom is fucking tired of the whole thing. He figures that if he gets skinny, none of them will be able to bother him about it.
“I didn’t expect you to pay attention to anything I said,” Harry collapses back on Tom’s bed, staring up at the ceiling. His anger seems to have melted away, the way that it normally does.
“Well, say anything enough times,” Tom says, trailing off with a shrug. “I’m fat - I know it, you know it.” The movement makes the feathers rustle, a noise he almost never notices anymore. Harry looks over at him, and reaches a hand out, catching the bottom tip of Tom’s left wing in his hand. He tugs a little, and Tom wriggles at the feel of it - it’s nice in a way he’d never gotten used to.
“I’m an arsehole,” Harry says. “We both know that, too.” This is also true - Harry went to public school for too long - the only way to survive there was to have either unmistakeable athletic talent or a razor sharp tongue. Harry had the latter. “You shouldn’t listen to anything I say.”
“Can’t help it, mate,” Tom says. “Sadly.” He plays a few minor chords on the piano, going for joking but not quite making it. “Besides, you’re right. I have to lose the weight.”
“You don’t. You don’t if you don’t want to.”
Tom shrugs, and the movement pulls most of his wing out of Harry’s hand. “I do. It’s best for the band - marketable, presentable.” Tom lets his fingers move over the keys, aimless and effortless.
“Crap,” Harry says, working his fingers back into Tom’s feathers, soothing, gentle, and at odds with the sharpness of his voice. “Do what you want. Who the fuck cares about presentable?”
Tom half wants to say, me, I care, and you do, too, you do, but most of him knows that Harry only means about half of the things he says. He’s just not sure how much that will matter, in the long run. Harry’s mouth tends to get ahead of him, and Tom can only deal with the name calling for so long.
“Now eat an apple or something, Jesus.” Harry runs a hand over Tom’s spine; Tom plays major chords in all the correct intervals.
o5.
“Hey, Harry, can you help me get the rig on?” Tom asks. They’re in their dressing room, getting ready for the show, and Tom has to suit up. They came up with the rig sometime after Danny put his foot down about the belting - Tom wouldn’t stop doing it unless there was a viable alternative, so Danny set about making one.
It’s makeshift in most ways - it’s not like they can get him fitted at a tailor’s, or anything so simple - but it works. Mostly, it’s just two sleeves of black fishnet that slide up over his wings, soft and snug, and attached straps that wrap around his chest, pulling the wings tight against his back without ruffling too many feathers. It doesn’t hurt much, although the straps sometimes bite into his skin if he’s too rambunctious onstage, but he’s not going to let that stop him.
The main downside is that he can’t get it on by himself.
“Sure,” Harry says. “Give me a second.” Dougie’s too short, and Danny’s nowhere to be seen, so Tom doesn’t really have a choice. Harry’s fucking with his hair, staring at his reflection in the mirror. Tom rolls his eyes, stretching the fishnet between his fingers and blowing his fringe out of his face.
“I hate it when you do that, Tom,” Dougie says, his voice almost petulant as he wraps his fingers around Tom’s wrist. Looking in the mirror, Tom can see the way Dougie’s eyes stray to the wings folded against his back. Dougie’s fingers press against Tom’s pulse point - Tom can feel the beat of his blood in his veins, rhythmic and soothing.
“What? My hair’s in my eyes, what’m I supposed to do?” Tom is perfectly aware that Dougie wasn’t talking about that, but he doesn’t exactly love talking about the wings, just about ever. He’s never gotten used to having people know, not anyone but his mum and his dad and his sister.
“You know that’s not what I meant,” Dougie says. “You have fucking wings, you shouldn’t have to tie them back. They’re too rad for that.” Dougie presses his forehead against Tom’s shoulder, sighing as he exhales. Tom likes the feel of Dougie’s warm breath on his skin. When he looks up, Harry’s raising his eyebrows at his reflection in the mirror, eyes flicking back to look at the two of them, touching, in the middle of the dressing room.
“What else is he supposed to do? Be seen as the freak he is by the rest of the population of the country?” Tom wants to wince, but he holds it in - Dougie would be able to feel it with his fingers, against his face, and Tom doesn’t want that. Harry’s better about his words more of the time, nowadays, but being called a freak is not something Tom’s ever relished.
“He’s not a freak,” Danny says from the doorway. He’s got a roll in one hand and a banana in other, clearly having raided the lunchroom. He crosses his arms over his chest - it would look more intimidating without the food, but Tom appreciates the effort. He smiles at Danny, and Danny lets himself grin back, that wide spread of teeth and lips.
“You know that’s what they’d say, no matter what we think,” Harry says. He’s still facing the mirror, but he’s looking at Danny in the reflection, not at himself.
“Still,” Dougie says, biting his lip as he pulls away slightly. “It sucks.” He holds out his free hand, and Danny tosses him the banana, leaning back against the doorframe and biting into the roll. Harry finishes with his hair, and swivels his chair around.
“That it does,” Harry says. “You needed help?” He looks at Tom, then, and Tom knows he didn’t mean it, freak, so he smiles and holds out the rig. Harry smiles back.
o6.
Piled into one hotel room, movie still running, forgotten, on the screen, rumpled covers and empty beer bottles on the floor, minibar empty of chocolate and crisps. They leave the lights on while they touch.
Harry kisses the line of his spine, one vertebra at a time, something like an apology and something like a promise. Tom doesn’t care enough to want the difference between the two, just the feel of lips purposeful on his skin.
Danny’s mouth pressed against the curve of his shoulder, open gasping breaths and humid air. Tom can see the way his hands fist into the sheets, crumpling the thin cotton, and wants to fit his fingers between them, hold Danny’s hands and the sheets and the warmth of him.
Dougie’s fingers on the curve of his ribs, fingers fitting into the spaces between, like the notes on a xylophone. Fingertips slick with the sweat from Tom’s skin, he licks the taste of it off and presses in closer, salt on his tongue.
Tom folds his wings around them like benediction, like a prayer that only he knows the words to, slotting them into place in his head. The air rustles the feathers, and the sound is louder than their shared breaths and scrabbling fingers, toes pushed to mattress and carpet.
The stirring of wings cools the air.
o7.
Tom won’t give this up for anything.