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Goro Akechi's wings don't move.
Sure, Akira's seen them move. He's seen them ruffle with pleasure at a joke and flare slightly to accompany a passionate speech. But all of that happens on TV. It's all on purpose. When Akechi isn't intentionally acting, his wings don't move.
And it's weird.
Nobody else seems put off by this, but Akira can't help feeling unsettled every time he catches sight of Akechi's tall, slim tawny wings folded motionlessly against his back even as he chats and smiles and laughs normally. No other avian Akira's ever known has had such non-reactive wings. The little girl in his first grade class would puff up with indignation when the boys picked on her. His middle school vice principal's wings would twitch and quiver every time he had to speak at an assembly. Hifumi will flap absently when she's stuck on a move. It's unconscious, like the way Haru's nose twitches when she looks at something she wants to eat, or the way Sumi flicks her bushy tail when she's nervous.
And yet Goro Akechi's wings don't move.
"I never really noticed it," Ann says, lounging on Akira's bed with her phone aloft over her face. Her flawlessly-groomed blonde tail wiggles against the sheets. "But I haven't spent a lot of time with him. Why?"
"Just wondering." Akira watches the absent motion of her tail from his spot on the desk chair. His own long black tail twitches slightly in response, trying to curl up behind him, but he forces it to relax. It's not like he's spent much time alone with Akechi either, but he thought the celebrity detective's bizarre stillness would be more obvious to people. None of his friends seem to find it noteworthy, though.
"Some people are really good at controlling those little things," Ann hums thoughtfully. "Like you. You're way better at keeping your ears and tail still than I've ever been."
Akira decides to spare her the history of his self-control, but still nods in agreement. There’s no way that Akechi’s behavior isn’t intentional. He knows better than anyone how much practice is required to mute the body’s instinctive reactions, and even if Akechi’s reasons for keeping his nature within strict parameters can’t possibly be the same as Akira’s reasons, there’s no denying that everyone, including Akira, only sees what Akechi wants them to see.
The end result is that Akechi’s body language is as polished and curated as his verbal language, and somehow, Akira gets the feeling that neither are completely authentic.
1.
It’s really none of his business, but he can’t help thinking that it’s a shame. He’s never seen Akechi’s wings fully extended, but from the glimpses he has gotten, he can tell they’re beautiful. Transitioning from a light honey brown at the tip, all the way to a rich, nearly crimson, auburn at the primaries, in a gradient of caramel and coffee and copper, Akechi’s wings stand taller than most, nearly the entire length of his body when folded flat to his back. Very few avians can actually achieve flight now, their wings becoming smaller and more decorative as society industrialized, but some are still born with the necessary proportions, and looking at the size of Akechi’s wings, the obvious muscle behind the pristine, glossy feathers, Akira suspects he might be one of them.
But if Akechi is determined to suppress his wings’ natural movement, then Akira might never find out for sure. Even though it doesn’t have anything to do with him and he respects Akechi’s choices, whatever they are, Akira just can’t smother the small, persistent flicker in his chest that wants to see more.
Though perhaps Akira should be asking for lessons on how to ignore biological compulsions, because even though Akira is usually very good at keeping himself in check, he still can’t stop his tail from flagging excitedly every time Akechi steps through the door of Leblanc.
“Good afternoon,” Akechi greets pleasantly, taking his usual seat and adjusting his wings slightly to drape over the lower backrest. Avians can lean back on their wings, but it’s not comfortable for long, so businesses are required to have accessible furniture for avian clients, as well as for anyone else who needs accommodations. Since it’s getting cooler, Akechi is wearing a coat over his usual sweater vest and button-up combo, and Akira knows that if Akechi were to turn at the right angle and spread his wings even slightly, he’d be able to see the overlapping panels on the back parted around Akechi’s downy scapulars. “Just you today?” he asks, placing his briefcase on the chair next to him.
“Yup.” Akira’s hands move mindlessly, already reaching for Akechi’s favorite blend. “Figured it was time for Sojiro to disappear mysteriously so I could take over the shop.”
Akechi nods, steepling his gloved fingers together. “I assume he left some sort of will dictating ownership of the business?”
“It was more of a verbal agreement.”
“I’m afraid in that case, his registered family would have claim to it first.”
Akira sticks a filter into the jug and rinses it absently. “Futaba won’t want it. Too much work.”
“What if she does?”
“Then I guess she’ll mysteriously disappear too.”
“Are you sure you should be telling this to a member of the police?”
Mouth curving in a crooked smile, Akira adds the grounds. “We’re friends, aren’t we? You wouldn’t rat me out.”
“I’d arrest you myself.” Akechi mirrors him, lips turning up. “It would look very good on my record.”
Akira’s tail swishes behind him. Bantering with Akechi always works him up. “That’s cold.”
“Be smarter when divulging your crimes.” Akechi reaches up to tuck his hair behind his ear, treating Akira to a glimpse of the tiny, tea-colored feathers at his temple. He doesn’t have any proof, but based on the feather patterns of other avians, Akira is pretty sure the same little feathers are growing at his nape as well. He wonders if they’re as soft as they look. “Now, may I order? When you’re done with that, of course.”
“Oh, this is yours.”
Akechi blinks, wine-red eyes catching the golden light from the evening sun outside. “Mine?”
“Yeah.” Akira keeps pouring. He doesn’t even need to look at the filter to make this specific cup of coffee anymore. “It’s your usual. I hope that’s okay.”
“You know my coffee order?”
“Of course.”
Feathers rustle against each other as Akechi’s wings snap partially open. The left hits the neighboring chair, shoving it a few inches with a loud scraping sound.
Akira nearly drops the kettle.
“Ah—I’m sorry—” Akechi yanks them back in again instantly, pressing them flush to his back so tightly that it can’t be comfortable. He doesn’t break Akira’s gaze, but his eyes are wide, expression carefully blank. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
“It’s okay,” Akira says, expertly covering his surprise, though no amount of self-control can quell the way his stomach swoops. “Don’t worry about it.”
Akechi offers him a tight-lipped smile.
Since Akechi clearly doesn’t want to talk about it, Akira doesn’t mention his wings at all, quickly finishing Akechi’s coffee and passing it over. They spend the rest of Akechi’s visit in amiable small talk, and he tries not to let his eyes stray to the strong peaks of bone and feathers showing over Akechi’s shoulders, but they keep drifting over without his permission. And even after Sojiro returns from his errand and Akechi bids them both a polite farewell, he can’t banish the image of Akechi’s wings flaring out.
He lies in bed that night, picturing gleaming feathers exposed to the warm light of the lamps, the way Akechi’s torso swayed sharply with the motion, unprepared for the sudden force. It was obviously an involuntary response, one that Akechi couldn’t tamp down in time, and the thought makes Akira’s head spin.
He did that. He got past Akechi’s impeccable guard and startled out a helpless biological reaction. He finally broke through the performance and opened a little window into Akechi’s true feelings.
And he wonders if he can do it again.
2.
Maybe it’s shitty to deliberately force your friend into involuntary reactions for your own satisfaction, but Akira is, by all accounts, a criminal, so that’s just par for the course where he’s concerned. He would never try to endanger or scare Akechi, but a few surprises here and there won’t hurt anyone. And maybe learning to relax his instincts a little could be good for Akechi too. He never looks fully comfortable or at ease, no matter where Akira sees him, and some part of that must be the extreme control he’s exerting over his body. So, really, Akira is just being a good friend.
Of course, getting the drop on Akechi is easier said than done. The Detective Prince is composed to a fault in public, and even in private he maintains a level of prim tact that sees him rolling with just about every punch imaginable. No information or occurrence seems to ruffle him, metaphorically or literally, and Akira begins to seriously wonder if what happened in the café was just a fluke.
Thinking about it logically, nothing happened that would justify Akechi’s spontaneous reaction. He seemed a little surprised that Akira remembered his order, but surely that’s not enough to break through his defenses. Is it? But Akira made a decision and he’s going to stick to it.
Despite his persistence, Akira doesn’t have any luck until several weeks later, after an eventful outing to a café Akechi suggested.
Akechi is still patting his hair back into place by the time they leave, frowning unsubtly as they stroll down the sidewalk together.
“You look fine,” Akira says. The evening sun ignites the ginger in Akechi’s hair and the crimson in his eyes, highlighting the brassy gold hidden amongst Akechi’s feathers, and fine is actually an egregious understatement.
“Forgive me if I doubt your assessment,” Akechi responds flatly, finally tucking the last lock behind his ear. “You and I have different—” he casts a look up and down Akira’s figure, “—sensibilities.”
Akira places a hand over his heart. “That stings. I thought you looked good in my style.”
“I’m not sure unbrushed hair and fake glasses can be classified as a style.”
“I brush my hair.”
“Hm. Perhaps you should let me do it next time. In fact, perhaps you should let me select your entire ensemble.”
“Would I be wearing your clothes?”
“Of course. Yours certainly wouldn’t do. We appear to be about the same size so I’m sure it would work out.”
A pleasant tingle spreads through Akira’s veins at the idea of wearing Akechi’s clothes and his tail curls up behind him. He barely manages to stop it from flicking sideways to brush Akechi’s leg. “Alright. We can switch. You can be me and I can be you.”
Akechi lets out a dry chuckle as they approach a crosswalk. The sign is red, so they both come to a stop. “I’m not sure I could pull off your particular aesthetic.”
“Sure you could.” Akira sticks his hands in his pockets, glancing up at the sign. “You’re pretty enough to pull off anything.”
Motion in Akira’s periphery pulls his gaze back to Akechi in time for an eyeful of tawny feathers. Akechi’s wings fold forward, past his shoulders as though trying to encircle him, hiding his face for the brief moment it takes until Akechi pulls them back. The blush on his cheeks is undeniable, almost scarlet in the sunset light, as he angles toward Akira, clearly trying to obscure his wings from view.
A polite person would look away, but Akira can’t unglue his eyes from the feathers now tucked tightly to Akechi’s back. If Akira didn’t know any better, he’d say Akechi looks shy.
“Don’t waste your compliments on me, Kurusu,” Akechi says, hitching his expression up to match the false cheer in his tone. “My self-esteem isn’t that delicate.”
“I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” Akira responds when he finds his voice.
Akechi looks away. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. That was—” he clears his throat. “Anyway, I’m afraid I won’t be able to accompany you home. I have several assignments I have to complete tonight. Until next time, Kurusu.” He offers Akira a perfectly polite smile before turning sharply and setting off back the way they came.
Akira watches him go, feet rooted in place, and doesn’t move for two full walk cycles.
3.
Maybe Akira’s just imagining things, but he could swear that Akechi’s wings are even more motionless throughout their next few interactions. They were already as stationary as an oversized backpack, but now, whenever he and Akechi run into each other at the station, or stay back chatting after Sojiro has closed the café, there’s an undercurrent of intention running through Akechi’s whole frame. A kind of deliberate focus that hums in the muscles and calls to Akira’s evolutionary instincts. If Akechi’s wings are more still than before, it’s because Akechi is trying very hard to make that happen.
It definitely gives Akira pause. Does Akechi truly hate the unconscious movements so much that he’d expend all of this effort just to prevent Akira, someone he presumably views as a friend, from seeing them? If he really is that sensitive about it, it would be best for Akira to back off. As someone who considers himself Akechi’s friend, it wouldn’t be right to disregard his boundaries like that.
Though the small, greedy part of his mind mopes at the idea, Akira resolves to give up his quest, and when he and Akechi meet up next at Penguin Sniper, he does a commendable job of not glancing at Akechi’s wings every few minutes.
After sinking the four, Akechi straightens up, tapping his cue against the side of the table. “Didn’t you say you had a new shot you wanted to show me?” he asks, visibly smug. “I’ve been very curious.”
Akira shakes his head, twirling his cue in his fingers. “Not yet. The set-up is very specific.”
“Then it can’t really do you much good, can it?”
“Trust me, it’s very useful.”
Akechi smiles in that way he does when he’s taking pity on someone, a rare occurrence in and of itself. “No excuses next time.”
“You have such little faith in me,” Akira says, ignoring the flutter in his chest at the tacit promise of another meeting. They’ve been hanging out fairly regularly for several months now, but Akira knows better than to take it for granted. Every time he sees Akechi feels like it could be the last.
Propping a hand on his hip, Akechi disregards Akira in favor of analyzing the spread on the table. “You enjoy far more of my faith than most,” he mumbles.
Through the din of the crowded room and the volume of Akechi’s voice, only Akira’s feline ears catch the words, and they twitch.
“Hey, you two—!”
A loud voice slashes through their private bubble, and Akira drags his eyes away from Akechi’s pensive profile to see two men sauntering out of the general crowd, right up to their table.
Akechi drops his hand from his hip, turning to face them. “Can I help you?” he asks courteously, letting Akira know that he’s as unfamiliar with these men as he is.
One of the guys, a lanky twenty-something with the beginnings of antlers protruding from his cropped hair, gives Akechi a dismissive once-over. “Yeah, you can leave,” he says. “This is our table.”
Akechi arches a brow. “I apologize, but we have this table for another half hour. Perhaps another one will open up sooner.”
“You got something in your ears?” the second guy, a stocky canine of some persuasion, snaps. “This is our table, feathers.”
Cordial mask unwavering, Akechi exchanges a look with Akira. “And it will still be yours in thirty minutes,” he says sweetly. “So it won’t hurt to wait a while.”
“I’m not waiting to use my own damn table,” antler guy sneers, stepping forward in what’s clearly supposed to be a menacing manner, and when Akechi doesn’t retreat like he expected, his face tightens in irritation. “You’re gonna leave.”
Like these idiots are actually going to start a fight in the middle of such a crowded club. Akira rolls his eyes, forcing down the defensive growl rising in his chest at the intended threat to Akechi.
“I’m afraid you’re incorrect,” Akechi responds, placid as a frozen lake, starting to turn back to the table. “Have a nice evening.”
“Don’t you get it?” In a quieter room, antlers would be yelling. “Take your boyfriend and get out!”
“Well, now you’re incorrect about several things,” Akechi says under his breath, and Akira can’t contain a humorless chuckle.
The noise attracts the second guy’s attention and he zeroes in on Akira like a dog spotting a rabbit, lurching toward him with a growling “There something you wanna say, you little—”
A wall of rippling copper feathers slams between them, cutting the guy off with an aborted squeak of surprise, and Akira’s ears pin flat against his skull.
“I highly suggest you drop the matter.” Akechi steps forward, almost in front of Akira, pool cue gripped in his fist like a weapon, and from this position Akira can actually see his back, can make out the tense line of his spine between his flexed anterior scapulas. He’s not fully extended, barely flaring half of the full breadth of his wings, but it’s enough to startle their uninvited guests. “I would hate to have to escalate something so silly,” he says, as pleasantly cool as ever.
From over Akechi’s left wing, Akira watches both men register the threat, reassess, and come to matching decisions within the space of a second, before turning tail and hurrying back into the crowd.
Akechi’s display wasn’t even dramatic enough to draw more than a passing glance from anyone else, but Akira’s pulse is still pounding as he finally draws his wings back in. Regret pangs alongside Akira’s racing heart at the sight of swaths of revealed feathers disappearing, but he squashes it.
“My hero,” he says, because if he doesn’t say that, he’ll say something even stupider. “Living up to your title, Prince Akechi.”
The tension doesn’t leave Akechi’s frame. “Yes, well—” he turns to face the table, robotically placing his cue along the edge. “It’s always best to…avoid conflict. By whatever means are necessary.” He sounds stiff, rehearsed but also unsure, as though he’s selecting his words one-at-a-time as he says them, and Akira’s ears swivel forward again.
“It was pretty cool,” he tries, hoping that Akechi might look over at him, but he doesn’t, remaining angled away, hair hiding his face.
“I didn’t actually….” Akechi hesitates, gloved fingers drumming on the wood paneling.
Akira waits.
But after a beat, Akechi flips some sort of internal switch and his posture relaxes. “Anyway—” he turns to Akira with a bright smile. “That certainly livened things up! Shall we continue?”
Try as he might, Akira can’t quite match Akechi’s affected nonchalance, and by the time they separate for the night, he’s sure they’re both aware of the heated tension humming between them. But Akechi doesn’t say anything so neither does he, keeping his peace until he’s watching Akechi retreat down the lamp-lit sidewalk, wings bound tight.
Maybe giving up on this fixation is going to be even harder than he thought.
4.
The thing about Akechi is that he can be really, really mean.
He’s subtly rude quite a lot, and he’s the master of backhanded compliments and stirring up discord, but that’s all muffled through a veneer of charm, polished to the point that most people don’t even realize what he’s doing. But when the professional mask comes down, all of that barely-contained contempt becomes a live wire of derision, crackling and snapping at anyone unlucky enough to touch it.
Akira loves it, because seeing that side of Akechi at all means that Akechi trusts him enough to drop the pretenses, and his skin is thick enough to absorb most of what Akechi throws at him in those moments of scorn. But he can’t deny that it burns sometimes.
“I certainly wouldn’t expect you to understand,” Akechi hisses, alight with arctic reproach. “Our situations are simply too different.”
The sidewalk outside of the batting cages isn’t the first place Akira would choose to have this argument, but Akira would really rather not be having this argument at all, and at least the dark street is deserted aside from them, any evening stragglers driven inside by the thick clouds obscuring the stars. He could tell that Akechi was irritated about something throughout the entire excursion, something bitter simmering just beneath the surface as he whacked the incoming balls with just a little too much force, but he managed to keep it from boiling over until the cages closed and they stepped out to be on their way.
“I do understand,” Akira fires back, clenched fists shoved deep in his pockets, trying to keep his tail from twitching. “But you’d prefer I didn’t, so you can feel smarter, right?”
“Pardon me.” Akechi narrows his eyes. The amber swallows the watery light of the streetlamp, piercing through Akira like a hawk spotting a mouse. “I wasn’t aware that our schedules were a matter of such academic import.”
“You’re the one making it a big deal.” Whatever was bothering Akechi before they met up, it was Akira asking if he’d like to come to the post-midterms celebration Ann is planning that apparently ignited the kindling. “If you don’t want to come, you don’t have to make up an excuse.”
Akechi draws himself up, spine as rigid as ever, wings fixed, jaw tight, and Akira can’t control how his ears fold backward. “Why would I have to invent an excuse to avoid consorting with your schoolmates?” he asks in that tone that means he’s not really asking, he’s just laying out how stupid you sound. “I already make significant sacrifices just to spend time with you.”
Akira barks out a short laugh, skin crawling at the facsimile of pity on Akechi’s face. “Then I guess it’s good that I’m your only friend.”
For a second, Akechi just stares at him, eyes wide and blank, lips parted ever so slightly to prepare for the next rebuke. Then he inhales sharply, and the jarring motion travels from his chest, into his shoulders, and back into his wings, lifting all of the visible tawny feathers like they’re being electrocuted.
Shock races down Akira’s spine and his ears flip forward instantly, latching onto Akechi’s elevated heart rate.
One wing jerks out, just a few inches, but Akechi still wobbles with the change in weight distribution, and he grits his teeth, yanking it back in. Akira can actually see the slight hitch of his shoulders as the muscles in his back pull together and lock in place, but that doesn’t do anything for the feathers still standing on end up and down both appendages, or the angry blush coloring Akechi’s face. Puffed up with indignation like this, his wings look twice as big.
And Akira should just hold his tongue. He should just keep his mouth shut and walk away from the argument before it gets any worse, but his own frustration keeps him rooted, swirling inside him like the storm beginning to rumble ominously overhead, and vindictive pleasure strikes a smirk onto his face. “Did I ruffle your feathers, Detective?”
All emotion instantly drains from Akechi’s face, the ire behind his eyes snuffs out, leaving two cold, dark pinpricks, and Akira’s ears catch the creak of leather around tightening fists.
Regret courses through Akira like lightning, but it’s too late. Before he can even gather himself enough to apologize, Akechi whips around and starts striding away, shoes clapping smartly against the concrete, feathers still swollen. It’s only by the grace of his enhanced night vision that Akira can see the quiver running through his wings.
Akira stands still and watches until Akechi’s figure disappears down the street, unable to summon the courage to go after him, like so many times before. His tail droops and he finds himself pulling it in to wrap around his leg, like he did when he was scolded as a child. He wishes that Akechi was actually here scolding him instead of leaving him alone with nothing but his own guilt and anger chewing at his insides.
When the clouds finally break open and rain starts weighing down his hair, all Akira can think about is Akechi’s wings, fluffed out and bristling. He hopes they don’t get too wet.
5.
Akira doesn’t know what to do. He can’t recall the last time he fought with a friend. With anyone, actually. Akira doesn’t really do arguments. If someone does something he doesn’t like, he just keeps quiet. It’s better for everyone, in the long run. Of course, he’ll stand up for people he cares about, but telling some asshole to back off isn’t really his definition of a fight.
However, snapping at Akechi over petty bullshit definitely is.
He knows he’s not 100% at fault for the situation, that Akechi was itching for a fight all evening, but he certainly feels like a terrible person while lying awake for seven consecutive nights, missing Akechi’s idle bedtime conversation. Even on days they didn’t see each other, they’d usually end up texting at least once before going to sleep. Sometimes it’s just an exchange of photos taken during the day—a basking tabby cat from Akira and a teetering pile of paperwork from Akechi—sometimes it was planning a future excursion or continuing a good-natured tiff about whatever philosopher Akechi had in rotation that week, and sometimes it was nothing but a simple, exhausted good night, but rarely did a day go by without some sort of contact.
Even though they’ve only been at this level of communication for a few weeks, going without it is a gaping hole in Akira’s chest. Somehow, Akechi went from being an exhilarating novelty breaking up the routine of his life to a vital part of that routine, and the removal feels more catastrophic than it should.
Akira might be in trouble.
All he knows for sure is that he can’t go on like this. He’ll drive himself to distraction if he doesn’t resolve things with Akechi, and since Akechi is obviously unwilling to see him, it’s on Akira to reach out.
Or so he thought. As it turns out, he didn’t need to do anything to get Akechi alone because Akechi walks through the door of Leblanc of his own free will during Akira’s next solo shift.
They both freeze, and Akira can see Akechi’s eyes darting around the room, taking in the absence of other people. Then he turns around and pulls the door back open, but before Akira can say anything, a massive gust of wind whips past, sucking the door closed again with an obnoxious jingle.
The weather’s been horrible all morning: ugly gray skies, steadily dropping temperatures, and biting blasts of wind and rain that make the whole building creak. The erratic pattering of fat, heavy raindrops has been Akira’s occasional companion since he opened, but the absolute downpour crashing onto the roof at the moment is by far the worst it’s been.
And if Akechi’s sodden, windswept appearance is anything to go by, he’s been caught out in it for at least a while. Swiping his wet bangs out of his face, he stares incredulously at the door, while Akira stares helplessly at his wings.
The weather has not been kind to Akechi’s feathers. The normally-neat rows are ruffled and askew, with many longer feathers sticking out at odd angles, and what isn’t crooked is plastered into a solid dripping mass, all of the subtle color variations Akira is used to darkened to a uniform muddy brown. Looking at the mess, Akira’s fingers twitch with the desire to groom everything back into place, but he curls his hands into fists and ignores the way his tail wiggles.
“You should probably just wait here,” he says, voice nearly buried under the howling outside. “The storm’s supposed to last for a while.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that,” Akechi answers shortly without turning. Akira knows him well enough to picture the indecisive glare he’s giving the door.
Guilt rises up from the floor of Akira’s stomach, where it’s been churning for days. Leblanc is one of Akechi’s only refuges from the demanding outside world, and now Akira’s made it into a place of discomfort and awkwardness, all because he couldn’t control his anger.
After a long, heavy moment, Akira reaches for a clean mug. “Come sit down,” he entreats, looking away from Akechi’s tense figure to locate a filter. “You must be cold. I’ll go upstairs when your coffee is done.”
“I’ll drip on your floor.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll get you a towel before I leave you alone.”
A beat, and then a footstep scuffs on the tile. “You act as though I’m chasing you out.”
“I just don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”
“I never asked you to do that.”
“Then what do you want me to do?” Lifting his head, Akira catches Akechi’s wary gaze, crimson softened to chocolate by the dim lighting. “Ask me. I’ll do it.”
Akechi’s lips part. Off-balance and weighed down by water, he looks strangely vulnerable framed in the entryway, and Akira imagines wrapping him up, curling against him and purring him to sleep. His ears twitch at the thought.
By the time Akechi responds, Akira is already dripping his coffee. “I don’t want you to do anything,” he bites out under his breath, loud enough only for Akira’s feline senses. “I never….”
Akira keeps his attention on his pouring, but his ears hone in on every little rustle of Akechi’s clothes and wings. Then they go flat against his head as a massive peal of thunder cracks through the building. When it fades, Akechi’s footsteps join the ambient drumming of the rain. Chair legs scrape on the floor and Akira glances up to see Akechi sinking down on the seat with an air of brittle resignation.
From this close, Akira can see that his hair is totally soaked along with his wings, clinging to the sides of his face and swooped messily away from his eyes. His clothes don’t seem to have fared much better, and after he places his briefcase on the chair beside him, he reaches back to unhook the back panels of his blazer. They come apart, loosening the garment noticeably around Akechi’s middle, and Akechi swiftly undoes the buttons and slips the jacket up and over his shoulders to lay it on the neighboring chair as well. The shirt beneath appears to have escaped the worst of the rain, but Akira’s certain the back will be soaked through soon, and his pants are likely wet as well.
Akira doesn’t bother wondering why Akechi is wearing his uniform on a day off, assuming he had a meeting or something where he wanted to play up his boyish image, and instead finishes Akechi’s coffee in silence. The hum of the storm nearly drowns the soft clink of cup meeting saucer as Akira places Akechi’s drink on the bar in front of him.
“Thank you,” Akechi says civilly, slipping his gloves off. He cups his hands around the mug, staring into it, and Akira realizes he’s trembling.
An electric shock runs through Akira’s body. Without saying anything, he spins on his heel and heads for the stairs, springing noiselessly up the steps.
When he hurries back down only a few minutes later, Akechi is lifting his cup to his mouth, looking nonplussed. He swallows. “What are you doing?”
Akira places the pile of linens and clothing on the bartop. “You should dry off,” he says, slightly out of breath. “And change.”
Akechi regards him with the severe inscrutability of an oft-betrayed monarch. “I’m alright.”
“No, you’re not.” Akira extricates a towel from the pile and drapes it over Akechi’s head, ignoring his indignant sputter. “You’ll feel better if you’re dry. And your wings—” Akira’s pace hitches. “This can’t be good for your feathers.”
Knocking the towel down to hang around his neck, Akechi frowns. “I appreciate the gesture, but I’m fine. And besides, I didn’t bring an extra shirt.”
“I have one,” Akira blurts out.
Akechi rolls his eyes. “Your shirts won’t fit—”
“I know. I have an avian shirt.” To demonstrate, Akira pulls it from the pile and shakes it out, showing Akechi the simple paneled t-shirt.
Akechi blinks at it. “Why do you—?”
To cover the heat rising to his cheeks, Akira shoves the shirt at him, followed by a pair of sweatpants and another towel. “Go dry off and change,” he orders, ushering Akechi off of the barstool as he tries to juggle all the fabric in his arms.
It’s a testament to how genuinely uncomfortable Akechi must be that he doesn’t continue to argue, instead obeying Akira’s urging with only a perfunctory glare and allowing himself to be shuffled into the bathroom.
While he’s changing, Akira does his best not to claw his own skin off, puttering pointlessly behind the bar. When the door clicks open, Akira’s ears shoot up.
“I appreciate your help,” Akechi says, like it pains him, padding out of the hall with his wet clothes draped over one arm and his shoes hooked on two fingers. Akira’s sweatpants are just a little too big on him, sitting loose along his hips, and the borrowed t-shirt shows off more of Akechi’s pale skin than Akira has ever seen before. The absence of his gloves and socks puts his dark nails on display for the first time that Akira can recall and his hair is even more rumpled now, some of the top layer beginning to dry and frizz. His wings, as always, are folded tightly to his back, feathers still in disarray. Overall he looks ruffled and grumpy and unkempt, a far, far cry from his typical dignified aesthetic, and Akira does not think his heart could beat any faster.
“Here.” He moves forward on autopilot, gesturing for Akechi’s clothes. “We can lay those out to dry faster. No one’s gonna come in anyway.”
Begrudgingly, Akechi gives up his wet clothing and shoes, and Akira arranges everything as flat as possible on one of the tables.
“Hopefully, they’ll be good by the time the storm is over.”
Akechi makes a noncommittal sound, crossing back to his chair and sitting down. Now, without his usual layers, it’s impossible to miss the strained slope of his shoulders or the fatigued bend of his spine. Many of his primaries are jutting out at extreme angles and Akira can’t help but wonder if he can feel them.
“Are you cold?” Akira asks, heading back behind the bar. “I could get you a blanket or something.”
“Just the coffee is fine.”
Nodding, Akira accepts Akechi’s obvious unwillingness to converse and watches as he wraps his hands around the warm porcelain and leans over it, clearly trying to soak in the radiant heat. This close, Akira can make out the subtle taper of his nails, the tips filed down but undeniably pointed, and when Akechi brushes his hair behind his ear to take a sip, his tiny hairline feathers peek out.
Without consciously deciding to, Akira finds himself rounding the bar again. Cautiously, he seats himself in the chair beside Akechi, trying not to be too blatant about how blatantly he’s staring. Akechi doesn’t acknowledge his proximity, focused solely on his cup, but Akira knows that a nonreaction is a deliberate effort on Akechi’s part.
This close, Akira can make out the tense quiver running up and down Akechi’s frame. Similar to his usual concentrated stillness, but the stillness part is clearly failing, drained out of him by the exhaustion evident in his pale skin and hollowed eyes, leaving only the strain. His wings are shaking too, tiny little flicks of muscle that Akira’s not sure Akechi is even aware of. It reminds him of when something tickles his ear and it twitches on its own.
The feathers are soft beneath Akira’s fingertips.
Akechi jumps and Akira yanks his hand back, horrified. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, struggling to meet Akechi’s wide, confused eyes. “I don’t know why I—I didn’t mean to—” he curses himself. His grooming instincts have never been that strong, so why now—?
The chair legs scrape the tile as Akechi shifts in his seat. “I know they’re a mess,” he says, almost like he’s forcing the words out. “I’ll take care of them later.”
If Akechi’s willing to brush it off, then Akira should just leave it be as well, but his traitorous mouth opens again: “Does it hurt?”
Akechi presses his lips together, staring down at his coffee. “No.”
“It looks…uncomfortable.”
“They…when they are out of place like this, I can…feel it,” Akechi says haltingly. “And I wouldn’t say it’s pleasant, but painful would be an exaggeration.”
“I could fix them.” In for a penny, in for a pound, Akira figures, trying not to shrink away when Akechi narrows his eyes at him. “You don’t have to be uncomfortable.”
That seems to bring Akechi up short, mind visibly working around Akira’s words, but he doesn’t protest right away, and his wings both give an abortive flinch.
Resolving himself, Akira rises and takes Akechi by the wrist, tugging him up as well and heading for the stairs. Akechi doesn’t even say anything until they’re already in the attic.
“Kurusu—” he tries as Akira (gently) guides him to sit down on the floor, but his wings must truly be bothering him, because he bites his own lip, brows furrowing in frustration.
“I’ll be careful,” Akira promises, settling on his knees behind Akechi. The scope of his wings forces Akechi to lean forward when sitting like this, and even then, his primaries are still trailing on the ground. “Show me, please.”
Akechi hesitates. Akira can feel his reluctance humming through the air around them, can practically taste it at the back of his tongue, so palpable that for a moment Akira is sure it’s going to win. Akechi is going to stand up and walk out, possibly never to return.
But then his wings shift, the soft shhh of feathers brushing over feathers deafening in the rainy attic, and a curtain of tawny copper unfolds before Akira’s dumbstruck gaze. They stretch endlessly, far beyond what Akira’s seen so far, until the tips are skimming opposite walls, before relaxing somewhat, like someone does after stretching their arms in the morning.
The feathers are still wet, the ones closest to Akechi’s spine dark and clumped together, but the outermost layers have begun drying, showing off even more of the stunning gradient Akira has only caught glimpses of.
Akira must say something under his breath without meaning to because Akechi glances over his shoulder, anxiety tight in his features. “I know they’re big.” And the way he says it, self-consciously, almost apologetically, pricks Akira’s attention.
A more tactful person might assure him that they’re not too big, that this size is still common among avians and it’s not like they’re ever in the way, but Akira is not particularly tactful, and when he manages to wrangle his useless gaping mouth into cooperating, all he can manage is a cracked, “They’re beautiful.”
Akechi’s shoulders tense and the motion travels along the length of both wings in a cascade of rippling feathers. Akira watches, hardly believing he’s actually seeing what he spent so long imagining.
As is usually the case with Akechi, reality is even better than fantasy.
“I’m going to…start,” Akira says lamely, hesitating for a moment just in case Akechi changes his mind.
Akechi says nothing, just turns his head to face front again, tension not abating, and Akira takes it as permission.
The worst of the mess is concentrated on Akechi’s outer feathers, the ones that are actually exposed to the elements, so Akira scoots over a bit to reach. Starting as high up as he can reach, he combs his fingers lightly down Akechi’s right wing, marveling at the dense, smooth feathers passing between his fingers. The wing twitches, almost like Akechi is going to pull it in, but it remains extended, so Akira does it again, a bit more firmly.
He could always tell, just by looking, that Akechi’s wings were strong, but it’s a completely different matter to actually feel the sleek muscles and tendons beneath the surface. An undercurrent of power shows through in every restrained twitch and flex. Akira’s feline senses tingle, picking up on the sheer strength bound in the massive appendages.
Once Akira feels like he probably can’t get away with any more gratuitous petting, he starts hunting for misplaced feathers. A clump of coverts is sticking out in all the wrong directions and he carefully rights each one, laying them flat until the whole row looks neat.
Several large primaries are stuck at almost 90 degree angles, but when Akira goes to adjust one, the wing jostles. “Sorry.” Absently, Akira strokes down the soft coverts he just fixed, and a shudder ripples through Akechi’s body, jostling his wing again. “Did that hurt?”
“The larger feathers are more sensitive,” Akechi mutters, ducking his head until his hair parts around his nape, revealing pinkened skin.
“Oh.” Akira traces the shape of Akechi’s wing with his eyes. “Anywhere else that’s particularly sensitive?”
Akechi hesitates before responding: “The closer they are to my back, the more sensitive they get.” Every word sounds like Akechi is wrenching it out of his throat. “The…the scapulars are particularly tender.”
Akira eyes the shorter, downier feathers at the bases of Akechi’s wings. “Got it.”
Taking even more care, Akira returns to the crooked primary and turns it the right way, nestling it in line with the surrounding feathers. Akechi doesn’t react again, but Akira can still feel the strain brimming inside him. He repeats the process with another primary, then shuffles over a little more to reach the next.
It’s not grooming like he’s ever experienced it before, nothing like the lazy afternoons he and Ann have spent combing through each other’s hair and tails while curled up in the sun, yet, at the same time, it’s exactly the same. Avians groom just as much as felines, though it’s harder for them to do it properly with their wings located behind them. That’s why Avians tend to flock together. They’re almost as social as canids, partially out of necessity. There are products that help Avians maintain their own wings, but nothing will ever be as good as the conscientious hand of another person. Akira has seen avians caring for each other’s wings, straightening feathers and brushing through with their fingers to distribute the oil that keeps the feathers glossy and protected. Preening, he remembers. But he’s never seen anyone do it for Akechi.
Until now.
Eyelids drooping, Akira falls into a rhythm. Adjusting feathers, smoothing them down, stroking over the area. He makes sure to dip his fingers between the rows, where he knows the oil is more concentrated, before smoothing his hand over the surface. Slowly, the windblown disaster of Akechi’s right wing fades away, replaced by tidy, shiny feathers.
Without missing a beat, Akira moves over to Akechi’s left side and begins the process again. The longer feathers toward the edges of Akechi’s wings are silky between Akira’s fingertips, sliding through Akira’s grasp like butter the longer he works with them, and the smaller, softer feathers closer to Akechi’s shoulders fluff up slightly as they dry. Akira knows that the downiest feathers will be on the insides of Akechi’s wings, and he itches to run his hands over them, but even this is more than he ever thought he’d get. Even after he’s fixed everything that visibly needs fixing, he can’t pull himself away, stroking down the rows of feathers over and over.
Akira doesn’t realize he’s purring until he sits up on his knees to reach the small bundle of feathers at the peak of Akechi’s left wing. The motion finally alerts him to the low rumble vibrating in his chest and he feels his neck grow warm. He’s usually much more in command of his body’s reactions than that, and it’s been a long time since he started purring involuntarily.
Distracted, he almost misses the soft noise Akechi lets out when his fingertips graze the top of his wing, but his feline ears catch it, flicking at the muffled, throaty chirp, and he looks down. Akechi has his knees drawn up to his chest, face hidden in his folded arms, and his entire frame is shaking with fine tremors. Panic flares in Akira’s stomach and he removes his hands from Akechi’s wings.
“Are you okay?” he asks, hands hovering uselessly in mid-air, wanting to comfort but unsure where to touch. “Did I hurt you?”
A stronger shiver wracks Akechi’s body, this one translating to his wings with a cascading shwshhh as his feathers rub against each other. Akechi’s fingers curl into fists but he doesn’t raise his head. “No,” he says, and his voice sounds odd, like it’s coming from the bottom of a well. “It’s—fine. You’re fine.”
From his position slightly higher than Akechi, Akira can look straight down at the exposed back of Akechi’s neck. At the hairline, where his nape meets his scalp, a scattering of tiny, auburn feathers gleams warmly in the light. Before Akira can stop himself, his hand lowers, fingertips just grazing the pale skin, and a thrill races through him at the thought that he’s seeing something that no one else ever gets to—
Akechi starts violently, wings flapping as he whips his head around to stare at Akira, one hand slapping over the back of his neck.
Akira sits back immediately. “Sorry, I didn’t—mean to do that.”
Despite the blush darkening his cheeks, Akechi tries to rearrange his wide, confused eyes and half-parted lips into something more indifferent. “You just startled me,” he insists, though, notably, he doesn’t remove his hand.
All this time, Akira’s purring hasn’t subsided, triggered by something beyond the surface-level situation, and in the slightly uneasy silence that falls between them, the sound is even more obvious. Akechi’s eyes travel between Akira’s face and the spot on Akira’s throat that he knows is generating the noise. “I’ve never heard you do that,” he says stiffly.
Akira swallows. He could stop the oscillation, got very good at stopping it when he was younger, but he lets it continue, despite the embarrassment that flutters in his stomach, as a reciprocal show of trust. Akechi showed him his wings; Akira can let some of his instincts leak out. “I don’t do it often,” he says, voice pitched lower by the muscle activation in his throat.
“Yes, I’ve read that felines don’t customarily purr outside of the company of close friends and family.”
Shaking his head, Akira sinks back down onto his heels. “I don’t do it around anyone.”
It takes a moment for the implication to absorb, and when it does, Akechi quickly turns his head back to the front, ears red, hand still clamped over the back of his neck. “Oh,” he says, tone deliberately flat.
On either side of him, his wings tremble, and Akira runs his hands through the nearest bunch of feathers, stroking in a way that can’t be mistaken for maintenance. “I’m sorry about the other day,” he states, skimming both hands in symmetrical vertical lines through the rows. “I said too much. I didn’t mean it.”
Akechi’s whole frame shivers with the next brush of Akira’s fingers through his feathers. “It was…it was a childish squabble in the first place,” he responds, sounding breathless. “I should not have antag—antagonized you like that.” His stuttered words end in a whisper, like he’s forgetting how to talk.
Akira purrs louder on purpose, spilling the deep hum into the space between them, wanting Akechi to feel the vibrations hitting his skin. “I don’t mind when you antagonize me,” he murmurs, keeping his touch light as he traces along the golden points of Akechi’s secondary coverts. “You’re the only one who does.”
Akechi draws in a labored breath. His fingers on the back of his neck are white-knuckled.
With both hands, Akira traces the edges of Akechi’s scapulars. “You’re the only one I want to.”
“Akira—”
Akira combs his fingertips down through the soft, small feathers covering the joint where Akechi’s wings meet his back and Akechi gasps, whatever he was going to say evaporating as his spine bows backward. Akira leans forward to meet him, preventing him from simply tipping over, and presses his fingertips down past the feathers, into the tender skin beneath. Akechi lets out a helpless trill, his hand falling from his neck, and Akira wastes no time slotting his nose against the bared skin.
Kneading gently, Akira feels the bone and muscle shifting beneath his hands, hears the shhh of Akechi’s wings folding in toward them. He breathes in, mouth parted to let his feline senses take over, and a direct rush of Akechi’s scent sends his head spinning. The lingering crispness of the storm, Akechi’s rose-scented shampoo, overlaid by coffee and spice drips down his throat, and beneath all of it, the distinct, unmistakable sweetness of the natural oils coating Akechi’s feathers.
Akira feels his mouth work around some sort of noise, but his own purr is resonating too loudly for him to hear it. Akechi shudders against him, wings twitching in and out, and it’s clear that he’s not in direct control over them anymore, nearly panting for breath and growing warmer to the touch by the second. A hand reaches back and tangles in Akira’s hair, tightening to the point of pain but not pulling him away, and Akira’s throat clicks with a series of low chuffs. His hands continue to rub mindlessly at Akechi’s scapulars, addicted to the tidal rhythm of Akechi tensing and relaxing with his motions.
Honestly, Akira isn’t sure what he’s doing. He didn’t offer to groom Akechi’s wings with this in mind, didn’t think anything like this was on the table at all, frankly, but Akechi isn’t the only one who loses his grip on his instincts sometimes, and the feline part of Akira is in full control, unable to resist when his prey is laid out so defenselessly before him.
Akechi’s hand in his hair flexes and tapered nails scrape the base of one feline ear. The stimulated state of his body elevates what would normally be an innocent touch into a bullet of heat shooting through his nerves and he muffles a moan against the back of Akechi’s neck, tail thrashing behind him. Akechi echoes with a broken whimper.
Akira’s never gotten so hard so quickly in his life.
“Akechi,” he pants, hot air dampening the skin of Akechi’s nape. “Akechi.”
Shivering uncontrollably, Akechi pulls his wings in as close as he can with Akira plastered to his back, and it’s all the permission Akira needs.
Removing his hands from Akechi’s feathers is like ripping out a tooth. Akechi’s grip on his hair disappears, and Akira crawls on numb, bloodless limbs around to Akechi’s front. Akechi, still clutching his knees to his chest, meets his gaze with shimmering, blown-out eyes, lips wet and parted, gasping for air. His cheeks are burning, hair in disarray around his head, both hands fisted in the cuffs of his borrowed pants. Behind him, his wings jerk and quake, flaring out before folding back in so unevenly that Akechi’s whole body sways with the motions. He looks more lost than Akira has ever seen him, overcome and uncertain and borderline desperate.
He’s never looked more beautiful.
“Akechi,” Akira breathes, taking his face in his hands.
Akechi blinks, light catching in his waterlines, and his knotted posture unravels slightly.
Akira telegraphs his movements with a level of patience and purpose that his feline nature can hardly stand, wrestling down the compulsion to just pin Akechi to the floor and take what he wants, and Akechi doesn’t stop him as he moves closer. When Akechi’s eyelids flutter closed, Akira’s restraint snaps.
Akira was never under the impression that his first kiss would be anything like the movies, having heard far too many stories about awkward fumbling and bumped noses and misjudged tongue etiquette to believe his would be any different. It takes practice for a kiss to feel good, and just because you’re kissing someone amazing doesn’t mean it’ll click right away. But apparently all of those people were just doing it wrong, because the instant Akira’s mouth meets Akechi’s, his entire being illuminates.
They fit together perfectly, like they were made to do this, made for each other. Akechi’s lips are soft and yielding, sweet like his scent, and when he presses back, returning the kiss without hesitation, Akira’s stomach swoops like he just hit the drop on a rollercoaster. He gasps, mouth opening, and Akechi matches him, deepening their contact, and it’s heat and silk and sparks dancing down Akira’s spine.
Akechi unfolds around him, legs parting, fingers clawing into his sleeves, and Akira’s hands magnetize to Akechi’s waist, seeking the warmth of taut skin beneath the fabric of his loaned shirt. They’re both clearly inexperienced, nervous and unsure how far to go, but nothing has ever felt more right than Akechi clinging to him, breathing his air, begging him with everything but words for more.
Akira licks into Akechi’s mouth, chasing the lingering notes of coffee on his tongue, and Akechi’s labored breaths hitch. Then the grip on his sleeves is pushing, tipping him back. For a frantic second, Akira thinks Akechi is shoving him away, that he went too far and took too much, but Akechi barely detaches from his mouth, following him down. Akira’s back hits the floor and Akechi climbs over him, straddling his hips in one smooth motion. Stunned, Akira’s eyes flicker open in time to catch Akechi’s blazing expression, the massive shapes of his wings rearing above him, thrown into silhouette by the overhead light. Their shadows fall over Akira, and images of avenging angels flash through his head. He’s not a prey hybrid, but he understands suddenly, viscerally, the terror and awe of the hunted finally facing its hunter.
The predator dives, capturing Akira’s mouth again, talons warm and solid caging his face, and Akira surrenders willingly, sliding his hands up Akechi’s thighs. Teeth nip Akira’s bottom lip and heat thrills through Akira’s veins, taking root between his legs. Bracing his hands on Akechi’s hips, he pulls him down to press their lower bodies together. It might be too forward or too fast, but the hungry, animal part of Akira’s brain needs to show Akechi the effect he’s having, how much Akira wants him. The bulge in Akira’s pants leaves absolutely no room for interpretation.
The answering hardness in Akechi’s doesn’t either.
Akechi gasps into Akira’s mouth, his nails digging into the sides of Akira’s head as he rocks down, rubbing their groins together with more intention. Pleasure stabs outward, the dull, imprecise pressure heavenly against Akira’s cock. Planting his feet on the floor, Akira holds Akechi in place for a long, deliberate grind that has them both moaning, the sound vibrating between their mouths.
“Akechi—” Akira pants, hips bucking up so forcefully that Akechi jolts on top of him. “Can—can I—?”
“Yes,” Akechi hisses, leaning one forearm on the floor beside Akira’s head for stability. “Yes, anything—whatever you want—”
The words simmer in Akira’s feline brain. Whatever he wants would have Akechi here on this floor for hours, too exhausted to move, skin blooming purple and red from Akira’s mouth—but they don’t have time for that, not now, and what he wants right at this moment is just to make Akechi feel good. So he fumbles first with his own pants, managing to free his erection despite his clumsy fingers. The instant it escapes the confines of his fly, relief spreads through Akira’s entire body and it’s a struggle not to immediately wrap his hand around the sensitive flesh. Instead, he hooks a finger into the waistband of Akechi’s sweats and drags it down, along with the front of Akechi’s underwear, revealing his flushed and leaking cock.
“Fuck—” Akechi tips his head back, biting down on his bottom lip, hips twitching.
For a second, Akira can't breathe for the arousal storming through him. Blindly, he catches both of their lengths in the circle of his fingers, and the hot, slick friction nearly undoes him right away.
Akechi groans, dropping his face down into the crook of Akira’s neck. His wings contract, pulling in close to his body, but when Akira gives an experimental pump, they flare out again. A wet, open mouth teases the fragile skin beneath Akira’s jaw and Akira’s grip tightens involuntarily, sending pinpricks of pleasure skittering through his body. He’s already so goddamn close, after just a little making out and inexperienced frottage, and he might be embarrassed if Akechi wasn’t obviously in the same position.
Forgoing shame in favor of chasing the heat boiling beneath his skin, of making Akechi lose it on top of him, Akira sets a ruthless pace, stroking them both with little regard for rhythm or finesse. Akechi shudders, the motion cascading through his wings, and rocks along to the hand pumping his cock. Every roll of his hips rubs his length indelicately against Akira’s, the slide growing slicker and louder as more fluid leaks from both of their tips. Akechi muffles a whine against the side of Akira’s throat, and Akira’s free hand finds its way into Akechi’s hair, carding his fingers into soft auburn locks.
Pressure coils in Akira’s groin, tightening with every imperfect tug to his aching cock. Gripping lightly at Akechi’s hair, he tips Akechi's head back and turns in order to capture his mouth again, savoring the taste of his helpless moan.
It’s messy and uncoordinated, Akira’s hand out of step with the reflexive rutting of Akechi’s hips, chaotic flashes of pleasure making his pace even sloppier, but Akechi is panting into his mouth, squirming without a hint of his usual poise, flexing his wings in and out as the tension in his body mounts, and it’s all absolutely, incredibly, mind-blowingly perfect.
“Oh,” Akechi exhales roughly against Akira’s lips. “Oh, Akira—I’m—fuck!”
“Me too,” Akira agrees, moving his hand faster, nearly to the point of pain, pushing that feverish edge just a little higher.
Akechi whimpers, hips jerking erratically, eyes screwed shut. As though possessed, Akira releases Akechi’s hair and reaches up, around Akechi’s shuddering torso, to slide his fingers into the soft feathers against Akechi’s back.
A broken gasp falters between them, Akechi’s eyes flying open and boring down into Akira’s skull. Then they flutter closed as his entire body pulls taut, muscles quivering, mouth falling open in shock. Behind him, his wings fan out, shooting to their full lengths, and Akira thinks he hears something clatter to the floor, but he doesn’t care, can’t care about anything but the tide of pleasure smacking into him at the sight of Akechi coming undone.
His hand stutters, tightening around both of their lengths as his release pulses from his tip, surely painting long white ropes up the front of his shirt. A cottony roar fills his ears, his limbs locked tight, his head thrown back as his body spasms through the overload. Somewhere through the onslaught, he feels Akechi relax on top of him, a warm, solid weight melting him into a boneless puddle.
Finally, the violent pleasure softens, ebbing through his system in slow waves, and Akira sags onto the hardwood, chest heaving, heart thumping painfully against the inside of his ribs. Warm air dampens the side of his neck and a few strands of silky hair are stuck in the sweat on his cheek. On either side of them, massive golden wings rest gently on the floor. His hand, he realizes, is still buried in Akechi’s scapulars, and he rubs numb fingertips lightly through the small feathers.
A low trill hums from Akechi’s chest into Akira’s, and Akira purrs back.
“Can you fly?”
Against him, Akechi shifts slightly. The wing draped over both of them like a large feathery blanket ripples with the movement. Akechi’s other wing, tucked to his back, remains still for the slow, rhythmic stroking of Akira’s hand. “When I was a child, before I came to Tokyo.” Akechi’s voice is low and husky, resonating through them both. “They were big enough in comparison to my body that I was able to get off the ground, but I couldn’t go very far. I could glide down from the tops of things, though.” Dark, tapered nails pluck at the collar of Akira’s clean shirt. “It used to drive my mother crazy.”
Akira glances down at Akechi’s head, pillowed on his chest. Despite moving to the bed after awkwardly tidying up, he eschewed the real pillow in exchange for molding himself to Akira’s side. Somewhere in the tangled blankets, Akira’s tail taps with satisfaction. “Was she avian?” Akira asks. For all Akechi’s spoken about his mother, he’s never mentioned her race.
“Yes, but her wings were always much, much smaller. Purely decorative.” Akechi pauses. “They were very beautiful,” he whispers, like it’s something he’s never dared to say out loud.
“You got it from her, then.”
“Hers were redder. I used to wish mine looked more like hers.”
Akira draws his hand deliberately down Akechi’s folded wing, eliciting a shiver. “Yours are perfect,” he states.
“They…they have their own charm,” Akechi says breathlessly.
“From the moment we met, I thought they were beautiful,” Akira confesses. “I wanted to see more, but you barely even moved them.”
“Ah.” Akechi curls his hand into a fist. “Well. They’re large and they get in the way. If I don’t carefully monitor my reactions, accidents can occur.” He hesitates. “And…I don’t particularly like my wings giving away my emotions. I’m not always feeling the emotion I should be feeling, and that kind of honesty did me no favors in my foster homes.”
Akira thinks back to Akechi in interviews, on TV, giving speeches, his dazzling smile and pristine composure and stock still wings.
“I’m sure you can relate,” Akechi slices through Akira’s thoughts. “You’re remarkably restrained for a leopard.”
Akira’s stroking stops.
Lifting his head, Akechi rests his sharp chin on Akira’s chest in order to look up at him, eyebrows raised. “Was that supposed to be a secret?”
“I don’t exactly go around telling people,” Akira says, mouth dry.
“Ah, so that’s why your merry band seems to be under the impression that you’re a domestic house cat.”
Akira’s heart skips. His left feline ear twitches. “How did you know?”
A sly smile quirks the corner of Akechi’s mouth. “You might be able to fool others with your little show, but you can’t fool me. I’m an expert at controlling my instincts.”
Letting out a heavy sigh, Akira resumes petting Akechi’s wing and Akechi lays his head back down with a contented chirp. “My parents are both house cats,” he explains, staring at the shadowy ceiling. “Where I grew up, the people are a bit conservative toward predators. If people found out I wasn’t a cat like my parents, they treated me differently. So I tried to mimic house cat behavior. And if I couldn’t…I’d just stay still.”
Akechi clicks his tongue. “Surely it’s different here, though.”
“Yeah.”
“So why keep it up?”
Pressing his lips together, Akira tries to find the words. “It’s easier now,” he manages. “To not be myself.”
Akechi is quiet for a beat. His extended wing scoops in closer, as though to wrap Akira up inside. “You’re such a hypocrite.”
“I know.”
Unsticking himself from Akira’s side, Akechi pushes up onto his elbows and swoops down to catch Akira’s mouth.
Maybe, maybe, Akira thinks, letting his eyes drift closed as Akechi’s wings unfurl around them in a protective barrier and a low, gravelly sound saws out of Akira’s own throat—maybe they don’t have to hide from each other anymore.
+1
“That’s horrible!” Ann sounds so disgusted that Akira can’t help but laugh. She glares. “Akira! I’m trying to be outraged for you!”
“Thank you, Ann,” Akira says sincerely, still smiling.
The others, all scattered throughout the attic, are looking at him with similar expressions of horror. Except Akechi, of course, who already knows the story. He’s sitting in Akira’s desk chair, legs crossed primly, wings draped over the back, plucking absently at Akira’s hair as Akira sits on the floor in front of him.
“That’s gotta be, like, child abuse,” Ryuji insists from the bench, his icepack forgotten in his hand. His antlers are starting to come in for the year and his whole scalp is red and irritated. “This isn’t the Meiji era, for crying out loud, parents can’t just crop their kids’ ears.”
“Legally, they can,” Makoto points out. She shifts her weight on the cushion uncomfortably. “It’s not common anymore, but in some cases, like with Akira, parents may feel it’s necessary to—”
“It’s never necessary!” Ann insists, tail thrashing over Akira’s duvet. “Just because someone is a predator, that doesn’t mean they’re violent!”
“I know that, Ann,” Makoto says evenly. Atop her head, her large wolf ears flatten briefly before perking back up. “I wasn’t saying they’re right to do it, merely that it’s unfortunately still legal.”
“That’s such bullshit,” Futaba fumes from her spot cross-legged on the floor. Behind her, her dark, folded wings twitch restlessly, occasionally extending enough for light to filter through the membranes. Any more excitement, and she’ll be wrapped up like a burrito, as Akira’s seen many times before. “It’s the 21st century—you shouldn’t be able to make that kind of choice for your kid. They’re the ones who have to live with it, not you! If they wanna change their appearance when they get older, it should be up to them.”
“My father has occasionally encouraged me to crop my ears,” Haru admits from beside her. Her hand strays to the end of one long, pink-furred lop ear. “He thinks my future husband would like shorter ears better.” Hers are indeed longer than most of the lops Akira has seen in his life, dipping past her collarbone, but that is nobody’s business but hers. “I don’t think he’d force me, though.” Her eyes shimmer. “I’m sorry your parents did, Akira.”
“Thanks, Haru.”
“Your dad sucks ass,” Futaba tells her.
She shrugs, nose twitching.
“I understand the anxiety of being a predator race,” Yusuke says, still lying in the bright spot on the floor with his head turned in Akira’s direction. The shaft of light streaming in through the window glints off the dark, iridescent scales climbing up his neck. “And I suppose there have been times when I wished to conceal my nature, to avoid scaring people—” challenging, with his slitted pupils and yellow sclera, “—but to perform something so drastic and irreversible on a child is utterly grotesque.”
“Exactly,” Ryuji grumbles, slapping his ice pack back over the nubs poking through his hair. “Like, if you’ve got a problem, don’t make it your kid’s problem too. Or just give them a hat!”
Again, Akira snorts before he can stop himself. One of Akechi’s little talons traces the base of his left ear, threading a shiver down his spine.
“Did it affect your hearing at all?” Makoto wonders. “A feline’s ear shape is quintessential to their advanced hearing.”
Akira shrugs one shoulder. “It happened when I was really young, so if there was a difference, I don’t remember. And they didn’t crop much—just the edge, to make them look less rounded.” As he speaks, his tail curls inward to lay across his lap and he runs one hand along it mindlessly. “I’m just glad they decided not to dock my tail.”
“Why didn’t you tell us sooner?” Ann asks, blue eyes wide and glittering. “You know we wouldn’t care, right?”
“I know,” Akira promises. “It didn’t have anything to do with you guys.”
“Then why?”
“It’s sort of a weird thing to bring up, isn’t it?” Ryuji interjects. “You look like one kinda hybrid, and if you make a special point outta explaining you’re a different kinda hybrid, it kinda seems like you think being that hybrid is something people, like, need to be warned about, or something.”
Makoto looks at him. “That’s remarkably insightful, Ryuji.”
Ryuji puffs up, then deflates. “Hey, whaddya mean remarkably? I’m always insightful!”
“That’s the gist of it, though, Ryuji,” Akira says. “After a while, it’s just….”
“Yeah, okay,” Ann pouts, crossing her arms. “I get it. I’m not really upset about that.”
“Yes,” Haru agrees. “We’re simply sad that you felt as though you had to hide your true nature at all.”
“And that your parents ruined your precious round ears,” Futaba sulks. “I bet they were so cute!”
“I hope you feel comfortable being your honest self around us in the future,” Yusuke says, his solemn tone undercut somewhat by his prone position.
Akira isn’t sure what to say or how to talk around the lump in his throat, so he just nods.
“Great, then we can start the honesty hour with, uh—” Ryuji waves a hand, encompassing both Akira and Akechi with the gesture, “—like, what exactly is going on with—this?”
“With what, Sakamoto?” Akechi hums, scratching at Akira’s scalp. Akira relaxes back against him, a purr rising in his chest. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
“Dude—”
“It’s called preening, Ryuji,” Ann says. “Haven’t you ever met an avian?”
“I know what preening is, that’s not what I’m—”
“Do we really have to spell it out for you?” Futaba asks.
“I mean, I’d like a straight answer! I don’t think that’s such an unreasonable—”
“I assume you are a melanistic variety,” Yusuke directs the query at Akira, bulldozing Ryuji as though he wasn’t even speaking. “Your tail lacks the distinctive rosettes of other leopard hybrids.”
With a wordless groan, Ryuji gives up and slumps back against the bench, ice pack pressed to his head.
“Yeah,” Akira confirms. “If I wasn’t, my parents would probably have made me dye my fur.”
“I think you’d look very nice with spots,” Haru says serenely.
“What about me?” Ann asks, leaning forward as though to display her sleek golden ears. “Would I look nice?”
“Yes, but I also think you look nice the way you are, Ann.”
Cooing, Ann slides off the bed in order to crawl over to Haru and hug her. “I just wanted a compliment, but that was so sweet, Haru!” She nuzzles the side of Haru’s head, ruffling her fluffy hair and making her giggle.
Akechi’s sharp nail traces up to the tip of Akira’s ear, drawing out a surprised shiver, and he glances back, meeting gleaming crimson eyes.
“Sojiro’s here,” Futaba announces, drawing Akira’s attention back to the group. She clambers to her feet, wings settling in behind her, just as the downstairs bell jingles. Almost instantly, Akira’s sensitive nose catches a hint of the pizza Sojiro volunteered to pick up. “Let’s go, team!”
She leads the charge down the stairs, trailed by the others in varying states of enthusiasm. Akechi doesn’t move, however, so neither does Akira, until Ann, the last person out, flashes them a pointed look over the bannister and disappears, leaving them alone.
“Half of them can still hear us,” Akira warns Akechi, tipping his head back to catch his gaze again. “So don’t work me up too much.”
The corner of Akechi’s mouth tilts with a smirk. “You get worked up no matter what I do.”
“Because I like you.”
Dainty claws tickle Akira’s scalp as Akechi grabs a handful of dark hair and Akira bites his lip at the instinctive rush that buzzes down his spine. “Is that so?”
“Yeah,” Akira says honestly, throat tight as the purring starts back up. “I do.”
Akechi purses his lips, giving Akira’s hair a light tug before gentling his grip and letting the messy curls slide through his fingers. “I think the black suits you,” he murmurs, stroking his thumb up the cut side of Akira’s ear.
Static drips down Akira’s neck and the loud, chesty purr intensifies. “It matches my hair.”
“That is one reason, yes.” Uncrossing his legs, Akechi pats Akira’s head and stands up, feathers rustling.
Akira hurries to follow, stretching his slightly cramped legs, and watches Akechi shake his wings out, unfolding them a few feet before tucking them back in. The low sunlight picks out veins of gold and copper amidst the neatly groomed feathers and in the soft sway of Akechi’s hair, and Akira doesn’t think he could look away even if he wanted to.
“Why are you staring at me?” Akechi asks, brow arched like he knows the answer.
Reaching out, Akira skims his fingertips along Akechi’s cheekbone and tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. Akechi’s superior expression melts into wide eyes and parted lips, but he doesn’t move as Akira steps in closer. “You’re beautiful,” Akira tells him, stroking his thumb over the tiny, velvety feathers on Akechi’s temple. “Everything about you.”
For a second, Akechi doesn’t even breathe, and the only sound in the room is the continued rumble of Akira’s purr. Then Akechi’s wings shiver from peak to tip, popping partially open to display the feathers rippling on end. Even the small hairline feathers beneath Akira’s thumb bristle ever so slightly. A furious blush blooms across Akechi’s cheeks.
Grinning, Akira cups Akechi’s face in both hands to state again how beautiful he is, especially like this, but a hand fisted in his shirt yanks him forward and his words are lost to the insistent pressure of Akechi’s mouth. A shadow falls over them as two large, feathery curtains arc forward, curving around Akira in a mirror to the arms wrapping around his neck, and Akira’s smile softens against the kiss.
Akechi doesn’t always need to explain how he feels, Akira muses, shifting his hands down to Akechi’s waist. After all, the rest of Akechi’s body speaks loud and clear.