Work Text:
Tommy’s wings hurt.
They itch painfully, his secondaries and primaries ruffling against each other, as if they have a mind of their own. Tommy doesn’t blame them, trying to satiate the pain by igniting it further when the feathers brush against each other.
It’s his fault, of course. He hasn’t had much time to care for them, with all the stress of moving into a new foster home leading into trying to stay with the family.
Ten months ago is when he moved into the Craft’s home, Tommy, freshly out of one of his least favorite homes, was expecting to be in and out like that, his wings and personality a probable problem for the seemingly perfect house.
He was proven wrong, Wilbur showing him that physical touch doesn’t need to be painful, Phil representing a positive authority figure, and Techno exhibiting hidden kindness.
The only thing he hasn’t trusted his family with is his wings. They know he has them, obviously, they’re way too big to be hidden away. Every family he’s ever been with has known, and they have never cared if his wings were cared for, just that they were animalistic and in the way.
Tommy’s nervous about this house though, for there is one significant difference between this family and his ten other families in his sixteen years of life.
His foster brother has wings.
Tommy’s own wings had raised in surprise when Techno had first opened the door, eyes immediately one the yellow-hued white wings behind him. He had traced Techno’s feathers, all the way from the tips of his fingers to his ears, immediately identifying the type of bird.
Techno’s a cockatoo.
After the initial laughing fits over the word “cock” being in Techno’s species, Tommy had spent the rest of his first night wide awake in his room, overthinking things. Just the normal “my species is so fucking boring, no wonder I’m in the fucking foster system" things. As a robin, Tommy’s been overlooked by so many things: people, caregivers, other avians.
It doesn’t matter, Tommy’s a big man, and he doesn’t know nobody.
Which leads to this, Tommy pitifully collapsed on his bedroom floor, blankets scattered around him in a ditched effort for comfort. He’s been preening his wings on his own for months now, and it seems that they’ve had enough, wanting someone else, someone who is flock, to interlock the barbules, hands gently brushing dust and dirt out of his brown feathers.
Tommy yearns for it, birdbrain—as Wilbur so lovingly calls his hindbrain—overtaking his normal thoughts. Flock flock flock repeats in his mind, a garrulous chatter of saddened chirps. Urges for those same chirps to spill out of his chest threaten him, and he knows that the moment they do, Techno will be sent running towards him, instincts clouding his mind.
He doesn’t want Techno and his first time preening together to be forced, doesn’t want Techno to succumb to instincts forcing him to preen Tommy’s wings. He wants it to be willingly, wants Techno to ask if he can preen Tommy’s wings, and to not care that a cockatoo is caring for a robin.
The last time somebody else preened Tommy’s wings was two years ago, a friend he had met a few months prior asking shyly if he can stop Tommy’s itching. Tommy had agreed, wanting to experience other people’s hands in his feathers for once. His friend didn’t have wings of his own, so Tommy feels as if the connection preening is supposed to make didn’t happen.
And he wants it to happen with Techno.
He has a different relationship with Wilbur, something brotherly as an avian and human. The same with Phil, a paternal relationship. They all love each other, and if asked, Tommy will say he loves them all equally.
The love with Techno is different, something avians share, and that bond goes deeper after the first preening. Tommy would know, he’s done his research after hard nights filled with urges to go to Techno’s room and complete that final step.
A chirp escapes him, loud and needy, not unlike a baby bird. It’s late at night, and there’s an off chance Techno’s asleep, irregular sleep schedule creating an unpredictable awake time. He slaps his hands over his mouth, wings curling around him, and oh, Tommy regrets that.
The trickle of emotions explodes, flooding every inch of his nervous system. His mind bursts out from flock flock flock to a loud, impossibly loud, FLOCK FLOCK FLOCK. The chirps Tommy has laboriously tried to stave away spills out of his mouth, a million times louder than before.
His wings start flapping, frantic attempts to gather any attention he can, any resemblance of love, of flock. Arms shoot out with minds of their own, the reddish-brown feathers on them rising. They gather the blankets, stuffies, and hoodies into a pile around him, and his instincts slightly calm down at the scent of his flock—but near to what it was before.
Tommy closes his eyes, mouth still wide open with cheeps and chirps leaving at their own wills. His attempts to suppress his instincts are futile, though.
His bedroom door slams open, door handle hitting the wall so hard Tommy already knows there will be an indent in the morning. Arms wrap around him, pulling him close, and the roaring in Tommy’s ears cease, silence pushing at his feathers.
The chirping slows, stopping gradually. Tommy chitters contently, satisfied with the hold Techno has on him, flock flock flock! Techno responds with a much more mature sounding chirp, a deep flock that sends vibrations down Tommy’s spine.
Tommy opens his eyes, meeting Techno’s. His pupils are large, Tommy’s most likely the same size. The feathers lining Techno’s cheeks are puffed up, and Tommy lets out a small chirp, one hand reaching up to soothe the distressed feathers. A wordless exchange happens, Tommy chirping and Techno responding with a firm, flock. It's enough for Tommy to be satisfied that he isn't forcing Techno to join, to officially join his flock.
Techno returns the motion on his wings, and god, does Tommy melt. The first touch to his wings, and Tommy’s a puddle, the quieted birdbrain imploding in his mind. Tommy’s chirps restart, and Techno easily flips him around, so they’re sitting one after each other with crossed legs.
Petting the wings on his back, Tommy disintegrates, slumping forwards. Techno hasn’t even started the proper preening process yet, nor has he opened the oil glands at the base of his wings. His flock is only petting his primaries and softly massaging the muscles where his wings meet his back. It feels nice, of course it does, but Tommy wants to be preened, not pet like a dog.
He shoves his wings up into Techno’s fingers, sighing when the hands finally break through his messy wings, relief from the itching already subsiding. Techno instinctively starts preening his wings, and Tommy’s bent half over, head in hands as he struggles to stay awake. He will stay awake, he wants the full experience.
Techno’s fingers glide through his greater secondary coverts, before rubbing around the oil glands, and the feeling of the oil on his wings is heavenly. Tommy chirps, a low buzzing noise that Techno responds with a gruff flock! His flock rubs the oil into his coverts, all the way to his secondaries, and finally, to his primaries.
Tommy can feel every single interlocking his feather’s, the barbules latching tight to one another in a way Tommy can only feel relief from. Techno’s reaching the end of the official preening, but Tommy doesn’t care, chirps spilling from his throat every time Techno’s hands even slightly brush his wings.
It turns back to the petting, and then to the massaging, until finally, Tommy’s being turned back around. They face each other, a twenty year old cockatoo pressing his forehead into the sixteen year old robin, a brotherly bond locking place with the motion.
In a sudden urge to return the preening, Tommy reaches around Techno’s sides, running his fingers through the feathers. Although Techno’s wings are preened regularly—and therefore not as unkempt as Tommy’s were—the feathers are still slightly displaced.
Tommy reciprocates the motions Techno did earlier, massaging the oil out of his brother’s glands and letting it spread down the yellow-white wings. Techno ends up slumping forward just as Tommy did earlier, and Tommy takes a half second break to move Techno’s forehead to his right shoulder.
Hands working deftly, in a way only avians know how, Tommy repairs Techno’s wings with ease, responding to Techno’s content chirps with chitters of his own. Soon enough, Techno’s wings are preened, and Tommy’s wrapping his arms around Techno’s body, wings enveloping them both.
Techno’s wings wrap around him as well, and Tommy sighs, resting his head on Techno’s right shoulder, the embrace as soothing as it can ever be.
With a final sleepy chirp, Tommy leans forward, falling asleep in his brother’s—his flock’s—loving hug, knowing that he is loved, even as a robin.