Tattered || ofglyphs
@ofglyphs
Three days. Three days where he had to lie through his teeth because he absolutely, positively cannot let his companion find out his well-kept secret. Sheâs been nice enough to him before and sheâs nice enough now but... if she knew, that could change, couldnât it? Atlas was never exactly a place that viewed... people like him positively and that couldnât be more true than when talking about the Schnee family. There was... a lot of bad blood.
But so long as he was just-human, they could continue to be friends. He didnât want that to change.
So as much as his back kept aching and pinching after their ship went down from a Grimm attack, he insisted he was fine. Just walk it off. He could wait until they found proper civilization with proper rooms and proper locked doors before unbinding his wings from his back.
At least thatâs what he told himself, during Hour One after the initial crash. Early Day Three was a different story, his muscles protesting in tight jolts through his nerves that were, simply put, trying to drive him crazy. After a while he simply couldnât stand the suffering anymore -- he had to get his wings stretched out before he ended up curled in pain in the dirt and unable to hide it any more.
His hasty plan on how to do that without Weiss finding out the lower breed of company she was with was to make up that she looked tired and they should take a breather-- no, wait, she should take a breather and heâll take a small look around to figure out where theyâre going and--... okay, so if sheâs not that tired he can check one direction, and she can check another direction. The opposite direction. A direction where heâs not.
Gods, he canât keep this up, the ache in his muscles is driving him insane.
He ends the debate by deciding sheâll go that way and then he walks off this way without leaving room for argument. Its more short than heâs used to ever being, but if the pain gets any worse heâs not sure heâll have enough self-restraint not to unbind them right then and there.
His steps through the woods are quick as blue eyes dart for a good, secluded spot he can stretch his wings out without too much fear of being seen. When he finally finds a good, tree-crowded section of woods and glances around to make sure heâs alone, he all but rips his shirt off over his head and unties the wide bandages from around his chest.
His wings arenât anything spectacular to see. Quite the opposite, theyâre stripped down to only their down fuzz, primary and secondary and tertiary feathers all completely absent, and other than the unruly plume of golden feathers between his shoulders where he canât quite reach, the rest of his back and shoulders is bare of them as well.
Its near-instant relief to be able to stretch the arms of his wings out to full length, sharp stinging ebbing away into a dull, warm throb through his back instead. He gives a low, throaty groan stretching his arms ahead and his wings back until his whole body trembles and his spine pops quietly when he switches his stretch forward into an arch back. Thatâs so much better.
