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Philip can handle being an ex-junkie. The cravings kill him, and the pain’s insidious, but he’s finally managing to push through it—he’s getting better all the time. The meetings help. He’s gotten used to his scraggly, perpetually matted hair, and his nose ring’s practically become a part of him, even though it was so bizarre when he first arrived. He’s gotten used to the extra meat on his bones and the sluggish health problems that came from all his host’s poor dietary decisions. The one thing he can’t get behind is his wings.
He spreads them out in the small confines of the warehouse’s bathroom, and that should be claustrophobic. The tiny, dingy space shouldn’t be enough room to comfortably fly. He’s a relatively young man in his prime—was in both cases—and he should have large, thick wings full of lengthy feathers. Instead, he has two battered little rat’s nests of rusting feathers bent at awkward angles. One of his wings is completely broken, to the point where not even Marcy can fix it, and the other one always looks lopsided. It’s his host’s fault. His host was an idiot. It’s bad enough that his host willing injected heroin, but it blows his mind that anyone, even a twenty-first-er, could be so reckless with their wings.
When he first caught a glimpse of them in his reflection, it made him want to cry. He still hates seeing them. He winces at himself, then tries to tuck them away, but it’s a horrible, sore and grueling process, because they’re no longer at the angles that they should be. He has half a mind to just ask Carly to cut them off. He can’t fly anyway. The others probably think that he’s useless deep down, even though they’re all too kind to say it. But he just can’t quite bring himself to give them up completely.
He snatches the brush off the sink and wanders back out into the common area, plunking down onto the couch, exactly as heavy as he feels. He extends just the one semi-good wing around himself and lifts the brush to the ragged feathers, vainly trying to treat them. He tries not to think about how much fun Marcy and David must have grooming their perfect wings together, or even Mac and Kat. Carly does her own, but that’s no hardship; she has gorgeous, sleek black things that look as badass as the rest of her. Trevor...
Trevor wanders by and glances over. His own wings are spread, tall and long, exactly as powerful as Philip thought his own would be. Trevor’s entire body is in near perfect shape. He has no idea how lucky he is.
He asks, “Need some help?” And Philip sort of wants to shake his head and tuck his wings back, because he’s ashamed of them.
But Trevor lives with him now. Trevor already knows the worst of him. So Philip sighs and nods, holding out the brush.
Trevor walks right over. He gently turns Philip’s shoulder, making him sit sideways on the couch, and Trevor settles back behind him. Trevor whistles when Philip’s broken wing extends. Not for the first time, he notes, “That looks painful.”
“It is,” Philip drawls. “’Feels about as bad as it looks.”
“It doesn’t look so bad. A little brushing and some shampoo, and you’ll have a cute set back here.”
Philip snorts and doesn’t believe it for a second. But he appreciates the sentiment. Trevor carefully draws the brush down Philip’s outer feathers, and a shiver runs through Philip at the gentle caress. At least the grooming feels good. And he appreciates the company. The support.
In time, with such good friends around him, he knows he’ll come to accept even the worst parts of himself, and that’ll make it okay, even if he never flies again.