Notes: Written for RPS Advent.
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On Thursday nights, Callum has wings.
He used to like it, when he was a kid, when he could escape and go flying for the night. But he's older now, and heavier, and doesn't really have the energy for it anymore. Which is too bad, really, because he liked flying. It was like golf, in a lot of ways�the precision, the focus, the way it helped him relax.
Golf is nice, but it just doesn't compare.
Anyhow, it doesn't really matter, because he generally lives in cities now, and can't go flying around where people might see him. He can't even go walking around all that much, although there are some nights, when months of Thursdays are getting to him and he's sick of squeezing himself through the doors in his apartment, trying not to knock over lamps, that he does go out.
There are some places, in the less reputable areas of the cities he frequents, where people won't glance twice at a guy with big black feathery wings, as long as he's got the getup to go with it.
So every so often he'll go into the back of his closet and pull out the soft leather pants, and the studded wrist bands and the tiny bag of makeup, and he'll get ready to go out. The bag has lots of things in it, but he only ever uses the eyeliner. He had to have Molly help him the first few times, once she stopped laughing at him, and she bought him the rest of the stuff. He doesn't know what it is, or where it goes, so he just ignores it all. The eyeliner is enough to get the point across.
Molly's the only one who knows, and only because she's in the same situation. Except that hers come on Saturdays, and they're white.
There are others, and if you know where to look, there are support groups, chat rooms. Callum ignores them. He's had enough meetings to last him a few lifetimes, and talking about the fact that he sprouts big feathered appendages every week won't change anything.
So he doesn�t talk about it. Most Thursdays, he sits in his apartment and watches tv and tries to get comfortable on his couch (which, by the way, isn't very well adapted to having guys with wings sitting on it). And other Thursdays, he goes to places where he's just another one in a crowd full of freaks.
Except this Thursday, as he's leaning over the sink and cursing the fact that he can never get the eyeliner to look as good as Molly does, his doorbell rings.
Suddenly, this Thursday is very different from the others.
"I'm busy," he calls. "Come back tomorrow."
There's a long pause. Then, "you having sex in there??"
Shit. Hugh. He wasn't supposed to get into town until Saturday.
"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, that's what I'm doing, Dillon, so fuck off."
He can hear Hugh chuckling through the wall. "No you're not. Open up."
"Seriously, Hugh. I'm�sick. I'm in the bathroom, and I just finished throwing up, ok?" He knocks on the wall to prove his point. "Just�go get a hotel room, and I'll give you a call tomorrow if I'm feeling better."
"What, you don't want someone to come cover you up with blankets and make you chicken noodle soup?" Hugh asks, and Callum rolls his eyes.
"No, I really don't."
There's a pause. "Really, man?"
He sags against the sink in relief. "Really. I'll call you tomorrow."
"Yeah, ok," Hugh says. "Don't die, ok?"
"Fuck off," Callum says, looking at his own reflection in the mirror, skin pale against the backdrop of feathers, the fabric of his shirt.
There's no reply, and he sighs in relief, leaning over to stuff the eyeliner back into the makeup bag. He'll have to wait a few minutes before leaving�can't take the risk of running into Hugh. He straightens up, turns towards the bedroom, and then drops the bag with a clatter against the tile.
Hugh's leaning against the bathroom doorframe.
Yeah, Callum gave him a key, didn't he? Shit.
"Hi," Hugh says, and seems to be at a loss for words beyond that.
"Fuck," Callum replies, and slumps down onto the edge of the tub, wings arching up over his head to cover him. "Fuck," he says again as he gets a mouthful of feathers.
"So," Hugh says eventually, gesturing awkwardly at Callum. "Are you�is this for a role? You're�playing an angel or something, right? I mean, this is�" he trails off.
Callum raises his chin, all set to nod, to lie, but he finds himself shaking his head instead.
"So it's�some fetish thing?" Hugh asks. "I�I mean, I can work with that, if that's what you�" he stops, seeing the look on Callum's face. "Well they're not�you know. Real." He suddenly looks younger than Callum's ever seen him look, younger and scared. "Are they?"
Callum leans forward, strips off his shirt. He doesn't sit back up, just stays that way, arms resting on his knees, tipped forward so Hugh can see his back, can see where the wings connect to his skin.
"Jesus," he says. "This isn't�you're really not fucking with me, are you?"
"I'm really not," Callum says to the floor, and he watches Hugh's feet as they move out of the doorway and take a step towards him.
"Can I�?" Callum can see the shadow of Hugh's hand moving across the tile. He nods.
Hugh's fingers are cold against his skin, touching the familiar curve of his shoulder before moving back to feel the join of feathers to his body. Callum shudders as Hugh lightly brushes the edge of a wing, and Hugh pulls back.
"Do they hurt?" he asks, and Callum shakes his head.
"No. I guess it probably hurts when they�you know�grow, but thankfully I always sleep through that. It's part of the process, I guess. Every Thursday, the sun goes down and I fall asleep. I wake up with wings, and Friday morning, they're gone. I can't explain it. It's just�it happens."
"It happens," Hugh repeats, sounding as if he's a breath away from bursting into hysterical laughter.
"Yeah," Callum says, raising his head to look at Hugh. "It does." He uncurls his wings to prove his point, stretching them from one wall of the tiny bathroom to the other.
Hugh swallows. "You look�" he shakes his head.
"Ridiculous, I know. It's just�you go nuts, you know? Knowing that you can't leave. So this�" he waves a hand at his face, his clothes, "is the only way to escape the claustrophobia. Go out like this, and people think you're just another goth. That, I can deal with. Being a normal guy walking around with wings? Not so easy."
"I was going to say hot," Hugh says, his lips curving into a smile.
Callum blinks. "Hot," he repeats.
"Yeah. Hot. You know. Like some kind of�I don't know�porn come to life or something."
Callum raises his eyebrows. "What kind of porn are you watching?"
Hugh leans forward and takes Callum's arm, pulling him up from the edge of the tub. "C'mere." He propels Callum in front of him out of the bathroom, into the bedroom, and turns him towards the full length mirror in the corner. "God, just�look at you." He ducks under one of Callum's wings and stands there in the shelter of them, looking at their reflection.
Callum looks. He doesn't look any different from any other Thursday he's gone out. Pants just this side of too tight, a shirt to match, studded bands around his wrists, eyeliner a little smudged, hair more or less staying where it was put under the influence of a little too much gel. And the wings, rising up behind him, around them, dark and strong and soft to the touch.
And Hugh's touching them. His fingers reach up to brush along the one that's draped over his shoulder, tracing a line down the feathers and making Callum's eyes flutter closed, his breath catch.
"Hey," Hugh says, quietly, his breath warm on Callum's cheek. "You ok?"
Callum nods, eyes still closed. "I'm good," he says, voice uncomfortably choked. "It's just�they're a little sensitive, that's all."
Hugh's hand continues its exploration, slowly working his way upwards, smoothing down the feathers as he goes. "Sensitive in a good way?" he asks, and when Callum nods, he presses a kiss to Callum's jaw. "Good," he whispers, his breath cool against the damp spot his lips left, and he reaches through the feathers to draw a line down the length of Callum's spine.
Callum shivers and reaches to pull Hugh closer to him so they're pressing against each other, the wings covering them like a fort, a barrier. He slides Hugh's shirt up over his head, and then they pause for a moment, their arms around each other, chest to chest, Hugh's fingers lightly brushing the underside of Callum's wings.
They breathe.
Then they're moving again, Hugh's lips finding Callum's, his tongue working its way between them, parting them, catching the gasp Callum lets out when Hugh tangles his fingers into his wings and tugs, just a little, just enough. Callum feels the jolt all the way down to his dick, tight now inside his pants. His hands slip into Hugh's back pockets and rock them together impatiently, but Hugh pulls out of his grip, spins them until Callum's back is to the bed, and then expertly tips Callum over onto it.
He grins down at him, that cocky son of a bitch grin, and kicks off his boots and pants in a matter of seconds. His boxers follow, and then he's standing there naked, looking down at Callum as if he can't figure out which part of him to kiss first.
"I'm interactive, you know," Callum says eventually. "You don't just have to look." Hugh laughs, loud in the silence of the room, and then he's reaching into Callum's drawer, pulling out the lube, setting it on the table.
"I've heard that about you," Hugh says, leaning over him, smoothing one of his wings out against the bedspread. "That you like to�" he waves a hand at him. "Interact."
Callum reaches for the zipper of his pants, but Hugh stops him, catching his wrist and pinning it back against the feathers that cover the pillows. "Leave them," he says, his other hand smoothing the leather over Callum's thigh, and Callum swallows a moan.
Hugh's lips begin to trace a path down Callum's jaw, his throat, his chest. His hands, meanwhile, are everywhere, tracing the leather of Callum's pants, fingering their way through the soft feathers of his wings, dipping beneath his waistline to tease at the skin of his stomach. By the time Hugh's lips reach the edge of his pants, Callum is twisting on the bed, desperate for any kind of friction against his cock.
When Hugh mouths him through his pants, he nearly comes right then and there.
The pants rub up against him as they come off, and he bites his lip, waiting for Hugh's next move. He doesn't have to wait long. Hugh's hands are hot on the skin of his thighs, urging them up, his lips and teeth marking the soft skin there. Callum cries out when Hugh's fingers enter him, slick and hard and not nearly enough. He arches his hips up into Hugh's touch, wanting more, and Hugh gets that, his hands finding Callum's hips and lifting, twisting, until Callum is up on his knees, longing to drive his cock down against the bedspread or his hand, but longing even more for Hugh inside of him.
He buries his face in the pillow to muffle his cry as Hugh pushes into him, feeling his wings quivering with exertion against his back. Hugh's hands are tight on his hips, grounding him, rocking them together in a slow and dizzying rhythm.
"Jesus," Hugh whispers, "this is�you're�" He can't seem to finish a thought. Callum flattens out his wings, peers over them to see Hugh looking at him. "I'm not gonna�" last long are the words he can't say, and Callum shakes his head, drops it between his arms, arching his hips up into Hugh's thrusts.
Go, he says without words, take me, and Hugh does. He fucks Callum hard, fast, thrusts ragged and desperate, and Callum holds onto the headboard and meets his thrusts, pushing back, wanting more.
Hugh buries his face in Callum's wings when he comes, and the feeling of hot breath against feathers sets Callum off, crying out and coming without Hugh ever touching his cock.
They clean up as much as they can without moving too much, and Hugh curls up by his side, lying on top of one of Callum's wings as the other one flutters down to cover them both like a living blanket.
When they wake in the morning, the wings are gone.
"So," Hugh says, sitting up against the headboard and running his hand idly across Callum's back. "I'm thinking I might be back in town next Thursday."
"Oh yeah?" Callum asks, smile muffled in the pillow.
"Yeah. And, you know, the Thursday after that. And maybe the Thursday after that�"