Oikawa looks at the black tips of his wings and feels the tremble begin in his lungs, coming out as a shaky gasp before making its way through the rest of his body. His fingers are shaking as he touches the tip of them to his wings. He jerks them away, as if the infection can make its way to his skin, even though he knows he can't. He knows exactly what it means when wings turn black. Everyone here does, and there's nothing he can do about it.
Nothing, but to delay the inevitable.
Beside him, nestled among the clouds, Iwaizumi sleeps on. Oikawa reaches out, as if to touch the pure white wings folded close to Iwaizumi's back, but pulls his hand away at the last moment. He doesn't deserve it, he thinks to himself bitterly. He has no right to touch another's wings, when they're purer than his. Better not, in case he spread his own sin to Iwaizumi.
He sits there, wings carefully folded one on top of the other to hide the worst of the blackness, and considers his options.
He considers using a blade, he considers using his fingers, and, a little desperately, he thinks of using fire.
Scissors, he thinks to himself, standing and treading carefully so that he doesn't wake Iwaizumi. He'll find the sharpest pair of scissors he can and give his wings a trim. That isn't so unusual. Nobody will think him strange for it. Wing upkeep is important, Oikawa knows. He's spent so much time on it, always so precise, always so careful but it's still clearly not good enough, when his wings are turning black.
He grits his teeth and withdraws to a quiet corner among the clouds, where he knows that not even Iwaizumi will find him. He cuts, just as precise and careful as he always is, but the blades of the scissors cut deeper. They cut higher, so close to the bone that Oikawa finds himself whimpering for it. He feels the sting of pain, of shame, and knows that he deserves all of it. This is his penance. Perhaps, he thinks a little foolishly, if he makes it hurt enough, the black feathers won't grow back. Perhaps he just needs to prove that he's learned his lesson.
A few days later, though, they're back again and a cry of frustration bubbles in Oikawa's throat before he clamps his hand over his mouth to keep it in. Iwaizumi can't know.
No matter what, he thinks desperately, as he picks at his wings with his own fingers, Iwaizumi can never find out. It's better that way.
FILL: Team Kyoutani Kentarou/Yahaba Shigeru, T
self harm, religious imagery
word count: 445
remix of
It starts as an infection.
Oikawa looks at the black tips of his wings and feels the tremble begin in his lungs, coming out as a shaky gasp before making its way through the rest of his body. His fingers are shaking as he touches the tip of them to his wings. He jerks them away, as if the infection can make its way to his skin, even though he knows he can't. He knows exactly what it means when wings turn black. Everyone here does, and there's nothing he can do about it.
Nothing, but to delay the inevitable.
Beside him, nestled among the clouds, Iwaizumi sleeps on. Oikawa reaches out, as if to touch the pure white wings folded close to Iwaizumi's back, but pulls his hand away at the last moment. He doesn't deserve it, he thinks to himself bitterly. He has no right to touch another's wings, when they're purer than his. Better not, in case he spread his own sin to Iwaizumi.
He sits there, wings carefully folded one on top of the other to hide the worst of the blackness, and considers his options.
He considers using a blade, he considers using his fingers, and, a little desperately, he thinks of using fire.
Scissors, he thinks to himself, standing and treading carefully so that he doesn't wake Iwaizumi. He'll find the sharpest pair of scissors he can and give his wings a trim. That isn't so unusual. Nobody will think him strange for it. Wing upkeep is important, Oikawa knows. He's spent so much time on it, always so precise, always so careful but it's still clearly not good enough, when his wings are turning black.
He grits his teeth and withdraws to a quiet corner among the clouds, where he knows that not even Iwaizumi will find him. He cuts, just as precise and careful as he always is, but the blades of the scissors cut deeper. They cut higher, so close to the bone that Oikawa finds himself whimpering for it. He feels the sting of pain, of shame, and knows that he deserves all of it. This is his penance. Perhaps, he thinks a little foolishly, if he makes it hurt enough, the black feathers won't grow back. Perhaps he just needs to prove that he's learned his lesson.
A few days later, though, they're back again and a cry of frustration bubbles in Oikawa's throat before he clamps his hand over his mouth to keep it in. Iwaizumi can't know.
No matter what, he thinks desperately, as he picks at his wings with his own fingers, Iwaizumi can never find out. It's better that way.