1.3k of wingfic tiny gax! We've got a max POV, and alex POV, and a GP POV!
relevant heads up: discussions of pulling feathers in this ficlet, which is societally viewed as a Bad Thing/self harm.
Max shoves another feather into the ratty edge of the blanket, wings twitching behind him. George is asleep in the nest, blue swallow wings dull. Max's own wings are greasy and tattered, and the last time he'd tried to preen them himself his fingers had come away with a film of grime. He constantly carries the fume of the track with him— they both do. Max is guilty of using his wings as a washrag, even though it makes George's eye twitch, but he tries to keep it to the feathers he's going to pull anyways, like he's doing right now.
The longer feathers, the heavy feathers, the ones that are holding him back— those are the feathers that he grips between his fingers and pulls. His teeth grit down into the edge of the blanket as tears bead at his eyes, wing jerking away from him.
He tries not to do this when George is awake. It's hard enough to help George with his own, and Max isn't sure the other boy could stomach doing it to him in return. He finds their wing rag and wipes at the blood dripping down his feathers, wincing as he gets closer to the base of his wing.
George's feathers are what they use to stuff their pillows, since his are softer. They use Max's feathers to add a layer of insulation to their blankets, and it's Max's feathers that he tries to add to their coats for additional warmth. He wipes off the last of the blood before wiggling his way into their small nest, pressing up against George and draping a wing across him. It's going to be even colder in the next few weeks, and their window leaks when it rains.
George curls closer to him, and Max tucks his face into his wing for warmth, wrapping his own tighter around them to try and provide insulation. He isn't willing to admit it out loud, but he's afraid for this winter, doesn't know what they'll do if they fall short.
They won't fail. They can't.
It doesn't matter how many feathers it takes— doesn't matter if Max has to strip his wings bare, to gain precious seconds and provide precious warmth for them both. He'll do it, they both will, and one day, when they're Formula 1 drivers, they'll look back at this and laugh.
------
"No!"
Alex has Max pinned to the floor— gently, always gently with them, they're so fragile— and George is tugging uselessly at one of his wings.
"Alex, get off of him, what's your problem?"
He can feel Max's wings flexing underneath him, trying to push him off, and it makes him sick. Max has the structure for solid wings, flying wings— and he can't even glide. They're not even strong enough to get someone off of him.
"What's my—? Are you insane?"
George opens his mouth, and Alex cuts him off, voice sharp.
"Don't answer that."
George's mouth clicks shut, wings twitching nervously behind him. They're tattered at the ends, dull and ragged, and the two of them are so much worse than Alex had feared.
He taps Max on the shoulder.
"Hey, I'm letting you up. And then you're both telling me what I just walked in on."
Max huffs as Alex lets him up, wings fluffing defensively, eyes narrowed. He gets a splotchy red look to his cheeks when he's upset.
"I was helping George, asshole."
Alex's wings twitch. He'd walked in because he'd heard George make a pained sound, and when he'd opened the bathroom door, it'd been to Max sitting behind him with a bloody rag and a pile of blue feathers on the grimy tile floor.
He can't lose his temper here. If he does, Max and George will kick him out, and this horror show masquerading as self-discipline will only get exponentially worse.
"And pulling feathers... helps?"
George nods, stepping closer. It doesn't escape Alex's notice that he's also angled himself between Alex and Max.
"I asked him. I can't reach them myself."
The only time anyone has pulled Alex's feathers was his father, back when he was seven. He'd had a broken shaft after falling out of a tree, and the feather had been damaged enough that it'd been better to just pull it all together. It'd only ever happened once, and his father had soothed him while he cried, his flock preening together after.
He hadn't counted how many feathers of George's were on the floor— hadn't gotten the chance, because he'd immediately yanked Max out of the bathroom and wrestled him onto the floor, unable to make sense of the situation.
He swallows. He so badly wants to be wrong.
"Why did you ask him?"
George frowns as a drop of blood slides off the bottom of a feather, and Max sidesteps further behind him, still holding the bloody rag as he extends one of George's wings, pressing the rag gently to stem the blood flow. The gentleness is at odds to the action of pulling feathers at all.
"Because I can't have the weight right now. It's slowing me down."
George's gaze drops to the floor.
"Max did his already, but I can't get mine."
Alex's gaze snaps to what he can see of Max's wings behind George, equally as dull and tattered. He's frantically trying to remember if he's ever seen either of them preen in front of him before, voice breaking.
"That's not... Georgie, that's not preening. You're not supposed to pull feathers to preen."
Max huffs behind George, stepping back to the side of him to meet Alex's gaze.
"We do preen. It's not effective."
He shrugs.
"Just moves the dirt from one pair of wings to the other."
Alex stared at them, with their too-thin wings and too-thin frames, the jut of their collarbones and bags under their eyes. There are people who are supposed to notice this kind of thing.
He frowns, confused.
"What do you do with the feathers?"
George smiles, clearly proud of himself, and points at the pillow and duvet on the mattress.
"We're using them to pad things for the winter."
Alex blinks. He's slept on that mattress, head pillowed, tucked under the duvet with George and Max, and sure he'd thought maybe it was a different stuffing material than he's used to, but he'd never thought—
He stumbles back into the bathroom, ignoring the twin concerned noises from the other two, and throws up.
------
Gianpiero leans over to see what Wheatley is writing on the hotel card, eyebrow raising. It's pretty simple, no doubt about it.
We hope you enjoy your stay!
Johnathan caps the pen with a decisive nod, and looks over at Gianpiero and Christian.
"It's ready."
The hotel card is carefully tucked into one of Christian's pockets, and then he's holding the basket as well, and Gianpiero is texting Max.
GP: Max, could we meet down at the lobby? I'd like to discuss some data we missed earlier.
Max V: we were there for three hours how did we miss something :0
Max V: I'm on my way
Gianpiero huffs a laugh before patting Christian on the shoulder.
"I'll take him to dinner. Text me when you've got it dropped off."
Christian nods, double checking the contents of the basket. Wing oil, soft brushes, a bottle of gentle cleanser, and a waxy protective coating for damaged wings— they'd had it custom made with a different label so it wouldn't be obvious. There's enough there to last one person several months.
Or three people for a few. It's a temporary solution, but at least it's something. Christian is the only one of them with a keycard to Max's room, so he's in charge of making it look like a gift from the hotel. Gianpiero is responsible for distracting Max long enough to give him time, and of the three of them, Max is least familiar with Johnathan's handwriting, so he'd gotten the note.
The collection of things inside the basket is plenty, but it doesn't quite feel like enough. Nothing they do ever does.
Gianpiero can tell the other two feel the same, but Christian simply adjusts the basket on his arm and gives them both a tight smile.
