[for @morimenswrite day 1, prompt: silver. on ao3 here]
Castor brushes a stray lock of hair away from Sylvester's face. Gently, gently, always gently. His hands tremble still, even just slightly, and his talons, he knows, are sharp and wicked things. The face is a delicate thing, and Sylvester's is even moreso, dark shadows beneath his eyes from sleepless nights. His brows furrow, and lips tug downwards into a stern line — Sylvester shouldn't be sleepless.
"Castor?" Sylvester just blinks at him, as if this is an ordinary moment, as if Castor's focus doesn't phase him at all. (It likely doesn't, Castor thinks, fleetingly. There are few people whose gaze alone would make Sylvester worry. Castor counts himself lucky to not be one of those few.)
How to put into words the thoughts chasing circles through Castor's head? How to voice the wonder, the care, the worry?
Gently, gently, he presses his palm against Sylvester's cheek. It's cool to the touch — Sylvester has always run cooler than Castor. It's a stark contrast, the blackened skin of Castor's hand, talons sheening slightly green where the light bends, against the pale freckled skin of Sylvester's cheek, the soft white-silver hair and eyelashes. It's gentle, Castor's touch, because Sylvester deserves gentleness more than anything else. (He has given so much for Castor, already. Gentleness — a promise of protection, a promise not to harm — is the least that Castor owes him.)
"Castor?"
"Your eyes." Castor says, face still holding that stern appearane. "They're silver?"
Sylvester blinks, slowly — a slight widening of the eyes. Surprise. "Are they?"
"Mmh." Castor's face smooths out, as he leans forwards — thumb brushing just beneath the eyelashes, just beneath Sylvester's right eye. He's careful not to lean too far or too heavily, for his wings are heavy as is his body, and Sylvester is much slimmer. Even still, he leans closely.
They really are silver, Sylvester's eyes. Not silver like the color, but silver like the silver that Awakeners are born from. Like the silver that the Silver Key is made of, like the silver that Mythag values so highly, like the silver that sits within Castor's chest, that marks him as divine by the Lantern's scriptures. It's mesmerizing, looking at the irises — from afar they look simply gray, even if a pale shade, but up close like this Castor can see every individual shift in color. (Structural iridescence, he had read once, to explain the shifting colors of his and Pollux's feathers, to explain the dancing emerald hues in the feathers and hair, in Castor's hair, even with the pigment long lost to stress and years locked underground. That must be what brings forth those slight — but no less beautiful — shifts in color in Sylvester's irises.)
Sylvester leans into the touch, eyelids falling closed. "Your hands are warm." He murmurs, suddenly soft.
"Are they?"
"Yeah."
It's not a cold afternoon — it's late Spring, almost the edges of Summer — but Castor shifts his weight back just slightly. His free hand rests on Sylvester's shoulder, and (carefully, carefully, gently, gently) he begins pulling Sylvester closer to him. Sylvester must truly be tired, to not react at all — and, soon, Castor has pulled the man into his arms. For a few moments (wonderful, gentle moments) Castor simply stands there. Sylvester, held securely against his chest, wings spread to wrap around the other man as well. The Spring breeze drifts through, carrying the smell and promise of rain, rustling his feathers and hair just as it rustles the leaves of the many trees on Mythag's campus.
"You look like you need rest." Castor says, softly, to Sylvester. "Come lay down with me?"
Sylvester makes a soft, inquisitive noise. Though he runs cool, he's still warm, where he's halfway burrowed into Castor. "Will it be comfy?" He asks, bleary — the lack of sleep has hit, Castor thinks.
"It will be." Castor promises, arms tightening just slightly, pulling Sylvester just slightly closer. "There's still a few hours before nighttime. Pollux will be in his half of the room, but if you don't mind it, you could stay with me?" The words tumble out awkwardly, but Castor presses onwards. (It's easier to ask, when those silver eyes aren't looking at him. When Castor can't get lost, distracted by the pearlescent hues.) "You've been kind enough to allow me in your room, on several nights. I . . . want to repay the favor."
Sylvester pulls away, and Castor lets him (even as a stone sinks into his stomach, even as a small part of himself keens). "Let's go, then." Those eyes smile up at him, Sylvester's cheeks scrunched at the action, too. (It's cute.) "Any excuse to get to sleep more and not do work, right?"
Castor can't help but smile back in return. "Of course." He folds his wings against his back, to their proper place. Sylvester follows him as he walks, step-in-step, through campus towards the Awakener Dorms. For once, Castor feels no anxiety nor apprehension at the thought of Sylvester seeing his and Pollux's shared room — only cautious hope, that resting beside Castor (alike to the many times Castor had rested beside Sylvester, in Sylvester's room) may allow Sylvester the sleep that he is so clearly missing.
It's not that Castor's room is messy, of course. He and Pollux both go to great pains to ensure their room stays neat, organized, and free of debris or clutter. They struggle with having things, he and his brother, but they are slowly accumulating items to make the room feel lived-in. The majority being bedding — soft blankets and pillows, cushions left unclaimed and other such things. There are the bookshelves with their valued tomes set upon the shelves, an eclectic collection of other things equally distributed along both halves of the room — Pollux's carefully-copied notes in neat penmanship, Castor's elegant-yet-hastily written notes and questions in his own journals. The ever-growing collection of inks, and a few favored pens. The incense left in the corner, for daily prayer, and the small strip of gauzy purple fabric that was to be the only thing of the Church either would allow in their room.
Castor would be surprised if Sylvester noticed much of this, however — what with how quickly Sylvester heads toward Castor's bed. (It's easy to tell that it's Castor's bed, on account of the feathers, scattered and woven into the nest of blankets that Castor had turned his bedding into.)
"I'm sorry," Castor starts, hit with realization as Sylvester leans down to remove his shoes, and then cape. "I don't have any spare nightclothes."
"It's alright." Sylvester smiles, removing his vest, but leaving the undershirt and pants. "I can just sleep in my dayclothes."
"You're sure?" Castor's hands find his writs, talons running through and tugging at the long feathers growing there. "I — I could lend you one of my spare robes, if you'd prefer . . .?" (It'd be too big on Sylvester, they both know.) "I don't want you to be uncomfortable.
Sylvester laughs, and shakes his head. "No, no, it's alright. I just want to sleep now, if that's okay."
"Of course." Castor carefully watches for a few moments, as Sylvester eases himself into the blankets, burrowing down into them, until he's sure that Sylvester is comfortable. He sheds the outer layers of his robes quickly, leaving just the thinner inner robe, and carefully settles down onto the bed himself. Then, beneath the blankets — laying on his stomach, tugging at blankets until they cover him well enough.
Sylvester laughs again, and Castor turns to look at him, blinking — frozen, then, as those silver eyes gaze into his own emerald, mirth dancing within them. Sylvester says nothing, but shuffles until he's pressed against Castor on the bed, blankets pulled over them both — a hand gently tugging at Castor's wing until it's draped over Sylvester, and the blankets pulled over the wing and person both.
A hand runs through black feathers, and Castor's eyes fall closed. A soft trill escapes his throat, and Sylvester hums softly. (Some song, that Castor can't name, but knows dearly all the same.) "Your feathers are soft." He murmurs, tucking his face against Castor's neck. "Goodnight."
Castor doesn't have a name for the fondness welling within his chest, but he'll treasure it regardless. Sylvester is asleep, already, but even still, he smooths down Sylvester's hair again. Sighing softly, and with a smile upon his lips, he presses a soft kiss against Sylvester's forehead. "Goodnight, Sylvester."
Sleep finds him quickly, after that. Castor welcomes it. (In his dreams croons a flute, low and gentle, and in his dreams those silver eyes watch him so very reverently. The memory is gone upon waking, but while he dreams — while he dreams, Castor is made divine by adoration. While he dreams, the silver tone of Sylvester's voice draws him tight like a bowstring, melts him like candlewax, and Castor is suffused into that gentle silver.)
@sabotsen happy valentine's day, have sylcastor fluff (feat. the angst that keeps trying to creep in). on ao3 here (and mostly put under a cut because this is 7.3k)
Sylvester appreciates the quiet of nighttime. It's a nice quiet, the kind that comes from everything being softened and subdued, sleepy. Not the fog of forgetting, not the harsh quiet that comes from terror, but a gentle quiet. Sylvester is fond of the more gentle things in life.
He's fond, too, of the quality of Mythag's dorm rooms. He doesn't know for sure how they work for Awakener dorms — he's only visited briefly, every so often, and he doesn't get a chance to linger — but the Investigator (and Keeper, by default) dorms are grand enough to have an attached bathroom suite, and the bathtub provided is divine. He can't remember what kind of person he was before the Yakutsk explosion, before Ramona and Mythag as a whole had dug him out of the rubble, but Sylvester likes to think he was the kind of person with an appreciation for baths. (Lukewarm baths. Making the water too hot makes him feel like a boiled lobster, and Sylvester isn't fond of the taste of lobster.)
His dorm room also has a very nice bed, which Sylvester is also very fond of. The mattress isn't too soft, isn't too firm, and there's plenty of blankets to stay warm with. The wooden headboard and footboard are smooth, and not polished but not rough either, and sometimes (when he can get away with it) Sylvester will laze a day away in bed, sitting up against the headboard, with a book in his lap.
It's quiet, and dark, but with enough candles his room is still plenty well-lit, even the attached bathroom. Sylvester never had a preference for any kind of candle in particular, but Castor prefers the scented ones, so that's the kind that are scattered all over Sylvester's room, now. (Sylvester had worried that any purple candles might hold bad memories, but Castor had shaken his head in that quiet, composed way, and said that it wasn't the candles so much as those who had held them, that had bad memories for him. Sylvester still made sure to get red and orange and white candles instead, sometimes green and sometimes blue, but never purple.)
A lot about his room has slowly changed, since Sylvester had started dating Castor, but he doesn't mind. Castor deserves to feel comfort, Sylvester is quite sure, and besides, it's not as if Sylvester wouldn't be changing his room anyways. He's had to organize a bit more, neaten out the bookshelves and his desk in order to have more room for the little trinkets Castor likes giving him (all of them shaped from Castor's own feathers, and isn't that sweet?), but it's nothing that Ramona wouldn't have nagged at Sylvester to do anyways.
Normally, when it's the end of the day like this, and Castor and Sylvester have no other obligations and can simply rest, Sylvester will sit behind Castor (on the floor, or sitting on Sylvester's bad), and Sylvester will carefully, carefully preen Castor's wings. Castor can't easily reach his back himself, Sylvester knows, and his wings need to be preened daily to ensure that the loose or broken feathers can't get tangled into the new ones growing in (and Castor's feathers are always growing in — some side effect, Sylvester thinks, from how his body had adapted to the dissolution).
Sylvester hadn't been the one preening Castor's feathers at the start of everything, of course. When Castor and Pollux had first appeared at Mythag, winded and wary, they'd been skittish, trusting Sylvester only because of whatever it was Pollux's Sacred Heart had revealed about Sylvester to the two of them. (Sylvester hadn't. . . seen what happened, the first time Pollux had tried to help Castor with preening his feathers, but he'd seen the aftermath — the way Pollux was even more pale and ashen, somehow, and the way Castor hovered worriedly around his brother. The way both of them flinched even further, even if Pollux tried to pretend he wasn't flinching and Castor somehow retreated even more into himself.)
Sylvester had taken it upon himself to do whatever he could to help them. If Pollux couldn't pluck out damaged feathers because he couldn't bring himself to hurt Castor, then Sylvester would cause those necessary tiny bits of harm, and smooth out the feathers still draped upon Castor's neck and back and wings. If Castor couldn't sort Pollux's few remaining feathers or pull out loose ones because his hands shook too much, then Sylvester would carefully pry out any broken or loose feathers with his own steady hands so that the wound on Pollux's back wouldn't be aggravated.
So now, Castor and Pollux will come to Sylvester's room, or he'll go to theirs, and at the end of the day the feathers will get preened one way or other.
Tonight, however, was not a normal night.
Sylvester and Castor had been on a mission — generally something more simple than past missions Sylvester's gone on, just seeing into rumors of monsters (and clearing out the dissolutes that turned out to have been behind said rumors). Still, it was a little ridiculous how many dissoluted creatures there had been — isn't one too many?! Why were there an entire twelve of them to fight!?
Sylvester is very, very grateful for Castor's protection and help in clearing out the things, and Sylvester provided his own silvery key energy to help Castor fight as well — but any fight can lead to injuries, and twelve dissolutes is a lot to fight at once. They'd both patched themselves up as best as they could while on the field, and then Sylvester insisted that they go straight back to Mythag at once.
Which leads them to here — Sylvester and Castor, in Sylvester's room. Somewhat damp, because it had started raining on the return trip home. Cold, because it's that time when Winter turns into Spring and it's not gotten warm yet and is still cold enough to be miserable. Castor, wincing from the ache in his joints (the rain must not be helping) and the soft shuffle of his wings and feathers brushing against each other. Sylvester, wanting to do something to make Castor feel better, because Castor had so earnestly and devotedly shielded Sylvester with his wings, torn out his own feathers to keep Sylvester safe.
They sit on the floor, as they normally do — slower, this time, and Sylvester politely pretends not to mention how Castor grits his teeth at the bending of his joints and, instead, Sylvester simply hums and carefully moves Castor's braid from falling over his back to drape over his shoulder instead.
Sylvester honestly isn't sure what he's humming — it's some nameless song, hovering just on the edge of his mind and winding through his dreams, but he knows he knows that this song is something he has known all his life. Missing all memories but for a year as he may be, but Sylvester knows a song from his forgotten childhood when he hears it. (He's certain, at least. Maybe he's getting something mixed up, but. . . when you only have a year's worth of memories, you do your best.)
His hands are gentle, carding through Castor's feathers, the way they always are. Sylvester can't help but frown down at some of the bloody parts of Castor's wings, where hits had gotten in too close or one-too-many feathers been torn out — even with the regeneration, Castor's wings still got damaged too often for Sylvester's liking. Sylvester's hands hit a snag, and he winces at the way Castor flinches as the delicate skin beneath gets pulled with the motion.
"Sorry." Sylvester says, carefully extracting his fingers. "Sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."
"It's alright." Castor says. "I'm fine." He isn't, but neither of them are going to call out the lie.
Sylvester frowns down harder at the snag he'd hit. It's a bloody mat of feathers — he can see the ends from some that have broken off and some that were falling out, before the blood had dried and clumped it all together. He can see, too, where the new feathers trying to grow in had also gotten tangled together. It would be a mess to try and clean like this, not mentioning that this isn't even the only patch of feathers like this. (It had been a lot of dissolutes, and Castor had used his wings as a shield a lot. Even cuts that have healed will bleed deeply if there are enough of them.)
"I don't think I can untangle these feathers like this." He admits, frustration pulling his lips down into a pout. (Ramona has never understood the catharsis of a proper pout. Castor does, at least. Even if Castor has never really pouted himself — but Pollux has, plenty of times, even if Pollux pretends that he never needs to in front of anyone who isn't Sylvester of Castor.)
"That's alright." Castor says, in the same tone as before. But it isn't, it isn't alright, and Sylvester huffs at that.
"I'm going to start a bath." He decides. "A scalding hot one, so you can soak as long as you want." He stands up and begins walking towards the bathroom, pausing and crouching down only long enough to be on the same level as Castor, who remains seated on the floor.
With careful hands he reaches out to cup Castor's face, a thumb carefully brushing along the feathers just beneath Castor's right eye. (The feathers on Castor's face are always so soft, but Sylvester wonders if they hurt growing in. If the right eye ever struggles with adjusting to light, having both Castor's hair and all those feathers to shield it.) He brushes Castor's bangs aside, gently, until Sylvester can meet both of Castor's eyes with his own. Illuminated by both the soft moonlight and soft candlelight like this, Castor's eyes dance between shades of green — all of them beautiful.
"I know you're still learning that it's okay to admit weakness." Sylvester says, softly. "But. . . please tell me when you hurt, okay? I want to help you. I can't help you if I don't know there's anything to help you with." He leans forwards, presses his forehead against Castor's. "Okay?"
Castor swallows. Sylvester watches as those emerald eyes mist with tears, but no tears are shed just yet. "I will remember." Castor murmurs.
"Promise me you'll tell me if you need anything." Sylvester demands, like a god demanding prayer from a supplicant.
"I promise." Castor returns, with the weight of someone who has never known how to do anything but keep his promises like chains around a neck to keep memories held close.
Sylvester hums, and pulls away, nodding decisively. Then, he gets back up, and goes to start the bath.
He can't help but muse as he does so. Preening Castor's feathers always takes more work, because there are so many of them — feathers, that is. Preening Pollux is faster. Sylvester has to take his time, be more careful, because Pollux's remaining scalpular feathers are the ones that grow very very close to that hole torn open in Pollux's chest and back; but even still, there are only so many scalpular feathers to be preened, and Pollux is lacking in the same regenerative abilities that Castor has, so his feathers don't shed or grow back in nearly as quickly. With Pollux, preening is mostly just checking over the feathers, working some feather oil in to make sure the feathers were maintained, and carefully plucking any broken feathers so undamaged ones could grow in.
Preening Castor's feathers, on the other hand, is a much, much longer affair. There are all the many feathers on Castor's wings to go through — the primary and secondary flight feathers, the primary and secondary coverts, the marginal coverts, the inner coverts, the scalpulars, the tertiary feathers, all of them need to be checked for any misaligned or damaged feathers before Sylvester can even think about carefully applying feather oil. Then, there's also all the feathers on Castor's chest, neck, on his back, and the long (elegant, beautiful, but also easily broken) feathers on Castor's wrists and arms. Lastly, there's the feathers scattered in amongst Castor's hair, which have to be carefully checked as well, and the small and delicate feathers that grow on Castor's face.
Sylvester doesn't mind preening Castor's feathers, absolutely not! It's just that it takes a lot longer. He's learned to set aside a few hours every night, so he can have enough time to properly go through all of Castor's feathers. (Sylvester doesn't think Castor had been preened at all, when he was with the Lightbearers. He and Pollux had tried to preen each others feathers when younger, Castor had said, but after Castor had gotten out of the cell his wings and feathers had been so damaged that no one wanted to touch them. It makes Sylvester ache, to think of how painful that must have been. Physically and otherwise. So Sylvester will always, always be willing to preen Castor's feathers, no matter how long it takes.)
Sylvester makes sure that the water is scalding. He adds some scented oils, too, to the bathwater — the twins had gotten used to such a thing, after all, and it's a small luxury that Sylvester can provide in a way to overwrite any memories from the Lightbearers. They had been fond of violets, so Sylvester looks for jasmine- and rose-scented bath oils, and hair soaps. (Castor likes the smell of roses the most, so Sylvester now has several bottles of rose-scented oils and soaps in his bathroom, beside the jasmine-scented ones that Sylvester himself prefers.)
Finally, the bath is ready. Sylvester rises, stretching his arms out. "The water is ready." He calls, and pokes his head out the doorway to see Castor halfway through getting undressed. "Do you need any help?"
Castor shakes his head, so Sylvester stands in the doorway and just. . . watches. For all his height and large wings, Castor is elegant, in the way a block of marble might be. Sharp curves and sharp angles, broad shoulders and wings. Tanned skin and dark feathers dancing in the moonlight, and the way Castor always seems like a statue come to life with his angular cheekbones and jaw and the way any sharp corners have instead been smoothed round and gentle. (Castor fits the aesthetic of roses, Sylvester muses to himself. He's as elegant and lovely to look at.)
Finally, then, Castor is undressed and into the bathroom they both go. Castor sighs, as he settles into the water, and Sylvester can't help but smile at the way everything about Castor loosens. His face softens, the tension in his shoulders lifts, and his wings, too, slump, dark feathers turning even more pitch-black where the water soaks into them.
"Is everything okay?" Sylvester asks, just to be sure. "The water isn't too hot? Not too cold?"
"It's good." Castor says, softly, with eyes half-closed. "Not too hot, it's not too cold."
Staring at his boyfriend, Sylvester thinks his heart might burst. "I'm glad." He says, echoing Castor's tone. And he is, really — he's glad that the water helps. The weather has been getting colder, autumn creeping into winter, and Sylvester had seen the way the cold air had turned Castor's joints stiff, had made his chronic pains worse. Sylvester will happily become a boiled lobster if it means Castor can hurt a little less.
With a kiss pressed against Castor's forehead, Sylvester undresses himself (quickly, but he at least folds his clothes and sets them to the side — no point in being messy), and slips into the bath as well. Sylvester can't hold back a wince at the heat (he really will be a boiled lobster, after this), but soon enough he gets used to it, and the bath becomes pleasantly hot. Sylvester sits beside Castor, hip pressed to hip and shoulder pressed to shoulder, and for a moment he just. . . sits. Soaks in the hot bathwater, smelling pleasantly of roses and jasmine, head resting on his boyfriend's shoulder.
(The first time they'd taken a bath together, Sylvester had been bashful, hadn't managed to bring himself to quite look at Castor. He'd never taken a bath with another person before! Sylvester doesn't even remember dating anyone before, of course he was going to be bashful about this! — but Castor had laughed, softly, and held Sylvester's hands in his own. "You can look." He'd said, simply, so Sylvester, with a flushed face, had done so — eyes roving all over Castor, looking at the taller man's chest and arms and legs and collarbones, at the wings and at the many many black feathers gleaming emerald when the light shifted.
"You don't mind?" Sylvester had asked.
Castor had shook his head. "Pollux and I were bathed by maidens, when we were a part of the Church." He said, stepping into the bathwater which, that time, had been warm, not scalding. He'd only just started dating Castor, didn't know yet how to have a tolerance for scalding hot water. "We did not. . ." a pause, as Castor searched for the right words. "We were not taught to have shame, around this." His hands, still holding Sylvester's, had trembled slightly.
"Castor?"
Castor had sighed. Looked at Sylvester with such a soft, trusting look, even with the way his face otherwise fell into a slight frown when resting. "The maidens. . . Juliette, too. . . they always wanted something from Pollux and I." He explained. "We were the Twin Divi, so we had to be perfect, always."
"Even in baths?"
"Even then." Castor's hands released Sylvester's. "But you. . ." And the way he had said you was so soft, so tender, Sylvester's flush, almost died down, had returned with full force. "You do not. . . expect, from us. From me. You just. . . care for me as I am."
"Of course I do!" Sylvester had said, immediately, no thought for patience or waiting to hear the rest of the sentence. "You don't need to be anything for me to care about you, or love you."
Castor's smile, soft and adoring and softening all the harsh angles of his face, had been so lovely to see in that moment. "I know." He had said. "Your gaze could never hurt me." He had said it simply, like a fact, the way that the sky is blue and the way that birds fly when their feathers are grown in right and the way that the sun rises. Like it was a fundamental thing that could never, would never, change.)
Reminiscing on past memories isn't always nice, sometimes, but sometimes, Sylvester thinks to himself, it's nice to remember where you started, compared to where you are now, and to appreciate how far a relationship has grown.
He soaks, for a few more moments, letting the heat seep into his skin and joints the same way Castor surely has. Then, Sylvester stretches, gives one last sigh, and shakes his thoughts out. He scoots backwards a bit, and gently nudges Castor to sit in front of him, dark feathers appearing blacker than coal where the water has soaked them. (The bathwater is tinged just slightly pink right now, from Castor's blood, but it will likely be a stronger pink once they're done with all of this. Nothing to be done about it, Sylvester supposes.)
There are cups or washcloths that Sylvester could use to help with this, probably, but Sylvester prefers to use his hands for this right now. Cupping small amounts of water and pouring it onto the most matted parts of Castor's wings, he waits until all of the feathers are damp enough, and then begins the work of carefully working the feathers apart and slowly, slowly washing all the blood away. With gentle brushes of his hands, he works the water through the feathers, works the blood out, until the water is as pink as Sylvester had expected and the feathers pull apart cleanly and easily. When one mat is clean of blood, he moves to the next, moving so carefully, so gently.
It's important to be gentle, when preening. Sylvester carefully, carefully runs his fingers through the feathers. Gently, gently, making sure that none of them are misaligned and carefully, gently realigning them properly when he finds one that is misaligned. Carefully, gently finding any loose feathers and tugging them out, gently, gently. The loose feathers fall out easily enough, they only take a bit of gentle, gentle tugging before the quill pulls free from the skin, the feathers in his hand sometimes large and sometimes small but all still so soft. (It's amazing how soft Castor's feathers are, even after everything. Even before Sylvester started preening Castor's wings his feathers were soft, if a bit itchy for how dry they were. Even with all the battles they've been in, with all the dissolution inside Castor's feathers and veins, with how strong the feathers must be for Castor to use his wings as a shield, his feathers are soft.
Now that Sylvester has been preening Castor's feathers, carefully working in feather oil to keep them hydrated and hydrophobic, to keep the feathers clean and aligned correctly, the feathers are even softer. Sylvester has been collecting all the shed feathers, the ones that aren't broken; he's not sure what he'll do with them yet, but he's been toying with the idea of making a feather-down pillow. Or maybe a blanket.)
Sylvester, finally finished with working through each and every soft, soft feather on Castor's wings, blinks. The candles have burned down, some, though not too much. The water isn't as scalding hot anymore, turned more towards warm (still pleasant, though). Castor is leaning forward enough for Sylvester to still have easy access to the secondary and tertial feathers, and to the scalpular feathers, but Castor is. . . soft, still. Loosened, though that's not quite the right word for it. There's no tension left in his frame, only what's needed to keep his wings from slumping into the water with the rest of himself.
Sylvester laughs, softly. He leans forwards, and wraps his arms around Castor's chest as he rests his chin on his boyfriend's shoulder. "Doing alright?"
Castor trills. It's a distinctly inhuman noise, something birdlike and musical, and Sylvester's smile, at first soft and small, widens at the noise. It had taken time, gentle coaxing and reassurance and promises, before Castor stopped punishing himself for being anything other than purely human. It had taken time for Castor to feel comfortable making these sorts of noises, for Castor to feel comfortable speaking with musical notes and short noises rather than purely just words. (He still doesn't feel very comfortable doing so anywhere that isn't alone with Castor, or if Pollux is there. Sylvester's been working on reassuring Pollux, too, that it's okay to be the way they are, but the Lightbearer's poison runs deep and Sylvester is only one man. Still, progress is progress, and Sylvester is always glad to hear it.)
"Alright." Sylvester presses a kiss to Castor's shoulder. Then, he leans back, releases his hug, and goes back to preening. Now, he'll work on the smaller, more delicate feathers on Castor's neck and back, the ones running down his spine. Sylvester has to be gentle with these feathers, the back feathers; has to be very, very careful to use light pressure when preening, here. Too much pressure gets Castor worked up, and, while Sylvester wouldn't mind that sort of thing (he's a normal person, okay?! who wouldn't enjoy making their partner feel nice?!), right now is the time for nonsexual intimacy.
(His mind drifts back to an emerald bird in his lap, trembling under the moonlight, but that's not the point of preening Castor right here and now, so Sylvester forces himself to focus back on the present moment.)
Still, for all the careful attention put in, preening the feathers on Castor's back and neck doesn't take too long, either. Sylvester is more careful with the neck feathers, anyways, just in case. The feathers down Castor's spine have less broken feathers and more loose ones — probably better than the other way around —, so Sylvester collects those as well, and the small feathers joining the spine feathers and tail feathers are loosely combed through as well. It's a bit harder for Sylvester to preen those ones, but there's a little stool that sometimes gets used for other things, and it's helpful enough here to have Castor sit on said stool so Sylvester can reach the feathers near Castor's tailbone. (The tail feathers themselves aren't very long — not nearly as long as the ones on Castor's arms and wrists — but they still need a bit more care. They're so often covered up and hidden under clothing, so it's good to pay a bit of special attention to the tail feathers. Just because.)
Every time Castor shifts, every time Castor makes a noise (however quiet, however slight), Sylvester is sure to pause. Sure to wait, just a few moments. He'd learned to pay attention to the way Sylvester's shoulders are tensed (or not), the way Castor holds his hands and arms, the way Castor's eyes dart to and fro. If something is painful, Castor will tell him — just, not always with words.
Still, still. Sylvester has learned how to do this, by now, and how to do it well.
There's a certain joy to preening Castor in places like this, Sylvester thinks. He gets to see his boyfriend in the most relaxed state as Castor ever is in, and he gets to run his fingers through the many soft feathers. (On a whim, Castor runs his fingers through the feathers around Castor's neck again. Just because.)
With all the feathers gone through and realigned, loose feathers gently tugged free and broken feathers more properly plucked out (even as much as Sylvester had hated seeing Castor flinch whenever a feather was plucked), it's time to do the other half of preening. Sylvester carefully gets his feet beneath him, and steps out of the bathtub. "I'm going to get the feather oil now." He calls over his shoulder, and with careful steps — he is soaking wet, at least from the waist down, and all — he looks for whatever bottle of feather oil is closest. Sylvester has several scattered around his room and the bathroom by now, all the same kind of feather oil (he only has so much money, okay, and he wants to give the feathers proper care but he doesn't want to run out of the oil even more), so the trick is finding the closest one.
It ends up being a jar tucked somewhere in with all of the various hair care products, soaps and oils and so on. Shrugging to himself, Sylvester grabs the jar of feather oil, as well as the hair soaps and oils. Castor will want to wash Sylvester's hair once Sylvester is done preening his feathers, and while he's at it Sylvester might as well wash Castor's hair, too. Items obtained and carefully balancing them all in his arms, Sylvester walks back to the other side of the bathroom, where the tub is, and sets everything down on the floor close enough to be easily within reach. Not so close as to trip over, though. No one wants to trip over something and fall onto the bathroom floor and get dirty after just having cleaned off.
"I have returned!" Sylvester announces, dramatically, and Castor laughs. Success!
Sylvester looks down at the bathwater and frowns. It's rather. . . pinkish. Too much so, for his tastes. The water's probably gone lukewarm. "Do you want me to use the same water, or do you want me to get new hot water?" He asks, sitting so that his knees and shins press against the cold bathroom tile, and his arms rest on the rim of the bathtub. Like this, it's easier to look into Castor's (very pretty, very expressive) eyes.
Castor blinks, slowly, and tilts his head in a sharp, birdlike fashion. A soft hum escapes his just-barely-parted lips, before Castor comes to a decision. "Hot water would be nice." He admits.
"Hot water it is then." Sylvester helps Castor stand — wincing at the sharp popping of Castor's joints, it never gets any less unpleasant to hear (and the rain from before still hasn't stopped, but at least the candles aren't entirely burnt down, though those will need to get replaced tomorrow most likely). Sylvester carefully helps Castor settle to the floor beside him, then lets the tub drain. Sylvester is so glad he thought to stock up on scented bath oils a month ago, with how cold and rainy the weather has been he's been taking a lot of baths with Castor and thus the scented oils have been used a lot.
Once the tub is drained, Sylvester starts it filling up again, and while he watches the steam rise, he carefully pulls Castor just a bit closer to his side. Castor wordlessly rests his head on Sylvester's shoulder, and Sylvester carefully combs his hand through Castor's bangs. Then, once the bathtub is full again, and Sylvester's added the chosen scented oils and soaps, he and Castor settle back in. (It's almost a shame, because Sylvester had almost managed to avoid becoming a boiled lobster this time. Oh well. He is consigned to being a lobster for forever.)
Carefully, Sylvester opens the jar of feather oil, and dips his fingers in. Not too much, because you need surprisingly little to get the feathers coated, but enough. Carefully, carefully, he works his way through Castor's feathers — starting at the base of the wings and working his way outwards. Gently, gently, he coats each of the feathers, from the scalpular and tertiary feathers through the marginal and secondary coverts to the primary feathers. Then, to the neck and back feathers. They're smaller, so Sylvester doesn't need quite as much oil per feather, but there's also more of them, and they're still delicate, so Sylvester goes more slowly with these. Finally, though, finally, the feathers are all done. Loose feathers picked out, broken feathers plucked, the remaining feathers coated in oil and glistening slightly, green and teal hues dancing across the black plumes.
"Alright, I've got your back done." Sylvester pats the top of Castor's head, gently. "Turn around so I can get your front?"
He scoots back a bit, as Castor folds his wings in and does as Sylvester had asked. The emerald hidden within the black feathers shimmer and sheen as Castor moves. It's only sometimes visible, the iridescence, but it's a beautiful iridescence still, and it only adds more to Castor's elegant, regal look. (For as painful as the title was, to Castor, Sylvester can see why someone might call him a god.)
Castor looks at Sylvester so fondly, and reaches out with careful talons and long, elegant feathers on the wrists to take Sylvester's hands in his own. "Thank you."
"Of course." Sylvester smiles, and leans forward to press his forehead against Castor's again. "I'll always help you with this. Always."
"I know." Says Castor, with his own soft and gentle smile. "But still. . . Thank you." He leans away, and presses a soft kiss to Sylvester's jaw, then pulls away again, letting the weight of his wings pull him just slightly backwards.
Sylvester takes the cue for what it is, and with a chuckle, begins the process of carefully going through and preening these feathers too. He starts with the longest feathers, the ones on Castor's wrists — these are the most likely to break or to get tangled with each other just from sheer length. Not counting the primary feathers rooted in the bones of Castor's wings, these wrists feathers are by far the longest, fanciest, and most important feathers to preen properly. At least there's not a lot of them, and checking for loose or broken feathers goes a lot more quickly than preening Castor's wings.
Sylvester hums that same nameless tune as before, while he works. From the wrists, he moves on to the feathers on Castor's chest — those ones that creep over the collarbones and eventually encircle his neck. Sylvester resists the urge to bury his face in Castor's chest (the feathers may be soft, but they'd be softer once Sylvester finishes his work) and carefully combs through the feathers instead. Unlike what you'd find on a dove or a chicken, these chest and neck feathers are rounded at the ends, and not particularly long. Still plenty soft, though, so Sylvester doesn't mind that it takes a while to comb through them all.
(Sinking his hand into the feathers, Sylvester lets it linger, for just a few moments longer than needed. For those few moments, he feels the beat of Castor's heart beneath his hand, beating once, twice, thrice. Strong. Steady. It's more of a relief than Sylvester thought it would be.)
There are the few feathers scattered elsewhere on Castor's body to worry about, but they're not worth much mention — a few feathers on the right hip, a few feathers in a line down Castor's left calf. They'd grown in, Castor had said, once he had been put in the cell, where his wounds had been. It called to mind scabbing, just — with feathers, instead of blood clotting. Still, those too are carefully looked over and preened. Then, it's just the last few feathers, and the ones where Sylvester has to be the most gentle, delicate, and careful — the feathers on Castor's face.
Sylvester scoots a bit closer to his boyfriend. Castor's face is relaxed, and trusting — and Sylvester, with steady hands and a heart in his stomach, reaches forward to gently begin preening.
He combs through the small feathers by Castor's hairline, first, on the left side. The loose feathers fall out easily enough, and there aren't any broken ones. Sylvester takes the time to coat them in the feather oil, so that he only has to work on each section of feathers once. Best not to spend too much time on the facial feathers, or else Sylvester will make a mistake or hurt Castor somehow. Sylvester takes his time with the larger feathers, too, the ones that almost make a little crown on Castor's head, before moving to the right side and working his way through the feathers there, growing at Castor's hairline and in the sideburns in front of and behind Castor's ear. They're small enough (mostly), and numerous enough, that it takes several minutes just to get through them all, especially with Sylvester stopping as he goes to coat each tiny feather with just enough feather oil. Still, by the time he's done they're all neatly aligned, no loose feathers are left, and they're all sheening brilliantly in the candlelight and moonlight.
Now for the hardest part. Sylvester gently, gently brushes Castor's bangs away from his face. The right eye is the same beautiful green as Castor's left, even surrounded by the black feathers growing below along the cheekbone and the few growing on the ridge of Castor's brow. "Can you hold your bangs out of the way for me?" Sylvester asks, gently.
"Mmh." Castor's hand rises, and long, curved black talons hold the hair out of the way, just to the side.
Carefully, carefully, Sylvester reaches with gentle hands to comb through the feathers. Castor is patient, and so so very trusting — Sylvester makes sure to be gentle, to be careful, to be more delicate and light with his touch than anywhere else. The actual feathers aren't particularly big, but they're the most delicate and easily broken, and Sylvester would never forgive himself if he broke one of those feathers and had to pluck out a feather from such a vulnerable place.
(Even as he combs through the feathers, Castor trills gently, a soft noise that's barely a rumble in his throat, yet loud enough to echo in this room, in the still silence. It gives Sylvester hope. It's a reassurance, that he's not doing anything wrong or painful. No matter how many times Sylvester preens the feathers on Castor's face, he'll never not be nervous about it.)
Finally, finally, every feather is preened. Every feather gleaming in shades of black and gray and emerald and teal and even orange, as the candlelight and moonlight flitter across them. Finally, Sylvester can set down the feather oil.
"All done." He says softly. "Can I wash your hair?"
Castor opens his eyes, slightly — Sylvester doesn't know when Castor had closed them, only that the delicate iridescence along Castor's eyelashes and eyebrows had been just as beautiful as the colors of his feathers. "Only if I can wash your hair, too."
A smile. "That's a fair trade." Allopreening is good for birds. (Sylvester read somewhere that for swans it helps reaffirm pair-bonds in mated birds. He's not a bird, but he likes to think that letting Castor wash his hair helps with their relationship all the same. Sylvester doesn't mind letting Castor wash his hair anyways, even if there's no other benefit.)
Shifting around again, Sylvester settles back behind Castor — stool set outside the tub, since it's not needed anymore. He pulls the tie off of Castor's braid, and begins untangling his boyfriend's hair. Castor's hair isn't quite as soft as his feathers (which is fair, because hair and feathers aren't quite the same thing), but it is still pretty.
It's interesting, sometimes, to just look at Castor's hair and compare it to the rest of him. Castor's body hair is all black, even his eyelashes and eyebrows, but the hair on his head is all entirely white. It's an interesting contrast — but even with the difference in color, the iridescence still remains. The emerald and teal is more striking when it appears, against the pearl white, and Sylvester finds himself tempted to just. . . play with Castor's hair, to see the way the colors shift. He restrains himself, though.
It doesn't take as long to wash Castor's hair as it did to preen all of the feathers, but it does still take a while. Castor's hair is longer than you'd think at first glance; the shorter, fluffier parts near the top of his head trick the eye into thinking that Castor's hair is only so short, instead of long enough to braid and fall halfway down his back. It's because the braid gets hidden behind Castor's wings, Sylvester thinks. (His hair isn't as long as Pollux's, but it's still long — sometimes Sylvester wonders how long Castor's been growing his hair out for, but never remembers to ask. It's not really important anyways.)
Sylvester carefully works the rose-scented soap into a lather, then works that later into the gentle waves of Castor's hair. He's lucky that Castor's hair is only slightly wavy, and not as hard to comb through as Sylvester's own thick curls — it makes washing Castor's hair go quicker. (Less chance of Castor's hair tangling and snagging, too.) Still humming softly, Sylvester takes his time rinsing the soap out, until all of it is gone and the white looks almost blue, between the dampness and the moonlight and the shadows. Then, Sylvester works the rose-scented hair oil in. He takes extra care with this step, making sure that it isn't too much or too little, the same as when coating Castor's feathers in the feather oil, working section by section, making sure he's gotten Castor's bangs as well. Lastly, Sylvester takes the time to braid Castor's hair, tightly but not too tightly, and carefully tying the end off with the same ribbon Sylvester had removed to begin with.
"All done." He says, simply, and smiles at Castor when Castor twists around to look at him.
A dark hand reaches, to run along the braid. "It's nice." Castor says, voice warm. "Thank you." His other hand reaches for Sylvester's. Grasps, gently. Squeezes. "Your turn."
Sylvester laughs softly, and turns around so Castor can wash his hair. It's relaxing, the process — letting his eyelids fall closed and feeling the way Castor carefully gathers up soap lather to work into Sylvester's curls. Jasmine-scented, this soap, as always. Then, water cupped in a pair of hands, poured onto Sylvester's scalp, and talons gently working through the strands of curls too short to form proper ringlets, gently scritching here and there. Jasmine-scented hair oil worked in, too, and fingers running through all of the curls an extra time or two so that they keep their shape.
Unlike Castor, Sylvester is too weak of a man to resist leaning back against his boyfriend's chest. This doesn't deter Castor at all, thankfully — and it lets Sylvester feel when Castor laughs, or the rumble in his chest from the occasional croon or soft hum. Castor is always slightly warm, so Sylvester has no shame in leaning into that warmth.
Even once Sylvester's hair has been washed in turn, the two linger. Castor's arms gently encircle Sylvester's waist, and Sylvester leans his head back against Castor's collarbones and throat. They both shift, eventually, until they're properly laying in the water instead of just sitting in it. The water's still hot, this time, though it's lost its scalding edge. With the water submerging him, and Castor pressed tightly against him, Sylvester just. . . drifts, peacefully. The sound of rain lulls him, softens the already soft edges of the day, and Sylvester would be content laying here forever, even once his skin has wrinkled and he's shriveled up like a prune.
Eventually, however, even they cannot linger there any further. With a soft noise of effort, Castor sits up, shakes Sylvester back to enough wakefullness that Sylvester is able to step out of the bathtub and dry himself off. He helps Castor dry off the feathers (as much as can be done, at least) and, yawning, wrangles himself into his sleepclothes.
Castor's hand in his, Sylvester half-stumbles across his room over to his bed, flopping down on top of it and pulling Castor down with him. It's a large bed, so there's plenty of space for Castor to spread out separately from Sylvester if he'd like, but Sylvester doesn't give Castor the chance. He rolls over and shuffles his way towards Castor, until he's hugging Castor close to him, arms wrapping around Castor's chest (underneath Castor's arms and wings, of course).
Castor huffs at him, fond, and is the one to lift Sylvester and himself up enough to actually shuffle underneath of the comforter and sheets, instead of simply being spread out on top of the comforter. Then, pulling the blankets back over top of both of them, Castor returns Sylvester's embrace, his own arms wrapping around Sylvester's shoulders. One wing, Sylvester sees, is tucked against Castor's side, while the other flexes and drapes over Sylvester entirely, like a dark-feathered blanket.
"Is this. . . alright?" Castor's voice is careful. Hesitant. Always asking the same question, always cautious.
"Of course it is." Sylvester reassures, as he always does. Fondly, the way he always does. He presses kisses against Castor's jaw, against Castor's cheek, against Castor's lips, too. "You're fine. You won't hurt me."
Castor's answering noise is a soft, quiet, and wordless thing, but it doesn't need to be anything more than that. He bows his head, tucks Sylvester's head against the crook of his neck where the collarbones meet, into the feathers there. His breath is soft, and slows with fatigue, just close enough to brush against Sylvester's ear and neck. "Thank you." He says, softly, edges frayed like feathers.
"'f course." Sylvester says again, slower, words slurred with sleep. "Love you."
A soft noise. "I. . . love you too." Embraced in that warmth, lulled by the darkness and moonlight and soft patter of rain above, Sylvester falls to sleep too soon to hear anything else. (All the same. . . it is a good night. Sylvester hopes he can have many more nights like this — falling asleep beside his boyfriend, warm and safe and comfortable.
It is a very gentle, and very lovely, way to sleep.)
[for @morimenswrite day 6 - cut corners. today i bring you more sylcastor feat. the feather cape. on ao3 here]
Carefully, Castor sews the feathers onto fabric. It's delicate work, but important work — he has to make sure that each feather lays flat atop the one beneath it, lays flat against the black fabric of the cape. It's a self-assigned task, to be sure, but Castor won't cut any corners regardless. It's a gift, for Sylvester, and it's the best way Castor can think of to ensure that even if he isn't by Sylvester's side, his boyfriend can still be protected by Castor's feathers.
He's been working at it for some weeks, and by Castor's best estimation, he's almost finished. The outside of the cape is missing only a few feathers on the very edges — Castor's feathers will moult soon (he can feel it, the skin beneath the feathers itching and needling at his mind), and the flight feathers needed will soon be shed. It's a gift, and Castor wants it to be perfect — each feather shifts from black to brilliant emerald, where the light hits, and Castor can faintly see the d-slime within the hollow part of the shaft. The feathers blend into the cape, but the soft, pale gray down sewn onto the upper half of the cape's inside stands out in stark contrast to the red fabric lining it.
Castor hums to himself, satisfied. Soon. Sylvester had been wondering where his spare cape went, but soon Castor will be done, and can gift it back to his lover. (He hopes the feathers keep Sylvester safe. He hopes that the down keeps Sylvester warm, when Castor isn't there.)
The Ultra Space is not necessarily something that most people find themselves wandering within. Of course, Sylvester has never quite been a normal person.
Castor sticks close by his side, one hand gripping Sylvester's. The faint fog of this place swirls around them both, and Castor can't help the way his feathers are all on end, fluffed up in agitation. (The fact that is it somewhat cold, here, does not help.)
"It'll be fine," Sylvester assures, but Castor cannot help but be wary. He does not want Sylvester to get hurt — the Ultra Realm is strange, to begin with, less tangible than things such as the ocean or visceral flesh, more similar to what Mythag dubbed the Chaos Realm in its undefinability. People get lost, here. Hounds shaped in the vaguest suggestion of a beast prowl, and Castor knows that Sylvester had faced a creature born here and only barely escaped, once.
The worst part, Castor thinks, is how tame the Ultra Realm is around Sylvester. It loves him, as much as a place like this can love anyone — even without Pollux's Sacred Heart, Castor can feel the Ultra Realm within his bones, feel the flight fluctuations in it. When slipping into the space alone, or with Pollux by his side, the Ultra Realm is not calm but it is. . . tamer. In battle, the space is frantic, jagged noise that is felt rather than heard. But here, with Sylvester by his side, the Ultra Realm is calm as a still lake and eerily quiet. It's unsettling.
(The Ultra Realm is dangerous, because it is akin to being in the mouth of a beast. Stay too long and you will be devoured — Castor has never witnessed it, but this, too, is a fact writ inside of his bones. The Ultra Realm is a place that traps others within it, makes traversal dangerous as it twists and obscures and makes finding an exit near impossible. But with Sylvester — there is no obscuration, no twisting winding paths. When Sylvester wishes to travel through the Ultra Realm, is it quick and painless and easy, and Castor has watched his partner slip in and out of the Ultra Realm as easy as any Awakener that Mythag classified as Ultra would be able to do.
That the Ultra Realm makes itself as un-hostile as possible, that it almost hurries Sylvester along so there is the least chance of his being devoured by the space. . . it is unnerving in the highest amount.)
"It will be fine." Sylvester says again, hand squeezing Castor's own, even as he pauses to press his side against Castor's. Those shining silver eyes look up at him, crinkle in a smile. "We're almost there, I promise."
"If. . . you're sure." Castor says, softly. His feathers do not fall flat — it is still too cold for that — but maybe. . . maybe he can trust in the Ultra Realm. (It loves Sylvester. Not the same way that Castor loves Sylvester, perhaps, but. . . the Ultra Realm is almost divine, in itself. Castor himself is a god.)
He breathes in the faint scent of petrichor and jasmine, and exhales a breath that does not fog, even as the cold suggests it should. "Is Lady Daffodil expecting us?" He asks, looking down at Sylvester as they once more continue walking.
Sylvester grins up at him, strides steady. "It's a surprise!" How Sylvester knows the paths to all of Daffodil's different shops, through the Ultra Space, Castor does not know, but he will let Sylvester have that secret.
"Alright." If it's a surprise, then it's a surprise. (Maybe Castor will see if he can bargain some feathers for something. He does not think there is anything in particular he wants, but Daffodil's shop has a way of making you leave with items you'd never intended to buy.) "Lead the way."
Sylvester does — and so, they step further into the silent, muffling mist. (Somehow, it almost feels like home.)
