Chapter Text
The first time it happened, Namjoon freaked out.
They were all scattered on the lounge couches after a concert, aching in places they didn’t know could even ache. Namjoon had a cool towel draped over his eyes, satisfaction and pride pumping in his blood. He can feel the last dregs of adrenaline leaving him— leaving all seven of them boneless and lazy.
Even as his throat and feet ached, Namjoon thought, shifting the rapidly melting icepack propped on a knee, he wouldn’t trade this feeling for anything else in the world.
“I’m so dead,” Seokjin said, but the twitch of his smile is audible. “My feet. My thighs. Agony. I’ll fly everywhere from now on— you won’t ever see me standing up again.”
Someone snorted. “How’d you fly without standing up, hyungnim,” Jimin’s voice drawled, Busan accent thick past the heavy exhaustion.
“I’ll find a way to do it.”
“He’s just gonna have Jungkook carry him.” Yoongi said, voice a little hoarse. Hoseok laughed, and Jimin giggle-clapped.
“He’ll do it,” Seokjin said loudly through the chaos, and Namjoon heard patting noises— a palm smacking lazily against someone’s body part. “Yah, you’ll carry hyung, won’t you?”
“I’ll do it,” Jungkook confirmed, so sincerely in a way only eighteen year olds can achieve, that nobody even thought to disbelieve him. Then, cheekily: “I want lamb skewers first, though.”
“This disrespect,” the oldest in the room crowed, and Namjoon twitched at the tell-tale sound of Seokjin’s spotted white wings unfurling.
“Ack, hyung!”
Flapping noises, and then they’re all giggling at the struggle between the two. Intrigued, Namjoon turned his head sideways so the cold towel fell off of his eyes.
The sight that welcomed him is such a beautiful one; the leader isn’t quite sure how to react. Is it weird to stare? Is it normal that his own wings, tucked close to his spine never to see the light, is now begging to be set free?
Jungkook is the youngest between the seven of them, and everything about him is dipped in the color of white-gold.
The backs of his wings are a beautiful light brown, the flights a pure white. His wings stretched sixteen feet from tip to tip, each feather nestled perfectly in place thanks to hours of meticulous grooming.
Seokjin’s eighteen feet wings flapped playfully against the youngest, the two of them laughing and preening under the amused stares of their flockmates. Taehyung’s soft gray wings twitched, the way they always did when he’s feeling playful.
“Hey, wings down,” Namjoon murmured, wary that a three-way tussle would cause injuries. A smile betrayed his chastising, though. He loved his flockmates; loved their antics and the radiating warmth of nest.
“I haven’t done anything,” Taehyung said in that cute indignant way of his.
“You were thinking it.”
The youngest Kim chirped at him.
“Down, boy.”
“Ah, I’m so sore,” sighed Jin, opening his wings and making them stretch as far as they would go, the high ceiling and unflattering dimness of backstage lights somehow cradling his spotted wings and broad shoulders— like a fallen angel illuminated beneath hellfire— crowning them in worship.
Namjoon’s throat felt very tight all of a sudden. It doesn’t help that Seokjin is facing him; the older man standing tall with his wings spread. Eclipsing the overhead lights, casting towering shadows over him.
Instead of fear and intimidation, Namjoon knew there’s nothing else to find in the gesture than safety.
Feeling small and safe, he lets out a little questioning chirrup.
It’s such a faint little noise, but Seokjin caught it anyway, and stilled.
The older titled his head in a birdlike manner, approaching. His steps were careful; knees bent all the while.
Namjoon’s heartbeat was loud in the room’s quiet. He knew that gesture. He’d recognize those not-quite-bouncy steps, the flaunt and arch of Seokjin’s wings.
He’s presenting.
To a potential mate.
Namjoon can feel the sharp prickle of his own wings, ruffling and desperate to return the gesture— desperate to escape through the slits in his back and burst through fabric into the cold air— to present in return, to arch and flaunt and show off their colors—
And then Namjoon remembered who he is, remembered the color he bore on his back; the single note of black upon black upon black and oh, no, Namjoon thinks, Blackbirds were so frowned upon how could he ever think—
It’s through sheer miracle that he remembered how to speak, how to gather himself.
“What are you doing, hyung?” he asked, playing obliviousness; swallowing his beating heart and fears and hot, aching disappointment.
His flockmates turned away, the movements so subtle and casual Namjoon could’ve missed their stares, the hope, the want and courtship in their eyes.
“Just wanna check on you,” Seokjin diverted smoothly, picking up his discarded cold towel.
“Still dizzy?”
Namjoon swallowed. Again. His throat was so dry.
“Nah,” he said. “I’m okay.”
(Liar, liar,) shrieked his instincts, (why are you pushing away a mate, you’re supposed to accept and present back—)
He squashed the voice before it could hit a crescendo and groom itself into a nightmare.
“Water, hyung?” asked Jimin, already passing him a cool bottle of unlabeled water.
Namjoon took it wordlessly, sitting up and thanking his younger flockmate with a little pat to the shoulder. The liquid was blessedly quenching.
“Don’t force yourself, Namjoon-ah,” Hoseok was saying, rotating a shoulder. Adjusting his wings, probably, tucking it in and close against the spine.
“My stamina isn’t as good as the Winged,” Namjoon quoted, wiping his lips. He’s smiling, reciting the eight words dutifully as if they’re some kind of inside joke. Knowing his life, it probably is, somehow. A joke. “I know that.”
Jin stood next to him, still. He’s talking to a staff about some issue Namjoon currently can’t wrap his head around, because every single ounce of his attention was stolen by the way Seokjin’s wings were drooping— like they’re dejected.
Namjoon thought of the little dance, the fan of his wings. The way it was subtle yet graceful, like a question, like Jin is not expecting an answer out of him. But still hoping for one nonetheless.
He thought of five pairs of eyes, staring hopefully at him. Hoping a ‘Wingless’ would understand.
Namjoon closed his burning eyes and drank more water.