He tumbles through the air, wind rough against his skin, and the world spins around him, and his breath is a tight knot of terror.
this is it this is really it oh fuck —
The ground comes racing to swallow him up and he spots Shen Wei, cries out in an internal wail because he doesn't want Shen Wei to watch him die, no no no —
Then —
something. Sensation, ripping agony, a change of motion. A lurching swirl instead of a fall, spinning round like a sycamore seed, slowed and whirled, hitting the ground seconds later (an infinity of seconds later — he should already be dead) feet-first, knees-second, slamming into tarmac at a bloodying, bruising speed.
Not a lethal impact. Though it should have been.
He lifts his head, sees Shen Wei staring at him, stunned, feels such a strange sensation on his back. And pain, the wet slickness of blood trickling across his skin.
Feathers.
They are there when he turns his head stiffly. Wings — black, shining, glorious. On him. His breath catches and he stares, reaches a hand across his shoulder to touch them, feels the pull of pain where they ripped through his skin. "What…" he whispers.
"I'm sorry," Shen Wei says. Pleads. He has his hand outstretched, where his dark energy must have fluttered around his fingers, the same black as the feathers. "I — you were —"
Zhao Yunlan is still breathless. He flexes muscles he's never used before, but somehow he understands in this moment how to use them and his wings respond, spreading and then folding. "You did this?" he says.
Shen Wei nods. "I didn't — It was all I could — I don't know how to undo it —"
He reaches out a hand, hesitantly. Zhao Yunlan turns, feels Shen Wei's trembling fingers stroke the pinions, the bones. The skin on his back where his shirt must hang in shreds.
Shen Wei takes a harsh breath. "I'm sorry," he whispers, again.
Zhao Yunlan turns swiftly. Shen Wei's hand is streaked with blood. "No," he says. "Don't apologise."
"But," Shen Wei says, "I did this to you."
Zhao Yunlan opens his wings, carefully. There's strength coiled there, potential, wonder. He holds his breath, and tries to flap them. He's uncoordinated and although he lifts from the ground it's less flying and more flinging himself a few metres forward, a low arc. He turns back, does it again, barrels into Shen Wei who catches him, braces him, still shocked and wide-eyed.
"I guess I need practice," Zhao Yunlan says.
"Practice?" Shen Wei says. "Zhao Yunlan, I —"
"Wings," Zhao Yunlan says. "You gave me wings," and he folds them around him and Shen Wei, a laugh bubbling up through him, bright with joy.
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winterfish
no subject
Date: 2019-10-06 11:26 pm (UTC)He tumbles through the air, wind rough against his skin, and the world spins around him, and his breath is a tight knot of terror.
this is it this is really it oh fuck —
The ground comes racing to swallow him up and he spots Shen Wei, cries out in an internal wail because he doesn't want Shen Wei to watch him die, no no no —
Then —
something. Sensation, ripping agony, a change of motion. A lurching swirl instead of a fall, spinning round like a sycamore seed, slowed and whirled, hitting the ground seconds later (an infinity of seconds later — he should already be dead) feet-first, knees-second, slamming into tarmac at a bloodying, bruising speed.
Not a lethal impact. Though it should have been.
He lifts his head, sees Shen Wei staring at him, stunned, feels such a strange sensation on his back. And pain, the wet slickness of blood trickling across his skin.
Feathers.
They are there when he turns his head stiffly. Wings — black, shining, glorious. On him. His breath catches and he stares, reaches a hand across his shoulder to touch them, feels the pull of pain where they ripped through his skin. "What…" he whispers.
"I'm sorry," Shen Wei says. Pleads. He has his hand outstretched, where his dark energy must have fluttered around his fingers, the same black as the feathers. "I — you were —"
Zhao Yunlan is still breathless. He flexes muscles he's never used before, but somehow he understands in this moment how to use them and his wings respond, spreading and then folding. "You did this?" he says.
Shen Wei nods. "I didn't — It was all I could — I don't know how to undo it —"
He reaches out a hand, hesitantly. Zhao Yunlan turns, feels Shen Wei's trembling fingers stroke the pinions, the bones. The skin on his back where his shirt must hang in shreds.
Shen Wei takes a harsh breath. "I'm sorry," he whispers, again.
Zhao Yunlan turns swiftly. Shen Wei's hand is streaked with blood. "No," he says. "Don't apologise."
"But," Shen Wei says, "I did this to you."
Zhao Yunlan opens his wings, carefully. There's strength coiled there, potential, wonder. He holds his breath, and tries to flap them. He's uncoordinated and although he lifts from the ground it's less flying and more flinging himself a few metres forward, a low arc. He turns back, does it again, barrels into Shen Wei who catches him, braces him, still shocked and wide-eyed.
"I guess I need practice," Zhao Yunlan says.
"Practice?" Shen Wei says. "Zhao Yunlan, I —"
"Wings," Zhao Yunlan says. "You gave me wings," and he folds them around him and Shen Wei, a laugh bubbling up through him, bright with joy.