Chapter Text
It took Komatsu a little while—it took until he stopped being so afraid—to notice that Toriko's wings were a little disordered, a little rough in places. They weren't in bad shape, of course! They were clean, orderly, it was just. More functional than perfect. Like they were preened just enough for maintenance, and not any more.
And they were—stunning, dark steely gray and huge, big enough that even Komatsu was impressed—almost as big as his own wings, but of course a lot more proportionate. ...Komatsu's wings were so big to they were kind of ridiculous, Komatsu knew, as much as he liked the wings he had.
But Toriko's wings—
Powerful, built equally for soaring and for maneuverability, smooth, even, gray on top and white-and-dark bands below, the kind of wings you only ever heard about, and it was clear that Toriko's diet was amazing—not that it could be anything else! The feathers were strong and straight and true, the pigmentation dark and clear, and they were so stunning—and Toriko so intimidating—that Komatsu missed it at first.
The feathers were ruffled where Toriko's pack sat, like they weren't reshaped firmly enough or often enough. In general, they just weren't—cared for, the way wings should be. He tried to put it out of mind—it was a very personal thing—and by the end of the trip, Komatsu's own wings were looking pretty sad, especially compared to Toriko's. And Toriko—he caught a glimpse one morning—had the flexibility to preen himself even close to the base of the wings, which Komatsu certainly couldn't manage. And his arms weren't long enough to get the ends of his wings, either—so he was worse off than most people would be after a week on their own.
Even more than a hot shower, it was having his wings clean and straightened, his skin warm with the feel of trusted fingers rustling through his feathers, that was the greatest relief at the end of that first trip. Komatsu was single, too busy for many close friendships, distanced from his family, and so he was part of a preening circle, similar adults who got to know each other enough for the business of preening to be a pleasure instead of simply terribly awkward. With Himari, a widowed accountant, chattering away behind him as she put his feathers back in order, Komatsu had to wonder. Toriko could preen his own wings well enough, but did he have anyone else to do it for him?
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"Toriko?" Komatsu asked, politely, trying to keep his voice steady—although from the odd way Toriko glanced over at him, it hadn't quite worked. "I was wondering if you'd help me with my wings," Komatsu blurted out all in a rush, face painfully hot but his stomach feeling like it was full of ice, embarrassed to ask for such a personal thing but determined to get it out—
No matter what happened. In the silence that followed, Toriko kept on staring at him, and Komatsu kept on talking, uncomfortable and trying to make things—okay again. Because Toriko was—important, and his trips with Toriko were worth more than—anything, Komatsu thought, stomach clenching tighter at the unexpected bare truth of that thought.
"I mean—I'd be happy to preen you back, if you wouldn't mind! If—I know you can reach your wings yourself, and I feel bad asking but I just can't, and I'm itchy, I'm starting to get some pinfeathers in, and I've got really long wings, and if you're already doing your own—if you won't want me to—I understand. You don't have to! I really know that it's a little forward and—I'm sorry I asked, I shouldn't have—"
"You're really okay with it?" Toriko asked, looking—startled? Happy? And Komatsu fell silent, mouth open and eyes wide and—
"Only if you are!" Komatsu blurted out.
"You don't have to do mine. I'm used to preening myself," Toriko said, his grin just as wide but not as bright as it usually was. “I'll do yours either way.” Komatsu's fingers tightened automatically, his palms suddenly aching, because he didn't know—he wasn't anything at all like sure—but it felt like Toriko was giving him an excuse to say no.
"Toriko—I'd be happy to preen you, if you want. Even if you don't help with my wings," Komatsu said, a little too loud, words a little clouded with the threatening congestion of tears, but he had to get them out, had to make it sound as serious at it was, because he meant it.
"It's been a long time," Toriko said with a little bit of a laugh, and that made Komatsu shiver, like he’d stepped into water and found it colder and deeper than he’d expected.
"You first?" Komatsu asked, not really meaning to, the words just slipping out. He was already looking around for something, some way to set up the chairs so he could get at all of Toriko's wings. "I—don't take this the wrong way! I know you can preen your own wings, but you have this ruffled patch, and--it just looks uncomfortable?"
Toriko laughed, but he sounded unsettled, and he was already unfolding his wings, stretching them out—and out—and settling himself down into a sprawl, wings half-folded and limp along the ground. Komatsu couldn't wait any longer, and he settled in at Toriko's side, fingers practically itching to get down into the ruffled down and smooth crinkled feathers. Toriko's wings were beautiful, and they could be spectacular. But--
Komatsu was careful, not out of politeness but something that was more like caution, because Toriko was—huge and strange and intimidating and friendly, but was he really not used to preening with other people? The want in his eyes had looked so fragile that it had been frightening. Especially compared to how uninhibited and unashamed Toriko's other desires were—for food, mostly, his appetite unending and enthusiastic. So Komatsu carefully soothed a hand down his back, over the incredible muscle, and then into the feathers. He sighed with contentment as his fingers settled into slick, cool feathers, and the hot down underneath.
When he looked up, Toriko's face was still in the dancing firelight, and his eyes closed. So Komatsu smiled, and leaned in a little bit further, and closed his own eyes, letting his fingers dance over sensitive skin, pulling out small bits of entangled debris, fixing shafts of feathers with smooth, even pinches to zipper the barbs back together. Komatsu didn't hurry, because just the thought of hurrying to get through the job left him furious the way he almost never was—but he didn't spend as much time on the neater areas, the ones that Toriko could reach easily, focusing on the places where Toriko couldn't get a good angle with his own hands, the places where a buckle rubbed or something had broken a feather shaft or just where the incredibly fine, delicate skin of Toriko's wings, whisper soft and so warm against his fingers, seemed somehow sore, or in need of preening.
Halfway through, Komatsu realized that he'd been absentmindedly reaching back to press his fingers against his own uropygial gland, that the preen oil on his fingers was his own, and he was putting it on Toriko. Komatsu jumped and yelped, and—Toriko had gone so relaxed and gentle, and Komatsu hadn't even realized it until he was suddenly tense and on edge and ready to attack again, suddenly a predator, an apex predator—
"Sorry Toriko!" Komatsu said, a little too loud in his sudden frantic need to make things clear. "I was just—accidentally using my own preen oil, I'm sorry, I can't really reach your gland from here and I should have—it's weird! But—"
"Will you have enough?" Toriko asked, shifting so he could look at Komatsu. Everyone produced waterproofing oil for their feathers, but not always very much.
"Eh—me? Oh, yes! I'm an albatross, Toriko-san, I'll be fine even if I need to go for a long swim!" Komatsu let himself relax again into the soothing brush of fingers against feathers—hoping that maybe Toriko would relax again, too. "I just probably should have asked first," he said, blushing and embarrassed, then letting go with a laugh. "Sorry, sorry! I just got too focused on your feathers. —You really don't mind? Your feathers are a little dry," Komatsu said, not able to help a little bit of a frown. "I think I might have a little bit of feather oil—it's artificial, but—"
"No," Toriko said, so sure and certain that it left Komatsu blinking. "They all smell wrong."
"Toriko! You can really smell that?" Komatsu said, amazed as always by Toriko—everything he was.
"I'd rather smell like you," Toriko said, with a shrug of a wing that bumped into Komatsu, leaving his legs half-covered under strong, thick flight feathers, each one almost the length of his arm.
"That's a little weird, Toriko," Komatsu said, humor in his voice—sure that Toriko would hear it too. He was rewarded with a laugh in return, and Komatsu let himself snuggle a little bit more under the spread of Toriko's strong wings. His fingers scratched just lightly against delicate skin, as Komatsu fluffed then settled the soft down under the secondary coverts, before switching to the larger, vaned feathers covering it, carefully settling each feather as he went. Under his fingers, he could feel Toriko puffing up his feathers, making noises of pure contentment in the back of his throat, pleased and comfortable and Komatsu had to smile, smoothing wispy semiplume feathers only to have them puff up again. —It was good, so good, to have Toriko's feathers in his hands, as fluffed up as a happy chick, so good to help the steely feathers lay perfectly.
He was a little regretful when he finished the last feather, because he didn't want to be done—but just a little, because now Toriko's wings were as well-cared-for as they deserved to be, and because he could do it again.
Slowly, Toriko started to stir, feathers flexing before going sleek and flat, wings stretching—
Komatsu patted the wing closest to him, letting his fingers bump into sensitive allular feathers at the crook of Toriko's wing, urging him still again. "Don't worry about my wings tonight," he said, meaning it—his wings would be fine waiting a day or two. He just wanted to let Toriko drift off to sleep with the warm glow of just-preened feathers. "It's late! My wings will take too long."
Toriko blinked open an eye to stare at him, measuring, as penetrating as an eagle's glare could be, before he smiled sleepily, and turned to pull Komatsu into a tight hug, wrapping wings around him before letting go. Komatsu squeezed him back, tight and certain, before he let himself back off, ready to settle in for the night—and he was glad that Toriko's wings felt so good, because it made him feel less selfish, for all the happiness he'd gotten out of working with Toriko's feathers, all the joy.
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They weren't traveling in any hurry, so Komatsu made a big (huge, really) leisurely breakfast the next morning, a multiple-hour affair that left Toriko stuffed and smiling. His wings did look better, Komatsu thought, pleased.
He was just starting cleanup when Toriko appeared behind him, pressing himself up against Komatsu's back, startling him enough that he dropped the soapy plate he had in his wet, slippery hands—Toriko caught it—and half-unfolded his wings, leaving the leading edge pushing against Toriko's arms.
"Ahhhh! —Sorry, you startled me!"
"Sorry," Toriko said, not sounding particularly apologetic—but he did back off, which immediately made Komatsu more regretful. "Is it okay if I..."
"Huh?" Komatsu asked, confused, until he followed Toriko's gaze to his wings.
"It's not like there's anyone else here," Toriko said, with an easy shrug—which Komatsu just didn't understand at all. "And your wings are huge, Komatsu."
"It's a little ridiculous, I know," Komatsu said—still not entirely sure about what was happening, what had happened, but willing and ready to set it aside for a little while, and his wings suddenly itchy again, now that there was the promise of someone else preening him. He wiped the water off his hands and pulled off his apron with a shrug, stretching briefly then looking around the camp. "—Now? I can wait if we need to get going—"
"Come on!" Toriko said, bright and enthusiastic, dragging him over to a section of log, the right height for Komatsu to sit on, and far enough away from the still-smoldering embers of the fire, the cameleopards that were carrying their gear, and the thorny bushes dotting the arid countryside that Komatsu could unfold his wings all the way. He did, in a rush, blinking his eyes shut against the cloud of dust and sand he raised, then sighing as the hot sun began to warm his feathers, mostly white above except for dark primaries and gray-black penciling along the edges of the larger feathers, mottled dark below.
"Albatross, huh?" Toriko muttered, almost rhetorical, and Komatsu laughed, easy, eyes already closed in pleasure—the sun on his outspread wings, the promise of someone trusted preening him after a little too long with his wings untouched--and anticipation.
The first brush of Toriko's fingers against the scapulars along his shoulderblades, where skin started to be covered in feathers, made Komatsu shiver—Toriko's fingers were huge, and calloused, and still delicate, gentle, as dexterous as any chef's hands would be. He could feel Toriko's attention focused on him, and it wasn't at all horrifying, the way it had seemed the first time he'd been next to Toriko in a fight—Toriko was a predator, an apex predator, harpy eagle wings and a wolf's grin, but his presence at Komatsu's back felt good, not just safe.
"Is this good?" Toriko asked, fingers pausing for a second.
"Mmm? Oh! Yes—it's great," Komatsu said, a little too quickly and absolutely.
"Okay," Toriko said, fingers beginning to work through his feathers again, Komatsu going almost boneless with a sigh of pure pleasure as the itchy shafts covering the pinfeathers coming in on his upper wing coverts were loosened. And—there, a piece of grit that had been bothering him, large enough to rub—a twig or something—was knocked out.
Komatsu could tell that Toriko knew as soon as he reached a place that Komatsu couldn't reach himself--he slowed down even more, suddenly extra careful as Komatsu's toes curled, wings pushing a little higher, pushing into the soft pressure of Toriko's fingers. "Your wings are too long for you to preen them," Toriko said, voice remarkably neutral—almost troubled?
"Yes," Komatsu mumbled, not focused enough to raise even a hint of embarrassment.
"It's impressive," Toriko murmured, sounding almost as entranced as Komatsu was, just as focused as Komatsu had been, working on his wings the night before. Sounding like he meant it, enough to make Komatsu blink sleepily in surprise—because Toriko's wings were incredible, huge—big even compared to Toriko, but not ridiculously out of scale like Komatsu's wings were—gorgeous and purposeful and powerful.
"You haven't seen my wings open before," Komatsu murmured, as the thought hit him.
"Hm?"
"Oh—my wings fold in thirds. It surprises people," Komatsu said, because it was strange. At least, with all the ways that Toriko himself was strange—ways that had nothing to do with his wings—Komatsu didn't have to worry about it. "How big they are," he added.
"Otherwise you'd trip over them if they folded normally," Toriko said, and Komatsu had to laugh at the image that conjured up.
It took the rest of the morning, Toriko taking extra care with wings that needed it, a little behind on maintenance—Komatsu not able to convince himself to make Toriko hurry, because it was a perfect lazy day, bright and warm and Komatsu half-dozing, except only half because Toriko's hands, his wrists and fingers and knuckles, and sometimes his mouth, were incredible, making every nerve in his wings light up with sleepy awareness and bright pleasure.
"You're drooling," Toriko said, but his voice was fond and warm, and quiet at Komatsu's side--he'd worked his way inwards along the second wing, and was running his fingers over the tertial feathers that covered his shoulder blades, hiding the transition from down to unfeathered, peach-fuzz skin. Komatsu laughed, wiping his face, ready to shift—Toriko had finished his wings, as thorough as anyone could ask and then some—but Toriko's hand settled in his hair instead, stroking over his scalp with the same careful focus, and Komatsu melted again, leaning into the bulk of Toriko's body, letting his eyes fall shut. Leaning against Toriko like this, he could feel him breathing, the peaceful deep inhalations.
"Tell me if you need help," Toriko said, finally rising—Komatsu waited until he was out of the way to fold up his wings, in a crisp rustle.
Something was bothering him—
"Toriko!" Komatsu blurted, turning to look at him, suddenly afraid. "You know—Toriko, I'd always want you to preen me. It doesn't have to be just when there's no one else! If—if you don't mind. If you don't mind, I always want to preen your wings."
There wasn't any response, but when Komatsu dared to look up, Toriko looked so—surprised, and relieved, that it stuck in his throat, and Komatsu had to throw himself at Toriko, wrap his arms around his neck and cling as fiercely as he could, because he didn't have the right words.