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Eijun is five when they start to grow in.
Subtle at first, a bit of extra length on his skinny, skinny shoulder blades. Barely even noticeable.
They ache a little, itch a lot.
He is blind to the looks his parents exchange for the most part, doesn’t notice his mother’s pursed lips, his father’s heavy eyes.
Eijun is five when he starts to grow wings.
.
.
.
When he is nine, they begin to take shape.
Eijun cranes his neck to look back at the mirror through water stain galaxies, all starry-eyed.
They’re small and sort of uneven, missing feathers, but still, they are without a doubt wings in the making.
And they are his.
The excitement, the endless pressing need to scream and shout to the world is so overwhelming, he doesn’t even remember running out, still half-dressed.
When he shows his mother, spinning around for her to see, she drops a bowl. Pulls him in so fast, it hurts, chin digging into his scalp. A strange chords strikes her throat.
It sounds like a sob.
.
.
.
Eavesdropping is wrong, or so he was taught.
(Then again, Eijun has always been a bit of a rebel.)
His parents keep their voices low, harsh whispering that cuts into his ears like razor blades.
He doesn’t hear much, doesn’t dare to. Only fragments here and there:
I was afraid
only weighed half as much when he was born
why
he was so happy
why
why him
why
Until Eijun closes his eyes, shuts them out with his hands, and then all he hears is his pulse beating like a hammer.
.
.
.
By now he knows he’s different. Or well, he had a feeling he always has been, just never in a bad way.
The stares are something he gets used to. The shifty peeks, the sideglances, the look-aways.
The whispers, though, they never really go away.
Life gets louder when his wings grow their first feathers and start to stretch his shirts. He cuts the holes himself. Crooked, sloppy, but perfect, he thinks.
Eijun has few friends, but few is plenty. Wakana is especially fond of his new appendages, likes to tease his sloppy needlework and admire what little feathers he does have. But never does she (nor anyone else) dare to touch them.
.
.
.
When Eijun stares at himself in the mirror, foggy and water-marked, he sees fourteen years old.
He sees skinny. Hollow-boned.
He sees disappointment.
He sees freak.
And when he breaks his neck to look at the misfortune on his shoulder blades, he sees ugly.
Uneven, sparse, poorly developed feathers, bone-white. They don’t cover his wings right, and all he sees is skin on skin on skin.
Then he sees red, sawing away his ugly with his father’s razor.
It hurts. Of course it hurts, it’s a part of him. He’s cutting away a part of him.
Eijun swallows the sob, kills it in his throat, lips salty. His arms shake with each slicing motion, every pop, every crunch resonating down to his marrow.
Oh god, it hurts.
Back and forth, back and forth, his hand goes, until it starts to go numb. He wishes his whole body would go numb. It’s too much, too much.
He feels too much.
Feels the red, red, red sliding down the ridges of his spine. It tickles.
Feels the feathers falling, getting stuck in his skin.
Feels the right wing coming apart, coming undone, hanging by skin and hesitation.
Then one more stroke, and he’s halfway there.
Halfway to human.
.
.
.
Eijun moves to Tokyo at the start of his first year of high school. A prelude to a new life, a better life, his father said.
Small towns are no good for boys like him. There will be others in the big cities, those who can relate. They promised. (He didn’t need it.)
They were right, though. Winged people also walk the streets of Tokyo, also bathe in city lights, living their lives.
But rarely are they out in the open, naked, on display for all to gawk at. They keep them hidden away, tied down, buried. His shoulder blades throb, never stop aching. He can understand why.
.
.
.
He is fifteen when he joins the baseball club and meets Miyuki Kazuya.
Wild brown hair. Glasses. Sharp eyes. Crooked smile.
The first word that comes to Eijun’s mind is dangerous.
An arm is thrown over his shoulder, and he holds his breath when it rubs against his wounds like sandpaper.
"Damn, you’re a featherweight." Miyuki’s breath is hot against his face. "We should make you eat double the amount of rice, what d’ya say?"
Eijun blanches, shoves him away.
Then he smiles, “You’re a pitcher, right?” He taps his catcher mitt to Eijun’s heart. “Look forward to workin’ with you, partner.”
The next word that comes to mind is something along the lines of beautiful.
.
.
.
The wings grow back in three weeks time, larger, fuller, and with more feathers. The scars, the deep marks leave trails at the base of his shoulder blades.
Eijun gazes at himself in the mirror and sees fifteen years old.
He sees ember eyes, messy hair.
He sees Sawamura Eijun.
He sees freedom.
Hide them away, tie them down, his father would have said. (Then again, Eijun has always been a bit of a rebel.)
He hums a nameless song and cuts holes in his jersey.
.
.
.
The staring is back, and so are the whispers. But they die down relatively quick. It's nothing new in Tokyo, he supposes, to see fifteen-year-old boys play baseball with their wings in the sun.
"Can you fly?" Haruichi asks, genuinely curious.
And when he replies that no, he can't unfortunately (because what's the point of wings if you can't even fly?), Miyuki is there with his lazy smile, half-lidded eyes.
"Aw, I was hoping you'd give me a ride."
"Good, I'd drop you in the ocean," says Eijun, but it tastes strange on his tongue. He licks his lips, feeling a little excited, a little scared under Miyuki's stare.
.
.
.
The worst part about baseball is that he’s bad at it, mostly, other than pitching. Which, often times is a hit or miss.
He is clumsy, falls a lot. Bumps into team mates. Drops the ball. Misses his throws. He is a flailing mess, the absolute opposite of grace.
His teammates say it's because of his wings, the added wind resistance or something like that.
Miyuki blames it on his complete lack of coordination and skill, horrible footwork, and his head in the clouds. Nothing to do with biology or physiology. Life isn't that easy.
Still, Eijun would like to disagree.
The best part about baseball is Miyuki Kazuya.
.
.
.
Contrary to popular belief, Miyuki is not good at everything he does.
He kisses Eijun behind the dorms one evening, holding him close and grabbing hard. Leaves crescents on his forearms. The kiss is sloppy and a little wet and tastes like soy sauce and skin.
But it's incredibly human, he thinks, and it hits him like a rush of air.
Fingertips tickle the base of his wings, scarred and ugly.
"They were never too much, you know." Miyuki says, voice low, face full of feathers and fingers in his hair.
Eijun smiles against his neck, throat dry.
Simple words. They are all he ever needed.