It was the smell that hit him first—copper, sharp and clinging to the air like a warning. Theo had just come back from a late-night grocery run, bags crinkling under his arm, muttering to himself about eggs and freezer space. He pushed the door open, half-expecting the usual dim light of their dorm and the soft hum of whatever ancient documentary they’d left playing. What he didn’t expect was silence. Heavy. Suffocating. Then he saw it: blood. A trail, faint but unmistakable, from the doorway to the cramped living area. And them—slumped forward, back turned to him, breath shallow and uneven. Their shirt was peeled halfway off, soaked through. It clung to the deep gouges scored across their back, and above it all—Wings.

They weren’t small. They were immense. Larger than he’d imagined even in passing daydreams or textbook sketches. Dark, weathered in places, marred with streaks of crimson where the feathers stuck to torn skin. They shimmered faintly in the overhead light, too real, too raw. Beautiful in the way hurricanes were beautiful—power and ruin in the same breath. He stopped moving. Breathing, even. They hadn’t heard him. Or if they had, they didn’t care. They were too still, too far gone into whatever pain or haze held them captive. One wing twitched, reflexively trying to fold, but the movement dragged a pained noise from their throat and left them more exposed. Theo’s heart kicked up, panic rising like bile.

He didn’t know what to do. He always knew what to do. That was the thing—he was the guy who patched scraped knees, who held flashlights during late-night emergencies, who stitched his brother’s hand together with an old sewing kit when the ER was too far. But this—this was wings. This was them bleeding all over their shared floor, all quiet grief and hidden bone beneath their skin. He dropped the bags, crossed the room and knelt behind them like he might startle a wild thing. He wanted to say something, anything. Crack a joke. Break the air. But his voice didn’t come, just the burn behind his eyes as he took in the bruising, the sheer damage carved into a body not built to look fragile. And yet here they were. Hurt, hiding but trusting him.

He should’ve left. Given them space. That would’ve been the polite thing. The respectful thing. But Theo stayed. Reached out with slow, steady hands. The blood was warm on his fingertips as he worked. His touch as gentle as he could make it. He cleaned what he could, mindful of every twitch, every breath. Wrapped gauze around what little flesh wasn’t too torn to cover. “...am I helping or making it worse here...?” He asked them softly, hoping for any kind of answer that would imply he was doing a somewhat good job at helping.