When they first asked him about his wing after catching sight of Genesis grooming his own one afternoon, Sephiroth had not understood the fascination.

To him, it was just there.

Another part of his body. Another thing people stared at when he walked into a room.

Most saw it as intimidating. Something monstrous, even. The long black feathers only added to the image Shinra had carefully built around him over the years. The legendary SOLDIER. The war hero. The silver haired monster standing at the center of every battlefield.

Sephiroth himself rarely thought about it that deeply.

“It serves its purpose,” he had answered simply at the time, not looking up from the report in his hands.

That should have been the end of the conversation.

Instead, they kept asking questions.

Did the feathers molt? Did they hurt when damaged? Was it heavy? Did he clean it often?

The last question had earned an actual pause from him.

“Not particularly.”

Which was true. He washed it when necessary and brushed through it every now and then if it became tangled after missions, but beyond that, he largely ignored it. The feathers hardly ever dirtied anyway.

It was low maintenance compared to the absurd routines Shinra expected for the rest of his appearance.

Them, however, had stared at the wing with unconcealed interest for the rest of the evening.

Then came the request.

“Can I preen it?”

Sephiroth had looked at them over the rim of his teacup in silence.

“Preen?”

He listened as they immediately launched into an explanation, something about comfort and trust and helping with feathers properly.

Apparently birds did it for each other.

Genesis, according to them, had laughed for nearly five minutes when they asked him whether Sephiroth allowed anyone near his wing.

The answer had been no.

Until now, apparently.

He should have refused. The wing was sensitive, and Sephiroth disliked unnecessary touch to begin with. Most physical contact put him on edge immediately, years of training making his muscles lock tight before his mind even processed it.

But they were looking at him with that hopeful expression again.

And Sephiroth, despite all evidence suggesting otherwise, found himself catastrophically weak to them.

So he allowed it.

Which, in hindsight, might have been a mistake.

Because now he was sitting on the edge of the couch in their apartment with his wing stretched awkwardly across the cushions while they carefully worked their fingers through the feathers, entirely too focused on the task.

The room was quiet except for the occasional sound of traffic outside and the low hum of the heater near their feet. Domestic. Warm. Strange.

Sephiroth was not built for strange things like this.

Yet every slow stroke through the feathers pulled tension from muscles he had not realized were tight. Their hands were gentle but thorough, separating feathers carefully before smoothing them back into place with almost ridiculous concentration.

Sephiroth exhaled before he could stop himself.

Not a sigh. Not quite.

Sephiroth closed his eyes for a brief moment as their fingers disappeared back into the feathers again.

For once, there were no missions waiting for him. No Shinra executives watching his every movement. No battlefield. No expectations.

Just warmth.

Just them.

And, rather embarrassingly, the realization that he might never be able to say no to this again.