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It starts while the sun is still shining overhead. The slightest prick tickles him, and Tango smacks at the back of his neck in agitation. He’s no stranger to heat, being Netherborn, but humidity is another matter entirely, the Overworld’s moisture clinging to him uncomfortably no matter how often he evaporates it. Which is way too often, considering the flammability of the Ranch’s… everything above its foundation. Tango sure isn’t about to be the reason his and Jimmy’s hard work goes up in flames a second time, no way.
But that doesn’t mean it isn’t super tempting to set himself ablaze for a bit. The stiff upper lip he’s trying to keep lasts a valiant twenty minutes before he’s slapping blindly at a new portion of his back, trying to deter the emboldened creepy crawlies from making a smorgasbord of his skin. The wet weather would be tolerable if it wasn’t for the pests that made themselves quite at home in it, and a few, equally bothered cows flick their tails against the onslaught.
Tango’s own tail twitches in sympathy. It isn’t long enough to make a full arc against his back. “Ohh I know, buddy, I know,” He says, stroking one of their flanks with a gloved hand, “The bugs’re a buncha’ freeloaders, treating us like easy food!” At least whatever bug was stupid enough to develop a taste for blazeblood probably wouldn’t live to make the same mistake twice. If Tango is going to get sampled like soup at a potluck, he’s taking the insect ecosystem down with him.
The insect ecosystem, apparently, has other things in mind.
It feels like retaliation. The pricks gradually turn to bites, and the bites to stings as Tango works his way through the Ranch’s daily chores. He sheds his vest somewhere between grooming the chickens and harvesting the wheat, trying to ease some of the pain and itch that’s starting to gain ground across his shoulder blades. The turtleneck follows soon after he’s finished feeding the horses, when ditching his outermost layer is no longer enough. Even the black undershirt he’s left in becomes unbearable before long.
Clawed fingers scratch vigorously at the parts of his back he can reach. Some sturdy bark, left over from the logs they’d stripped to rebuild the Ranch, is tested and discarded just as quickly, not large enough to be of any satisfaction. An as-of-yet unfinished section of their new home gets used as a makeshift scratching post, dragging the wall’s rough cobblestone edge across his back. It feels terrible, like a foreign fire between his ribs and skin, the sort wrought by infection, a heat that’s unfamiliar, unsettling. What kind of infestation did the Ranch have, if this is the result?
Tango swears to Death herself, he’s going to jump into the ravine and make it a point to hit his back against every rocky ledge he can on the way down. It would be mercy, any relief would be mercy, even that of a respawn, uncomprehending in the moments between one life and the next where he has no body to feel with. And it might have been worth it, too, if his lives were his own to lose, but–
“Tango?” Jimmy calls on his way inside the Ranch, as if answering Tango’s unfinished thought, and Tango yelps, startled out of his itch-induced haze. The ends of his hair ignite like wicks catching a breeze.
“Jimmy! Jim, Jimster, Jim Jam,” Tango stalls, frantically smoothing his hair down before the embers can catch on any of the wooden panels. His nerves don’t smooth with it, nor does the motion dispel the color on his cheeks. Once the strands are lying flat and unlit, he leans against the wall he’d been rubbing on with a wince. “Fancy, ah, fancy meeting you here, huh? Anything cool come outta your mining trip?”
Jimmy, the beautiful, beautiful man, doesn’t call attention to whatever faux pas that just was, despite the cringe that pulls briefly at his face. “We do still live here, yeah?” There’s a huff as Jimmy starts removing his armor, toeing off the boots at the door before sitting on the bed to remove the legpieces. Tango squints at the shaped metal; he’s almost certain Jimmy left home this morning with a chestplate. “Mining was alright, nothin’ special. I could’ve stayed down there a while longer but I figured,” Jimmy sighs, now relieved of his armor’s extra weight, and looks at Tango, “You were more important.”
Tango blinks. “You- I- ‘scuse me?” The skin of Tango’s back rubs uncomfortably against the cobble when he shifts his weight. Without the distracting itch, the angry heat becomes all the more prominent across his shoulder blades. It throbs painfully, and Jimmy cringes again.
Oh. He’s wincing .
In a moment of blissful, dreadful clarity, it occurs to Tango that if he’s been dealing with this, Jimmy must be, as well. Fantastic.
“ That ,” Jimmy clarifies, “I thought you might have gotten whacked in the back with a lasting potion of harming, or something.” Their bed creaks as Jimmy stands, crossing the room to their storage. There’s not much to look through, and after a second of fruitless searching, he shuts the chest and slides it forward, leaning over it to access the barrels hidden underneath.
Tango warily eyes his Soulmate’s back. Pinpricks of red and brown dapple the blue of his button-up, and suddenly Tango thinks he knows why Jimmy hadn’t walked in wearing his chestplate. He tries unpacking Jimmy’s tone of voice, but can’t quite place a feeling to it. Strained is close enough, maybe worried as well, and Tango’s tail droops. He’s supposed to keep Jimmy from getting hurt, and then he turns around and lets some stupid bug bites get the better of him?
“I kinda wish I had,” Tango’s grin is a small, rueful thing, “Woulda’ been a much cooler explanation than the truth.” Something like this seems so… mundane. It might have been refreshing, a welcome change of pace from the violence and strategy inherent to the Life games, if it wasn’t incredibly annoying.
It gets a chuckle out of Jimmy, at least. The sound loosens something wired tightly in Tango’s chest. “How’s about you let me be the judge of that?” He says, closing the barrel and situating the chest overtop of it again. Alcohol, salve, and bandages are gathered in the crook of Jimmy’s elbow, rolling his empty hand at the wrist as if prompting Tango to continue, “Come on, then, why’ve you been taking a cheese grater to our back?”
“Took some tree bark to it, actually,” Tango mumbles, ignoring Jimmy’s incredulous “bark?” in favor of sucking air through his clenched teeth. Admitting to something so silly isn’t without its pains. “Look, I was just- it was itchy , okay?” His face warms, and Tango runs a hand through his hair, just to be sure he hasn’t started smoking as literally as he feels like he is, “Just some buggie boos that decided my back flesh looked like a four-course meal! Rude but whatever! Except it just got worse until it was all I could think about, and next thing you know Tango’s doing the vertical tango with the architecture! Not my proudest moment!”
He’s bracing for something, Tango realizes at the end of his tirade. Shoulders hiked, eyes squeezed shut, like he was expecting laughter, or anger, or disappointment. The story sounded even more ridiculous out loud than it had in Tango’s head, and Jimmy had every right to be mad after forcing him out of the mine prematurely. Resources are finite, and every bit they don’t get for themselves is a bit that would inevitably be found by someone else, someone who might be keen on using it against them.
Silence, however, is worse . Tango peeks one eye open; Jimmy is frowning, eyebrows drawn as though Tango had given him a riddle to solve, and the confusion is preferable to the anticipation, if not by much. Tango chuckles nervously, “Talk to me, Jimbo, you’re freakin’ me out a little here.”
Jimmy snaps out of his thoughts, the intensity melting from his features. “Oh,” It’s hardly above a whisper, and his face falls a little further, “Oh, Tango, I am so sorry.”
Wait. “ You’re apologizing to me ?” Jimmy sits on the bed again, lays his armful on the end table, and offers Tango a hand. Tango takes it and is guided to sit beside Jimmy, one leg pulled wordlessly onto the bed so that Jimmy has a clear view of the damage. He won’t be wearing any backless dresses for a while, if Jimmy’s low whistle is anything to go by. “I’m the one who worried you, y’know? Just ‘cause I couldn’t flambé a few creepy crawlies before they made me their buffet table!”
Jimmy hums, but it doesn’t sound like acceptance. Behind him, Tango hears the click of a canteen lid, a damp cloth gently cleaning flecks of dirt and grime from his scratches. Then, the swish of the alcohol bottle as it gets upended. Tango bites the inside of his cheek. Why does treating the injury have to hurt worse than inflicting it?
“I’m not so sure the bugs are to blame for this,” Jimmy mutters, before warning Tango to take a deep, steady breath. There might be some finger-shaped singes in the bedsheet where Tango had clutched way too hard against the sting, but his back dutifully doesn’t arch away from Jimmy’s touch. His tail, on the other hand, has a harder time keeping still, lashing in distress until it finds purchase. Around Jimmy’s wrist, if Tango had to guess. Every little flinch and twitch gets met with the quick stroke of fingers along the fluffy plume.
Tango all but melts when Jimmy tells him the hard part is over. There’s a pop, then the smell of herbs as Jimmy applies the salve. It’s a little old-fashioned, but with the usual healing items out of reach, it does the trick just fine. Rudimentary relief is better than none at all, and Tango savors the coolness numbing the itch for good.
It’s as Jimmy is smoothing the bandage against his back that Tango turns his head, the briefest peek over his shoulder to see his Soulmate’s handiwork. Instead, Tango meets guilty brown eyes that flick away the moment they’re caught staring. “I aught to get this cleaned up, ay? Wouldn’t do us well to sleep without putting everything back where it goes,” Jimmy's smile seems halfhearted as he unwinds Tango’s tail from his wrist to stand.
Tango grabs his wrist again, properly, and the spike in Jimmy’s pulse leaps in Tango’s chest. “You’re not getting outta this that easy, bucko,” They stare at each other for a moment, and Tango’s lip quirks in a way he hopes is playful enough to ease whatever weighs on Jimmy’s mind. He isn’t in trouble, and Tango can’t fathom why he’s feeling guilty, of all things. “You’re lookin’ at me like you just killed my cat, what’s the deal?”
The hand around Jimmy’s wrist lowers, pulling a little more insistently until Jimmy relents and sits again. Tango adjusts to face him properly, watching Jimmy worry his bottom lip hard enough to feel the phantom ache of blunt teeth against his own. He looks around their modest home, towards the door and the windows, double and triple checking something Tango isn’t privy to, before sighing, long and too close to resigned for Tango’s liking.
“You were wearing your jacket this morning, yeah?” Jimmy begins.
Tango quirks a brow, turning an image of his black and red vest over in his mind. “I mean, sure, every morning. Why?”
“What bug do you know that can bite you through something that thick?” Tango opens his mouth– “That isn’t native to the jungle!” Jimmy amends, and Tango’s answer dies on his tongue.
Because Jimmy has a point. Tango hadn’t actually seen his insect assailants, he’d just assumed they were there. Bugs were a frequent enough problem for the cattle that he wouldn’t have been surprised to find out the common fleas and ticks had gotten bolder. But his vest is insulated leather, and anything that got past that would have his turtleneck and undershirt to contend with. The only feasible theory is that the bugs got under his clothes somehow, but surely Tango would have felt them long before they reached the back of his shoulders. Being crawled on is a sensation Tango hates, and one that was notably absent throughout the day.
Tango frowns thoughtfully. “Okay, so it probably wasn’t an infestation.” If the itch hadn’t been so overwhelming, Tango might have riddled that out on his own. Still, it doesn’t answer the question Tango asked . “What’s that got to do with you looking guilty?”
Jimmy peeks at the front door again. The curtains were drawn across the windows already, so the only indication of the setting sun was the slivers of light cutting long rivers across their bed. Session hours weren’t quite over, but it wouldn’t be much longer now. Tango thinks to ask if Jimmy wants to wait, wants to tell him after they’re sure nobody will overhear, but Jimmy beats him to it.
“I think,” Jimmy turns to meet Tango’s eyes, alight with curiosity even as the guilt in Jimmy’s morphs into something closer to cautious optimism. “I think I’m- no, scratch that, I’m about ninety-nine percent sure I’m the reason you were so itchy this morning.”
Tango blinks. That’s a lot of percent. “Okay. Cool, cool.” He makes a vague, confused gesture with his free hand, “Youuuu wanna tell me how, exactly, maybe?”
“It might make more sense to show you, actually? Hold on,” Jimmy lets go of Tango, and that’s all the warning he gets before Jimmy is shrugging off his button-up, pulling the t-shirt underneath over his head. From this angle, Tango catches a better glimpse of the blood staining the back of the garments, and winces. Even if Jimmy was responsible for the itch, drawing the blood was all on Tango. He’d have to find a way to make up for that.
“You sure you didn’t just want a reason to take your shirt off? You’re jacked, we get it,” Tango teases, suddenly finding the holes he burned into the sheets earlier of much more interest.
Jimmy laughs, an honest one this time, and it’s the warmest thing Tango has heard all day. “Look who’s talking! You’ve been shirtless since I got here.”
“And you haven’t complained once!” Tango preens, joining in the laughter when Jimmy nudges his shoulder with a scoff.
“Yeah, well, nobody’s gonna fault me for enjoying the view!” Mercifully, Jimmy moves on before he can see the color spread across Tango’s face, and Tango clutches his hair preemptively. This is not the time to burst into an embarrassed little fireball, thank you! “And I didn’t take it off for nothing, I just thought it’d make this a little easier on both of us.”
Make what easier? Is what Tango intends to say.
Jimmy turns. There’s a soft noise, like that of fabric shifting against itself, and his eyes are drawn to the bursts of vibrant yellow appearing against his Soulmate’s back. Waves of sunny feathers manifest out of thin air, settling onto a silhouette that threatens to brush the walls of their humble home. The meager light of dusk paints what little it touches in rich, warm tones, and Tango would throw open their curtains and bathe Jimmy in that same splendor, if he thought he’d be allowed.
Wings. His other half has wings .
“ Oh ,” Is what Tango says instead.
“Yeah, oh ,” Jimmy sounds sheepish, rolling his neck and shoulders as though the extra weight (of wings! He’s got freaking wings!) isn’t a familiar one. “Not how you expected today to end, eh?”
A shake of his head is all Tango can offer, still struck a bit speechless. His hands twitch at his sides, struggling to keep to themselves when Jimmy’s wings, beautiful as they are, look like they haven’t had much in the way of TLC. His tail betrays him, curling back and forth excitedly, and he feels more than he hears Jimmy chuckle.
“It’s been a while,” He says, and Tango hits his mental replay button. Did he say that TLC thing out loud? He’s saved by Jimmy continuing, “You’re the first I’ve told, let alone shown them to.”
Something achingly fond curls in Tango’s chest, and he clears his throat, dragging a hand through his hair again. It feels like it isn’t enough, like he could combust despite his best efforts, but he doesn’t set a single thing ablaze. “I’m good with secrets,” Tango whispers around the heart that threatens to choke him.
And Jimmy smiles, “I trust that you are. This is… a pretty big one,” Oh, they were pretty and big, alright. The wings– Jimmy’s wings, that’s gonna take some getting used to– arch above his shoulders as Jimmy folds them closed, the ends of them draping the bed just shy of Tango’s lap, “But you deserve to know. Especially if you can feel ‘em.”
“Can I? Feel them, I mean. With my hands.” Not the smoothest delivery, but they’re so close to him, and Tango wants nothing more than to bury his fingers wrist-deep in the plumage. He’s no bird, but he’s sure there’s something he can do to clean them up. In his mind he imagines them in their prime, sleek and well-maintained as Jimmy cuts through the sky, catching the sunlight in his feathers and laughter lost to the wind. It’s breathtaking, and unlikely, but Tango can dream.
Jimmy complies without hesitation. There’s a nod, and a stretch, and then the yellow blankets the space between them. Tango takes the invitation immediately, adjusting his gloves to better insulate his palms. The touch makes Jimmy bristle, and Tango pulls his hand back until his wings relax enough to try again, slower. “I know they’re not the best looking,” He starts, a shuddery breath breaking one sentence and the next as Tango traces the shape of the wings, “They haven’t exactly needed to be presentable lately. I hardly notice the itch anymore.”
Tango hums, distracted twiceover. First by the feeling of Jimmy’s wings beneath his hands, the feathers softening the closer Tango gets to their base, and second by the feeling against his own back. No matter where on Jimmy’s wings Tango’s fingers roam, the touch only registers against his shoulder blades. That explains the intensity of the itch, he supposes; two entire wings’ worth of sensations, and only a small portion of body in common to feel it on.
“You’re incredible,” It slips out in the same giddy tone Tango often uses when paying Jimmy a compliment, “I can’t believe you’ve been hiding these beauties!” What’s more, he can’t believe he’s here . The longer Tango runs his fingers through the feathers, inching closer to the sensitive track of skin between them where wings meet spine, the more pliant Jimmy becomes, pushing his wings further into Tango’s hands. Content, despite the sharp nails and scalding temperatures those same hands are known for. It isn’t ignorance when, elsewhere on his body, Jimmy has the burns to show for it.
More than once, Tango has to remove his hands and breathe. Jimmy’s faith in him, in his self-control, fills him with something molten. In the best of ways, but molten nonetheless, and the longer he ponders this unconditional trust, the more he feels like he’ll overflow.
Jimmy snorts, “Oh, come off, you’re just trying to flatter me now,” There’s a smile in his voice, and Tango watches Jimmy’s feathers ripple and fluff. It undoes what little progress Tango had made, but even the slightest indication of Jimmy taking pride in his wings is welcome. Especially after talking about them as if they were a burden and nothing more.
“Me? A flatterer? Nooo, no no no,” Tango smooths down the feathers that had just ruffled, “You couldn’t pay me enough to say something I don’t really think!”
Presumably, Jimmy takes this as a challenge.
The wings are pulled from Tango’s lap, and Tango pointedly does not pout at the loss, even if the sudden limpness of his tail implies otherwise. Jimmy shakes them out, spreads them a bit, and lays back so his head is where his wings once were, supported against Tango’s bent leg. His grin spells mischief. His eyes are impossibly warm, catching the torchlight in such a way that their usual brown looks amber. “Tell me what you think, then.”
And there’s so much to think, in that moment.
He thinks Jimmy is looking at him the way one looks at stars in the night sky. He thinks there’s a reason Jimmy’s wings haven’t seen the proper light of day. Jimmy didn’t tell him as much, but he thinks the reason would leave him in a rage. He thinks he’d bring this entire server to ruin if it gave Jimmy a place to exist comfortably. He thinks he’d ruin himself for it.
Maybe he’s a bit ruined already. Netherborns aren’t meant to feel this fragile.
“I think,” Tango begins, palms finding either side of Jimmy’s face. He wonders if the color that creeps across Jimmy’s cheeks is just a trick of the light as he traces the lines of his jaw with all the same tenderness he’d afforded Jimmy’s wings. “I want to know how to take care of you. All of you,” He emphasizes the last bit before Jimmy can get a word in edgewise, “Not that you need me to. You don’t! I know you don’t, but,” He breathes, and this time it isn’t enough to dispel the embers in his chest, “But man, would I like to. If you’ll let me.”
He can’t meet Jimmy’s eyes just then, instead watching his hands where they lay against Jimmy’s skin. Their heartbeat pounds beneath the pads of Tango’s fingers when he curls them, and Jimmy tilts his head back to allow him more room. And there it is again, the trust and the warmth that he can’t breathe through. There is no smoke when he exhales, but he pulls his hands away regardless.
Jimmy catches his wrist. Tango flinches, expecting a yelp, some kind of recoil, but the world is still, and Tango watches, wide-eyed as Jimmy guides his gloved palm to his lips. The kiss is feather-light and lingering, and Tango’s throat tightens around everything he thinks . That that was a dumb move, that he could have burned Jimmy again , that the well of heat inside of him feels so very close to boiling over, and yet Jimmy is holding him anyway. He thinks he might shatter if Jimmy stops.
“You already do.” The words weigh like a secret, and Tango’s breath hitches when Jimmy squeezes his hand, “You gave me your armor when I didn’t have any and you didn’t stop trying to get gear until you had enough for both of us. You’ve been making sure I eat and sleep and drink enough. You listen when I’ve got some insane idea and you back me up when it goes south. You don’t let me go unanswered. That’s care.”
It seems so straightforward when Jimmy puts it that way, less something Tango must learn, and more something automatic, instinctual. Like it’s in his blood to care for his own, even if he hasn’t had his own to care for. Until now, he supposes. “That’s all there is to it, huh?”
Jimmy nods and offers a brief smile. “That’s it.” He reaches up with his empty hand to cup the side of Tango’s face. It’s a little awkward, given how Jimmy is laying, but once he hits his mark, Tango holds it in place. “I trust you, you know. It’s why I showed you these,” His wings shift idly to get Tango’s attention, ''Instead of fixing them myself. But I want to take care of you, too, and I think part of that is making sure you know that you’re the safest hands I’ve ever been in.”
Tango almost wants to argue. After all, he knows where Jimmy has been, in Scott’s arms through the first game and in the Southlanders’ during the second. Less volatile people, most of the time. “But the Ranch–”
“Wasn’t your fault,” Jimmy cuts off as he sits up again, “We’re not letting that train of thought leave the depreciation station, nuh-uh, no thank you. You helped while you could. You stepped back when you couldn’t. And, you didn’t let your anger get the better of you! Even with Scott and Joel and Cleo egging you on, you let me talk you down!”
“Not before I burned you,” Tango retorts, “ That was my fault. And just now, with the scratchy-scratchy, I’m the reason you were in so much pain that you cut short your mining trip. And who could forget how we lost our green life, just a little overambitious caving courtesy of yours truly!” He blinks hard, pitching forward at the waist to press his forehead to Jimmy’s shoulder even as his heart twists because– “How can you be so sure about me?”
Jimmy hums, and Tango straightens anxiously, “I could ask you the same thing, yeah?” At Tango’s furrowed brow, Jimmy continues, “How can you be so sure about me ? I’ve been the first out every game; if it happens again, I’ll be dragging you down as well.”
“I don’t care,” The reply is immediate, and more honest than even Tango expected. He’s got a competitive streak a mile wide, even if he doesn’t have the performance to show for it. He wants to win, that’s why he keeps coming back, isn’t it? “I’ve gotten more out of being your Soulmate than I’ve ever gotten out of the games.”
The idea must be revolutionary for Jimmy, because the force of his excitement creaks their bedsprings when he takes Tango by the shoulders. “See, see, that’s exactly it! We’ve messed up, had accidents, mistakes and all that; it’s par for the course, but this is different!” The brightness on Jimmy’s face dims into something softer, a look that settles between fondness and awe. He dips his head, fingers tracing reverent lines across the explosion scars that paint Tango’s chest, evidence of the event that brought them together, “I like this. Like us . And it’s not because of the soulbond, alright? It’s because it’s you .”
It’s you, Tango recalls thinking, still in shock from the swiftness of his death and dizzy from respawn sickness when he and Jimmy had found each other in the trees that morning, My other half.
Heat colors Tango from the inside out. There’s no wrath or rage to be spoken of, and yet he feels like he should be engulfed in fire by now, a split second of fear making him glance left and right. The Ranch they erected in honor of the first stands strong. Jimmy is still in front of him, alive and well and smiling . Not a lick of flame out of place, on himself or otherwise, and conflicting urges split Tango’s attention. He wants Jimmy to be a safe distance away. He wants Jimmy to be safe in his arms .
The choice is made for him when Jimmy pulls his hands back. “Oh, gosh, that– that probably sounded really intense, I’m sorry, I didn’t think–”
Before he can get too far away, Tango catches Jimmy’s wrist. It doesn’t burn. Tango feels the fire, and nothing burns. It makes something different sit behind his teeth, waiting to be said, the name of a feeling he’s known the face of since that first fateful session.
Carefully, he guides Jimmy’s hand back to his chest, palm pressed to his heart where their pulse races. And when there’s no discomfort to be spoken of, no flashes of pain or burning of flesh, he opens his arms. How quickly Jimmy leans forward to put himself in them makes their heartbeat spike anew, alongside another wave of heat, and this time, Tango welcomes it. “I like us too,” He admits softly into Jimmy’s hair. The blond of it is thankfully in much better condition than the yellow of his wings, which reminds him, “I’d like us better if we didn’t have extra-prickly leggy bug feelings to contend with.”
Jimmy snorts, wings fluttering behind him, and Tango swears he can almost feel Jimmy’s grin pressed against his neck. He tilts his head to allow it. “You’re in luck, then, seems I’ve landed myself a new groomer,” Jimmy sits straight and starts adjusting himself, back to Tango and wings spread enough to make the task at hand a little easier, but he can’t resist a smug look over his shoulder. “I hear he builds in his spare time; bet he can do some amazing work with those hands.”
Tango splutters, “Hey hey hey, is the Peanut Gallery getting preenificated right now? No? Didn’t think so!” Jimmy covers his mouth against a peal of laughter that Tango hears anyway. Something about that laughter has always been contagious.
The process isn’t as intuitive as Tango had assumed. It’s not as simple as making the feathers lie flat, they have to feel unobstructed as well. There’s some reservations when Jimmy asks him to take his gloves off but, Jimmy assures, it’ll make things easier if Tango has full feeling in his palms. One section at a time, under Jimmy’s careful guidance, Tango gets into the rhythm of cleaning and straightening the bright feathers, brushing out bits of natural debris that got caught in the down and pulling the ones that are ready to molt to make room for new growth.
It’s repetitive: brush, adjust, smooth, and move on, the feathers overlapping like shingles on a roof meant to keep the fluffy down underneath it dry. Jimmy sinks into the ministrations, and eventually his noises go from something discernable to something animal, gasps and sighs and hums switched for chirps and whistles and coos. It’d be an amazing discovery, if Tango’s poor heart wasn’t at risk of giving out from how cute it was. Even in his instincts, Jimmy is talkative, and Tango answers as best he can, clicks and purrs that don’t translate perfectly but get the point across all the same.
By the time he’s finished, Jimmy is in an absolute daze of relaxation, lazily lifting his head to blink owlishly at Tango as if to ask why he had stopped. Tango chuckles, “Your wings are all done. Why don’tcha make with the flap-flaps, see how they feel?”
Jimmy gets caught mid-yawn, opting to nod instead. He lifts his hands over his head in a stretch, wings flaring out on either side, and Tango admires not only his handiwork, but the entire, glorious picture Jimmy paints. The day was just shy of turning over to the next, and it was so, so worth it. “It feels…” Jimmy flaps his wings experimentally, “Better than they have in a long time.” Jimmy smiles delightedly, “Thank you, Tango.”
Tango’s heart revisits the sanctity of his throat. He forces a swallow around the offending tightness, around the warmth and pride he’s feeling. Jimmy had told him just how personal it was to let a person preen an avian’s wings. Knowing he’s one of the few Jimmy would ever allow, and that he’d done it well, scratches a deep-seated itch that Tango didn’t know he had until he indulged it. Some odd quirk in his heritage making him possessive, he’s sure.
“Any time,” Tango answers, running his still-glovebare hand through Jimmy’s hair, “Glad to help you out.”
Jimmy looks prepared to lean into the hand and conk right out, but just as Tango catches his eyes fluttering, he snaps to awareness. “Actually,” Jimmy worries his lip between his teeth again, and Tango wonders if he should be concerned by the sudden change in tone. He decides against it; Jimmy sounds nervous in the way a student speaking in public would, not in a way that implies any danger. “There’s one more thing I’d like to do with you. If you'll humor me.”
" Only one more thing?" Tango does an impressive series of playful eyebrow wiggles.
"Stoooop," Jimmy groans, and when Tango laughs, Jimmy laughs with him, "Are you really gonna make me regret this before I even do it?"
Even through his next sentence, Tango's voice bounces with giggles, "That depends; what do you want to do?"
Jimmy shifts, something complicated twisting his expression, and the humor Tango was finding recedes abruptly. Whatever it is, it's clearly something Jimmy is serious about, and Tango respects the silence as his Soulmate seems to collect himself.
"I've never done this before," Jimmy mumbles, and Tango gets the impression that Jimmy is more talking to himself than talking to him, walking himself through a process that Tango is oblivious to. "It seemed… I dunno, fluffier , hearing about it secondhand. Rose-tinted glasses and all that. They've always made it sound like the words just come to you," Tango nods along, less an indication of understanding– because genuinely, he has zero of that– and more to assure Jimmy that he's got his full attention.
It's the right thing to do, because Jimmy's posture eases. He reaches to Tango's left, where the pile of freshly-molted feathers still sits, and sifts through them meticulously. Some are picked up and immediately discarded with a comment about its length or its condition, while others get considered for longer, scrutinized from every angle before presumably being deemed not good enough for… whatever Jimmy has in mind.
Tango might zone out a bit. He can go sleepless for concerning lengths of time while lost in the throes of a passion project, but as it stands, it's much past midnight. All he has to do with himself here is sit and ponder what mental rubric Jimmy could be applying to his feathers, and why it matters. What even gets done with shed feathers? Throwing them away seems like such a disservice when they're so crucial while they're attached.
"Oh," Jimmy breathes, thankfully before Tango's head can start to loll, "Perfect." He holds the feather as if it were something incredibly delicate, and Tango peers with renewed interest at the selected paragon. It's gorgeous, a rich dandelion yellow that shines golden in the torchlight. A covert, if Tango remembers Jimmy's preening lesson correctly, a few inches shy of a foot in length. Long, certainly, but not as absurdly so as the flight feathers that're the size of Jimmy's forearm.
It's asymmetrical, a little lopsided, and Tango can't help but smile. "It's got character."
"It's for you," Jimmy blurts. Tango's brows raise as Jimmy powers forward on whatever second wind he's caught, "I tried to pick one you'd like; it's shorter so it's easier to keep. Solid vane, long shaft, not a lot of down, the best I had to give short of– well," He spreads a wing and mimes plucking a feather. Even though there's nothing between Jimmy's fingers, the idea still makes Tango wince, "Some avians are big on that, you know? Offerings coming straight from the wing. As if it's a more significant gesture if it hurts to get, but I didn't really clock you as the overtraditional sort."
'Overtraditional' gets said with a grin, and Tango laughs, "Can't say I've ever been on speaking terms with generational expectations, no," Everything from his style to his life choices to his craft and how he chooses to practice it has gone against the flow of tradition. So many advancements in the redstone world have him to thank for it. But that's not as important as the way Jimmy lights up at his agreement.
"Then I don't think you'll mind if I go off the script a bit?"
Tango waves a hand in a slow sweep across the room, indicating the "stage" in question, "The stage is yours!"
And he's… not sure what he expected.
Something more jovial, certainly, talks of scripts and traditions and stages and gestures still fresh in mind. Something to laugh at, together, to play along with and tease each other about into the morning's early hours, since it seems sleep would be escaping them both tonight. Bdubs would pitch a fit if he knew.
Instead, Jimmy moves closer. He presses their foreheads together, and Tango worries for another moment about the fire inside of him that reacts to Jimmy's proximity with a desperation to be closer still. It's better and worse that no flames manifest; their home is safe, but without the outlet, Tango can do nothing but will his breathing to stay even. It doesn't work as well as he wishes it would.
There's silence for a moment, and then Jimmy hums, something content in the lines of his smile. "You don't know how long I've been trying to remember how things like this are supposed to go," He chuckles, "And then, two words from you and all that anxiety up and vanishes. Right alongside anything I thought to say. It's kind of amazing how quickly you can get me out of my head."
"Ditto,” Tango answers, short and sweet because he can practically hear Jimmy’s gears turning. He thinks back to the several instances where one of them would provide the word on the tip of the other’s tongue, and humors the thought that he might know what Jimmy is trying to say before even Jimmy does.
“I’m glad I can give you that, at least,” Jimmy’s lips quirk softly, “There’s a lot else that I wish I could give you; I’m not a gifted builder, or an adequate redstoner. I’m not a fighter, or a strategist, I can’t guarantee you the win you deserve in these games. But,”
“Jimmy,” Tango breathes, but his protest doesn’t get far.
“ But ,” Jimmy continues, resolve giving his voice a firmer lilt. It seems he’s finally found exactly what he wants to say, and Tango purses his lips to keep from interrupting again. It’s Jimmy’s stage, after all, and Tango is the most intimate audience imaginable. “I want to try anyway. To give you somewhere that feels like a home. To hear all your brilliant ideas and support every genius and ridiculous creation you put your heart into. To make you feel safe and secure. To be on your side no matter how things turn out. Because,” Jimmy swallows, inhales, and lets it out with his words like they’re a relief, a weight off his chest that settles between the two of them instead, “I’m the best thing I have to give. The only thing.”
Tango’s throat wouldn’t have worked if he wanted it to as Jimmy’s wings stretch, the newly cleansed plumage closing around them, the outside world blocked from view. Jimmy lifts his head for just long enough to spot the feather he’d set aside. With one hand, he holds Tango’s face, thumb stroking his cheek. The other is offered to him, palm-up, the feather resting across it, the shaft pointed towards Tango. “May this be yours always,” And then, more bashful, “As I already am.”
And Tango glows .
It feels like the affection inside of him has finally reached the point of no return, veins flooding with all the warmth of a lit hearth, itching to release and wrap his Soulmate in its security. His light casts flecks of brightness against the inside of Jimmy’s wings, and Jimmy looks awed for a split second before Tango draws him back into the moment.
He rests his palm in Jimmy’s hand, holding the feather between them. His first attempt at forcing words ends roughly, and he clears his throat and starts again, empty hand running through his hair, now lit, but not burning, not a single spark catching on the wings that surround them. “You’re enough,” He manages, and Jimmy wipes his eyes against powder deposits Tango didn’t even realize had been forming, “You’re more than enough.”
“So that’s a yes, then?” Jimmy asks, the edge of nervous humor returning to his voice, and Tango gawks like the idea of rejecting Jimmy is something unfathomable– because to him, it is.
“Oh, you’re gettin’ a yes, alright,” They’re already so close, hardly six inches between their faces. A flutter of anticipation kicks up in his stomach, and Tango wonders distantly if the sensation is his own, or Jimmy’s, or both. Maybe both, if Jimmy’s blush is anything to go off of, a tongue poked out to wet his lips that Tango tracks with his eyes before flicking them up to meet Jimmy’s again. There’s a hitch in his breath, the slightest of nods, and then Tango hooks an arm around the back of Jimmy’s neck.
A surprised chirp is lost somewhere between them. Jimmy’s lips are softer than Tango would have thought, his touch even moreso, hands settling comfortably at the curve of his waist to hold him steady, right above the base of his tail. Jimmy’s wings open, and Tango rises to his knees just long enough to get better leverage, elbows keeping him stable against Jimmy’s shoulders, fingers laced behind his head.
It’s hard to kiss around two smiling mouths, noses bumping and the occasional click of teeth only making them smile harder. These aren’t fireworks, Tango thinks, elation and adoration singing in his core. Fireworks are bold and loud and demanding, they burn hot and fizzle out fast. This is softer, sweeter. Something that doesn’t make you look, but captivates you all the same once you do. It’s cozy, consistent. Fireflies , his dizzy mind provides, fairy lights. The glow of activated redstone, the sparks from a freshly-fuelled furnace.
For now, he thinks he’ll just call it love.