Author's Note: This is just a little one-shot wing-fic that I wrote because I had the itch to write for this fandom. It's not really set at any particular point in the story line and shouldn't give many spoilers other than the fact that Saruhiko left the Red Clan, but I'm pretty sure everyone knows that one. This isn't meant to be slash, but it can easily be read that way, so you can read it however suits you! Read, review, and, most importantly, enjoy!

KKKKKK

Saruhiko has lived his entire life being told that it was better to hide his wings. His father always told him that showing his wings was a sign of weakness and Saruhiko loathed nothing more than appearing weak. For the most part, the opinions of the lower life forms that he was forced to share air with didn't affect him in the slightest, but it always irked him to think that they would dare to think themselves above him. So he kept his wings tucking into his back, hidden from prying eyes.

Generally, the other students and teachers refrained from posturing about with their wings flared out as well. He was never sure if they kept their wings hidden because they thought they would be called weak for showing them, or not. Saruhiko never truly cared all that much to find out.

Still though, his father's words and his own obsessive hiding of his wings never stopped his utter fascination at watching other people's wings. It was always amusing to him how much people told others about themselves by displaying their wings. The wings were like shining beacons that displayed every fault and quirk and weakness for anyone who was looking and Saruhiko loved to catalogue such things.

People whose wings ducked up and down when they shrugged were often used to hiding their wings. Keeping your wings tucked in constantly meant that your wings often expressed the same emotions as your shoulders. It was harder to keep the movements of wings and shoulders separate. People whose wings were spotted typically acted shy and withdrawn as if trying to detract attention from their uniquely designed wings. People whose wings weren't particularly cared for often did drugs in the back and skipped school. Their wings were purposefully neglected as a way to show that they didn't care about societal pressures or some such other nonsense that Saruhiko didn't care to pay attention to.

And those observations allowed Saruhiko to pick apart every single person who displayed their wings the second they presented, feathers ruffling. It even allowed him to work backwards and figure out what people's wings were like by how they acted. It always worked. He could accurately predict everyone. Almost everyone.

There was a new kid in school. He wore a large hoodie and a floppy beanie and would often forgo carrying his bookbag if it meant that he could carry his skateboard instead. And he never hesitated to show his wings. They weren't terribly impressive in size – neither was he, but they were full of short, thick feathers that puffed up the wings so they seemed so much larger than they actually were. The wings were vividly red on the outside, outlined in deep black. The insides were a magnificent blend from that vivid red into an orange-ish brown into, finally, that deep black color. The tips were a blinding yellow color that somehow worked in with the rest of the colors. Overall, it was definitely unique and worth showing off – if one was into recklessly showing off their wings.

Further research showed that they were Wilson's Bird-of-Paradise wings. That was an incredibly rare wing type. No one else in the school had such a rare wing type. And that intrigued Saruhiko. Because this boy with the rare wings that he presented at every chance was shattering all prior experimental data. Was this because the wings were so rare that they presented as an anomaly? Or was all of Saruhiko's data faulty?

For the first time, Saruhiko found himself wanting to get close to another person, even if it was only for the purpose of further examination.

So, only slightly hesitant (not nervous, not scared, hesitant), Saruhiko approached the boy during lunch. He sat his plate down at the empty table and started meticulously separating the vegetables out of that day's approximation of soup being served in the cafeteria. That was another thing that fascinated Saruhiko. People with unusually unique wings were often coveted as leaders in the school's cliques and brought to incredible school standing, but this one was by himself more often than not and got in more fights than it should be humanly possible to get into.

For a long moment, the beanie wearing boy stared at him with suspicious, narrowed eyes. Finally, he huffed and went back to his own meal.

The days went by in the same way for a few weeks. Neither of them talked to each other or even initiated any sort of interaction the entire lunch period, but neither of them rejected it either. Saruhiko spent the time studying the other while pretending to read. The other boy spent the majority of the time furiously shoveling his food into his mouth as if someone would take it. Their pattern was broken for the first time exactly seventeen days after Saruhiko initiated his close examination. Halfway through lunch, the other boy suddenly stabbed his fork into Saruhiko's pile of vegetables. He started easily eating the vegetables that often took up a hated corner on Saruhiko's lunch tray. Saruhiko lifted startled eyes to the other boy's face, but the skateboard rider didn't even look up, simply taking the vegetables and eating them quickly before going back to his own meal.

Belatedly, Saruhiko realized how skinny the other boy was. His pale skin was sallow and slightly sunken in and there were bruises and cuts along his knuckles and eyes and, most concernedly, around his wrists and disappearing into his overly large hoodie sleeves. Saruhiko came to the uncomfortable conclusion that this boy didn't have the best of home lives. Taking a risk (one that he didn't plan and completely shocked by), Saruhiko announced, "I am Fushimi Saruhiko. What's your name?"

Amber eyes lifted to his face with just as much shock reflected in them as in Saruhiko, "Uh, Yata." They stared uncomfortably at each other for a long moment before the other boy – Yata – turned away mulishly, "This doesn't mean anything. We're not friends or anything."

"Of course not." Saruhiko scoffed, finally back on the right footing now that Yata had denied any chance of friendship. Friends were weaknesses and Saruhiko hated being weak more than anything. Yata harrumphed at him before going back to his lunch plate. Saruhiko had to hide a smile at the action.

KKKKKK

Saruhiko tangled his fingers lightly in Yata's wrecked wings. Yata was sitting in the apartment they'd bought together, his knees pulled up to his chest and his eyes trained firmly on the kneecaps. Those amber eyes that shined and sparkled like there was some sort of fire trapped in there were dull and cracked. They'd been shattered and the fire had gone out with the icy gales of the real world.

"Oh Misaki." Saruhiko breathed out, staring at the unfamiliar sight laid out before him. It wasn't all that strange to see a beat up Yata. Before they'd decided to pool their money together and lie about their age in order to buy themselves an apartment where they could get away from their respective fathers and the troubles that came with them, Yata would always crawl up onto the school's roof when he was beat up. Saruhiko often stayed there reading after school and he'd taken to keeping a first aid kit up there to patch up his friend. It was strange how easy it had been to start calling the other boy a friend.

It was strange, however, to see this beat up of a Yata. Despite the fact that Yata didn't seem to have any fighting skills other than furiously bashing things, he was somehow incredibly skilled at planning when to hit and how. It wasn't anything like the finesse of Saruhiko's knives, but it was fascinating in his own right to watch. It was especially captivating when Yata's wings would flash in and out of the light and catch the flying splashes of blood from their enemies.

Now, though, those wings had lost that powerful, unique beauty. There were slash marks decorating the inside and the outside. There were some spots near the bottom where the knife those monsters had used had torn clean through both sides and left ragged, flapping edges. Yata's wings were soaked in blood – not the flowing blood of their enemies, but his own sickening blood. The delicate bones on the inside were helplessly crumbled and bent and shattered, small shards sticking out from some of the larger bones. Each and every feather was matted with blood, tangled and broken and small, wilting parodies of their usual proud glory.

Overall, it broke Saruhiko's heart and infuriated him all at once. How dare someone do this to Misaki? How dare someone do this to Saruhiko's Misaki? If Saruhiko could ever wrestle the names of the men who did this from Yata, then those men wouldn't be of this world for much longer. Well, long enough for him to do to their wings what they did to Yata at the very least.

Although, Saruhiko couldn't enact enough physical pain on those monsters to truly do to them what they'd done to Yata. The boy loved his wings more than he loved himself. It was a well-kept secret that Yata didn't think too highly of himself. He found himself to be stupid and worthless and annoying and in the way. Saruhiko was trying to slowly coax those poisonous ideas away from Yata, but it was a torturously slow process. But his wings. His wings were the one thing that Yata was always proud of. He'd told Saruhiko once that the reason he so dearly loved his wings were because they were just like his mother's. And his mother had loved them too, cleaning them every night before bed and making sure that Yata knew exactly how to properly look after the magnificent masses of feathers.

All that was left of Yata's mother was now torn to shreds and savaged at the hands of strangers. And Saruhiko could see how that broke Yata. He could see it in the way that Yata didn't even seem to be able to feel Saruhiko's questing fingers. He could see it in the way that Yata's eyes didn't move at all from the tops of his knees. He could see it in the way that Yata didn't react even in the slightest to the name 'Misaki'. The only thing Yata loved about himself was now gone. Saruhiko didn't know if he'd ever recover from it.

The silence started to irk him (and wasn't that ironic? Saruhiko couldn't count the number of times he'd told Yata to just be quiet already), Saruhiko said quietly, "I can't save your wings. I don't know if you'll ever be able to fly again." A single, lonely diamond tear rolled down Yata's cheek, but it was better than the sad stillness that had permeated him before. Saruhiko kept going, dressing the wounds as he talked, "My wings aren't as beautiful as yours, nor anywhere near as unique, but they can fly. We're friends, Misaki. Anytime you want to fly, I'll gather you in my arms and we'll fly as long as you want. My wings are nothing special, but they're yours now, too." This was a lot for Saruhiko. It had taken him weeks of building up courage to even convince himself to show Yata his wings for the first time. Like he'd said, they weren't anything special. They were common blue bird's wings. They were long like he was tall and the feathers were slender and sleek. Yata had run reverent fingers through the feathers before staring up at Saruhiko with intense determination, announcing seriously that he believed Saruhiko's wings to be one of the most beautiful sets he'd ever seen. Saruhiko didn't believe him, but hadn't pushed it.

Yet, here he was offering to give his wings to Yata in the only way he could. It was ironic, Saruhiko thought, that the one who so loved his wings lost them, but the one who thought nothing of the appendages tucking into his back got to keep them. It was a cruel twist of fate. Then again, what was life but a series of cruel twists of fate?

During his inner musings, Yata had reached out and grabbed one of Saruhiko's hands. His amber eyes were still dully focused on his knees, but the roughed up hand squeezed Saruhiko's for a moment. Yata said quietly, "I'd like that." And that was it. His hand came back to wrap around his knees and his expression never changed. Saruhiko, though, couldn't help but smile sadly to himself.

KKKKKK

Saruhiko had to admit that the Red Clan had peaked his interests. It had given him something fascinating to focus on in this admittedly dull world. Well, something fascinating other than Yata. As completely interesting as that boy was, there were times when Saruhiko wanted something new in addition to his friend. Homra was the perfect distraction.

But, it was just that: a distraction. As time went on, Saruhiko fell out of the conversations and drifted away from the ruffians that made up the gang. It wasn't particularly surprising to anyone. It was his nature to drift away from others. Unfortunately, though, he could see Yata being drawn further into the gang. For the first time, Yata were forming relationships with others that weren't just flash and bang no substance relationships that fizzled out quickly after beginning. Other than Saruhiko, Yata really didn't have any lasting connections. Reversibly, other than Yata, Saruhiko didn't really have any lasting connections either. Here, though? Here with people who thought like Yata and acted like Yata and genuinely liked Yata, there was a chance for him to make some real lasting connections. Ones other than Saruhiko.

That shouldn't irritate Saruhiko as much as it did. Yata was still his. Yata still lived with him and ate with him and flew with him. He didn't do it as often as he used to, though. It was turning into a slightly frequent occurrence instead of the constant occurrence it had been. Soon after, it become a common occurrence. Then an uncommon occurrence. Then a rare occurrence. Saruhiko found himself and Yata drifting apart. And that wasn't fair. Yata was Saruhiko's. It was how it had been since Saruhiko had started sitting at Yata's lonely lunch table to further his experiments. Now, that was changing.

Yata had been drawn invariably towards the king with glorious, solid, deep red cardinal's wings. The King – Suoh Mikoto – seemed to find some interest in the lanky skateboard-riding kid who refused to show anyone his wings. It was often difficult to read Mikoto since he was so silent and so mercurial, but Saruhiko learned Mikoto's patterns and learned to read the King. Mikoto genuinely liked Yata and seemed to think of the boy as a lion's cub for him to nurture and raise. In many ways, Mikoto was the father figure that Yata had so desperately needed all his life.

That was what convinced Saruhiko to stay as long as he did. For a little while, he could convince himself that he wasn't being replaced bit by bit by Mikoto. For a while, he could convince himself that Yata was simply filling in another part of his heart. The part of his heart dedicated to friends was for Saruhiko and the part dedicated to a father figure was for Mikoto. Saruhiko could live with that. He really, truly thought he could live with that. Until one day.

The group had just gotten back from a raid on one of the drug lord's warehouses which usual left them in a rambunctious mood where they sauntered all the way back to the bar they called home. Today, though, was different. Everyone was more subdued, quiet and tense. The King was unhappy because he'd been forced to move in and help them, when he'd wanted to sit back and help. The trip back to the bar had been silent. Even Yata was silent. Well, it would be better to say that especially Yata was silent. He'd been in the thick of the fight, slamming into people with his fire-encased bat and hollering out threats with a grin on his face. Then he took a misstep and a thug almost got him. If it wasn't for Mikoto swooping in and pulling Yata into the air, to safety, Yata wouldn't be around anymore. It irritated Saruhiko that he hadn't been the one to pull Yata out of danger. It irritated him that Yata flew with someone else.

The silence that draped over the bar was broken by Kusanagi, voice carefully calm, "Yata, why didn't you fly out of the way of that man? You had plenty of time to get your wings out and fly away."

Yata stared down at his feet. To most, it was seem like he was acting mulish, but Saruhiko knew that he was remembering that day and didn't want the others to see the way his amber eyes would go dull with pain and sadness.

Totsuka stared at Yata with something like sad concern, placing a gentle hand on Yata's shoulder, "Did you hurt your wing? You know you should tell people when you hurt your wings. We need to know so this kind of thing doesn't happen. You could have been seriously hurt."

Still, Yata didn't say anything. Saruhiko could see the way Kamamoto and Chitose and Bandou shifted slightly, uncomfortable with the idea of a silent Yata, but not sure how to fix it. If these other, unnecessary people just left, then Saruhiko would be able to comfort him, to fix him. They just needed to leave!

But then the King's voice interrupted the new silence that had fallen. There was no judgement, no pity, no sadness in his voice when he said, "You can't fly."

Saruhiko was the only one who saw Yata's eyes clench shut and his nose wrinkle. He knew that meant that the other boy was trying his hardest not to cry. Saruhiko alone knew that Yata had never wanted another soul to know that his wings were ruined like they were. They hadn't been able to fix it. The wings never went back into the right shape and there were holes and tears and long, thick, ropy lines of scar tissue covering almost all of his wings. Yata had never entrusted that image to anyone other than Saruhiko, the only one he could trust with such things. Now, there were others who knew. Or, at least, guessed it.

Kusanagi's eyes were wide as his head whipped back towards Yata, "Is that true?"

Yata nodded, eyes still firmly planted on the ground. Horror swirled through the air, people reacting before they even fully processed Yata's agreement. Suddenly, there was a swarm of people around the beanie-wearing boy. They were all hugging him, patting his shoulder, clenching his hand, offering some sort of physical comfort. They were all murmuring reassurances, promises that Yata could fly with them, that they would protect him in a fight if he ever got into a situation where he needed to fly.

Totsuka's voice broke gently over the general din of the bar, "Were you born like that, Yata, or did something happen? You don't have to tell us if you don't want to, but we really do care."

Yata smiled, finally looking up at his friends. Instead of answering, he stepped out of the embraces around him, giving himself room. Saruhiko watched on with pained eyes as Yata slowly, carefully unfurled his wrecked wings. It was always hard for Yata to move them enough to unfurl them and he always winced once they finally stretched out. It hurt Saruhiko to see Yata hurt like that. It hurt Saruhiko to see Yata show others his pain. This was theirs. This was something that was between Saruhiko and Yata and now the entire clan knew and were even more fiercely promising to let Yata fly with them and this was supposed to be theirs. It was that moment that Saruhiko realized that he'd truly lost Yata. He'd lost Yata to the fire and burning timbers of this ragtag group of ruffians and thugs who called themselves a clan. And he wasn't ever getting Yata back.

The wings that had once so fascinated Saruhiko, that had once been the catalyst to a friendship that finally gave Saruhiko some purpose in life, were now the sign that his purpose had been taken away and corrupted by others. Yata's wings had betrayed Saruhiko and Saruhiko intended to return the favor.

His smile was bitter as he turned and headed towards the nearest phone booth to talk to the Blue King about his proposition.