It strikes you as you lay idly on his bed, the door to his bathroom open wide with light spewing into the dark bedroom. You do this every day. This is your routine. You two always do this every day, every night actually. You let your head lull to the right, the every day routine take control as you watch him slip out of his toga and shorts and toss them off to the side. He slips into the tub, which is still partially filling with cold water. He's got these strange habits. You mean really strange. He is more fucked up than you are. The dude uses a duckie bath thermometer when he bathes, he has to tie his sandals 8 different ways every day before he gets frustrated them and just knots them with a normal bow, fuck, he even has the stupidest habit to pile up 80 gazillion blankets on his bed like its normal.
Then you remember. He can't help it. He is so much like you. You, the mashed up confused bird human crow thing. Him, the always frazzled platinum furred wolf bird thing. He has to use that stupid thermometer when he bathes so he doesn't burn his tail, his wolf side demands he be careful, but that never stops him from turning the bath water up just past scorching and soak in it even though his mind tells him its so wrong. He's a dog, he's not supposed to be typing fucking shoes, dogs don't wear shoes. He's a bird, he collects soft things to comfort himself. He's a dog, he likes claiming things that he really likes, things that reminds him so much of home.
You watch as he pulls the plug in the tub once its about 1/18 of the way full of water and he turns on the hot tap, letting the water mix until its just pleasantly warm enough to settle in before he replaces the stopper. He settles back, his long fluffy tail laying over the edge of the cast iron tub. He sinks in, his head disappearing behind the side of the tub, his long legs propped over the side of the tub, his knobby knees hooked over the edge comfortably. He stays like that for a minute before he sits back up. His face is blushed, flushed, reddened, its fucking red as hell. He makes a small noise and leans back on the wall of the tub. He makes a strangled, frustrated noise, almost a tweet, almost a growl. Almost a moan. It occurs to you for the first time that you watch him jack off every day. You watch him attempt to release all that fucking pent up anger and frustration and sadness in one go every night.
Your eyes never leave him as he makes small noises to himself, as he growls and whistles and writhes in the tub, all the time that damned familiar frustrated, no pained expression etched into his face. Your mind wanders back to how you two are alike. You both are freaks of nature, you both are so damn self conscious that it makes you look like asses (except he is the nicest guy you've ever fucking met), you both have lost someone very close to you. No. You aren't the same in that way. You lost your bro, and yeah it hurt, but he lost his bro too. He lost the person he's loved. He'd lost two people. He'd lost the only two people he would dare break in front of, the only two people who understood him in any way. You both were broken when you'd lost your bros.
You're ripped from your thoughts when you hear him sob a little, a tearless sob, a loud desperate dry sob. A sob you recognize, not from him, but from yourself before. His body visibly shakes and he writhes a bit before he goes rigid. He stays like that (concerningly) for a minute before he relaxes without any result, like always. Well, not really like always. He's never made that noise before. But he doesn't care. He sits up, that pained expression still tainting his graceful features as he reaches for the shampoo. He pours some into his hand and starts to ferociously wash his all too delicate hair. He runs his fingers roughly through the delicate platinum strands, abusing his own hair because he will never be selfish enough to abuse another person or thing around him.
He rinses his hair and sinks down so only his eyes and upwardly curled nose are the only things peeking out from above the wall of the tub. His cloudy blue eyes staring blankly at the faucet, his eyes having no emotion whatsoever. He recognized that look. He had that look for so long after bro died. He sometimes still made that look. He takes a moment to stay like that before he sits up, checking his tail to see if it needs to be washed before he climbs out. He picks up the top towel on the toilet lid and dries his hair with it. His eyes connect with his reflection and he stares for a moment at his fluffed up silver blond hair. One of the times you met his bro, before he died, his hair was frizzed up from the humidity. He makes a pained noise. Yep, he remembered his bro.
He takes the towel and wraps it around his waist before digging into the drawer, pulling out a brush. He brushes his hair, much more gently than he washed it earlier. He brushes his hair out straight, struggling with the curly ends and bumping into his wolfish ears. He tucks the brush away again and puts on his glasses, or pince-nez as he insists on calling them. He walks to the bed, and you hope against hope, maybe tonight, you two can break your routine. He stares down at you , his blue eyes dulled behind the red of his glasses.
Something occurs to you yet again, you're in his spot. You're laying in his spot, and he's going to have to spend at least an hour like every other night working that tangy orange scent out of the sheets. He sends you a dull glare as he walks to the dresser and slides it open, shaking the towel off his hips as he pulls out a pair of boxer briefs. You two are the same, and yet, not the same. You are so similar, you need each other. You have seen the way he looks at his alpha bro. The face each of them makes when they slip up sometimes and calls the other bro. You two do that sometimes. You've done that when you were around his bro too. Everything is so strange.
You roll out of his way, staring at him still. His back still turned to you as he digs through his dresser for something to sleep in, his wings finally shimmering back into this visible plane. You admire his wings for a moment before pulling your own shades off and setting them on the nightstand on the other side of the bed. The side of the bed that hasn't been touched since his love died. You don't want to move too far, to erase that fragile scent you know he has preserved on purpose, you don't want to cross that invisible line that has been drawn deeply since that day. His wings flex and fold and flutter and stretch and shiver and you have to admit, you like it. Probably more than you should.
Your wings flutter and you let out a small chirp noise that makes his wolfy ears perk up. He just settles on not wearing pajamas today and he walks to the bed, climbing up onto the tall mountain of mattress and memory foam. He snuggles so easily under the pile of blankets that cradle him just so and you stare at him. You haven't broken eye contact since he turned around. A challenge. Claim the other side of the bed. A resolve. You both blink in unison, wings flaring out. The decision. You settle down on the other side of the bed for a moment, not breaking eye contact as you cut the last thread between him and the man he loved so much what feels like so long ago.
The tension in his eyes practically dissolve, that dark storm cloud finally beginning to let relaxing rain flow down, the blue sky in his eyes finally showing through again. You smile a little and move closer, your wings cupping a bit. You two settle near each other, in the middle of the bed, a set of fluffy orange wings and fluffy white wings wrapping around each other, protecting their two owners. His tail wraps around yours, his legs laying strangely away from your tail, his tail tucked between his legs. His ears slowly tilt backwards, burying themselves in his hair as he nuzzles into the orange plume on your neck. You hope he lets you sleep here tonight. You hope you two will change your routine into a happier one
"Good night, Jaxa." you huffs, chirping a little.
"Sleep well." he mumbles into your plume and you smile softly, pinching his ear. He whines and chirps back, blushing a little; "Good night, davesprite." You make a happy noise and bury your face, in turn, in his neck, enjoying the spicy sweet scent that reminds you oh so much of cayanne kettle corn. Yeah. You think you like routine.