Dave stared at them, mouth gaping, eyes so wide he could feel them trying to pop out of his skull — two fluttering, feathery wings, coming out of the Evans kid's back — brilliant white and gleaming under the fluorescent lights, joints cracking as they stretched out, plumage whispering as the wings rustled against each other.
"Jeeeeee-sus," slipped out of his mouth in a sigh. Though he thought he'd seen a lot for a seventeen-year-old kid in Bupkis Middle Of Fucking Nowhere Lima, Ohio, Dave could say for certain that he had never seen anything like this before, and he figured that was reason enough to let himself have a moment of weakness, just one minute of letting his eyes go up and down the sight of those wings.
And he might have just kept staring at these things, except that he couldn't just ignore Sam's position: on his knees, doubled over, shaking and pale and looking like he was going to puke, hair going all over his face, eyes looking bigger than Dave's felt, stripped down to his bare chest and a pair of boxer-briefs that might have been painted onto the other boy's tight, sharp muscles ... Which all went without mentioning the noises. Sam's wings sliced back and forth like scissors, brushing all up on each other, feathers knocking off and tumbling down toward the floor — and through all of it, Sam kept trying not to make any noise. He half-choked on all the sounds he tried to keep down.
But they came up anyway. Coughs and splutters, more choking sounds, as though something had clenched around his neck — and for all Dave knew, it might have. Hey, if Sam had wings now, who was to say there wasn't some kind of invisible something going around, choking people? Not Dave Karofsky, that was who. Especially not when that smack-red shade kept tinting Sam's cheeks. Not when he kept looking like there was no other alternative, like he had to be choking. Not when every movement of his chest was so visible. So labored, the normal rise and fall of breathing pushing out against something — and not when Sam had to go on moaning the way that he did.
The noises hadn't started like that. Dave didn't know how gasping and seeming like you were going to keel over dead led to moaning … but there it was. There they were — tight, whining little moans rolling out of Sam's mouth without any kind of concern for the rest of the world and for the other people who might have been around to hear him. And as they went on, as Sam got more and more breathless, Dave licked his lips, rubbed them together and grated his teeth along the lower one, tried to think of anything but where he was, and the thoughts going through his head, and the fact that there were wings coming out of Sam Evans's back and that they worked just right with his position to make him look so beautiful.
To make Dave want him — a thought that turned Dave's stomach, drained the color from his face and left him feeling like he'd upchuck sooner rather than later if he stayed here. And yet, despite telling himself to just clear out already, to run away and jerk himself off in a bathroom and throw up if he needed to and go home and pretend this never happened, Dave couldn't leave. He thought harder; his legs just wouldn't move, his eyes wouldn't look anywhere else but at Sam's wings, at Sam's face, at Sam Evans.
Dave swallowed thickly, but it didn't help him any. His face still flushed, hot and pink, and something twisted in his stomach, a warm, worming sensation like how he always felt every time Kurt got too close to him in the halls — oh, fuck, no — his thoughts raced and all of them followed in a similar vein to that: shit, fuck, shit, shit, goddamn, oh fucking Hell, this couldn't be happening, how clearly, he'd fallen over somewhere and hit his head and now he had a concussion and maybe a fever because he was having the weirdest goddamn dreams — dreams where he wanted to go over and jump Sam Evans, pin him to the floor and fuck him so hard and put his wings back in order, and —
And that thought drew Dave's mind back to something else, away from the sharp, gnawing twist of guilt he'd gotten in his chest at the mere thought of what his traitor fucking cock was doing. Sam's wings. They weren't in order. Not really, anyway.
For the most part, and for all Dave hadn't expected to see them on anybody, they were just gorgeous — towering out of his back, now, knocking into the lamps and the lockers as they got their sea-legs back. ... could wings really have sea-legs?, Dave let himself wonder — but it didn't change how they had that kind of appearance. As though Sam hadn't let them out in ages. And considering what they were, Dave didn't think he blamed Sam for that.
And they would have been just perfect, the constructions of bone and feathers … except for a clump up at the top of one, no more than a few feathers, all of them tangled up and in on each other and only getting into a worse knot as Sam tried to pick them apart.
Dave knew that he didn't need any of this — he needed it like he needed a hole in his fucking head, for God's sake. Whatever shred of closeted-ness he had, he needed to cling to it. He and Santana were just barely keeping each other's cover as it was — and he couldn't really blame for people for questioning them, what with how she gawked at Rachel Berry whenever she let Kurt dress her before coming to school, and with how Brittany Pierce was always the first point of reference that Auntie Tana, Queen of the Beards had for anything, well past the point of being excusable as, "I hate her so much that I always have to talk about her, like Cady Heron and Regina George," the way Santana could manage for Quinn Fabray (ignoring the part where Santana obviously didn't hate Brittany, and where even if she'd tried to pretend otherwise, the way she stared at the back of Brittany's head in fourth period US History begged to differ).
Aside from that, Sam had tried to take him down before. And he'd done a decent job of trying — almost no one else on the Titans roster could get that close to seriously hurting Dave. His jaw had been sore until the next day. Nothing serious, just a smarting reminder of the fact that Sam Evans packed a punch.
… But he couldn't just leave the kid there either. Not when he had his face screwed up so tightly that Dave couldn't tell if his expression was one of pleasure or pain. Not when Dave could barely even see it, with Sam rocking back and forth, forehead knocking into the floor and motion setting his hair all askew over his face. Not when those featherswere so out of order.
Dave worked quickly, and quietly. As quietly as he could work, at any rate. Sam didn't react at the sound of him stumbling up onto one of the benches, though, and he didn't perk up at the sound of Dave dropping his duffel bag behind him.
A gasp snuck into the moans, though, when Dave's fingers slid between the feathers.
They brushed, warm and soft, against his skin, and though the heat in his stomach melted away at the guilt he felt, Dave couldn't resist the temptation: he had to run his thumb up and down the length of one of them, even after he'd gotten it back into its proper place, gotten it lying flat. He ghosted his touch over the feather, barely there, and still, Dave shivered from the contact.
He got chills from doing this to the rest of them, too, untangling them and smoothing them over — and goosebumps pricked against his skin as they bubbled up into being — and his stomach turned again, but it felt ... good, this time.
Not quite as good, Dave guessed, as it had to feel for Sam: he started trying to say something (it sounded like a thanks); Dave flicked against the last feather out of place, and Sam shuddered.
And if Dave was alone in jizzing his pants, he'd never let Sam Evans hear the end of this