Day 17 - self-inflicted injury with hurt!Philza

Other characters: None

Other tags: Dream smp setting, post Nov 16th, self-harm (not very direct, but still the main theme), grief & guilt

Summary: Do not condemn yourself to the suffering of others


His feathers do not sit right.

Sleet has weighed them down, blankets them in a thick layer of frost. Phil has been ignoring it in favor of walking, one foot in front of the other with not much thought or reason. But he feels them now laying against his back like a heavy, unpleasant mantle and knows he should do something about it.

(not because he wants to. But despite it all, there is a small lick of common sense inside him reminding him that he must)

The crows couldn't follow him into the storm. Phil is truly alone.

So when he sits down to preen his wings, it is not with the familiar warmth of somebody else supporting him, leaning against his back to help him go through the routine. And it is not with the settled comfort of him lounging in the sun alone, enjoying a moment of solitude. It is not the careful but loving ritual it should be.

It is harsh and sharp, fingers digging between feathers to scrape against bone and alula. Pulling on the primaries to get them aligned, forcing the stubborn ones back into place even if their sodden state won't allow it.

And if they really refuse to budge, Phil pulls them out.

It brings a crisp little speck of pain each time, forcing its way through the turmoil in his head to the front of his cognizance. Not enough to do anything - not enough to pull him from the task. Enough for him to blink and not hear the sobs in his son's voice mingled with the storm still raging.

(Wilbur's wings had been frayed and small. Not enough food, not enough sunlight, not enough going out and stretching the appendages so they could grow like an avian's wings were supposed to.

But then again, aren't your parents supposed to teach you that, Phil?)

But then again, aren't you supposed to outlive your parents too.

His hands are covered in blood and for a brief, warring moment Phil can't tell if it's Wilbur's. If the hot drenching ache is his son's life draining from him because Phil was panicking and Wilbur was yelling and telling him that if Phil didn't raise his sword somebody else would - Wilbur was dead already, had been dead since sunrise, had been dead long before his decision to go to the server was really more than a growing concern in the back of Phil's mind-

(Phil remembers holding Wilbur, so small that his curls hardly reached his ears and with wings that were more down than feather, small curves of fluff that wiggled whenever the toddler laughed or reached out his arms to be held)

It's his own blood. Broken feathers ruin the ground, ripped out and leaving open wounds. Phil flexes his fingers, then pulls another out.

It hurts.

Oh… he thinks. Not as much as being pierced with a sword would hurt. No, no, it couldn't hurt that much. If that's the metric of comparison.

Phil preens his wings, to salvage what he can while the wind dies down outside.

Feathers - unlike all else - do grow back, after all.