Archive of Our Own ^beta

Welt, Sunday notices, never touches his waist.

This wouldn’t be a problem in any other circumstance. Except that Welt is touching him, and only him, all the time - a hand on the small of his back to guide him while they’re walking, pressing their calves together when they sit down next to each other, their fingers brushing as he hands him something. Sunday might be going a little insane about it; he hasn’t observed Welt acting like this with the other Nameless. Before, he’s kept his distance and only trusted Robin in his personal space (and Gallagher, once, before everything). But Welt, somehow, has slipped into his space as if he has any right to be there.

Well. Sunday certainly won’t be the one to tell him that he does.

It’s just him and Welt in the Party Car when he asks. It’s perhaps a little too late, as even Shush is gone, and Sunday has perhaps imbibed a little too much. They’re sitting in one of the booths by the windows. Welt has beautifully long legs, long enough that they tangle with his even though they aren’t sitting next to each other. He might actually be a little too drunk if he’s already thinking of Welt as beautiful.

“Why don’t you touch my waist,” he mumbles into his drink. It’s something that Gallagher used to make for him, except it’s missing something. “You touch me everywhere else.”

He thinks Welt startles. “I- I didn’t know you’d noticed.”

Sunday nods miserably. He’s not very good about being drunk - it just makes him sad. “I notice everything about you.”

“I can, if you want,” he hears Welt say uncertainly. “But I was under the impression that you didn’t want people touching your wings.”

Sunday picks himself up from his slump over the table and turns to look at Welt. “I don’t,” he says. “Because my secondary set is skinny and limp and it looks all ugly.”

“Sunday,” Welt says, low, “Nothing about you is ugly.”

“You don’t know that,” he says, distressed. “Everything about me is-”

Welt cuts him off by easing his drink out of his hand and setting it on the table before drawing him into a hug. Sunday feels himself melt against him. It feels like everything else has disappeared except for the warmth of Welt’s arms. “Nothing about you is ugly,” he repeats. “Why don’t we go back to the room now?”

How they get back is a mystery. Sunday is too focused on Welt’s hand in his, then his light touch over his body as he helps him undress then dress for bed. But this time Welt makes eye contact with him before he gingerly runs his fingers over his wing. Sunday gasps. His secondary set is much less sensitive than his primary set, but it receives so little touch besides brushing against his clothes that all of him jerks. Welt notices and makes soft, comforting sounds at him.

He exhales shakily, wrapping the wing Welt isn’t touching around his waist. It’s awkward, maneuvering it around someone else. But Welt looks awed, even as he smooths feathers back into place.

“Thank you for trusting me with this,” he murmurs. “You’re beautiful.”

When he wakes up the next morning, his mouth only tastes like morning breath, not like a hangover. Sunday has vague memories of Welt brushing his teeth like a child, humming to him. One of his secondary wings is laying over Welt’s stomach. He doesn’t remember if Welt had let him sleep in his bed instead of his own or if he had asked.

Maybe, he thinks, turning his head to watch Welt sleep, he could grow used to all the nice things Welt wants to give him.