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Varian awakes to a yelp of pain. Not his own, and it's too mature a voice to be Yong or Nuru's, so he comes to the logical conclusion that Hugo is still awake. From the sounds of it, he isn't in his tent. Probably by the fire, if Varian had to guess, because he has the tendency to stay awake longer than the rest of the team.
He nearly decides to go back to sleep, Ruddiger's sleepy trilling urging him to lay his head back down and pull the raccoon closer, but then there's another pained noise and Varian decides that he needs to check if Hugo is okay.
When he emerges from his tent, he's met with the sight of Hugo sat on the ground, body twisted into a position that would be impossible for any non-flexible human being. His wings are spread, light from the campfire dancing on mussed white feathers. His shirt is cast to the side, his hair released from its usual tight ponytail, and for once, he looks unguarded. Something in the back of Varian's sleep-muddle brain thinks that he's never been a religious person, but Hugo looks a hell of a lot like an angel right now.
He blinks a few times, then shakes his head to expel the thought. He must be more tired than he thought, if he's thinking things like that.
Varian gently clears his throat, and Hugo's head whips around. Familiarity softens his gaze when he realizes it's only Varian. "Oh, hi."
"Hey. Are you—" he yawns, "—okay?"
Hugo waves him off and turns back to the campfire. "I'm fine, Goggles. Go back to sleep."
Well, he's delusional if he thinks Varian is actually going to listen to anything he's ordered to do. He doesn't head back to his tent, instead choosing to wander closer to the rock pressed against Hugo's back. He sits on it, and Hugo cranes his neck to look up at him.
He has a much better view of Hugo's upper body now, which he can't decide is for the better or the worse, and then he's wondering why he's even thinking about it at all. It's not like he hasn't seen Hugo shirtless before.
Hugo seems to be waiting for him to speak, which only makes the silence more awkward, which leads to Varian blurting out whatever is on his mind.
"Why is your shirt off?"
Wow, okay. Definitely could've been a little more subtle about that, but whatever.
Hugo scrunches up his face. "Why are you so nosy?"
Varian sticks out his tongue— a habit he picked up from Yong— and he nearly laughs when Hugo does it right back. "Because I care, jerk."
Something odd flashes in Hugo's eyes, but it disappears behind the familiar mask of apathy he always wears before Varian can decipher what it is. "Why are you awake?"
Varian shrugs. "Couldn't sleep."
"That makes two of us, then."
Varian glances at Hugo's wings, which now sit against his back. The feathers aren't nearly as groomed as they ought to be— Corona is filled with Winged, he knows how well groomed wings are supposed to look. They're all clumped up and rumpled, like they haven't been straightened out in a while. His own shoulder blades ache from the sight, and he resists the urge not to rub them as he thinks about the discomfort that Hugo must be in.
"Is it your wings?"
Hugo tenses, which is how Varian knows he's right. "Yeah," he mutters.
Hm, Nuru's comment must've really gotten to him. It wasn't meant to be mean— or at least, Varian doesn't think so,— but he still had to drag Hugo to collect campfire before he committed regicide over Nuru asking him if he even knows how to preen properly. They ended up spending nearly an hour in the woods while Hugo kicked at things and muttered about how she doesn't know what she's talking about, and how she's the only member of Kotoan royalty without a pair of wings herself and that maybe she should focus on that instead of snarking about his inability to groom himself.
"I thought so," he says. "I'm surprised you didn't immediately storm off to sulk and take care of it after Nuru made that comment."
Hugo scoffs. "I do not sulk."
"Yes you do."
"Do not."
"Do to."
"Do no—"
"You're doing it right now." Hugo clamps his mouth shut and glares at the campfire. Varian sighs. "I didn't come out here to argue."
"Then why did you?"
"I already told you, I couldn't sleep."
Hugo raises an eyebrow. "There's no logical reason you couldn't stay in your tent. It's colder out here."
"We're literally by a fire."
Hugo looks like he wants to argue, and Varian fully expects him to. But instead he says, "Okay, then," and doesn't push it.
Varian's gaze doesn't leave him. His eyes narrow, scrutinizing Hugo's face for… something. It feels like his questions had a point to them, like he was looking for a specific answer that Varian for the life of him can't figure out the answer to.
Eventually, Varian gives in. "Fine," he huffs. "I was sleeping actually, but then I woke up. I woke up, and I couldn't go back to sleep because it sounded like you were in pain, and I…" Don't like it when you're in pain. It bothers me. It scares me. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay."
"Awe," Hugo drawls, "you care."
"We've already established this," Varian shoots back.
Hugo's eyes widen just a fraction, like he's surprised by this answer. "R— right. Well, uhm. I'm all good here. Just—" he gestures to his wings, "frustrated with these guys, but yeah. I'm good. You can go back to sleep now."
Varian tilts his head, eyes raking over Hugo's messy wings. "You can't preen yourself?" He asks, then immediately regrets it.
Hugo's feathers bristle and his body tenses. "I can preen myself just fine," he hisses through gritted teeth.
Varian wants to smack himself in the face. After Nuru's earlier comment, why on earth would he think that was a good thing to say?
"No, I—" his hands flutter around, unsure of what to do or even say. He settles for opening and closing them midair, the squeezing motion helping to ground him a bit. "That isn't what I meant at all, I'm sorry, I just— I really did mean it as a question. Not an insult, I swear. I know how difficult it can be to groom them by yourself."
He can tell he's caught Hugo's attention by the way his eyes snap up, and his stomach drops. He can see the questions behind them, can see his mouth opening to ask, but then his lips close and he looks away.
"I don't usually make a habit of doing it myself," Hugo murmurs, cheeks growing pink.
Varian swallows, grateful that the blond isn't trying to pry for once. "Who usually helps you?"
Hugo traces patterns into the dirt beneath him. "My mentor," he says softly.
Varian perks up, though he tries not to seem too interested, lest he somehow scare Hugo out of talking. He doesn't mention his mentor all that often— doesn't mention much about his life in Ingvarr, actually— so whenever he does, Varian feels as if he's won a prize. "She's Winged, too?"
Hugo shakes his head. "No, but she knew someone who was. Learned everything from them."
Varian's mom was Winged, too. His father always told him she never liked being on the ground for too long. She was always in the air, always hovering a few feet off the ground. Her feet never touched the floor for more than a few seconds if she can help it. He tells Hugo this, and the blond hums.
"I don't fly much." Hugo looks up at the sky. "The smog in Ingvarr is way too thick up there."
Varian follows the blond's gaze to the stars, and his own shoulder blades tingle at the thought of being able to soar among them. He breathes shakily. "At least you have the choice to."
When he looks away from the sky, Hugo's gaze is already fixed on him. "I suppose." He gestures to his wings. "Though I don't think I could get much flying done, anyway. Not with my wings looking like this."
Varian's hand twitches. "Can I take a look?"
Hugo's eyes narrow, and Varian prepares himself for a rejection. It wouldn't be surprising if Hugo said no, considering this is the same guy who has countless walls built up, who rarely allows himself vulnerability around anybody except Olivia. Hugo doesn't like asking for help, this Varian knows. He despises admitting to needing it, because in his eyes it's the same thing as being weak.
Varian wishes there were a way he could tell Hugo he's wrong. That asking for help, that accepting it, doesn't mean he's weak. If anything, it makes him stronger. Varian thinks so, at the very least. He's never thought of Hugo as weak. Plenty of other words, yes; conniving, irritating, sly, manipulative. Intelligent, brave, considerate, even. Soft when he allows himself to be. But weak? Never. If anything, it's the complete opposite.
Hugo is one of the strongest people Varian knows.
This opinion is only strengthened when Hugo slowly unfurls his wings, shocking Varian with this sign of what can only be read as trust. I'm trusting you, he's saying.
Hugo doesn't trust anybody.
He makes sure to keep eye contact with Hugo as he slowly reaches out to gently run his fingers over the top. Many, if not all, of the feathers are bent and twisted, or just clumped together in a way that Varian knows is uncomfortable. This aside, he can't help but marvel at how soft they are despite being rumpled and uncared for.
Like Hugo, he thinks, and then he immediately shakes his head to clear it of that thought, because what? He must still be tired to be thinking such things.
"No wonder you've been having trouble," he says, mostly to distract himself from whatever the hell his mind is trying to make him think. "It's gotten really bad, and some of these areas are hard to reach."
Hugo shrugs one shoulder. "I'll figure it out."
Varian shakes his head, brows furrowing in concentration as he traces the bone. Hugo shouldn't have to figure anything out. Not by himself, at least. It's okay to want help, doesn't he know that?
An idea strikes him. Varian… could help out.
The odds of getting Hugo to agree to it are astronomically low, yes. But it's not like he's some inexperienced stranger asking to feel up his wings. He knows exactly how to care for them— how to care for them well, at that— and he isn't a stranger at all. If Hugo is letting him this close, maybe, just maybe, he'll let Varian help him.
"Uhm." He inhales and exhales. "You know, I could help you out. I— if you, uhm. If you want."
Hugo tilts his head quizzically, like a confused puppy. "Would you even know how?"
The fact that he avoids an answer doesn't escape Varian's notice as he nods.
"Mhm." Varian gently takes an ivory feather between his fingers to examine. His other hand nearly goes to touch his back, but he refrains. "Corona has a very high Winged population."
Hugo frowns, his eyes darting between Varian's own, and Varian knows why. The grooming of wings is considered a private thing, typically reserved purely for a person's parents or lover. Especially in the context of the latter option, it's an act of intimacy.
They don't do intimate. They get in each other's faces and argue and they say stupid science puns that only the other would understand and bicker over lab space and science equipment and share looks as a form of silent communication and yes, sometimes in the middle of the night, just like this, they'll tell each other things that would never be admitted to under broad daylight, but that's not— that's not intimacy. It's something else, something Varian can't quite put a name to at this particular moment, but not intimacy.
Point being, it's new territory for the both of them and Varian might be ruining everything their relationship is tentatively built on by offering such a thing to Hugo, who does not do intimacy and the longer the silence stretches the more Varian begins to spiral and wonder if he's just shooting himself in the foot and wow, he really needs to learn to keep his mouth shut and and and—
And Hugo is looking at him in a way Varian doesn't really think he's ever been looked at before, and it makes him want to melt, it makes him want to reach out and do something stupid, like— like—
"I'll be gentle," he whispers. "I promise."
No hesitation. No stuttering. Because Varian means it. It startles him how much he means it, but he thinks very few people have been gentle with Hugo, and he wants to be on that barren list.
His resolve must show on his face, because Hugo softly exhales and murmurs a quiet "okay."
"Okay," Varian echoes, more for himself than the blond in front of him. He shifts his position a bit so that Hugo is settled more firmly between his legs. He admires examines the wings in front of him, running his hands over the feathers and assessing what needs to be done.
It's a familiar action, and he can feel his muscle memory taking over as he runs his fingers through a specifically tight clump of feathers. Hugo sucks in a pained breath, and Varian immediately retracts his hand.
"Sorry," he says quickly. "Sorry, are you okay?"
"I'm fine, just a bit uncomfortable."
"Mm, it's going to be." Varian holds out an upturned palm. "You have a salve?"
Hugo reaches for a vial near his shirt and Varian pretends it doesn't affect him when their fingers brush as it's handed over. Varian pours some of the clear ointment in his palms, rubbing them together to warm it a bit, before reaching out once more.
It's easy for him to slip into the familiar routine of sifting through the clumped feathers and pulling the broken ones. His fingers know by heart what to do, and it's easy for him to slip into the same mindless headspace he gets into whenever he's working with his chemicals. It's only when he hears the tap, tapping of Hugo's finger on the ground is he pulled from his focus.
"Is something wrong?" He asks, fingers stilling.
"You're unusually quiet."
"I'm focused."
"I know."
Varian tilts his head. The finger tapping hasn't stopped. Is Varian's silence somehow… bothersome? He always thought he spoke too much— has been told as much on multiple occasions, actually.
He goes back to the mission at hand. "Why did you let it get this bad?"
"Hm?"
"Your wings. You're a very prideful person, I'm surprised you don't have a routine for this."
Hugo sighs. "I usually do."
Varian plucks another feather. "And?"
"And it's difficult to keep up with that routine when I'm always moving around with nobody who can assist me. I was waiting for a convenient time."
"There's no such thing as a convenient time for things. Sometimes you just have to decide for yourself that you have to makes that time." His left hand slides a little lower, to the base of the wing that meets skin. His throat goes dry at the sight, and before he can think any better of it, his fingers are gently moving across the planes of pale skin, over the bumps of Hugo's spine.
Hugo exhales shakily, and unless Varian is imagining things, he sounds almost pleased. "What are you doing?"
"Studying you," Varian murmurs. Then he realizes that's a really weird thing to say and tries to backtrack. "N— no, sorry. Just— your wings. Studying your wings, sorry." He swallows and goes back to sorting through the feathers. "They're beautiful, you know."
Hugo makes a noncommittal noise, probably trying to appear nonchalant, but his feathers ruffle happily and give him away. Varian rubs some more of the salve into the spots feathers had been plucked from, and Hugo makes a sound that definitely means he's pleased.
Varian bites back a grin. "All good?"
"'M great," Hugo responds, sounding dazed. He leans a little further into Varian's touch, like he's asking for more. "How'd you get so good at this?"
"I have friends who are Winged." His fingers still once more, a confession dangling precariously at the edge of his lips. He lowers his hands. "And uh, I used to be Winged myself, actually."
Hugo turns to look at him, surprised. "Used to be? What happened to your wings?"
Varian blows out a breath, drumming his fingers on his thighs. "I made a few mistakes when I was younger. Trusted the wrong people, and… let's just say they weren't too happy when I turned on them."
The memory, though far away now, still burns in his mind and on his skin like it was yesterday. His shoulder blades ache, and when Varian closes his eyes, he can still see— still feel— the panic, the pain that overwhelmed him when Andrew— when he—
Hugo's soft whisper breaks through the memory. "They clipped your wings?"
Varian forces his eyes open, then wishes he hadn't, because the pain of reliving a memory he's thought about a thousand times over is far less painful than the horror and disgust in Hugo's eyes.
"Goggles, I—" his voice sounds strangled, and he turns his entire body to face Varian. "That's horrible, I can't imagine—"
Varian blinks away tears. Oh, when had those begun to form? "It was a long time ago."
"They clipped your wings," Hugo repeats, like it's the most horrific thing that could happen to a person. "How old were you?"
Fifteen. He was fifteen, and fatherless, and full of regret and pain and anguish. "Fifteen," Varian whispers, voice breaking not even halfway through the word.
Fifteen, Hugo mouths. Then his expression shifts to something angrier, something more dark. "They're monsters."
The conviction in his voice startles Varian. In any other situation, he'd probably deny it, say that it doesn't matter because it's in the past and it can't be changed and spout some bullshit about forgiveness like he always does, but he doesn't.
Because Hugo is right.
They are monsters for what they did.
"I know."
Hugo stares at him before finally, finally turning back around so Varian can finish grooming his wings. His fingers are as shaky as his breathing.
Varian used to think he deserved it. He's never quite believed in a higher power, but that night was among the first that he found himself wondering if maybe it was some god punishing him for all the damage he caused. If some being up there was forcing him to come to terms with all the people he hurt, to pay his dues and get a taste of his own medicine.
Now, he doesn't know what to think. He thinks about it all too much, but how could he not? They were such a prized extension of him, just like his hands or his legs or his brilliant mind. Andrew took a part of his being. He wishes he could stop letting it haunt him, but the memory will haunt him until the day that he dies.
"Do you miss it?" Hugo asks when the silence between them has grown too heavy. "Flying?"
Varian surprises himself by being honest. "All the time."
Hugo nods like he expected this. "I hope we don't come across them at any point during this journey."
Varian shudders at the thought as he plucks the last of the broken feathers and smooths out the rest. "That makes two of us. I don't think I could handle it."
"I could." Hugo turns to look at him, and a chill goes through Varian when he realized that dark look hasn't vanished. "I could handle making them wish they never laid a finger on you."
Varian doesn't ask what that entails, though it has less to do with not wanting to know than it does with not needing to ask. He's seen what Hugo can do with his gun. He's seen what he can do with a few vials of chemicals, with his bare hands. He's seen just how lethal he can be, the proof that he was raised in a kingdom of the toughest warriors.
It sends another shiver down his spine, but a different kind. The kind that makes him question if maybe he has a few more issues than he'd like to admit.
Hugo must mistake his flustered silence for something else, because he speaks again. "I, of all people, know you can handle yourself, Varian. I know how capable you are, I'm not— I'm just saying that I— that you shouldn't have to—" he groans, reaching under his glasses to rub at his eyes. "I believe in the idea of an eye for an eye, okay? I have no issues making sure those bastards pay for what they did to you and then some. I promise you that much."
Varian does in fact have a few more issues than he'd like to admit. His cheeks redden with a heat that has absolutely nothing to do with the fire and everything to do with the way Hugo is looking at him.
He studies Hugo's face, finding nothing but sincerity in his gaze. His very pretty gaze, surrounded by a very pretty face, obscured slightly by his very soft looking hair.
Varian finds himself reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind Hugo's ear, only for Hugo's hand to come up and hold it there. It's absurdly soft, and Varian wants to run his fingers through it like he did the white feathers until he's memorized the feel of it.
They don't do intimate, or so Varian thought. They get in each other's faces and argue and they say stupid science puns that only the other would understand and bicker over lab space and science equipment and share looks as a form of silent communication and spill secrets and maybe that's a form of intimacy in itself. Hugo lets Varian groom his wings as an act of trust and Varian trusts him with a confession in turn and they make promises to be gentle and to protect and it's intimate. Varian runs his fingers through Hugo's hair and Hugo lets him because it's intimate and as much as the thief acts like trust is weakness, he must trust Varian, because why else would they be here right now?
So maybe they do intimacy. Maybe that's a thing now, and maybe it has been for longer than Varian realized because he didn't want to acknowledge that the strange thing growing between him and Hugo could be named.
Hugo will pretend this never happened tomorrow, because he does that when he gets too vulnerable for comfort. He'll try to pretend like nothing has changed between them, like everything is normal.
Varian won't push him, but he won't be able to pretend either. He won't be able to bear to act like everything is normal between them, like nothing has changed.
Because tonight? Tonight has changed everything.