"I’m a mistake, a mutant, and not one of the good kind." (Frerard; one-shot.)
Change or cause to change in form or nature; in biology, with reference to a cell, DNA molecule, etc, undergo or cause to undergo change in a gene or genes.
Mutant - adjective
Resulting from, or showing the affect of, mutation.
The wing kid. That’s what they call me. They don’t say it to my face, but I know these things. I feel them looking at me, their eyes on the back of my head, the back of my shirt, where feathers press against fabric. They’re watching me.
I’m a mistake, a mutant, and not one of the good kind.
If I were one of the good kind, I’d have wings that stretched as far as a school-bus, white feathered, strong enough to fly – not these tiny nubs of bone and black feather sticking out of my shoulder blades, wings gone wrong. If I were one of the good kind, people would fucking talk to me about them, instead of whispering behind my back, making them something to be ashamed of. If were one of the good kind, I’d be part of a superhero team – you know, if they actually fucking existed – like the X-Men or the Doom Patrol or the Titans. I’d be taking the gay superhero quota up to three, if you don’t count that policewoman from Gotham – Northstar, Jetlad, and me.
As far as I’m aware, there is no ‘good kind’ outside of Marvel. Not yet, anyway. There’s just people like me, halfway superheroes with wings that can’t fly or gills that can’t breath underwater.
I’m okay with not flying. In fact, I’m fan-fucking-tastic. Because I don’t want to fly. In all honesty, I want to go to the top of the highest building in Jersey, stand right on the edge with my toes curled over into nothingness, and not fly.
The new boy is short, shorter than me, even, and he has a nose stud and a lip ring and thick black eyeliner smudged around amber eyes. He’s all smiles, saying hi to everyone, even hugging some girls. He’s instantly likeable, and at least extremely metro if not flamboyantly gay, and I want to be closer to him.
It’s the first time in my life I’ve wanted to be closer to someone my own age.
He gets to me, and he already knows. “Hey! You’re the wing kid, huh?” And for some reason it doesn’t hurt as much as when other people say it.
He doesn’t say anything more about it, even as ‘the new boy’ evolves into ‘Frank’ evolves into ‘Frankie’. Frankie who’s loud and outgoing and not afraid to kiss another boy in the corridor or hold his hand during class. Frankie who’s gorgeous and funny and takes me to the movies or out to eat. Frankie who’s the first person in my life to tell me that he loves me.
Frank runs his hands over my sides, licking into my mouth. His fingers play with the hem of my shirt – “Can I?”
He buries his face in my neck, mouthing at my skin. “Don’t have to if you don’t want to…” But he’s already shirtless, pale-skinned and flawless in the half-dark of my bedroom. I swallow.
He pulls my shirt off over my head, gently, strokes over the wings. “Beautiful, you’re beautiful-“
“Don’t – don’t they creep you out?”
Frank kisses the side of my mouth, nuzzles my cheek. “Not at all.”
(And it’s the first time in my life I’ve ever felt like this.)
(AN - crossposted to my deviantART, where it actually won first place in a frerard competition. ^_^)