Speaking of tropes I would write the hell out of if only I actually had ideas. ... I actually don't READ a lot of wingfic, to be honest, unless you count characters-are-secretly-magical-creatures-who-have-wings, and even thing it's not... wing-centric? But god I would. I would read it, I would write it, I would all things it.



"Less than one in ten thousand," Mom used to say, like it actually meant something. "You and your brother are special."

Michael guesses that's technically true; the chances of his parents having two sons with wings were pretty slim. He might believe it more if his father didn't have them too, mottled brown and big enough to fly on if he'd ever bothered to learn. His mother might have believed that wings meant something about him and Nate -- that they were good, that they were destined for better things than they grew up in, that they'd be okay -- but Michael's first memories of wings were his father's trailing to the floor at an angle that made his stomach squirm even before his grew in properly.

No, Michael knew what wings really were: tools. They were never going to do anything for him; it was what he made of them that counted.

But Nate never seemed to learn that.