who; Warren & Open where; Flying, and then the kitchen. when; Say February 20th, early evening. Maybe 5:30 PM. summary; Warren wonders, from time to time, if he could get rid of them the way Icarus did---if, by flying close enough to the sun, they would simply melt away like so much wax, leaving him to plummet blissfully to earth. rating; PG status; In progress.
It had sort of been a difficult decision, staying at the mansion instead of returning to his father's home in New York. After all, without Warren there, his father would be alone. But then, if he'd stayed.. he didn't really know if anything would change. He was nearly twenty-two, and until his father had tried to cure him, he hadn't once been out of the Worthington building except under his father's strict rules and observation.
It was so, so liberating just to be able to open his windows and dive---wings unfurling, wind catching beneath them, and he was soaring back up. Up, into the air, like Icarus---heedless of the great height, the sun's heat, the winter's frozen bite, or his own mortality.
But eventually, even he had to return to the earth; he did so only reluctantly, wings folding in, feet touching ground with a grace that didn't quite seem human. But then, there was a reason people called him 'Angel', wasn't there?
Only then noticing the cold, Warren shivered once, wings trembling behind him as they curved around to shield his bare arms. --In the specially-designed halter-style shirts he wore, there was less fabric, and therefore less wind-resistance. They did not, however, make for warm flying wear.
Neither did they hide the great feathered monstrosities attached to his back---so much a part of him that the pain of removing them had never quite left him. A part of him, and yet so despised sometimes. Freakish. Blasphemous. How could a human possibly be allowed to have an angel's wings, or an angel's likeness? Warren wasn't a terribly religious person, honestly, but sometimes.. sometimes, he feared being struck down by the hand of God Himself.
But then, that was a little arrogant, wasn't it? --Who was he, to catch God's eye? Nothing. No one. Less than invisible.
Entering the mansion by way of the kitchen, wings folding in tightly against his back with practiced ease, Warren checked first to make certain no one was actually there before relaxing enough to grab a mug and an instant-tea bag. Maybe he'd even have time to finish it before anyone showed up and sent him back into his nervous shell.
Somehow, he didn't think that was terribly likely, given the number of people living in the mansion.