I was going to write some stuff with Onni and Reynir cramming themselves into Onni's dinky little barrack bunk to cuddle, and even though it is hot and cramped and terrible, it reminds them of old times of cramming lots of siblings (and cousin) into one bed. And, uh. It sort of spiraled out of hand into long get-together fic:


Onni closes his eyes. He spreads his wings and opens them once more. The starry waters beyond his boundaries are clear tonight. For whatever reason, none of the uneasy dead have strayed to his shoals. In the owl's body, he leans into an air current that carries him higher still, one last vantage point from which to survey things. Onni closes his eyes. He rubs at his stiff neck and opens them again. [...]


"Let me," Onni offers, taking the length of his braid in hand. His hair is coarse and thick and heavy on his palm. He teases the end of the braid open with his thumb, carefully, so as not to tangle it more. Reynir's eyes are wide, fixed on Onni's fingers, his lips parted the slightest bit. Three turns to open the plaiting, and he rakes his fingers through its wake to separate the hairs. And then again. If he meets a snag, he stops again to comb it free. Over, and over until his fingertips brush Reynir's scalp. On the nape of Reynir's neck, a patch of skin prickles like gooseflesh.