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"Oh, wow, your wings look horrible."
Pittoo stops mid-stride, face caught halfway to a squint as he processes the words that just blurted out of Pit's mouth on their own. "So does your face," he eventually says.
"I swear I got all the ash off," Pit says. He scrubs hard at his cheeks, then looks back up at Pittoo. "Did I miss a spot?"
"That's not what I—" Pittoo starts, then cuts himself off with a scoff. He turns around and leans against the wall. "What do you want, if you're not just here to trade insults?"
"I'm just saying!" Pit says. With his wings half-spread against the marble wall, it's all the more clear just how many of his feathers are sticking out at odd angles. "When was the last time you preened?"
"Why do you care?" Pittoo asks, crossing his arms. "I can take care of myself."
"Obviously you can't," Pit says, crossing his arms right back. "You look like an abandoned feather duster."
Pittoo's wings fluff up, only making the comparison more apt. "If you're so obsessed with my wings, why don't you preen them?"
"Maybe I will!" Pit says. "Since you obviously can't do it yourself!"
"Fine!"
"Fine!"
They stand there for a minute, twin angels glaring at each other in the hall with their wings fluffed up. Then Pit's brain catches up with his mouth and he realizes what he just agreed to.
He shuffles his feet awkwardly. "I'll, uh. Get a comb."
"Fine," Pittoo repeats, not moving from his spot as Pit hurries back into his room.
It takes a minute to find what he's looking for. The Chaos Kin really left a mess of things, though he supposes he should be thankful his bedroom still exists at all. Still, he finds it all the same— a simple wooden comb, wide-toothed and rounded so it doesn't damage the feathers.
By the time he gets back Pittoo has moved to the bench at the end of the hall, running his fingers through what parts of his wings he can reach. His hands retreat the instant he notices Pit, instead pressing into his lap in an effort to look casual— an effort ruined by the perpetual glare that he makes no effort to hide.
"You need to turn around," Pit says, instead of commenting on any of this. Pittoo grumbles but obliges, swinging his legs over to the other side of the bench so he can look over the railing into the temple courtyard. Pit settles behind him, not quite sure where to start. He's preened his own wings plenty of times, and had Lady Palutena's help to reach the spots he couldn't on his own. He's never had the opportunity to preen another angel, though.
There's no backing down now, though. Pit lays a hand on Pittoo's wing, meaning to guide it open. Pittoo flinches at the contact, though, reflexively pulling his wings tighter against his back. Pit purses his lips. "I can't get your feathers if you do that."
"Mmph," Pittoo says. He does open his wings though, slowly, as if he expects Pit to pull them right off his back. He twitches again when Pit touches him, but otherwise remains stock-still.
Most of his feathers are fine. A little ruffled, some sticking out at odd angles, but easily fixed with a quick pass of the comb and his hands. It's worse near the base of his wings, where Pittoo can't reach— the feathers are matted there, glued together with dried-up gunk that catches the comb when Pit tries to pull it through. He squints, struggling to tell the fuzzy substance apart from the greenish glint of Pittoo's wings. "Is this moss?"
"Tch. Thought I got it all."
"Why do you have moss in your wings?" Pit asks, wriggling the comb free and starting to pry the feathers apart with his fingers.
"Don't ask me," Pittoo says, grip tightening on the edge of the bench as Pit continues to work. "All I did was sleep for three years."
Oh. That seems like it should've been obvious. Pit opens his mouth, then shuts it, because what could he possibly say? It still doesn't feel real, like any minute someone's going to start laughing at him, how could be be so silly, obviously it hasn't really been three years, how could you be so gullible.
Here's the proof, though, tangled in Pittoo's feathers.
Neither of them did much preening without a soul.
"I'm sorry," Pit says quietly, after a minute of silently working.
"Huh?" Pittoo says, turning his head to look at him sidelong. Pit grimaces, ready to refuse to repeat himself, but it seems Pittoo heard him loud and clear. "You should be. If you hadn't gone and screwed everything up in the Lunar Sanctum, this war could've ended ages ago."
"That's not my fault!" Pit protests. "Arlon didn't explain anything, and Lady Palutena was doing her best, and—" He yanks the comb through a particularly stubborn clump, pulling out several loose feathers and earning a yelp from Pittoo. "—I was just following orders."
"Of course you were," Pittoo grits out, knuckles white. "That's all you ever do."
"Don't try to pretend you were in the right there, either," Pit says. "You were only there to fight me."
"Still better," Pittoo mutters. The comb snags again, Pit tugs, and Pittoo smacks him with his other wing. "Stop it," he says, pulling away. "You're gonna pluck me bald at this rate."
"Wait, the comb—" Pit starts, reaching for the comb still stuck in Pittoo's feathers.
Pittoo flaps again, buffeting Pit with his wings. "I'll get it myself."
Pit doesn't give up, shielding his face with one hand while continuing to try and grab the comb. "I can just—"
"I'll get it myself!" Pittoo insists. Pit relents, sitting back and watching as Pittoo twists and bends in all directions, struggling to reach the wooden comb.
Its handle remains inches out of reach, not budging even when Pittoo tries to dislodge it by flapping harder. Pit bites his tongue, squeezing his hands in his lap and trying not to laugh at his clone's struggles.
Minutes later, Pittoo gives up, slumping against the railing with his wings drooping. "Okay."
Pit raises his eyebrows. "Okay?"
"Okay," Pittoo bites out. "Fine. You win."
"I didn't do anything. You lost to a comb."
Pittoo growls, but doesn't stop Pit from wriggling the comb free.
An awkward moment passes, neither of them moving. "Well?" Pittoo says. "Aren't you gonna finish?"
Apart from those last few stuck feathers, there's not much else Pit can do. He says as much, then after a moment's hesitation adds, "I think you need a bath."
"I went in the hot springs," Pittoo mutters, kicking the ground.
"With soap," Pit adds. "Or maybe some other stuff? I dunno, this is kinda outside my wheelhouse."
"What a fountain of wisdom," Pittoo drawls.
"I've never had moss grow on my wings," Pit says. "Lady Palutena can probably—"
"Pass."
Of course. "What about Viridi?" Pit suggests. "I'm sure she knows what to do about moss, at least."
Pittoo makes a face, but considers the notion for at least a few seconds before throwing it out. "I'll figure it out on my own," he says, hopping off the bench and stretching. Moss aside, his wings really do look much better now. "Besides, it's not like I need them to fly," he adds in a bitter tone.
"Even so, it's still important to—"
"—Take good care of your wings for the sake of your health, yadda yadda, I know the spiel," Pittoo says, reciting Palutena's words in a dry tone. "I have all your memories up to the Mirror, you know. I don't need to hear that lecture again."
"Then you know Lady Palutena is the most qualified person to help!" Pit says. Pittoo scoffs. "Really! I know you don't like her, but can't you at least trust her with this? You worked together to save me, didn't you?"
"That was a practical decision made under duress," Pittoo says. "Who knows what would happen to me if you died."
Well, that's… Pit can't argue with that. "What about before, then?" he asks. "You helped me save Lady Palutena from the Chaos Kin."
"You and Palutena are the least-worst side of this war when you're not being controlled by an evil bug," Pittoo says. "Thinking humanity deserves a chance to be saved does not equal trusting Palutena to stick her hands in my wings."
"You let me stick my hands in your wings."
"And look where that got me," Pittoo mutters, flapping his wings. "I'm probably half bald back there now."
Pit lets out an exasperated sigh. "Fine then, keep growing moss in your wings! It's not my problem, anyway."
"You're right, it isn't!" Pittoo replies, marching up to the railing and heaving himself up. "So just leave me alone and let me deal with my problems by myself, while you focus on saving the world."
Pittoo flexes his wings, ready to take off. "Wait, Pittoo—" Pit starts, just before Pittoo leaps into the air with a glint of holy light— Which swiftly sputters out, letting gravity take hold and send him crashing into the courtyard. Pit winces before leaning over the railing to see where Pittoo landed in the dead bushes below. "Are you okay?"
Pittoo makes a rude gesture, not otherwise moving.
"Okay," Pit mutters under his breath, then calls, "Well, if you ever change your mind, I'm sure Lady Palutena would love to help!"
"Yeah, yeah," Pittoo says, picking himself up and dusting himself off.
He hurries out of sight and Pit watches him go with a frown, one hand idly wandering to his own wings. He's done his best to keep them tidy since regaining his soul, of course, but he hasn't had the opportunity to get anyone else to check for problems he can't reach on his own… Or, rather, he hasn't gotten Lady Palutena to do it. He wouldn't trust anyone else to do it for him. Except maybe the Centurions, but they don't have the brains for such delicate work.
Well, there's no time like the present, he supposes. If Lady Palutena is too busy to help right away, he'll just help her out with her work— No, he'll probably end up helping either way. It's not like there's anything stopping them from discussing strategies while she straightens out his wings.
Nodding to himself, Pit turns and sets off, fluffing up his wings and flapping them a couple times before settling them lightly against his back. If Pittoo is going to be too much of a grumpy recluse to let anyone help him, then Pit's going to make sure he's extra clean and tidy just to make him look even worse by comparison.