Easen knows that the closest to flying he’ll get is when he’s playing with the violin outside. When he’s producing music along the field, hand outstretched, fingers dancing along the strings of the fragile instrument. This is a song he’s practised to perfection; this is a dance he loves. He waits half a second longer before stopping, almost making the field go quiet, hanging to the last note with anticipation. He turns slowly and lowers his arms, a sense of peace filling his insides.
Someone suddenly cheers from behind, immediately breaking the serenity of being alone. With an annoyed scowl, Easen realises it’s Astre, who’s skipped his lecture for the fifth week in a row to be here, more persistent than a parasite. Easen spares him a glance before turning his attention back to the fields, evidently ignoring them. Most things Astre does don’t make sense, so it’s only going to be a waste of time and energy if he thinks too hard about it. The music has already felt like it has lost its sense of magic and beauty as Easen raises the instrument once more.
The sounds of the field are deafening in his ears that he has to take a deep breath, inhaling deeply and exhaling the same before the music is vibrant in his soul again.
It takes over once more, till there is nothing but him and the music.
Easen thinks this is how life should go.
***
The hospital lights are too bright. That’s the first thing Easen sees when he wakes up, and he immediately closes his eyes again to shield them. The studio's lights, where he used to practise for hours, are bright, too, but never like this. The hospital’s lights are cold, callous, and cruel. They hurt, and Easen hates that when he opens his eyes now, he sees these, and not those of the place he’s come to love most.
“Hey.” The familiar voice takes him out of his looping thoughts, and Easen turns over and blinks at the boy sitting in the armchair reserved for visitors. He looks completely out of place and yet somehow perfectly fits in with his coat draped over his shoulders, his glasses lopsided on his head. “You missed Caon throwing his iPad for the tenth time this week.”
“Because of you?” Easen tries to sit up, and finds that he’s too tired to. Giving in, he allows his head to sink further into the pillow instead. “I’m surprised he hasn’t quit yet.”
Astre pouts. “I’m trying my hardest, but he’s quite stubborn .”
Not as stubborn as you. Easen has been keeping count: Astre visits every day he’s at the hospital, sitting by him from the moment his lectures ends to the moment the nurses shoo him out after visiting hours are over. Astre skips multiple lectures and supposedly ‘un-important assignments’—as Astre claims—so he can annoy Easen instead. Astre could’ve stopped coming once exam season started, but he took his notebooks along and gave a debrief on everything. Easen spent his days in the hospital, right next to Astre. Astre is still here, even when his other friends are long gone.
It’s been six months and four days since his heart failed while he was mid-practice, which ended his life as he knew it. Six months and four days since he last performed under the warm lights of a stage. Six months and four days since he could go out and perform just because he wanted to. Now doctors monitored his traitor of a heart carefully, painfully aware that one mistake will end in a one-way ticket to death’s door.
Low but not zero was what they told him when he asked about the chances of such a thing happening to him. Astre had laughed about it at the start and said he was just unlucky, but now that Easen can’t go out at all, there’s no mirth in his voice whenever it’s brought up. Easen has the feeling that Astre’s angry on his behalf, but they don’t talk about it.
“Easen.” Astre’s voice snaps him out of it, like it always does. “You’re sulking again.”
“Am not.” He really is. He should stop—should’ve gotten over it by now.
“Liar.” Astre bends to take something out of his satchel, then tosses it onto the bed. It lands with a soft thump on the blanket covering Easen’s body, keeping him warm from the bitter cold of the air-conditioning in the ward. A stuffed toy in the shape of a weasel wearing a navy blue sweater. “Found this at the store. I thought it looked like you, so I bought it.”
Easen stifles a laugh. The toy is clearly custom-made, but he says nothing. He picks it up and gives it a hard squeeze. To his surprise, a tinny, Astre-sounding voice yelps, “Ah! Easen got angry!”
“Four-eyes, did you put a voice recorder in this thing?!”
“Maybe.” His friend shrugs, the picture of innocence. “It was fifty percent off.”
“Thanks.” Easen tucks the weasel under the blanket with him.
Astre huffs. “It’s so you don’t get bored to death here while I’m at school.”
“I am dying.”
A sharp gaze, an even colder voice. “Yeah, believe me, I know.”
***
Easen knows the next-closest to flying is sitting dangerously close to the edge of the cliff and letting the wind whip at his favourite scarf from his neck, Astre undoubtedly lecturing him to be careful while sitting so close to the edge. They managed to catch the 5.20pm train out to the fields today, which meant that they’ve arrived just in time for the sun to set. The sky is coloured a raging vermillion, and everything is dusted in gold.
“You’re going to get arrested for murder because you sitting so awfully close to the edge is going to send my heart into failure before yours,” Astre says, walking over, crouching down right beside Easen.
“You’re going to get murdered for that comment real soon,” Easen answers, but he shuffles a bit back, because even if he doubts that he’d fall, should such an accident occur, that wouldn’t exactly be a fun moment for either of them.
“Hey, we’ll keep in touch after I graduate, right?” Astre suddenly asks.
“What?”
“You’re going to continue playing music. I’m going to loaf around, maybe become a doctor. But we’ll keep in touch, right?”
“First of all, I’m not. Secondly, since when were you so sentimental about these things? You still have one more year before graduation.”
“You shouldn’t make baseless assumptions.”
“I’m not! You literally lead girls on and give them my number so it’s me they cry to when you ghost them. How am I supposed to believe you want to stay in touch after we leave school?”
Astre grabs Easen by the shoulders and shakes him uncharacteristically gently. “I mean it, Easen. How are we going to keep in touch?”
“By phone, obviously.” Easen slips out of Astre’s grip and cringes. “What’s up with you today?”
“I have a bad feeling about tomorrow.”
“Don’t jinx my last performance of the year.”
“I have a great feeling about tomorrow.”
Easen snorts. But seeing Astre in this light—a hint of concern in his eyes, a flash of worry in the set of his jaw—Easen wonders if he should really be alarmed.
***
“Hey, Astre.”
Astre looks up from his homework, hair falling messily into his face. His eyes are half closed and his worksheets are sliding off his lap, glasses dangling around his neck by their chains which means he was trying to take a nap while pretending to be productive. “What?”
Easen takes a deep breath, as if that will cushion himself from the blow of his words. “The doctors said I only have three more months.” Easen winces—three months means ninety days means not enough time .
“They said four last week.”
“It’s not last week anymore.” It’s not something you can change is what he doesn’t say. Last night, he cried himself to sleep. This evening, when Astre first entered the ward, he gave Astre his usual half-hearted grin. Last week, he thought about not letting Astre come see him. This afternoon, he realised he can’t lose the bet they have over who’s going to die first—made during simpler times, when there was no talk of hospitals and funeral arrangements. Last month, his birthday wish was to be able to play one time to an audience. This morning, he’d woken knowing that his condition had worsened past the point of no return, his heart failing just a little bit more with every day that passes.
Him still being alive is a miracle. He hates that it’s a miracle. He didn’t even get to attend Astre’s closing ceremony, or perform at regionals—at the competition he last won—and now this. Easen looks at Astre, and Astre looks at Easen, and for some reason, it feels like the end of the world.
“What are you, a child?” Easen’s never seen Astre this angry. Easen’s never seen Astre angry, except for when it comes to this. Astre pretends; he doesn’t feel. Or at least that’s what he wants others to think. Easen knows that he feels more than any one person ever should; that’s why they keep finding each other, over and over, staying by each other’s side, because no one else understands the pain of understanding too much. “Believing whatever other people tell you blindly?”
“Do you seriously think I want this?” Easen wants to yell, but he doesn’t have the strength to. He’s so, so tired. He’s been fighting to stay alive for over half a year and it’s worse than that time he practised violin for hours that his fingers bled. Not even Astre being here now can give him the energy to sit up—it’s been this way for the last few months. But he’s trying to put on a pleasant front, at the very least, so Astre won’t worry. Because he knows that he’s the last thing standing between Astre and another wall in his life. Without him, who’s going to push Astre to try? “Do you seriously think that I’m happy about the fact that I’m about to die?”
“I don’t know, you certainly give off that impression.”
“F*** you.” Easen turns over and pulls the blanket over his head. “Get out.”
The sound of a door shutting tells him that for the first time in his life, Astre actually did something he was told to do.
***
Easen’s presumably last birthday is spent in his bedroom—now a luxury and a respite from all the hospital visits—with Astre watching him unwrap his gift with restrained enthusiasm. He quickly pulls the paper aside, revealing a nondescript cardboard box the length of his forearm. When he lifts the lid, he finds a model aeroplane nestled within bubble wrap. Easen immediately takes it out, attaching it to the accompanying stand before setting it on his study table before he can even process his own actions.
This is a gift from Astre. But Astre only ever annoys him, and steals his food, and complains about Easen’s weird fondness of heights. Astre claims to never study but is first for every exam every time. Astre is incomprehensibly understandable. Astre…isn’t as bad as he wants to believe.
“This is the plane you’ll fly next time.” Astre says smugly from the floor of the bedroom.
“Huh?”
“You’ll be my personal pilot next time.” Astre talks like this are supposed to be part of an ordinary conversation.
Easen throws some rubbish at him, but it bounces harmlessly off his chest and skitters under the bed. “As if. You can fly there yourself.”
“But I can have my personal Easen do it for me!” Astre feels around for the rubbish and sends it back. “He’s much smaller; he’ll fit in the cockpit. I’m too tall.”
“Why, you—” Suddenly forgetting that he’s under express orders not to exert himself, Easen launches himself off his chair and tackles Astre to the floor, pummelling him with punches that had barely any effect on someone who takes martial arts. They scuffle for a bit, limbs getting bruised on the edges of Easen’s bed and the legs of his table, but that’s not what he notices. Astre evidently holds back, always keeping his back to the really sharp edges, as if afraid that one wayward hit will send him careening towards death. When they’re interrupted by the nurse walking in with an afternoon snack tray and a disapproving frown on her face, they sit up, chastised without a word having been spoken.
“I’m terminally ill, not made of glass,” Easen says the moment the door closes. “You don’t have to treat me like I’m going to break if you tap me too hard.”
“Liar.” Astre drops a strawberry in his mouth and chews noisily. “I know you’re only pretending to be fine, but you walk slower, and you don’t even try to hit me hard.”
“Since when did you care about unfair fights?”
A momentary flash of something that can only be rage passes through Astre’s eyes. Then it’s over, and he goes back to lying on the floor.
“Duet with me tomorrow,” Easen says eventually, his own back to the wall. He watches Astre stare at the ceiling blankly. When there’s no response, he nudges Astre’s side with his foot.
“Hey, did you hear me?”
“Don’t wanna.”
“You’re literally grade 8 piano.”
“Only because it makes me look smarter.”
“You don’t need to look smarter, useless genius. Besides, you can’t continue like this if you don’t practise.”
“I do practise. And then I fake sickness every time and go home.”
“There’s no such thing as ‘sickness so no practice’ when you play an instrument, four-eyes.”
“Exactly. Easen is so smart.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Unbelievably gorgeous? Yes, I think so too.”
“I can’t believe people actually fall in love with you.”
At that, Astre sits up, a mischievous glint in his gaze. “But you are, aren’t you?”
“What?” Easen asks defensively, feeling embarrassment dust his cheeks red.
“In love with me.”
***
“Easen, let’s go.” Astre comes back not even half an hour later, a wheelchair in front of him.
“In case you forgot, I’m not supposed to leave the bed. I can’t, in fact, leave the bed.”
Easen doesn’t know why he’s talking to Astre, or why Astre even returned in the first place. This isn’t the first fight they’ve had, but it certainly feels more real than the others. Like there’s a fissure in their relationship, and one wrong move will send cracks through the ground, leaving them on separate sides.
“I say you can, so you are.” Astre approaches, parking the wheelchair right by the bed. “I’m going to carry you. Hold on.”
“Last I checked, you were skipping your MMA classes—” Easen’s words are cut off when Astre snakes an arm around his back, easily lifting him into the seat of the chair. “What the hell.”
“Actually, I haven’t skipped class in a while. That’s why I’m late some days now. And I won the last three matches I bothered to show up to, but it’s no fun when you aren't there to tell me I won stupidly against smaller kids.” Astre plucks the stuffed weasel off the bed and drops it in Easen’s lap. “Here’s your emotional support weasel.”
“What the hell,” Easen repeats. And then, for good measure, he says it a third time. “When—how—what?”
Astre shrugs and starts pushing Easen towards the door. “I predicted that you wouldn’t have much time left a while back, so I decided to put more plans in place. Hey, I heard there’s a summer festival happening right now. We should go.” Ignoring Easen’s protests, Astre brings him to the first floor, out the front doors of the hospital, and takes off down the road, in the direction of festive banners and colourful balloons.
The summer festival isn’t massive by any means, but it is big enough that one can still get lost without paying attention. The pathways are narrow, and Astre unapologetically uses the wheelchair, which included Easen, as a battering ram, nonchalantly pushing through the crowd.
They buy some snacks and share a box of cheesy fries. Easen watches as Astre wrecks a shooting game, hitting bullseye on all four moving targets without batting an eye. The enormous stuffed bear he wins is shoved into Easen’s reluctant hands, and then Astre spectates as he halfheartedly tosses rings over glass bottles. They debate over going on the ferris wheel, then see the criminally long queue and turn away. Easen wants to go on the bumper cars, but Astre gives him a look and the fight is lost. As the time to release the fireworks approaches, Astre pushes him away from the crowd and up the neighbouring hill.
“Where are you going? There’s nothing up there.”
“You’ll see,” Astre replies mysteriously. The wheelchair is given one final heave, and the setup comes into Easen’s view. A picnic mat has been laid over the grass at the end of the hiking trail, a basket of food keeping it weighed down. Below them, the lights of the festival stands are displayed in neat rows of tiny yellow bulbs interspersed with red and blue ones, and above them, Easen can just make out stars hiding within the folds of the night sky.
“When did you do all this?”
“This afternoon,” Astre says smugly. “I told my coach it was for you and he let me off. You’re already really short, and now you’re even shorter in a wheelchair, so I brought you to a higher place to watch the summer fireworks. Who knows when you’ll get such a good view again!”
Easen can’t even be mad. How did Astre know that he’d always wanted to watch fireworks from a higher vantage point? He figures he’ll also never know, because despite everything, Astre is still a mystery to him, with his too-fake smiles and too-bright laughter.
Astre helps Easen onto the picnic mat and pushes the basket towards him. Upon opening it, Easen finds an array of his favourite foods, along with two party hats.
“What are we celebrating?” Easen asks, holding the hats up. Astre takes one and straps it onto Easen before he can react, so in retaliation, he reaches out and yanks hard on Astre’s vibrant red ponytail so he can do the same. Astre’s surprised face makes it all worthwhile, even if they’re now in a compromising position, their faces uncomfortably close.
“Your imminent death,” Astre whispers, his eyes comically wide. Then he leans backwards, slipping out of Easen’s grip, and breaks out in laughter, interrupting the moment. “Did Easen actually believe that? Of course it’s going to suck without you. Who else will I be able to annoy so easily?”
Easen can’t tell if he should be annoyed or pleased—is that even a compliment or another of Astre’s thinly-veiled insults? “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” He digs around further in the basket and draws out a packet of grapes. He manages to open the box and offers Astre the first pick. “Seriously, Astre. Why all this?”
But Astre just tilts his head and smiles, and Easen lets it slide, because it’s Astre, who understands him like no one else can, with gold carding through his hair, and the promise of a lifetime together written in the strings of fate linking them.
Easen blinks. Astre’s smile has frozen on his face, his hand still hovering over the box of grapes. “What?”
“Easen, you’re so in love with me it makes you look stupid.”
“Huh?”
In one swift move, the grapes change possession. Astre shakes it gently, pointing to it with his other empty hand for emphasis. “You never let anyone steal your grapes.”
That’s because I know you steal them from my meals and snacks, idiot is what Easen doesn’t say. He growls and makes a lame swipe for the grapes, but Astre lifts it out of reach and he immediately gives up.
“I hate you. How could I ever love you?”
“Great, because I hate you too!”
Easen has a feeling they both know the other is lying.
***
Flying is letting the music carry his words through the breeze and pluck through the strings of his soul and the next pass is sitting on the edge of the cliff, the wind threatening to push him off. Flying is being engrossed by the vibrant story told by the black and white keys, because Astre, can actually play piano extremely well so he wins first by a mile and now there’s a voice telling him that if he doesn’t congratulate him today, he’ll never get the chance again.
“You win,” is all that comes out of Easen’s mouth even though he rehearsed his congratulatory speech ever since the first note of the piano was played and he rushed to go backstage and see Astre, even though he knows he’s one misstep away from collapsing and getting sent back to the hospital if he just does a bit too much for his body to handle. Even though he wanted to say “I’m proud of you” or “I knew you could do it.” as Astre collects all his things and the two of them head out.
“Uh. Yeah?” is all that Astre gets to say before he’s mobbed by a crowd of musicians, congratulating him and passing him bouquets.
Easen backs away, melting into the crowd of spectators milling about now that the performance is over. They’re all offering flowers, chocolates, and candies. All Easen can offer is a truce.
He wonders, just briefly, if it’s good enough.
***
Easen wants to think that he’s accepted his fate—or rather, he wants the people around him to think that way. But he knows Astre knows that’s not true, and he also knows that Astre always figures out when his doctor comes to deliver more news, and makes himself scarce. As if him simply being there will prevent the curtains from being raised and the show from going on.
Maybe Easen’s now the better actor out of the two of them.
His nurse wheels him around downstairs, and the lack of any friends or company is evident in the single sound of footsteps. But if Astre hadn’t stolen the wheelchair the first time to take him to the summer festival, would they have done it in his stead? Easen’s left at the fake taxi stand—built so patients with dementia will sit and wait for a ride that never comes, until their nurses arrive to lead them back to their wards—while they go search for food to share, even though everyone knows the options at this hospital are limited. He leans back and looks forward, his gaze empty.
Easen has his phone in his hands before he knows it, turned on and unlocked to show his list of frequently-called numbers. Right at the top tempting him is Astre’s, saved as Four-Eyes. His finger hovers over “call”, but it never makes contact with the glass screen.
He sits, and he waits. He stares at his phone, and taps it awake every time the light dims. He sits, and he waits. The taxi will come eventually—is that what the patients think when they’re here, in this same spot? Is Astre at the other end, staring at his own phone, waiting for him to call and complain about how bored he is? He sits, and he waits. He’s gotten used to waiting. Waiting for the climax, for the final part, for Astre to play the last note first, for the wind to come and take him away, for the night sky to erupt with light. Surely someone will pass by, slow down, ask if he wants a ride.
Hey, we’ll keep in touch after we graduate, right?
By phone, obviously.
Two months and one day.
***
Astre doesn’t perform again after that last performance, just as Easen becomes too weak to show up anywhere unassisted. They continue their bickering, but they don’t get into any more fights. Easen places bets with Astre in an effort to get him to practise, but avoids the practise rooms and the fields himself. He used to be one with the music, being able to bend and shape the sounds produced from his instrument like no other musician. Astre used to think it was hilarious, and constantly made jokes about him also having played the shortest and called him a newbie. Easen thinks it’s a pity Astre doesn’t care for music, because they’ve played together before. With Easen’s violin and Astre’s piano, they have the potential to get past anyone.
“Walk with me,” Astre says one day, grabbing Easen’s wrist and dragging him in the opposite direction of the hospital where the nurse was assigned to take him to his room.
“Hey!” Easen wrestles his hand away and scowls up at Astre, but doesn’t try to turn back.
“Whatever for?”
“A new ice cream place opened! We’re gonna go check it out!”
“I’m not paying.”
“But Easen!” Astre clasps his hands together and leans over so Easen can see the sparkles in his eyes. “You’re always so generous and ki—”
“—Not. Paying.”
And so, after ensuring that his nurse won’t accidentally call the police because her patient suddenly went missing, Easen follows Astre down to the beach. His wallet loses some cash, and his hands gain an ice cream cone each. Easen clambers up to the roof of the cafe despite the shop owner warning them not to, Astre right behind him. The wind is strong but not wild, perfect for getting the loose strands of his hair out of his face while he enjoys his ice cream.
“Well?” Astre hasn’t touched his ice cream yet. His tone is expectant, but Easen isn’t a mind reader.
“Well what?”
“Does this feel like flying? I wanted to make you go on the bungee jump because then you’d be tall for once, but your heart condition means you can’t go.”
Easen rolls his eyes. “No,” he says. What he doesn’t say: When I’m with you, I’m always flying.
***
“Easen.”
“Astre.” Easen eyes the large bouquet of roses in Astre’s hands. “Which poor girl used up her week’s allowance on you?”
“Actually,” Astre begins, unceremoniously shoving the bouquet into Easen’s frail arms, “I bought these for you .”
“What?”
“I know, right! Surprise, I had money this whole time.”
“No, I always knew you had the money. I mean, why did you buy me a hundred roses?!”
“Why not?”
“You— This means total devotion?! This means promising to be together for the next century!”
“Okay, and?”
“And—!” Easen stares, his mouth agape. “Four-eyes, you’re supposed to be saying goodbye to me, not confessing your love on my deathbed.”
“Hm, no. I’m making you realise that you love me. Give me the bouquet back.”
“So you are confessing to me.”
“What part of—” But before Astre can finish, Easen leans forward, putting a stop to the words coming out of his mouth in an instant. “No fair, I was supposed to do that to you after you handed the flowers back to me,” Astre complains.
“I have the height advantage. Take your stupid flowers back. I can’t believe they let you bring that in. What if someone has allergies?”
“Then they’ll just have to suffer,” Astre says flippantly. “These are for you, so everyone else will just have to deal.”
“Sentimentality doesn’t look good on you.”
Astre shrugs. “I love you,” he says simply. Easen realises he hates it when Astre drops his act and gets serious. It feels off, in the same way he knows instinctively when he’s ever so slightly out of tune. Not right, not wrong, but definitely out of place. “I always did, to be honest.”
“And you’re only telling me this now.”
“I said you loved me! That’s basically the same thing!”
“How on earth is that the same thing!”
“I love you.” Astre folds his arms. “I mean it. Now are you gonna say it back, or what?” There’s a challenge in his eyes, one Easen’s intimately familiar with. He sees those eyes before, during and after every bet they’ve ever made, and he sees those eyes every time he breaks the news of a worse diagnosis, and he sees those eyes when his attention falters and drifts away from the music and to the certain four-eye in the crowd. “That you’ve always loved me, too.”
“I’ve always loved you, stupid.” Easen scowls and shoves the bouquet back into Astre’s hands. “Happy now?”
Astre bursts into laughter. He carelessly drops the bouquet onto the visitor’s chair, then clambers onto Easen’s bed, ignoring his protests. “If you mean it, Easen, you sure don’t sound like it.”
“I wasn’t sure if I was good enough for you,” Easen mumbles, suddenly embarrassed. “You’re much better than me.”
“If we’re really talking about who’s good enough for who, then shouldn’t it be the other way round?”
“You got some terminally ill boy who can’t end life with a single thing accomplished. I think that’s worse than loving a no passion filled wanderer.”
“You’re wrong. You did accomplish something.”
“What, annoying you to death?”
“You saved me, you know. Over and over. From cliff edges and rooftop ledges. From other people and from myself. That’s good enough for me.”
“Raise your standards a little, four-eyes.”
“Nah. I like mine in the ground—then they’ll be as short as you.”
Easen tries to shove Astre off, but only succeeds in nearly falling off the bed himself, had Astre not caught him in time. They stay frozen in that position, two pairs of widened eyes staring at each other for a moment too long, then start laughing again.
“I wish I got to perform one more time,” Easen says after the silence that falls.
“I wish I could watch you perform again,” Astre adds. “Your name was becoming so popular and people were beginning to recognise you out on the streets.”
“All in the past. I wanna watch fireworks on the hill again.”
“I want to eat ice cream on the roof again even though they told us not to.”
“Sunsets at the cliff.”
“Fighting in your room.”
“You.”
“What?”
Easen grins. “You,” he repeats. “I’ll miss you.”
It’s ridiculous, really, how pretty Astre looks even with his hair messed up and his clothes wrinkled. “I bet there’s an even hotter version of me in heaven,” he finally says, and Easen rolls his eyes.
“I only want this version of you.”
“Sap.”
“Hey, you’ll still live even after I’m gone, right?”
“Yeah.”
“‘Kay.” Easen reaches for the stuffed weasel and holds it close to his chest. “Don’t piss Caon off. It’s not worth it.”
“Not even so you can watch him get mad from heaven?”
“Not even then.” Easen pauses. He has a feeling that if he looks hard enough, he’ll see the faintest hint of a tear in Astre’s eye. “If we’ve always loved each other, four-eyes, then this isn’t goodbye.”
“Yep.”
“See you tomorrow?” Don’t forget me.
“See you tomorrow.” How could I ever?
***
Easen knows that there’s no such thing as a human capable of flight. But maybe, just maybe, the next best thing is this: Him and Astre, and the foolish, naive hope that whatever comes next, there’ll be wings unfurling to catch them when they fall.
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