When Wings Break

Fire Schematics

Fire SchematicsSaleh allowed his wings to drift, primaries proudly pointed outwards to catch the early morning sun in the deep of his browns. The sea was cold this morning, fog drifting inwards on a gust of wind that dared overtake a brilliant sunrise towards the east.

He wasn’t headed east. West felt just about right, chasing the last of darkness on the horizon. He couldn’t understand why.

That was the bliss of flight. Each beat of his wings took him further and further from the normal, from the plain simple dwellings below and higher, where the wings pulled him in a world entirely unbound.

Don’t fly too high into the sky. The rapids will sweep you away. Saleh had stopped being a child fearful of those currents at the oddly young age of eleven. On that, he beat even Christophe with his First Level Wingspan overshadowing everything.

“Kakaw!”

The shadow had warned him pretty quickly if not for the slightest flap in the distance. Even those long wings needed to flap once in a while. Saleh tucked in his wings, unfurling his tail feathers to allow him to turn onto his back. He caught the drift once again with a neat trick of his wings, maintained momentum.

No shirt. Saleh felt his eyes grown rounder. That was until the morning light gleamed upon a pair of visible fangs. “I want your tracker.”

It was an incredible piece of technology and Saleh had to admit he’d been eying the thing for ages. Christophe’s grin grew. “Captain Morgan’s ship and back. Catch you there, pretty legs!”

With a few flaps of his wings, Christophe overtook Saleh, leaving him in the bursts of wind he left behind. “You’re the pretty legs!” Saleh felt his cheeks grow warm in contrast to the nipping of the cold wind. “I mean--”

Christophe laughed. “Pretend to be embarrassed after I beat you!”

One thing Saleh was not: beaten. He furled in his wings and unfurled his tail feathers as he turned himself rightly. When he was ready, Saleh proved why he’d been a tagged individual from a young age. Every tendon in his body, wingtip to spine, awoke with the force and grace of his wings.

He knew where to sail when it came to flight. Never low. When a race was put into play and no altitude was provided; the midstream was exactly where a flier needed to be. His wings beat in tandem to a rhythm he could never forget, no matter his age. Each thrust of his wings, the stroke of the feathers through the air, took him closer and closer.

The first challenge was between Mr. Bishop, a raven winged, and his daughter. Christophe went high, calling back a greeting. Saleh grinned, his focus on the distance between Mr. Bishop and his daughter.

“Big mistake!” From Christophe’s laughter, even he knew it. Saleh pulled his wings closer to his body. It made him a torpedo, tail feathers adjusting minutely to ensure he could achieve his greatest feat. He shot right through the narrow space, gaining five seconds on Christophe. “Morning, Saleh!” Mr. Bishop called, daughter catching up as they both halted in shock factor.

It was Saleh’s ancestral gift.

His wings unfurled and he beat them, deciding he would not give Christophe another moment of fame. The first water floater appeared ahead. On the next beat of his wings, he stretched out his tendons, casting his wings wide. The wind caught on his feathers and he angled lower.

“Coming in!”

Higher. “I will win!” Christophe tapped the floater’s flag first. Saleh touched in two seconds later. Captain Morgan’s small fishing vessel a few scant miles away, big enough with a pair of rods most of wing kin children had learned to use as navigations rods. It helped the merman enjoyed wing kin company.

Christophe’s words were in vain. He looked back and caught sight of Saleh’s earnest beats of his wings, each taking advantage of the earlier dive. It was a human disposition to assume larger wings gave further flight. It did, but when it came to speed, it was a certain set of skill, training, and adaptability that gave someone like Christophe his speed. In the same category, it was like stamping empirical status on someone like Saleh.

“Move over, rookie!” He shot right past Christophe.

A whistle sounded, bells ringing. “Go, Saleh! Go!”

Saleh tucked in his wings once again, this time grinning in triumph. Homerun would be cruising for him. He shot through the narrow towers and spread his wings wide open on a moment of absolute insult to Christophe.

“Oy!” The width of the wings shadowed Christophe momentarily as Saleh took advantage of the draft, adjusting his wings for a sharp turn. He was going to win. It was a fact.

“Blast. Why do I ever try?” Christophe was laughing as he landed on top of an old warehouse by the fish port. Sweat doused them both. They kept their wings extended, muscles flexing as the rush hit peak. This wasn’t Saleh’s peak, though. Christophe knew that too. “Do you miss it?”

Saleh turned back from inspecting the men and women sorting out a box of crabs. He was definitely not getting involved in that one. “What?”

Christophe’s silence stretched between them. He chanced a glance and found himself the subject of a reproving grin. “Bah!” Christophe backhanded him on his chest. “The truth! You miss racing.”

Against whatever lie he could have pulled up, his muscles flexed as a shudder coursed through him. With big wings, even a slight push can mean serious motion. He had to unfurl his tail feathers or risk a serious stumbling onto his hindquarters; being a bumbling child in front of this guy was not his idea of memory.

“You enjoy, um, rugby?” he asked, hands on his waist as he toed a stone on the rooftop.

“You know?” When he glanced up, Christophe looked earnestly surprised he was aware of that. As always, he turned his head one side, brows pulled down in a scrunched up and cute way. Saleh looked away.

“Ah, yeah. Bunny was talking to Roan.” Roan was a nutritionist by profession. “Will you, um, go on?”

“Does it ever stop?” Christophe laughed, own wings beating away thrice as he looked eastward. It meant he was facing in the complete opposite of Saleh’s direction. It painted a picture he didn’t want to see. The sunlight fell on his wings, turning the mottled brown hidden within the mostly raven blue primary and secondary regimes stark. His trimmed beard and mustache did not escape the morning kiss. “Have you tried it?”

Saleh turned away, wings beating off once again. “Yes. I can most certainly see myself risking wings and limbs to grab one ball from my opponent. And then use the same wing and limb to get it to some fork in the distance.”

By the end of his sarcastic diatribe, Christophe was laughing with wings creating more of those drafts in his excitement. He was always laughing. Well, most times after that time. The young man soaking up the sun, wings spread out, was not the fallen boy Saleh had found in the counselor’s waiting area, one wing near torn off and looking more miserable than the pigeon that seemed to like slamming into his bedroom window.

Until the s**t started making jokes. Saleh shook his head, turning away. “Why do you enjoy it?”

“Why do you enjoy flying?”

Too smart. Christophe undid all the stereotypes best associated with a man of his features. Over six feet tall, golden from the tip of his curling hair to the whiskers on his chest, he laughed too loud and too much and made a joke of everything. An airhead; he should have been. There were times Saleh had caught intelligence watching him through his russet eyes.

Saleh understood. He nodded. The wind picked up. He felt the tunnel shoot upward, calling to him to follow. He could if he wanted to. A simple lift of his wings angled to take up that offer and let the wind rustle through his feathers. A few beats and he would be soaring through the skies. A few muscles here and there locked, and he wouldn’t need to spend any more energy.

He was hungry, though. Mama and Ada waited. He didn’t want to leave.

Saleh was sure it had something to do with the man he could sense using those keen eyes on him again.

“I’m not prey,” he said. It had been the first insensitive joke Christophe had ever made about Saleh. Big enough to eat, little enough to chase.

Christophe scoffed. “I said nothing of prey.”

Saleh rolled his eyes. The dark horizon disappeared, chased away by the rising sun. There went his morning plan to finding the edge of nowhere. Had Babu found his, at least? He turned to the tall male beside him, hands still on his waist. Sweat clung to his back and he knew he would take a nice long shower before he went off to class.

“You--”

“Why so sad, Saleh?” Christophe asked. He adjusted his stance until they stood face to the chest because Saleh was still little enough to chase. Saleh felt his brows pull lower. “Have I upset you again?” Christophe’s brows pulled down, darker than the golden lock of hair refusing to be pushed back. “Do not tell me a lie. I know when you despise my prodding.”

“Then why do you prod?” As soon as he said it, Saleh wished to take it back. Christophe went to speak but he stopped him with a lift of his hand, palm outward. “Sorry. It’s nothing, Christophe. Not really. Actually,” Saleh swallowed. Now that the moment had arrived, he couldn’t stand the thought of revealing the truth. “Um, this-- this is my last.”

Christophe frowned. “Last? Last what? Saleh?” Christophe’s brows shot high, his face growing in horror as Saleh wondered what was going on in the big guy’s head. “Last flight? Saleh, what’s happened? What can I do? We can solve it. I promise.”

Last flight? “No. No, no,” Saleh took a step back from Christophe, unable to stop his amused laughter. When he tried to come up with any more words, all he could do was laugh. “No. I mean, I hope not. Not really the kind of stuff we can say for sure.” Christophe still looked pale. “Christophe.”

When he reached to assure Christophe with a hand, he found nothing but bare skin turned inferno, especially after their previous flight. Saleh was scalded, the heat too raw for him to take. He pulled back, feeling his ears burn.

“Um, not injured or anything.”

Christophe’s blasted silence was loud before he said, “I still wonder why you do not touch me, yet you touch others.” The heat in Saleh’s ears spread lower, cheeks prickling as he blinked more. He tried to meet Christophe’s gaze, but he couldn’t. “Saleh--”

“Touch isn’t a problem,” Saleh said on a quick breath. When he realized the innuendo in his words, he had to cough. “I mean, not a problem. Touch is okay. And, um, I touched you yesterday at the, um… Just that, um, it’s not why--”

“Saleh.”

Saleh knew better than to look. Christophe was grinning. It wasn’t a big grin, triumph, and mischief grin; it was a small, all-satisfied grin framed by the neatly trimmed beard. Saleh felt all kinds of other muscles shudder. The biggest tell of his physical awareness was the shudder that ruffled his feathers.

He met and held the russet brown eyes that picked up the growing sunlight and made him into a trap for parched eyes. He lifted his hand, as open as Saleh was when reaching for injured or angry people. His finger trailed Saleh’s jaw bone, the skin tingling with the slight caress down to his chin.

“Saleh.” Christophe’s voice was softer. He lifted his eyes. Had they grown closer? As Saleh watched, heartbeat rising for a different reason, he felt the air drift closer, a shadow over them, and saw the darker follicles in the depths of his beard.

His lips were soft and velvety, hot against Saleh’s cold nipped ones. It felt like flying without actually flying.

Christophe pulled away. Big mistake. He met the russet eyes once again, feeling the covetous wind rush in to snatch his musk from Saleh’s nostrils. No. There was no snatching it away. What was he thinking?

Saleh’s wing stroked. Higher and higher, pulling him into the morning sky where a city came awake and a world did not much care for a bird in a cage. He did not look back. Inside, Saleh stored the memory for there would be plenty of lonely nights coming ahead.