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“Sandalphon? Sandalphon, wake up, it’s already noon.”
The voice is familiar, but you can’t and don’t want to place it. Your head is a fogbound wreck of a place right now, rising from the dust of sleep. There were no nightmares this time, thank the skies; you find yourself remembering how you used to want to go back to sleep, how after waking you always wanted to wrap yourself back up and shut the light out and rest for a little longer. Your body feels like it might be a living corpse. You can feel your wings extended across the rest of the bed, fluttering weakly— your ordinary, earth-brown little sparrow’s wings, thankfully, nothing too unwieldy or unusually magnificent to wake up to and be forced to handle so early in the morning.
As if reading your mind, the poor soul trying to wake you speaks again.
“Djeeta sent me. You missed breakfast, you know…”
Ah, so it’s Djeeta today, you think. The past few days, the Captain’s looked awfully uncomfortable in his armor. It was only a matter of time before she’d have a girl day. But more than that, why is this voice so familiar, so unplaceable yet so soothing— like you’ve only heard it once, but what it said was so—
“Ugh,” you mumble, shrugging the sleep mask off your face. The lights are on. You open your eyes to—
To—
—Zooey peering curiously right over your face, leaning over the bed, red eyes blinking like she’s watching a fishing rod, waiting patiently for the bobber to go under. She looks utterly oblivious to how close her face is to yours. You make some sort of horrible spluttering noise and roll back over, hiding back into the pillow.
Which is when she grabs one of your ankles that was so fortuitously hanging off the side of the bed and pulls.
“Ow! Ow! Stop it! Why are you— what are you—”
“Djeeta said I could drag you if I needed to,” she says flatly.
“Djeeta said you could what?!”
“Drag you,” Zooey says, and yanks you close enough to the side of the bed that your other ankle becomes visible. You nearly kick her in the face when her other hand touches it.
“Skies above, I’m getting up, let go already!”
“I don’t believe you,” she huffs, but you flail your leg and she lets go. You slide out from under the covers, both feet landing on the floorboards. Your wings flutter, exasperated, a few mottled brown feathers coming loose and drifting down. You tuck them in. Zooey is staring, like there’s something very amusing about your appearance, and you can’t figure out what it is she’s smiling about, until—
“Oh. You’re shorter than me without your heels,” she points out.
You feel heat come to your face. “I am not!”
“I can prove it,” she says, and strides out of the room, just outside the door. “Captain! Captain, we need your help with something.”
The call back from upstairs is something like “do you need me to help drag him?” and you stifle a snort.
“No, he’s up,” Zooey shouts back. You hear footsteps coming down to the lower floors, and Djeeta walks in, and you don’t miss how her hand brushes Zooey’s when she leads both of you out of your room. She looks remarkably put together for so early in the day, skirts fluttering, all light makeup and perfectly coordinated outfit. It’s always like this, with Djeeta.
“Isn’t he small without his heels? Measure us,” Zooey insists. Djeeta suppresses a laugh, bringing her hand to her face.
“Okay, stand back to back, then,” she orders. You stare at her, defiantly, but Zooey is immediately in position, pressing her back to yours like she’s trying to hold you there without using her arms. You whip around and try to walk away, but she grabs your wrist. “Yeesh, Sandalphon, I can already tell you’re smaller even with all your squirming.”
“Fine. Fine!” You grit your teeth and back yourself against Zooey, just to prove her wrong. Your rebellious confidence drops into vague unease when you turn around the slightest bit to look at where Zooey’s chin rises compared to your own. Zooey doesn’t move, but you feel like she’s trying not to laugh. Djeeta paces around the both of you, and then makes a graceless little “pffhthfh” sound.
“You are shorter than her!” she exclaims, and then promptly bursts into a bout of giggles.
You say nothing, but the heat is up to your ears. You stomp back into your room to put on your boots. And the rest of your clothes while you’re at it— even you know that pajamas and heels don’t mix. When you come back out, you’re finally a good bit taller than her, as you should be, and Djeeta smiles apologetically, almost like she feels kind of bad for such a blow to your confidence this early in the afternoon. You just glare and walk over to one of the couches in the living space right outside the kitchen.
A dragon lands on your shoulder. You glare at it too. It just stares back at you, cocking its head slightly as if it doesn’t know why you’re so angry. Djeeta leaves for the upper deck. You try to shoo the dragon away, but it nips at your finger.
“Can you please keep your dragons off me?”
“They have names, you know. Dyrn and Lyrn.”
“You named them after Vyrn.”
“Themed names,” she says, flatly, as if it’s not completely ridiculous. When you give her a Look, she backtracks. “It was the only thing I could think of… They’re not even really beings of their own, they’re part of me, so technically they don’t need names, but they deserve them, don’t you think?”
“Wait, does this mean the entire time they were messing around on my head and clawing up my scalp you wanted them to do that?”
“No, not really?” Zooey hmms, apparently oblivious to the expression of betrayal currently crossing your face. “Something about an unconscious, like the wishes I don’t have but things under the surface. Or maybe the collective consciousness of all skydwellers just really likes seeing you being sat on by dragons.”
You make some sort of pained, frustrated groan. Zooey laughs lightly in response, but there’s an undercurrent of something knowing, something actually amused in it. You begin to think she’s a little less oblivious than you give her credit for.
“Nonsense. That’s enough of that,” you sigh, and pick yourself up from the couch to coax Zooey and her dragons into the kitchen with you. “I have a new blend for you to try. You may like it, since it’s sweeter.”
One of Zooey’s dragons lands on your shoulder. You don’t bother shrugging it off. At this point you’ve given up. At least it’s tried to retract its claws— maybe Zooey’s unconscious has started to feel bad about all the little scrapes and scratches they’ve left on you. She follows you, batting at her dragon’s head as she passes you by, excited for coffee and pie.
Something is off.
“Wait a second,” you say, when Zooey heads in front of you, light on her feet. “Wait just a second. You— wait.”
She turns around, face questioning. You take off your boots as quickly as you can— the dragon perched on you leaps off and flaps away, startled by the sudden movement— and then grab her by the shoulders and stand right in front of her. You are looking down to see her.
“You changed your form,” you stammer, “just to make yourself taller in front of Djeeta.”
Zooey’s eyes shift back and forth, and a small blush comes to her face.
“You’re way shorter than me! What the hell! I can’t believe this…” You turn and walk into the kitchen, leaving your heels lying right in the middle of the floor for some unfortunate soul to trip over later.
“Are you mad at me?” she asks from behind you, her voice quiet. You suddenly feel a pang of guilt.
“Yes. No. I don’t know. Sit down, it’s time for coffee.”
Obediently, she takes a seat. The pie she brought this time is already set out in the middle of the table, and she’s looking over at it like she wants to eat the whole thing. Dyrn, or Lyrn, you’re not sure which, has perched on the back of her chair. You sigh, and begin preparing the plates and mugs.
“Djeeta’s not going to be impressed when she finds out, you know,” you tell her, looking back over your shoulder to observe her expression. Zooey’s cheeks are tinged red; she covers her face with her hands. You can’t help but want to be a little mean. “You know what, I’m going to call her right now and see what she thinks—”
Zooey scrambles out of her chair and lurches over to the counter to frantically try to cover your mouth with her hand. The chair falls flat onto the floor behind her with a loud clatter— whichever dragon has been perching there takes off and curls up on top of the fridge, evidently rattled. “Stop stop stop stop no,” she begs, and you stare at her for a moment, her hand still pressed onto your face, before you both break into little half-stifled fits of laughter.
You find yourself wondering if this is what having a best friend is like.
You don’t think about that for too long, though. Instead, you concentrate on making the coffee.
“So what pie did you bring this time?” you ask her, opening one of the cabinet doors to take out your bag of newly roasted beans. This one is a lighter roast, smooth and floral. You have special plans for the flavoring, though— a bottle of vanilla extract you picked up last time you and Lyria went to the market at Port Breeze. You knew you’d want to use the extract when you saw the display for vanilla-flavored grounds. One of the things you cannot stand is when people flavor the coffee grounds rather than the brew itself. It ruins the taste of the coffee, you think. But you had thought about drinking something lighter and sweeter lately, and admittedly you had thought about what Zooey would probably like, so you did what would give the best result.
“It’s blackberry pie,” she answers. “Have you ever had blackberries?”
“Admittedly, no. Don’t they stain your mouth?”
“If they do, I never really noticed. I don’t look in the mirror that often?”
“And no one’s pointed it out to you?”
Zooey hums noncommittally in response.
You’re still bustling around, pouring a portion of the coffee beans into the grinder; you finally got around to investing in a tabletop one, and though you liked your hand grinder well enough, it’s not quite suited for making multiple cups. This one can process a lot more at a time, and it’s been a saving grace for coffee hours. You work the crank, breathing in the smell of a fresh grind. The other one of her dragons makes an abrupt squawking noise, and you turn around. Behind you, Zooey is splaying her top half out on the table to stretch her arms.
“What are you doing. Come help me serve the pie,” you tell her, and she laughs bashfully before coming up behind you and standing next to you at the counter. “You really are much shorter than me. Don’t do that again.”
She doesn’t reply to that. Just gives you a knowing smile. Still kind, still well-meaning, but almost uncharacteristically mischievous. “Where are the plates?” she asks, instead, getting on her tiptoes to open the cabinet next to your head. Finding nothing, she moves on to the next one, before you finally redirect her.
“Second one to the other side of my head. Don’t hit me with it.”
“It smells good when you grind the beans.”
“It’s even better when you pour water over the grounds,” you say, and remember you’re supposed to put the kettle on at this point. Thankfully there’s enough water in it to use, but you take it to the sink and fill it with a little more anyway, just in case. It clatters against the metal framing when you put it back on the stove and light it. Zooey opens a drawer and digs through it to find a large enough flat knife to serve the pie.
“Is the oven on? Can I turn it on? It might be nice if I heat it up again.”
“Go ahead,” you tell her, and crouch down to turn on the oven under the stove for her. She kneels with you, like she’s watching you work the oven, memorizing it for next time. You realize she’s been watching you the whole time, studying your movements, the way you set up and set out and prepare. Whether it’s out of simple curiosity or because she’s trying to learn, you don’t really know, but if she’s learning then you’re glad for it. You can’t be the only one making coffee on this ship. It’s taking up all your time.
The oven heats up quickly, and Zooey carries the pie over and slides it in, turning the light on and watching to make sure it doesn’t burn. She’s still crouched at your feet as you wash the filters and fetch their holders, setting everything up in advance, and taking the cup full of grounds, halving it and pouring them in. You nearly trip over her when the kettle starts to whistle, and one of your ankles rolls underneath you, and you give an undignified yelp of pain. She shoots up onto her feet immediately, her expression shifting into startled worry.
“Are you okay?”
You grit your teeth and hop quite ungracefully to the stove to switch it off. “I’m… ugh. Fine. Just. Go sit down.”
She blinks. “I have to watch the pie.”
“I’ll get it, don’t worry.”
She raises her eyebrows, as if doubting that you’ll actually do your job, then goes back to the table, picking up the fallen chair from the ground and propping it back up gently, before sliding into it like nothing ever happened. Again, she’s silent, but you don’t really mind. You turn the oven off and open the oven door to vent the heat, keeping your promise to make sure the pie doesn’t burn, and grab the kettle, before you remember there was something you wanted to show her.
“Come over here for a second, actually.”
You don’t really notice her move, but she’s there, peering over your shoulder. “What is it?”
“Look. Watch.”
You pour a small amount of boiling water over the grounds. Steam rises into your face, carrying with it that wonderful aroma, and you and Zooey both watch as the grounds rise and swell, as small bubbles of oxygen open little holes in the sediment of it.
“When you roast coffee, it makes carbon dioxide and other volatile compounds, which are slowly released over time… but if you grind it, it releases faster. A lot of those compounds are what gives it its flavor, so that’s why you want to grind your coffee fresh… And when hot water touches it, it purges itself of all of the gas at the same time. You have to bloom it first, for the best results. Waiting for it to make space for the actual water.”
You wonder if it makes sense. But this is Zooey, who has been the very atmosphere multiple times, and you think if anyone would be interested, it would probably be her. Your guess was correct— she breathes a little “ohh,” her eyes wide, staring intently as the grounds bubble, before you pour the rest of the water into the filter and let it quietly drain through.
“I didn’t know it was so complicated. That’s amazing,” she says, her voice full of wonder. “Even in the smallest places, so much is going on… new molecules being created and changing and moving, in one singular moment…” She inhales deeply, taking in the scent of the coffee. “…And making something like this.”
“I hoped you’d appreciate it.” Relief floods you— you don’t want to imagine the shame you might feel if she had passed it off as boring. “Even the pies you like so much… there’s a lot going on, in the process of baking. You should go to a baking class sometime.”
“That sounds like a nice idea. You can come with me,” she says.
“Only if there’s coffee.”
She nods, smiling. You open a drawer next to the oven and pull out the mitts. “Careful, it’s hot,” you tell her. She steps out of the way, and you remove the pie, bringing it over to the table and setting it down on one of the mitts to avoid damaging the wood. The crust has that buttery gleam of well-made pastry, just as mouthwatering as the coffee. The plates and utensils are already on the table, and unfortunately, so is the other dragon, the one that isn’t currently napping on top of the fridge— when did any of that get there? You raise one eyebrow, and Zooey grins proudly, to which you jokingly roll your eyes.
“I’ll get the milk, and sugar, and… everything,” you say, shrugging, but she’s already attempting to cut the pie, her dragon hopping around the table looking just as excited as she is. It’s messy, and she’s getting dark berry smears all over her fingers, and on the oven mitt protecting the table, but not the table itself, thank the skies. You decide she should handle this on her own, and you still have to add the vanilla extract— it’s in a little dark glass bottle next to the other spices, and you take the funnels off, dump the used filters and add a few drops to her brew, enough to shine through even when she’s got the milk and sugar in it— and then one or two in your own, because you’ve been in the mood for something sweeter lately after all. You take the coffee and its respective condiments to the table, and by the time you get there she’s made a veritable wreck of it, but there is a piece of pie on each of your plates, and the dragon on the table has curled up on Zooey’s lap like a long, scaly cat, so you suppose the small victories count for something.
“I’m not even going to comment on this mess. You’d best clean it up afterwards.”
She pouts, and starts adding the milk and sugar to her coffee.
“Also, you shouldn’t have to add as much. This one is lighter, and you don’t want to mask the more subtle tastes.”
“If you say so,” she hums, lifting the cup to her lips and taking in the aroma the way you taught her to, before taking a sip. “Oh… that’s really nice, actually.”
“Actually?” you repeat. She gives you a little huff, but her eyes are smiling where her mouth is hidden behind the lip of her mug.
“Really good.” She has another sip. You turn to your own brew, letting the scent hit your nose, then fill your mouth. You’ve outdone yourself, as always, and you lose yourself in the taste. “Oh, Supreme Primarch-sama,” she teases, her voice light, and you squint at her suspiciously. “Have your pie.”
“Why do you do that.”
“It’s the only way I can get your attention, sometimes.”
“All right then, Grand Order,” you retort, your tongue sharp, your gaze soft. She snorts into her coffee. “Let’s see how your precious pie holds up.”
(It’s unexpectedly good, as usual. You think you might be developing a taste for sweets.)
“Let me see your tongue.”
“That’s a strange request,” you tell her. She raises her eyebrows like she’s challenging you, then sticks her tongue out. It’s colored purple-black from the berry pie.
“Is my tongue stained?”
“Yes,” you say, huffing out a slight chuckle, and then sticking out your own tongue, unable to resist her challenge. “Is mine?”
“Yes!” She laughs, like a quiet, clear bell. “It looks silly.”
“How dare you.”
After the coffee is gone and there is nothing left of the pie but blackish-purple tongues and crumbs in the corners of your lips, she follows you up to the deck. You don’t turn around, ask her where she thinks she’s going, like you know you probably would have in the beginning. Instead, you approach the stern, all the way up to the edge of the ship, and hang your feet off the side as you let your back fall flat onto the wood, heaving a long and weary sigh. She follows, sitting down and then shifting back a little less dramatically, until both of you are facing up, sunbathing in the afternoon light. You lie next to her, both of you staring up at the sky, looking for the question somewhere in that endless blue that still cries out to be answered.
“What did you think of the new blend?” you ask. It’s all you can think of— it’s all you really need to say.
“I liked it. It tasted like vanilla.”
“That’s because it was. Most vanilla blends just have flavoring in the coffee, but I put actual vanilla extract in it instead. It tastes better, and I don’t like to taint the beans.”
“What counts as tainting the beans?”
“Putting flavoring in the grind, I guess. There’s something so off-putting about that,” you sigh.
“Do they do that with more flavors?”
“Hazelnut, chocolate, things like that. I don’t understand. Just use the extracts. Or even flavoring syrup.” You realize you might sound a little snobbish, but you don’t really care. These days, coffee is one of the only things you can bring yourself to care about. She nods, apparently not put off by your elitism, but she doesn’t say anything else.
A long and comfortable silence. There’s a gentle thread between you; not a full link, but something, maybe leftover from the first time you shared thoughts, an indelible trace of the connection she used to pull you through the glass. Something stirs in her, and you hear it move.
“Do you think he’ll come back?”
The question catches you completely off guard. Yet Zooey doesn’t seem to understand the gravity of what she just asked. Maybe she does— she probably does— her voice is so quiet and hesitant that you think she does. But why now? Why ask such a thing now?
You think about it for a moment, and then another moment. It’s hard to answer. No— what’s hard to answer is the unsaid. Do you want him to come back?
“I… hope so,” you say, hesitantly.
“You don’t sound so sure.”
“No, it’s just… what would I say to him, I wonder. What would he say to me.”
“I think he would be proud.”
“That’s not it. That’s not what I want to hear from him. What I want to hear from him is, is…”
You don’t say it. But she knows.
You want him to apologize.
Yes.
You want to hear, I’m sorry I left you alone for so long.
Yes.
You want to hear, I’m sorry for leaving this world in your hands.
Yes… and no. Maybe.
Both of you are silent. Her thoughts turn to static— yours are a loop. Nothing shared between you but space, and sound of breath, and whistle of wind.
Her hand finds yours, next to your side on the wood. She doesn’t hold it. She traces her index finger over the veins on the back of your hand, over the knuckles, the tendons running down to the wrist. You let her.
You don’t know why you’re so comfortable with her touching you. Maybe it’s that it feels less like she’s actually touching you, and more like she’s reaching out and you’re meeting her in the middle. Willing, unthreatening. A palpable kindness, seeking nothing, expecting no particular result. Just testing out a feeling.
She is always patient, always peace in and of herself. Around her, you feel at ease, and it’s… unfamiliar, but welcome.
“Why do you always... do that?”
“Is it bothering you?” She turns her face to you, her eyes a little sad.
“Not particularly. But you’re the only one who does.”
“... Just to hold on.”
“To me?”
“To both of us. To make sure I don’t disappear. So that neither of us float away. It’s still hard, to hold a stable form. I get scared. I wonder if it’s the same for you.”
“You really are strange.”
She laughs, that ringing little bell of a laugh. “So I’ve been told.”
You move your hand over hers. Still not holding. But covering, protecting, so that she doesn't melt away into vapor and fade into the atmosphere.
“This sky... is full of wishes,” she tells you. “Wishes strong enough to manifest a person.”
“Maybe.”
“But even if he does not come. You will shine. I know it.”
Her voice has gotten deep, again. This is the voice you know is not quite— not only Zooey. This is the part of her that knows. That has seen every heart in this world, been every heart, even yours. Even his, somehow, in some singular, faraway moment in time. She has seen all these wishes, gathered them up like stars in her arms. His wish to understand. Your wish to be loved.
She is looking at you, counting your breaths, as if she wants a response, for once. You don’t say anything. You turn your head back facing up and count clouds instead, one by one, drifting across the sky, in that specific shade of blue that he still lingers in.
“I know it,” she repeats, like she’s trying to reach something in you that refuses to listen; like she’s calling out to a distant star, already long-dead, but still shining.
You don’t remember falling asleep. When you wake, the mid-afternoon light has passed into a sleepy yellow glow, and your face feels mildly sunburned, and Zooey is gone. Clutched in your hand, where her own used to be, is a feather of the deepest blue, a plume the color of a twilight sky. Immediately, you feel your core jump into your throat, and sickening, raw fear— fear of losing, fear of being abandoned, surges through you, turning every bone in your body to ice. Not again, you think. Not again—
Shh. I’m just downstairs.
At the sound of her voice in your head, you breathe— long enough to feel her there. She still lingers, the thread between you still thin yet unbroken, her presence still a quiet, palm-sized star, and you know she’s still on the ship. Your body rights itself again, every atom of you stopping its frantic trembling. You almost feel stupid, panicking like that, but what else were you supposed to think?
I’m sorry. I must have scared you.
You hold the feather to the sunlight, watch the way it shimmers and reflects it in prismatic shades of blue. The glimmer of it calms you, brings you peace.
There’s a specific pocket of the hoodie you wear under your armor, a small secret pocket on the inside against the chest that’s only really accessible when you unzip the jacket, the closest to your core that anything can get. In it, you keep only one item— a single white feather you received from Lyria, one that belonged to these six wings while they were still his. You shift up to a sitting position, unzip your hoodie halfway, and slide the blue feather into the inside pocket, looking at it next to the white one before pushing it all the way in and pressing the tiny snap closed. Zipping it back up all the way to your neck as you always do, you feel a new veil of peace over you. A ward. A charm of protection.
You realize you’ve gotten attached. That fear you felt, when you saw what was left behind, when you assumed she had disappeared— that’s something you haven’t felt for many people over these past two millennia. But somehow, you don’t mind, at least for now. For now, because you know—
You know—
— that eventually, she may leave you; she may dissipate into atmosphere, into the air you breathe, dissolve again into the veil of safety that keeps these skies balanced and stable, the only reminder of her existence this single feather. You will keep it, hold it close to you, like she will keep you, and everyone else she has come to know, held close to her own lack of body, everywhere and nowhere all at once.
You know this. But there is time, still. Time to cherish what you already have, what you have made here, with her and with the rest of the crew. You realize you’ve never felt less alone in your life. It scares you, but it also shines light on you, warming you, thawing out where you have been frozen— frozen in resentment, in loneliness, in a singular moment of loss.
Just a little longer. As long as you can. Please stay, you think. We all— need you.
I will, you hear her say. Her voice is smiling where you cannot see her. I don’t want to leave just yet. There are people I want to stay for.
You wonder, silently, if you are one of those people. You don't really mean for her to hear you. But the answer warms you all the same.
Of course you are, she says. Of course.