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Summary
Thomas had always viewed a kiss as an admission—or an affirmation, perhaps— that two hearts were joined in one narrative. And for as long as he could recall, the narrative had been a forgone conclusion. He’d been cast as an Icarus—a flaxen fool of a boy, meddling with matters best left alone, and daring to dream of life outside the bounds of nature, or at least as it was defined by his peers.
… except he wasn’t falling. Wasn’t burning. Wasn’t drowning. The myths warned of the sun and the sea, but they’d failed to account for what lay in between: the air itself, silent and unassuming as it gathered strength from both above and below with equal abandon.
a.k.a.:
John Silver [delirious brain]: What if Flint summoned the storm?
Thomas Hamilton [galaxy brain]: What if James *is* the storm?