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Sword didn’t cry when his father raised his voice at him. Not in the moment.
He just blinked, feathers bristling along his arms, the practice sword still clutched in his hands like it could shield him from sound. It was just training. Just a correction. Just one too many times he misread the move, ducked instead of stepped back, shifted his weight wrong. Venomshank had said his name– Sword– loud enough to startle the birds outside.
It wasn’t the first time his father had spoken softly. It wasn’t even the worst time. But for some reason, this time sank deeper. Maybe because it was unexpected. Maybe because today, everything had already hurt.
Venomshank caught himself almost immediately. His beak-shaped mask dipped, and his feathers smoothed. “That was too harsh,” he said. Not stiff, not embarrassed- just honest. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
Sword nodded. “It’s okay.”
It wasn’t a lie, not really. His father had apologized. That should be enough. It always had been enough before.
But he still felt weird afterward. Like he’d been made of glass for a moment and didn’t know how to put the pieces back. Like he should’ve said something else– It’s okay felt too small, too quick. But what else was he supposed to say?
You hurt my feelings?
I’m trying as hard as I can?
I don’t know why I keep messing up?
He’d accepted the apology because anything else would feel mean. Ungrateful. Heavy. So he swallowed it down.
They didn’t speak much after training.
By the time Sword made it to dinner, the food on his plate was cold. He sat at their chipped kitchen table with its missing corner, staring at the apartment walls that always looked halfway abandoned, like they’d only just moved in or were about to leave.
They were the only ones who lived there. Just the two of them. Sometimes it was quiet in a comforting way, like the hush of a closed book. But other nights– like tonight- it felt more like absence. Like something was supposed to be here and wasn’t.
Venomshank ate standing near the sink, already halfway through his plate. Sword poked at his food for a while before finally chewing through it. He didn’t mind cold food that much. But it reminded him of time– how it slipped by while he was doing something else, how no one calls him to eat, how no one notices how late it was.
His wings ached more than usual tonight. He could feel it in the joints and down the curve of his back. He hadn’t even tried to fly with them that much- just a few glides during warmup- but something today had worn him thin.
Sword didn’t talk much at dinner. Venomshank didn’t either.
Afterwards, Sword lingered by the window. The city was still alive out there- lights in other buildings, someone laughing down a few blocks, the faint hum of a monorail passing in the distance. The apartment felt quieter by contrast.
His reflection looked back at him faintly in the glass. His hair was still tied back, a few strands sticking to the sweat on his forehead. His face looked tired in a way he didn’t know how to explain. Not exhausted, just…worn. Hollow, maybe.
He turned away before he could look too long.
In the living room, he lay flat on the mattress of the couch and stared up at the ceiling. His back twinged where the wings met skin. He rolled to the side, tugged a cushion under his arm.
He thought about how he hadn’t told his father how he felt off. About how sometimes he wanted to say something like I think I’m lonely, but didn’t know how. About how he had to keep certain things hidden, deep under feathers and silence, because they didn’t have space in this apartment, or maybe in his life.
He hadn’t said anything about the other stuff either- the quiet kind of different he felt, wondering-if-I’m-allowed-to-feel-this way he sometimes got when people talked about crushes or something like it was obvious. Like there was only one way to be.
Sword was thirteen. He didn’t have the words for closeted. He just knew that sometimes when people asked him what kind of person he liked, he wanted to say I don’t know and I think I’m weird at the same time.
So he didn’t say anything.
He just let the day settle over him like a too-heavy blanket, pulled it up to his chin, and waited for rest.
…
Rest never came.
The night air was cooler than he expected.
Sword sat on the roof with his legs pulled in close, his arms wrapped around them so tight it almost hurt. His cheek rested against his knees, feathers brushing his skin. The shingles beneath him were still warm from the sun, but the breeze carried a sharpness that raised goosebumps along his arms.
He came up here sometimes when the apartment felt too quiet, too small. When the space between him and his father stretched long and wordless. When he didn’t feel sad exactly, just… full. Like there was too much inside him and no way to get it out.
The stars were faint tonight. Only a few blinking through the light pollution. He counted three, then lost track.
He dug at the edge of a scab on his knee, worrying the dry skin with a fingernail until it flaked away. The raw spot beneath pulsed dully, but he kept scratching anyway. It didn’t even hurt that much– just something to do with his hands.
His wings shifted behind him. Aching. They always ached a little more at night.
Sword reached back and ran his fingers through the feathers near the joint. He liked the soft ones– the new growth- but tonight even they felt sore. He tugged gently at one that was half-loose, just idly.
It came out with a small resistance, not quite ready to let go.
Sword winced and stared at it in his hand. White at the base, dusty brown at the tip, a little frayed. Not one he meant to lose. He didn’t know why that made him feel worse, but it did. He tossed it into the wind and watched it spiral down toward the alley.
Somewhere below, a rat squeaked. A voice chuckled. Something barked twice and went quiet.
He picked at another scab. This one bled a little.
He felt tired– not just in his body, but somewhere deeper. Not exhausted, just…slow. Foggy. Like he’d been awake for days, even though he hadn’t.
The wind ruffled his hair and tugged at his cape. It was too warm to wear it, but he hadn’t taken it off. It had been a gift from his father, years ago, back when things felt different. Sword didn’t remember what exactly had changed. Only that things were quieter now. More careful.
He rested his chin on his knees again.
“What if I didn’t have to do this anymore?”
It came softly. Not like a scream. Not even a cry. Just a simple sentence, like any other.
He blinked. His heart didn’t speed up. Nothing snapped. But something settled differently inside him– like a piece of furniture moved while he wasn’t looking.
He didn’t really mean anything by it. He didn’t have a plan. He didn’t imagine falling or flying or vanishing into the dark. It was just a sudden idea that whispered itself into his mind and didn’t leave.
What if I didn’t have to try so hard all the time?
What if I wasn’t here anymore, and things didn’t ache like this?
The thoughts weren’t loud. They weren’t even sad, not in the crying kind of way. They were just there. Sitting beside him on the rooflike old friends he didn’t remember meeting.
He hugged his legs together. The wind pushed harder now, like it knew.
You’re not supposed to think things like that, he told himself.
But he had. And now he couldn’t unthink it.
He plucked at the edge of another feather and didn’t notice when it came loose.
…
The window creaked as Sword slipped back inside, careful not to wake anything that wasn’t already awake. The apartment was still silent, the kind of stillness that felt thicker at night. The shadows were longer, the corners darker. The hum of the distant city outside was a faint blur beneath it all.
He peeled off his cape first– his hands moving slowly, like he was afraid to pull too fast. The fabric had warmed against his neck, and it felt strange to fold it and set it down like something normal. Then his patched shirt, then his boots. His fingers moved clumsily over buckles of small armor. They weren’t heavy, but they felt that way tonight.
The last thing he took off was his helm.
He hesitated a moment before lifting it– his face half-reflected in the policed curve of it, pale in the moonlight. His eyes looked tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep fixed. The other kind.
The kind that settled in your bones and didn’t ask for permission.
He placed the helm beside his bed– if you could call it that. The hammock stretched corner to corner, low and soft, the fabric sagging a little under its own weight. Sword climbed in slowly, the motion familiar, rocking him gently with every shift.
From the corner of the room, a flutter of feathers.
Sisyphus had arrived sometime while he was gone– he always did this, coming and going as he pleased, like a ghost with wings. The small bird stood on his perch, fluffed up like he was preparing to sleep too. His bright eyes b;inked once in Sword’s direction, then again.
“Hey,” Sword said softly.
Sisyphus tilted his head.
“You missed the rooftop,” Sword added. “Not much happened. Just me being weird.”
The bird rustled his wings, but didn’t make a sound. Sword didn’t expect him to.
He shifted onto his side, letting the hammock rock beneath him. The fabric wrapped around his body like a second skin. He liked that part– the closeness, the swaying. It reminded him of flying, but without the effort.
His eyes stayed open. He stared at the ceiling, tracing cracks he already knew by heart.
Sisyphus fluffed up again and settled in.
After a while, Sword whispered, “Maybe it’s just a weird thought.”
The words came out flat. Not afraid. Not sad. Just…there.
“I don’t know,” he added. “It was just for a second.”
Sisyphus chirped once. A tiny sound, almost questioning.
Sword smiled, just a little. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
He wasn’t sure if that was true. But it felt like something he was supposed to say. Like brushing his teeth or washing his hands. Routine.
He closed his eyes, listening to the hammock creak with every breath. Outside, the wind slipped past the window again. It wasn’t strong enough to rattle anything– just a soft sigh, like the world settling in for the night.
Sword let himself drift, the thought still folded somewhere inside him, small and quiet.
It hadn’t gone away. But it wasn’t loud.
Not tonight.