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The creak of poorly-oiled hinges heralded the footsteps scraping the computer lab linoleum.
Whoever had found him— Berdly could have knelt and kissed them and sworn his eternal gratitude on the spot, as worthless as it would be. As it was, he remained right where he had sat for the past god-knows-how-long, cheek pressed to the freezing desk.
His throat refused to move. His eyes refused to open. His plumage refused to shield him from the lingering chill of his nightmare. All he could do was breathe, slow and steady, in four-second intervals— inhale; exhale; repeat, repeat, repeat. Diagnosis: he was learning first-hand what falling down felt like, trapped in the cage of his own body, and would be dust by the month’s end.
And that was the optimistic estimate.
The footsteps came closer. Closer. Not quite there yet. That was fine; another minute of waiting wouldn’t kill him. Approximately two point five hours had passed since Noelle, Susie, and Kris had left him there to die alone: two hours between his first alarm, which told him to close up at the library and assist Ms. Boom at the church, and the second, which reminded him to cook dinner and call Mom—none of which he had done, none of which seemed to matter—plus another half hour of cold, hard silence.
But maybe—just maybe—someone had finally noticed his absence and come looking. Who would visit the library past closing time by accident? He knew these footsteps: too light to be Ms. Boom’s, too quiet to be Noelle’s…
Kris.
Kris was dragging their feet again, abandoning the purposeful march they’d adopted lately, but the faint scent of apples and sweat beside him was the hallmark of countless Friday afternoon Super Smashing Fighters matches, gaming shoulder to shoulder for hours on end, and sweet, glorious rivalry. Kris had come back for him. Of course they’d come back for him!
Why had they come back for him?
The ice in Berdly’s bones held him still even as he fought to stand. Was his nightmare real? Was Noelle there, too? Was Kris here to finish what they’d started— what Noelle’s spell had failed to do?
Kris’ sweater-clad arms wrapped around him, warm and solid, and hauled him from his chair.
What are you doing to me? What did you do to Noelle? Why, Kris, why—
His head lolled against their back as they shifted him over their shoulder, maneuvering him into a fireman’s carry with a muffled grunt.
They’d done this once before, in dreaded eighth-grade gym class: those of their classmates lacking the prerequisite limbs had had their own exercises, so Noelle had swiftly been paired with Catti, leaving him with Kris. His wings were not built to carry himself aloft, not in the real world, much less another— but Kris had only laughed and picked him up like he weighed nothing.
They’d been so warm. Too warm. He’d protested until they set him down—he didn’t need to be carried like a hatchling, they were not his mother—and regretted it long afterwards when his dreams saw fit to play out the moment anew. Diagnosis: typical archrival behaviour, based on the anime he’d watched for research…
Wait, where was Kris taking him?
Fresh fall air struck Berdly like a blow to the head as the library door burst open: dead leaves, damp soil, the faintest hint of car exhaust on the wind. His senses reeled at it all, numb from bleak, stagnant solitude; the only constant was the familiar warmth of Kris’ shoulder digging into his chest, holding the dreaded cold at bay.
Or just leeching the chill from him. Kris shivered as they trudged down the pavement, wheezing like they’d run a mile— served them right for making poor Noelle freeze him solid.
Kris must’ve taken him outside to finish him off. Their knife would do the trick: no one would suspect it, they’d carried it for years and never once hurt anyone. Then— dispose of the dust, perhaps somewhere suitably forgettable in the forest’s depths. No ceremony. No proper burial item. The first snowfall would drown the unmarked grave, and that would be that.
Perhaps it was for the best. Even grade-schoolers knew falling down was a death sentence, as drawn-out as it was irreversible; this would simply… speedrun the inevitable. And— and what would he even do, if he lived?
If he lived—if his nightmare had been a regular dream, if this was just some horrid new form of sleep paralysis—he’d call Noelle. Right away. Apologize for leading her on, for letting her waste her time on him for nothing, because she deserved to know the truth. Then she’d want nothing more to do with him, as she should, and he’d never get into college—graduate, even—without her helping him study, and…
And then what? A dead-end job as the church custodian? A life spent alone, remembered solely as a liar and a failure, if at all?
Even that would be better than this, actually. Not that he had a choice in the matter.
As for his rivalry with Kris… even if it somehow survived the hypothetical revelation, it wouldn’t survive the end of high school. Kris had cancelled all future gaming sessions just last week, claiming they were too “busy” to come over. Already tiring of him.
God, why had he ever thought they’d—
“Help him,” Kris rasped. “Please.”
What?
A bitten-back curse. The urgent squeak of rubber soles—nurse shoes—on vinyl. “Lay him down on the couch first. Can you tell me what happened to…”
No. No, wait—
Kris lowered him. Let go of him. The snowstorm drowned him all over again.
Come back. His mouth wouldn’t work. His limbs wouldn’t move. Kris, please, come back— don’t leave me here—
Kris shouldn’t have brought him to the hospital in the first place. What was the point?
Feigning innocence, perhaps. Hiding their involvement in his condition. It wasn’t a bad plan: even he wouldn’t suspect Kris, not with the act they were putting on, if he hadn’t known better. Not Kris, never Kris, who gamed—used to game—with him on Fridays, sharing whatever absurd new chip flavor they dared him to try, laughing and arguing till the sun went down and Ms. Toriel called them home for dinner…
What if his nightmare hadn’t been real after all?
The Kris who’d carried him—the Kris he knew—was nothing like their surreal, armored counterpart. What if they were genuinely trying to help him? It was… possible, in theory, but then—
Why were they trying to help him?
Warmth bled into Berdly’s wing as thin fingers pressed against it— Kris’ hands, holding his. Despite having found, carried, and set his body down like the corpse it was, they squeezed the useless limb as if expecting a response.
There was a reason the nurse hadn’t done the same. It didn’t matter whether Noelle’s spell or some mundane illness had made him fall down; he was going to die either way. It didn’t matter whether Kris stayed or not— in fact, they shouldn’t have come back for him at all. He would’ve gotten used to the cold sooner, that way.
But their hands were so warm. And the way their thumb smoothed over his primaries, gently, as if to comfort him—
This was torture. Warm, wonderful torture.
“You’ll get better soon,” Kris lied in that soft, mumbly voice of theirs— a world away from the sharp commands that rang like a death knell. “You have to.”
Why?
What do you want from me?