Archive of Our Own

Ao'nung had never felt so exhilarated after a performance. The music, rhythm, all of it—it was perfect. He pulled the bow out of his hair, letting his curls escape from his bun. 

He felt a tap on his shoulder and looked up. It was his instructor, Tsu’Tey, a tall, middle-aged man with dark brown skin, tied-up dreads, and a white mustache that curled at the tips. His silver, circular glasses glinted in the dim light. 

“Ao'nung, that was absolutely stunning,” Tsu'Tey exclaimed gleefully and thumped him on the back. 

Ao'nung laughed breathlessly, still high from the performance. He bowed his head in thanks. “I couldn’t have done it without you."

“Rise. You impressed Mrs. Augustine’s daughter,” Tsu'Tey added. “If you keep this up, we could get a contract signed.”

“Kiri Augustine was here? Are you sure?” 

“I’m not that old, boy. I’m positive.”

Ao'nung ran his hand through his hair, messing up his picture-perfect look. Not that he needed it at the moment anyway. 

Kiri Augustine. She had seen him dancing. 

After the death of her mother, Grace Augustine, the best ballerina in probably the whole world, Kiri took it upon herself to continue her legacy at fifteen. People had said she started too late, but she was resilient and clawed her way up the hierarchy. Now, she was one of Awa’altu’s finest dancers. One to idolize, to adore. 

To be seen by her…

“No way,” Ao’nung swooned. “Holy shit. This is insane.”

Tsu’Tey gave him a pointed look, and Ao’nung could already hear his motto: One must be elegant and modest inside and out. Your talent means nothing to people who only see arrogance. 

Ao’nung cleared his throat. “Right. Sorry. But seriously! Can you believe it?”

“I think you should thank the pianist,” Tsu’Tey hummed. “I hand-picked him just for this performance. Talented, no?”

“You’re right,” Ao’nung breathed. “He was incredible. Do you know where he is?”

Tsu’tey jutted his chin towards the side and crossed his arms. 

From the corner of his eye, Ao'nung caught the pianist making his way off the stage. He was young, but there was a weariness to him, like the years had stacked themselves on his back too soon. He limped, leaning heavily on a simple cane. His long braids swayed as he walked, his frame thin beneath a rumpled suit, and his hands—those hands that seemed to have conjured music out of thin air—shook faintly at his sides.

“Excuse me,” Ao'nung cleared his throat. 

The man paused and turned around, and for a moment, Ao’nung was breathless. His skin was darker than Tsu’tey’s, but his eyes were the same. No, more radiant. In the backroom lights, the beautiful hazel seemed gold. 

 “I wanted to say thank you,” Ao'nung said. “You’re amazing with the piano. Like, I could feel the music in my bones, if that makes sense.”

The man laughed politely, showing his little tooth gap. “Thank you. I try.”

His voice stunned Ao'nung for a moment. His voice was uniquely his, deep and heavily accented. It curled around each word like honey. 

“I met your professor, by the way,” the pianist continued. “Turns out we’re both Omatikayan, which is pretty cool. I don’t see many of us on this island.”

Ao’nung snapped out of his daze. “Oh, Tsu’Tey? Yeah, he’s chill.” 

“He is. You’re lucky to have someone like him. He seems patient.”

“You should meet him on one of his bad days. He’s a completely different person.”

The man grinned. "Well, I'm glad Awa’altu’s getting better with their diversity. It must be your talent bringing all these new people in.”

“Don’t flatter me,” Ao’nung smiled. “Plus, it’s probably because of Kiri Augustine, not me.”

“You’re too hard on yourself. Kiri is a beautiful dancer, but so are you. I’m honored to have played for you,” the man hummed. 

“You’re too kind,” Ao’nung murmured bashfully. 

“I speak the truth and nothing less.”

Ao’nung wracked his brain for something else to say. He didn’t want this conversation to be over just yet. 

He could say he loved the man’s hair beads that were woven into his braids. Or, that he was fascinated by his cane—it was wooden with dark blue and teal swirls. Or—-

“What was the song you played called? I’ve practiced and performed to it a thousand times, but I never asked…” Ao’nung scratched the back of his neck. 

“Clair de Lune,” the dark-skinned man supplied and grinned. There it was. The little tooth gap again. Ao’nung hid his face behind his curls to hide his flushed cheeks. 

“It’s beautiful,” Ao’nung whispered. Just like you.

“It’s my favorite piece to play.”

Ao’nung nodded in acknowledgement. He opened his mouth to say something else, but another person beat him to it.

“Mr. Sully,” Tsu’Tey called from the exit. “May I speak with you?”

“Of course,” the man, whose last name was apparently Sully, replied, then turned back to Ao’nung. “Guess I’ll be going. Once again, thank you for letting me play.”

“Thank you for playing. I’ll see you another time?”

He nodded, then slowly walked away. Ao’nung stared for a few moments before snapping out of his daze.

“W-wait!” He reached his hand out, though the pianist was too far. 

“Hmm?” 

 “I don’t even know your name,” Ao'nung called out. 

The man stopped and said over his shoulder, “It’s Neteyam.”

───────♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ . ───────

Neteyam stepped into the backstage. It was much quieter here compared to the bustling theatre. 

Tsu’Tey had reached out to him a few days after he had played for Ao’nung te Tsika'u. 

Me? Neteyam had asked. Are you sure?

And the answer was an automatic yes.  

Even with his…conditions. 

So Neteyam was here, a permanent pianist for one of Awa’altu’s most beloved ballet dancers. 

Neteyam cleared his throat. “Excuse me.”

Ao’nung jerked away from the mirror, eyes widening.

“Wha—oh, Neteyam!” His shocked expression morphed into a grin. “Hi! I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Me, too.” Neteyam’s lips turned into a smile. Ao’nung’s happiness was infectious. 

Not many people looked at him like that, after all. 

“You go on in fifteen,” Neteyam reminded and pointed to the porcelain clock. Then he realized it was broken. 

“Fifteen minutes?” Ao’nung exclaimed. “Shoot. Okay, thanks.”

He started rummaging through his makeup bag, pulling out miscellaneous items. A blush palette, lipstick, eyeliner, eyeshadow; the contents were never-ending. 

“Do you need help?” Neteyam offered. 

Ao’nung paused, looking himself up and down, then the bag, and back at Neteyam. “You can?”

“Yeah.” Neteyam pulled a chair up and set his cane down. “Come here.”

Ao’nung dropped—gracefully—to his knees, careful of his outfit. It was a delicate baby-blue tunic with frilled sleeves. His curly hair was tied up in a bun already, a white bow keeping it all in place. 

Neteyam picked up the concealer first and lightly dabbed it on Ao’nung’s face. Up close, he could see that his skin had quite a few acne scars and bumps. But the thing he was most surprised to see was his moles. He had one over his heart-shaped lips, another in the corner of his left eye, and a third over his right eyebrow.

Neteyam had never seen them before. After talking with Tsu’Tey, he had bought an assortment of ballet catalogs featuring Ao’nung and stared at the dancer’s pictures for hours. None of them showed his beauty marks.

“Do you always hide these?” Neteyam questioned, brushing his finger over the mole over Ao’nung’s lips—his now favorite one. 

“Those? Yeah, I guess,” Ao’nung said absently, staring at the mirror intently as he added a faint line of eyeliner. 

Neteyam said nothing and moved on to the blush. He didn’t apply concealer to his moles. 

“Stay still,” Neteyam murmured. He prayed his hands would stay steady as he leaned in and applied the blush. 

“I didn’t know you’re this good at makeup,” Ao’nung hummed. 

“I have a curious younger sister,” Neteyam explained. “She doesn’t live with me, so whenever I come over, she always goes through my things.”

“Where does she live?”

Neteyam bit his lip. “With our brother, Lo’ak. Don’t worry about it.”

Ao’nung spared a quick glance and went back to fussing over his hair. 

“Is it fine? Should I rebraid thi—”

Neteyam smacked his hand away. “It’s lovely. Don’t mess with it.”

“Fine,” Ao’nung huffed indignantly. 

After a few minutes, Neteyam deemed Ao’nung’s face done. The ballet dancer looked at himself in the mirror, inspecting Neteyam’s work.

“Oh. You didn’t cover these up,” Ao’nung said, pointing to his moles. 

“Why should I?” The pianist hummed. “I think they’re pretty.”

Ao’nung tore his gaze from the mirror and met Neteyam’s hazel eyes. There was no lie behind them. 

“What if Tsu’Tey says something?” Ao’nung murmured. “I could just—”

He paused when Neteyam moved closer to his face, breath hitching. The dark-skinned man brought up the eyeliner brush again and carefully held Ao’nung’s face, turning it to the side. 

Neteyam didn’t notice Ao’nung’s flushed face or his dilated pupils. He gingerly drew something over all of Ao’nung’s moles. 

“There,” Neteyam smiled, leaning back to admire his work. 

Ao’nung turned to the mirror. 

“Stars?” He whispered, inspecting the stars that took the place of his moles. 

“Pretty, right?” Neteyam beamed. “But of course, if you don’t like it, we can—”

“No, I love it,” Ao’nung interjected quickly. “It could be, like, my trademark look, you know?”

“If you want it to be.”

Ao’nung looked him up and down and pouted. “I think you need something, too.”

The ballet dancer started rummaging through his bag again and pulled out eyeliner and mascara, both white. 

“My turn,” Ao’nung grinned. His hands were steadier than Neteyam’s had been. He carefully drew small white stars across Neteyam’s face. Then he applied the light mascara. They were stark and beautiful against his dark skin. 

“Tsu’Tey is going to be so confused,” Neteyam snickered as he checked his face. 

“Let him,” Ao’nung hummed. “We’re partners now. He’s going to deal with our nonsense.”

Neteyam laughed and nudged Ao’nung’s leg with his cane as he stood up. “You should go now.” 

To his surprise, Ao’nung pulled him in for a hug. Neteyam’s breath caught in his throat.

“Thank you,” he whispered before letting go. His hands trailed Neteyam’s back before moving down to his hands, gently holding them. He helped the pianist up carefully, handing him his cane.  

“Walk with me to our places?” Ao’nung asked. Neteyam nodded, and the partners exited. They stepped onto the dark stage. 

The curtains shrouded their figures, and for that minute, this stage only belonged to them. Their secret. Their world. 

Neteyam let go of Ao’nung’s hand halfway to reach the piano. 

He sat, the velvet curtains unfolded, and began. 

───────♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ . ───────

“Happy anniversary,” Neteyam hummed, holding something behind his back. “Two years working together.”

“I remember,” Ao’nung said, and he also happened to be hiding something behind his frame. 

It was painfully obvious, but neither of them cared. Ao’nung could barely suppress a grin. 

“Do you want to go first, or should I?” Neteyam had the same look as Ao’nung. His lips quirked into a smile, showing off his little tooth gap. Ao’nung almost swooned. 

“You,” Ao’nung decided, and finally gave in. He rocked back and forth excitedly, like a child. 

“Settle down!” The pianist exclaimed, rolling his eyes affectionately. He produced a large bouquet of flowers and held it up for his partner to see. 

“Roses? How modest,” Ao’nung teased, and took the bunch with one hand. 

“A classic,” Neteyam shrugged. “But you’ve been obsessed with them lately; you were asking the designer to add roses to our outfits the other day. And I know you’ve been trying to grow some in your apartment.”

“You noticed?” Ao’nung asked, and when Neteyam nodded, he buried his face in the bouquet to hide his blush. These were thornless. 

“It’s pretty hard to miss,” the dark-skinned man chuckled. 

Ao’nung took one last inhale of the flower’s aroma. Then he set it aside carefully on the table. 

“Alright, my turn,” he announced, and set a potted plant into Neteyam’s hands. 

“What even are these?” Neteyam mused on his purple flowers. He gently touched its small, vibrant petals. 

“Lilacs,” Ao’nung said quickly. 

“Right. I forgot you’re a flower know-it-all.” 

“What? No, I’m not!”

Neteyam raised his eyebrow. Then he quietly sucked in a breath. 

“I have a whole day planned for us,” Ao’nung began to ramble. “First, we get breakfast at a really expensive cafe, then we go to the beach, and after that—”

Neteyam was looking at the ground, his complexion pale. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned away. 

“Neteyam? Hey—” He was at Neteyam’s side in a second. The dark-skinned man coughed into his hand and grabbed the table to keep himself from losing balance. 

“It’s just—” Neteyam’s breath hitched. “A flare. Stupid shit.”

“Is it bad this time?”

“No, it could be worse,” Neteyam offered a broken, blood-stained smile. “My body can’t get any more fucked up than this.”

Ao’nung frowned and pulled up a chair. He gently pushed against Neteyam’s chest—he could feel his heart beat—to make him sit down. 

“Easy,” Ao’nung whispered. “Did you take your meds? Do you need water?”

Neteyam waved him off. “I took them before I came. I’m okay.”

Then he paused and added, “I…don’t think I can go out today. Sorry, Ao.”

“Don’t apologize! It’s fine, we can still do plenty of things here. How about the movie marathon we’ve been putting off?” 

Neteyam bit his lip and looked away. “Are you sure?” 

“Of course, ‘Teyam. Besides, I’ve been wanting to watch that sappy series you told me about.”

Neteyam, still guilty, agreed. So that’s what they did. 

Ao’nung heated up the popcorn and mugs of hot cocoa, and Neteyam brought an assortment of fuzzy blankets and pillows from the closet. They snuggled comfortably on the couch with their food, their bodies close.

“This is so much better than my original plan,” the islander had whispered. Neteyam hummed in acknowledgment and tucked a shy curl behind Ao’nung’s ear. 

Ao’nung drifted to sleep in the middle of their fourth movie. The girl’s lover had died, and they were attending the funeral. Though Neteyam knew he would come back because the series had a total of seven movies. How he would was a story for another day. 

Neteyam yawned and turned the T.V off with a click of the remote. He coursed his hand through Ao’nung’s long, curly hair and shifted closer. His face was peaceful as he slept. 

Tonight, sleep did not elude him.  

───────♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ . ───────

Six years flew by in the blink of an eye, and the two partners became inseparable. 

Ao'nung and Neteyam. 

Neteyam and Ao'nung. 

Where’s your other half? People would tease if they were apart for too long. 

He’ll be here soon, either of them would say. He always comes back on time, no matter where.  

Ao’nung’s outfit, though altered with every performance, always had his signature color: a soft, muted teal-blue. It contrasted beautifully with Neteyam’s royal blue outfit. Runes and fancy stitches were meticulously designed on the cuffs of their sleeves and ankles. They looked like stripes from a distance.  

“Stretch properly, Ao’nung,” Tsu’Tey said gruffly. “Or do you want to break a bone on stage?”

“No, professor,” Ao’nung sighed and continued to stretch his body. Kiri—now his usual dance partner—moved beside him. 

“It’s astonishing how you haven’t gotten hurt yet,” she teased and slid into a middle split. She knew Ao’nung could only do a side split.

“Show off,” Ao’nung stuck out his tongue when their professor wasn’t looking. 

“Me? Never,” Kiri jested. 

She pushed her partner’s shoulder when he attempted a rather horrid, high-pitched mimic of her voice. 

“I do not sound like that,” the red-headed dancer retorted, crossing her arms.  

“You kind of do,” Ao’nung snickered. 

Kiri was about to retaliate, but Tsu’Tey shot them both a glare. The dancers straightened their backs instantly. 

“Kids,” Tsu’Tey murmured under his breath and rolled his eyes. 

A few minutes later, the door opened, and Neteyam stepped inside. He and Ao’nung shared a smile. 

“You made it,” Ao’nung walked over to his favorite person. 

“Obviously,” Neteyam teased. The ballet dancer was about to shove him gently, but he noticed something…off. 

“Are you okay?” Ao’nung whispered, brushing his hand over Neteyam’s arm. The musician’s face was paler than usual, and his eyes seemed distant. 

He was also shaking more than usual, and it wasn’t from the cold. 

“Fine,” Neteyam shooed him away. “Just a little dizzy. I didn’t eat much this morning.”

“What? Why?” Ao’nung’s face morphed into one of concern. “Did you forget to take your medicine?”

“I ate. Now stop fussing!” Neteyam chided. 

Ao’nung didn’t believe him, but he made his way towards Kiri anyway. 

Neteyam limped to the piano, resting his cane before himself. “Ready?”

Ao'nung and Kiri nodded, holding each other’s hands and setting themselves into position. 

Clair de Lune’s music filled the atmosphere quickly, intoxicating the dancers. It was effortless and beautiful; the epitome of Neteyam himself.  

A step, another.

Spin, hold.

(Gently, of course.)

The music seeped into his body and laced around his bones. Sometimes, Ao’nung imagined that Neteyam was the one pulling the strings. He was the perfect puppeteer, in that case. 

Point in, then out. 

Look far out. 

But suddenly, the strings controlling his body snapped. 

The music abruptly changed from beautiful to a jarring discord of keys. 

Ao’nung gasped as he tripped over Kiri, arms flailing. He barely managed to catch himself. 

Graceful. 

“Neteyam?” Ao'nung called, zeroing in on his partner. Neteyam was doubled over, clutching his chest and wheezing into his hand. 

Neteyam had said the piano was like a bouquet of white roses and little black leaves.

The roses in his chest crept to his heart, thorns puncturing his insides. 

The white roses were no longer white. 

The room was a blur. Ao’nung crossed it quickly, haphazardly, and grabbed his partner’s shoulders to keep him upright. 

“What’s wrong with him?” Kiri cried.

“Shit—shit, I don’t know!”

Blood spilled from Neteyam’s mouth. His hands uselessly clawed at Ao’nung’s suit.

He had bled before. He had collapsed. 

But not like this. 

Kiri called for help, but they couldn’t come fast enough. People clamored around Neteyam, and Ao’nung knew he hated that. 

The pianist weakly held his hand out to Ao’nung. He grabbed it tightly.

Neteyam was so, so cold. 

“Don’t—” Neteyam hacked. 

“Shh,” Ao’nung rocked him gently, voice cracking. “You’ll be alright. You have to be.”

Neteyam’s blood stained their extravagant clothes and the pristine floor. 

“Don’t leave,” Neteyam whisper-cried, desperately trying to hold onto Ao’nung. 

“Never,” Ao’nung vowed. 

And he would keep that promise until he died. 

───────♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ . ───────

It had gotten bad a handful of times. 

The worst one had Neteyam stuck in the hospital and hooked up to so many wires and machines, as if he were an experiment. This was three years after they had first met. 

He was a star taken from the night sky too soon, and the doctors were the scientists. They poked and prodded, took his light, and then took some more. 

“We’re doing everything we can,” the doctor had assured Ao’nung in the lobby. She gave him a five-dollar off coupon for the restaurant down the street and made him leave. Though she knew he would be back, like clockwork. 

He came in the mornings, sat by Neteyam’s pale, thin figure for hours, and stayed until he was forced to go. Sometimes, he talked about rehearsal, about how Kiri missed him so much, or when Tsu’Tey tripped off the stage and thought no one saw him.

“I brought the bread you like from the bakery,” Ao’nung pulled out a small, pink box and set it on his lap. He ripped the bread into two pieces. “Do you mind if we share?”

Neteyam was unresponsive. It had been a week, and he hadn’t woken up yet. The doctors didn’t know when he would. His braids were messy, unkept, and spread around his face like a halo. 

Ao’nung ate his share of the bread and left the box with Neteyam’s half on the bedside table, where an assortment of trinkets was piling up. A small, glass vase with fragile orchids; a ribbon from the opening ceremony of the restaurant they had planned to visit together; Tsu’Tey’s stapler he stole from the professor’s desk just to prove he could. 

He stayed for an hour or two—time worked differently in the hospital room—before something else happened. 

Neteyam gasped. His body jerked up and seized, and Ao'nung hoped that meant he would wake, but he didn’t. The monitors shrieked, and suddenly he was pushed back by a wave of nurses and doctors. 

Neteyam seized and seized and coughed and seized. 

For a moment, Neteyam’s eyes fluttered open. 

Then he cried out in pain. Loud and raw. 

Ao’nung was a statue, timeless and still, overwatching the tragedy unfold. Like this time, he was the audience rather than the performer. 

The doctors did what they could, and injected him with more poi—sedation. Sedation. Sedation, and nothing else. 

Neteyam slipped back into his quiet world, trapped in his mind. 

The nurse gently grabbed Ao’nung’s arm and ushered him out of the room. Once again, they didn’t know when Neteyam would arise. 

He was not allowed to visit until further notice.

As Ao’nung left, he heard the doctors murmur something about the clock in Neteyam’s room being broken, and it should be replaced shortly. 

A few days later, the hospital called him at the crack of dawn and said three simple words:

“Neteyam woke up.”

Neteyam had been awake for about two weeks now, and Ao’nung was convinced he would be out soon. He had to be. He missed performing for him, hanging out at his house, and especially their late-night talks. They both were getting sick of the hospital stench and sterilized environment. 

“I brought food,” Ao’nung said warmly, holding up a polythene bag. He had just bought it, so the food should still be hot.  

Neteyam’s fingers curled around the blanket. “I’m not hungry,”

“You said that yesterday.”

“And I meant it.”

Ao’nung frowned. He set the bag down with a soft rustle anyway. “You’re going to get worse if you don’t eat.”

“I’m already getting worse.”

Ao’nung’s head jerked up. “Don’t say that. You’ve already gotten so much better compared to just a few days ago.”

Neteyam shrugged and distantly looked out the window. “You don’t have to come here every day.”

“I know,” Ao’nung replied carefully, “but I want to.”

“That’s not a reason.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No,” Neteyam finally looked at him. “It’s not.”

Ao’nung blinked, caught off guard by the sudden edge in his tone. “What are you—”

“I can handle everything on my own, Ao’nung. You need to stop worrying so much.”

Ao’nung let out a bitter laugh. “I watched you fucking die. But, sorry, forgive me for worrying.”

The pianist’s hands tightened, knuckles paleing. “I didn’t die.”

“You did.” Ao’nung looked away, squeezing his eyes shut. “You just came back.”

“I’m alive now, right?”

“Alive isn’t enough! You don’t get to decide that while I watch you disappear.”

Neteyam inhaled slowly.

It hurt. 

“That’s not your responsibility.”

“I’m making it mine.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“I don’t care!”

“Then you should!” Now it was Neteyam’s turn to get loud. “You can’t waste your life away on me. You have time.”

Ao’nung stood up abruptly. “You have time, too! You’re afraid to use it, Neteyam! You’re scared!” 

Both of their irregular breaths filled the silence. The monitor incessantly chirped, and his heart rate crescendoed like the peak of a song. 

Ao’nung broke first.

“I’m sorry, ‘Teyam—”

“I won’t be your tragedy. I won’t.” Neteyam asserted.

“You will never—”

“Leave.”

“No, Neteyam—”

“Ao’nung,” Neteyam said firmly. “I can’t…I want to be alone right now. Please.”

Neteyam never said please. He never begged. 

Ao’nung forced himself away from the cot and murmured, “Okay. I hope you feel better soon.”

Neteyam looked away. 

Each step felt heavier than the last. The tiles were a chessboard, and he was about to lose the game. For Neteyam, all he had was one step, and he couldn’t even take it.

Diagonal, forward, to the side. Ao’nung could move anywhere he desired. 

Just as Ao’nung reached the handle, he whispered, “I missed you so much, ‘Teyam.”

Then he left the room, closing the door gently behind him.  

He didn’t get to hear Neteyam say, “I missed you, too.”

───────♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ . ───────

The one who sat in front of the keys was a young man with tan skin, freckles along his face, and locks tied up into a low bun. He sat up straight, perhaps a bit too rigid, and slowly tested the keys. 

He would be playing Prelude in E minor Op. 28 No. 4. Tsu’Tey had originally planned for Clair de Lune to be played, but that was where Ao’nung drew the line.

Ao’nung would not dance to that song if Neteyam wasn’t the one performing it. 

Ao'nung closed his eyes and took a deep breath to soothe his pounding heart. Just dance. So what if Neteyam wasn’t the one playing the keys? All that mattered was the music. All he had to do was dance.

He started in the left corner of the room, looking down and dipping his arms. 

The maroon curtains opened, and for a moment, there was that awkward silence shared between him and the audience. The weight of unspoken promises both sides decided to keep.

Then the music started.

Tarsem was skilled, no doubt, and so was he. Ao'nung began his routine, imagining Neteyam was the one he danced for instead. Everyone in the audience was Neteyam. 

But something felt wrong. Tarsem tapped his boot on the ground, action supposedly drowned out by the tune to anyone but him. That wasn’t like Neteyam at all.

Ao'nung swallowed thickly, leaning forward, shifting his weight to one leg, and lifting the other. Nice and pretty. Elegant.

He was supposed to be telling a story with his body. A sad one with a happy ending as the finale. 

The audience usually acted as his disciples. They would carry each word he conveyed in their minds, ready to wield like a knife. Through them, he would live on this earth eternally.

However, today, there was nothing unique about his watchers. Instead of followers, they were the judges from above. They all wore a cracked, porcelain mask with Neteyam’s face on it. 

The strangers with Neteyam’s masks noticed his mistakes, the stories he performed that weren’t perfect. From beguiled, they changed to disgust and dread. How could one’s partner play the fool in a victor's story? Like a lamb draped in a rotting wolf carcass, it wouldn’t be long before its decaying sins exposed its facade and sent it to be slaughtered. 

Ao'nung felt like a lamb, and he’d been caught wearing red. The judges skinned his hide and cut out his heart. Even then, he still pleaded for one person: the real Neteyam.

Tarsem’s mistake jolted him back. A simple error of playing the wrong key, one so unnoticeable that if the audience had ripped themselves apart from Neteyam, they would’ve never known. But all the puppets stayed as the missing man, and everything crumbled from there.

Ao'nung’s feet tripped over themselves, and, trying to salvage the dance, he leapt into his spin. Like the world, he turned, and like the world, he fell. Tarsem froze, and the audience froze. Then, one by one, their masks began to melt like wax from a burning candle. Neteyam left no one to be his vessel. Just bodies with empty heads and eyes of pity.

It was only after Tarsem came up to him that Ao'nung realized he had fallen on his left ankle. Sharp pain spiked through his bones as he tried to move the joint, which was already turning a dark hue of purple. 

The pain clawed its way further and further up his body until it reached his dead heart. It weaved through his ribs and pulled. 

Then it escaped to his throat.

Ao’nung almost threw up. 

“I…” Ao'nung winced. The curtains were drawn to a close, covering him like a second skin. The audience offered slow, unsure claps.

It was revolting.

───────♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ . ───────

“A week,” Tsu'Tey instructed. “Rest. Heal. Or I’ll stick you to a chair myself.”

Ao'nung laughed, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yessir. One week off.”

Thankfully, his injury wasn’t severe. Only a minor sprain because he had fallen on it the wrong way. (How does one fall the right way?) It stopped hurting, but left enough shame in the pit of his belly to keep him full for days. 

Still, Ao’nung came to rehearsal every day. He sat on a plastic chair and watched Kiri learn their new choreography. In a week, he would join her. He did his best to retain the information, but his mind kept retreating to his last performance. 

He wished Neteyam had been there to comfort him, but he was in another room, another building, far away. 

Though, Ao’nung wasn’t sure if he was going to tell him what had happened. 

“Begin,” Tsu’Tey nodded to Tarsem. 

He played, and Kiri began. There was something ethereal about the way she moved. Her body was perfect, as if she had been carved by God. 

She didn’t need someone like Ao’nung, not really. But the press adored a couple, no matter their true relationship. 

Ao’nung had been told a long time ago to never read what was written about him. People would always impose their fantasy whims onto the black-and-white printed version of him and indulge. 

Still, sometimes he couldn’t stop his curiosity. 

The worst headline he had recently read was about Neteyam. 

Famed Pianist Ill? 

Awa’altu’s Star Pianist Takes the World by Storm, But for How Long? 

Neteyam and Tarsem; a Hidden Relationship?

A Deep Dive of Beloved Pianist’s Illness (and How to Know if You or a Loved One Suffers from it, too)

Ao’nung despised those the most, especially knowing how much Neteyam wished the information was kept away from the public eye. 

“Stop,” Tsu’Tey’s voice cut through the music. Tarsem lifted his hands off the keys immediately and looked up. The professor walked over to Kiri.

“This part of the song signifies grievance,” Tsu’Tey gently tilted Kiri’s face downwards. “You must carry the grief on your shoulders. It is heavy; it weighs you down. Understand?”

“Yes, professor,” Kiri murmured. “Understood.”

Tsu’Tey walked back to his spot, crossed his arms, and said, “Resume.” 

“Ao'nung,” Tsu'Tey called at the end of practice. Ao'nung stopped in his tracks and turned around. 

“Yes, Professor? Is something wrong?”

The man sighed, coursing his hand through his hair. “Sit. I think we need to talk about your partner.”

Ao'nung’s eyebrows furrowed as he took a seat. “I know he’s sick right now, but give it time. I promise. He’ll be back playing just as good as before, if not better.”

“Ao'nung…” Tsu'Tey weighed his words carefully. “We both know Neteyam isn’t doing well anymore. He knows it, too.”

Ao’nung jolted out of the chair, pain spiking up his ankle. “You can’t give up on him like this.”

“It’s not about giving up. We need to be realistic.”

The dancer shook his head. “I’m not talking about him anymore. He’ll be fine.”

“We can’t have you messing up like that every time someone else plays,” Tsu’Tey hissed. “Do you know how damaging that was for your reputation?”

“I don’t care about my reputation if Neteyam isn’t a part of it!”

“Choose your words carefully, Ao’nung.”

Ao’nung turned away. “I’m choosing him.”

He stormed away, and it was anything but graceful. 

───────♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ . ───────

Neteyam said he was in room four: a guest room, and sometimes, other people were there too. Ao'nung clutched a pot of hyacinths and carnations tightly, taking a deep breath before stepping into the hospital room. He expected to see Neteyam in a cot, asleep, deathly pale and still, as if he were already dead. That was how he'd been the last time Ao'nung had seen him. 

To his surprise, he saw none of that. People, young and old, surrounded a grand piano. The television had been muted for the music to take its place. And the one playing it was Neteyam. He sat side-by-side with a young girl, no older than seven. Her head—full of short braids with rainbow beads woven into them—reached up to Neteyam's shoulders. She played with the gentle uncertainty of someone who had learned pain before music.

Ao’nung recognized her as Neteyam’s younger sister, Tuktiery. He had seen her photos framed in his apartment, right next to pictures of his other sibling, Lo’ak.

He stayed quiet as the duo played, entranced by the notes that danced their way into his heart. Neteyam’s hands shook as he played, but each note was a revelation, as if creating music was an act of defiance against his failing body.

Ao'nung almost cried.

Tsu’Tey was wrong. Neteyam was healing. He was going to get back on the stage as if he never left. He would play his famous songs and tour the world with Ao’nung, just like they planned. They would be Awa’altu’s stars. 

Ao’nung scoffed at himself quietly. He couldn’t believe their professor had doubted Neteyam for even a second. 

The song ended with Neteyam letting Tuktiery hit the last note.

“So pretty, Tuk-Tuk,” Neteyam cooed. When Tuktiery smiled, there was an obvious gap between her front teeth, just like Neteyam’s.  

Neteyam’s hazel eyes found Ao’nung, and he smiled. Tuktiery hopped off the bench. 

“That was amazing,” Ao’nung whispered, sitting next to Neteyam. He placed the flowerpot between them and brushed a few specks of dirt away.

“Therapy’s been helping,” Neteyam flexed his fingers. “I’ll be back on stage in no time. You’ll see.”

The ballet dancer leaned in and kissed his partner’s neck softly. “I’m counting on it.”

“Oooooh~” Tuktiery squealed. Ao’nung blushed and looked away bashfully.

Neteyam smirked playfully and locked eyes with his sister. He closed the distance between him and Ao’nung and kissed his lips. The lighter-skinned man gasped in surprise.  

The pianist tasted…bitter, but that was probably from all the medicine. 

Neteyam deepened the kiss. Ao’nung closed his eyes and sighed blissfully. Tsu’Tey was already a faint memory of the past.  

“I’m telling Lo’ak!” Tuk exclaimed when they separated. 

“Go ahead.” Neteyam pulled away. “He can’t do anything about it, even if he tried.”

His sister giggled and bounded away. 

“She’s adorable,” Ao’nung said fondly. 

“And a menace,” Neteyam added. He turned away from the piano so that he was facing the rest of the room. 

“Lyle,” Neteyam pointed to an old, bald man with a generous collection of scars. He wheeled past a few people, huffing indignantly. 

“The moody one?” Ao'nung remembered their previous conversations. Neteyam smiled and nodded, then moved on to a different young girl. This one was around the same age as Tuktiery, with beautiful brown skin and sea-green eyes. 

There was something oddly familiar about her. 

The girl was focused on her hat, using bright blue and pink markers to adorn it with silly designs. 

“She’s from foster care. Doesn’t speak,” Neteyam explained. “People here call her Pril. She has a talent for trinkets.”

“She looks like my mother,” Ao’nung murmured. His late mother, Ronal, died during childbirth nine years ago. The doctors had said the child—that would’ve been Ao’nung’s youngest sister—didn’t survive. 

Neteyam hummed in acknowledgement. 

Ao’nung forced his gaze away when the girl studied him. “Why is she here?”

“She came in recently. I don’t know the details,” Neteyam lowered his voice. “But I don’t think she’s going to be here any longer, though. It’s going to break Tuk’s heart.”

“Oh.” 

Neteyam offered a sad smile, because what else could be done? It was the same look the doctors gave every day, one of consoles, and I’m sorry for your upcoming loss. A face that was becoming more and more familiar everyday. 

“Everyone is treating you right, right?” Ao'nung scooted closer. “This is the best hospital in Awa’altu. If there are any—”

Neteyam waved him off. “The doctors are kind. Overbearing, yes, but they do not treat anyone below them.”

“Good. That’s good.”

The TV had been turned back on. People came and left in an orderly fashion. New and old. It made him truly grasp the reality that this hospital was another world. All these people he hadn’t thought of before. 

They had been children once, just as he had.  

“What keeps you going in here?” Ao’nung murmured. “I would go crazy by the third day.”

“I’m never alone,” Neteyam shrugged. “And…playing helps. A lot.”

“Mhm, really? That’s good.” 

Neteyam looked past him. “Music is all I have left that I’m willing to give.”

“Then give,” Ao’nung whispered, “but not more than you can afford.”

“Always.”

───────♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ .───────

Neteyam was allowed to come home a few weeks later. 

His apartment was the same. It was on the third floor, which at first worried him because what if something went awry with the elevator? He wouldn’t be able to climb three flights of stairs. The manager assured him nothing of that sort would occur. 

Neteyam had been hesitant, even with the extra comfort, but as soon as he stepped into the room, all of his doubts simmered away. It had one bed, one bath, a living room, and a generous kitchen. But his favorite part was the balcony. 

The manager had slid open the glass door and allowed him to step outside. A tiny brass table and stool sat in the middle of it. Neteyam had a view of the whole city and even the oceanside. Instantly, he was sold. 

So here he came after most performances—unless he went to Ao’nung’s place, of course. This room had seen him at his best and at his worst. 

“Okay, I put your new meds on the table, so don’t forget about them,” Ao’nung recalled, snapping Neteyam out of his daze. 

“Hm? Oh, thanks,” Neteyam mumbled. 

Ao’nung was as sweet as ever, but Neteyam could tell he was falling apart on the inside. The ballet dancer wasn’t sleeping as much as he should, and Tsu’Tey had been on his ass about missing so much rehearsal.  

Ao’nung swore he didn’t care.

Neteyam wished he did. 

“Sit,” Ao’nung insisted, already tugging him by the wrist and guiding him to the edge of the couch. “You shouldn’t stand for too long. You’re pale.”

“I’m always pale,” Neteyam murmured, but let himself be pushed down anyway. Ao’nung gave him a pointed look and walked into the kitchen. 

The ballet dancer opened his fridge and dramatically groaned. “Why do you never have anything to eat?”

“I’m usually not hungry when I get home,” Neteyam replied. 

“Well, that’s too damn bad. I’m making bread.” 

Neteyam snorted.  “My hero.”

Ao’nung laid his grocery bag on the table and took the ingredients out one by one. Eggs, milk, yeast, chocolate chips, whatever was required. 

They got to work. Neteyam ended up pushing his chair into the kitchen, because who cared if the wooden floors had a few scratches? 

They spent the next half hour making the dough. Neteyam chastised Ao’nung for adding too much chocolate, to which the latter promptly ignored him and dumped in some more, because apparently, too much chocolate was a social construct made by greedy people who wanted chocolate all to themselves. 

Waiting for the bread to rise was the most time-consuming, boring part of the task. It took three times as long to bake than it did for them to actually make the dough. 

“Is it ready yet?” Neteyam called from the couch for what seemed like the hundredth time. 

“No!” Ao’nung swatted him with a rag. “You must be patient. Masterpieces take time.”

“I’m incredibly patient,” Neteyam huffed indignantly. 

“Not enough, apparently.”

“Whose kitchen are you using again?”

“...Yours.”

“That’s what I thought.” Neteyam reached out and flicked Ao’nung’s nose. 

“Wow. Rude,” Ao’nung grinned and stood up. He didn’t want to leave the dishes for Neteaym to do, so he moved to the sink and started washing them. He cleaned and dried them, then put them back in their usual spots. 

He’s been to Neteyam’s apartment enough times to know where everything goes. 

Ao’nung bumped the cabinet door closed with his hip. 

He spent the next few minutes cleaning up the rest of the house. Pick up a few mugs left behind, put in the laundry, remake the bed. It didn’t take too long; Neteyam was always a relatively organized person. 

He walked past Neteyam’s closet. There was a stack of music sheets and books. The top book cover read Darwinism: Survival of the Fittest. 

In the shadows, he saw something gleaming. 

A wheelchair, folded neatly in itself and resting against the wall. Untouched, for now. 

Ao’nung’s breath hitched. 

Neteyam must’ve hauled it up himself. He didn’t even tell Ao’nung about it. 

Should he confront Neteyam about it? 

He huffed and turned away. Maybe another time.

Ao’nung pulled the pan out of the oven and set it on the table. With a knife, he sliced the bread and examined their work. “Voila!” 

“Mhm,” Neteyam closed his eyes. “It actually smells pretty good.”

“What do you mean by actually?” Ao’nung raised an eyebrow teasingly. He held a piece of bread in front of Neteyam and nudged it to his lips. “Eat.”

Neteyam complied, and he would never admit it, but Ao’nung was right about the chocolate. He took the bread from his hand and ripped it into two pieces.

“It’s…” Neteyam paused for effect, “decent.”

“Decent?” the taller man sputtered. “You’re lying. There’s no way it’s just—”

Neteyam shoved the bread into Ao’nung’s mouth to silence him. 

“I’m just kidding,” Neteyam laughed. “It’s the best bread I’ve ever had in my life.”

“Damn right it is,” Ao’nung swallowed and licked his lips. “We did so well. This is literal heaven. I could eat this forever.”

“Don’t you have a diet to maintain?” the pianist teased. 

“Eh,” Ao’nung popped another piece of bread into his mouth, savoring it. “I’ll live.”

Neteyam smiled, ate the bread, and then ate some more. 

Night crept onto them faster than they expected. Hours felt like minutes, but nevertheless, the sun always set. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Neteyam hummed, leaning against the wall. Ao’nung was half out the door, struggling to fully commit. It was as if he were a moth drawn to the light. 

“One kiss before I go,” Ao’nung insisted, gently cupping Neteyam’s face and kissing his forehead. 

Then his eyelids. 

The slight bump of his nose.

His cheeks.

Lips.

Throat, then collarbone. 

“It’s getting dark out,” Neteyam hummed and pulled back. “Tsu’Tey’s going to strangle you if you’re late to rehearsal."

"It's fine," Ao’nung gave him the most dejected face he had ever seen. “I could help clean a little bit more.”

“No.”

“I left my keys somewhere.”

“No, you didn’t,” Neteyam pointed to the keys hooked on his belt loop. Ao’nung cursed at himself. 

“I can feed the pigeons."

“No.”

“Maybe I could just stay the ni—”

“Go,” Neteyam said firmly, nudging Ao’nung’s side with his cane. 

“Fine! Remember to take your meds, make sure you don’t keep the temperature too low, and for the love of Eywa, answer my texts—mhm!” Ao’nung gasped in surprise when Neteyam kissed him on the lips whole-heartedly to shut him up. The pianist playfully bit Ao’nung’s bottom lip before moving back.

“Alright, alright, I’m leaving,” Ao’nung murmured. He turned to go, then moved closer to Neteyam and gave one last small kiss on his cheek. 

“Be careful,” the ballet dancer whispered. 

“I will.” Neteyam gently shut the door and stepped back before it would be impossible for either of them to separate. 

Ao’nung’s footsteps became quieter and quieter as he left their little, shared world. 

Now it was just Neteyam’s again.

The silence that followed was immediate.

Heavy.

The room’s shadows darkened, reaching over to his shaking frame. The walls seemed to fold in on themselves, like his struggling lungs. 

The room, so warm moments ago, seemed to shrink in on itself. The lingering scent of bread turned thick, almost suffocating, as if it had nowhere to go.

Neteyam stood there for a long time, staring at the door.

Then his knees gave out.

He caught himself on the edge of the table, breath stuttering as something inside him cracked open, sharp and unavoidable.

It hurt.

God, it hurt.

His body hurt.

His brain hurt.

His heart hurt.

Even crying hurt.

Each breath scraped. Each sob pulled at something raw and exposed, like the thorns he always pretended weren’t there.

He sank into the couch as if it were trying to swallow him whole. He struggled to free himself, but his body betrayed him. 

For a moment, he let the darkness envelope him like a second skin. His room was no longer his room, but an inky, black sea of muted stars. 

At first, there was just a quiet peace. No music. No voices. No heartbeat. 

Then the ocean came crashing down. The poisoned water rushed into his system, flooding through his mouth and eyes. 

He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe.

Neteyam tried to scream, but no one could hear him through the vastness of it all. The water morphed into something thicker than blood. 

But there, in the corner. A little bright light. He willed himself to swim. His muscles shrieked in agony. He got closer and closer, until finally he reached it, and—

He was back on the couch, and as it turned out, he had never left. 

Neteyam buried his head in his hands, grabbing his braids and pulling hard. Something between a scream and a cry tore from his throat. 

He sobbed, and it hurt. 

But it would hurt anyway, whether he cried or not.

No matter what, his body would fail him. 

So he let it come.

He slipped into sleep quickly. 

Neteyam blearily opened his eyes to find a pigeon up in his face. He jolted up and hissed at the pain that followed. The pigeon cooed and flew away. 

“Where did you…?” Neteyam slowly pushed himself up. He found his cane and took a careful step. 

His eyes widened. A flock of pigeons had taken over his balcony, and he had accidentally left the door wide open. 

“Are you serious?” Neteyam groaned, then winced. He touched his raw throat. 

“Shoo,” Neteyam murmured, nudging the birds with his cane. They flew out of his room in fright. Once all the pigeons left the inside, he stepped out to the balcony and closed the door behind himself. 

Tonight was cloudy, but the moon was bright enough to flaunt its crescent shape. His mother had said the sky was smiling down on them during these nights. Neteyam chuckled softly. 

Then his gaze drifted down. On the table sat a little flowerpot, and in it held a sort of flower in full blossom. It was twisted toward the moon, basking in its dim light. A little note was attached to it.

“Night blooming. You’d call me a know-it-all if I told you the exact name. 

Sleep well, Teyam."

Neteyam thumbed the note and smiled. Ao’nung’s handwriting was small and cursive. Neat and pretty, just like him. 

Even this late into the night, in many houses, the lights were still on. People still walked across the sidewalk, drove their cars, and rode their bikes. 

The prettiest, inauthentic lights in Neteyam’s opinions, were the street lamps. Though their light could never dare challenge the ones from the stars above. A few moths fluttered around them, kissing the hot bulb and burning. A simple death from curiosity. 

The dark-skinned man looked up at the sky and murmured, “Sleep well, Ao’nung.”

He hoped the wind would carry his voice across the city and deliver his message, a little heavy from the weighted love. 

───────♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ . ───────

The theater was usually empty at this time of night. The moon was settled high at its zenith. 

The partners sat on the piano bench. They had come to practice for the next—and most likely last—performance. 

By the looks of it, practice meant late-night whispers and fervent kisses. 

Both of them knew the performance by heart, anyway.  

“I have a surprise,” Neteyam hummed. 

“For me?” Ao’nung grinned and sat beside him. 

“Mhm.” Neteyam pulled out a small, dark blue box with gold swirls. He set it on the piano along with two keys. The pianist handed Ao’nung the teal key. 

“This one is yours,” Neteyam explained and pocketed the second one. “The other is a spare.”

Ao’nung held the key and inspected the box. “Is something going to explode in my face?”

“No, silly,” Neteyam grinned and pointed to the little hole. “Just put the key through here.”

Ao'nung inserted the key, opening it with a click! Inside was a tiny crystal dancer in an elegant, short dress. She resembled Kiri completely, down to the details of the gold pins she always kept in her hair. 

“Pril helped me make the box,” Neteyam added. “And I had the ballerina custom-made. Pretty, no?” 

“Oh,” Ao'nung breathed. “You had asked me for Kiri’s pictures.”

“I did.”

Ao’nung shook his head and kissed Neteyam’s cheek. 

Neteyam laughed and kissed him back on the lips. Then the tip of his nose, the corners of his eyes, and all of his moles. 

“Do you like it?” Neteyam asked as he pulled away. 

“Are you kidding? This is beautiful,” Ao’nung whispered in awe. 

“Turn the key again,” the pianist hummed. 

Ao’nung followed his instructions. The dancer started moving, accompanied by…

“Clair de Lune?” Ao’nung could recognize that song anywhere. His heart shattered into a multitude of pieces and built itself back up again. Tears cascaded down his face before he could stop them. 

“Are you crying?” Neteyam laughed. He thumbed Ao’nung’s tears away, smudging his mascara. “Don’t cry. This is supposed to be a happy surprise.”

“I am happy, I swear,” Ao’nung insisted, laughing wetly. 

“You better be,” the pianist grinned, showing off his little tooth gap Ao’nung adored. He pulled the ballet dancer in for a gentle kiss. 

When they separated, Neteyam rested his head on the taller man’s shoulder. They watched the dancer turn with the music. Ao’nung’s mind couldn’t help but drift into the past. This song curled around each memory like soft fur. 

When Neteyam first performed this song. 

Every anniversary. 

Every birthday, along with their favorite two-tiered cake. 

Competitions against dancers Ao’nung had been sure they would lose against, but they rarely ever did. 

When Neteyam needed to ground and remind himself that he could play.

When the darker days crept in, and the clouds seemed like they would never leave (they always did).

The little dancer revolved to a stop. 

“You have energy to stand?” Ao’nung asked after the music box went silent.

“I do,” Neteyam turned his head to the side. “Why?”

Ao'nung turned the key again and set it on the piano. The quiet melody accompanied the tiny dancer once more. Then he stood up in front of his partner. 

“May I have this dance?” Ao’nung whispered and held his hand out to Neteyam.

The dark-skinned man smiled softly and allowed Ao'nung to help him up. “You may.”

The moonlight softly filtered through the windows. The curtains were drawn up, and the theater hadn’t been dusted yet. 

Ao’nung draped his arms over his partner’s shoulders. Neteyam held the ballet dancer’s waist. It was more of an awkward shuffle than a graceful dance, but neither of them cared. Clair de Lune’s melody, quiet and mechanical, gently carried through the theater. 

Neteyam spun Ao’nung slowly, holding the latter’s arm for balance. 

“Careful,” the lighter-skinned man whispered. 

“I’m always careful.”

“Ha, of course.” 

Neteyam looked at him through his long eyelashes. “You’re beautiful.”

“How could you say that when you look like the stars made you themselves?”

“We are all made of stars, I think. Except, you are the moon’s special child. Are you sure you weren’t born there instead of Earth?”

“I’d have to ask the moon when I visit,” Ao’nung laughed. “But you are my moon, my sun, and all my stars, ‘Teyam.”

“I am yours, and you are mine,” Neteyam traced his hand over Ao’nung’s soft cheek. “We can visit the moon together, if you’d like.”

“I’d love that.”

Their only audience was the stars above, and they would never judge. The seats remained empty. No one could get stuck in their honey-sweet, sappy talks. 

Was the clock broken? They weren’t sure. They hoped it was, so time wouldn’t abide by its usual rules. 

For that moment, Neteyam’s illness wasn’t inevitable, and death was something they were able to escape from. 

But it wasn’t, and they weren’t. 

───────♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ . ───────

When I leave this world, I hope I become a pretty star. Not the prettiest, but pretty enough. 

I seldom find people peaceful with their future departure. 

Time is limitless, but our bodies are, unfortunately, not. 

All life is made of something, and one day, we need to give it back. 

Death, I think, is the name of our retreat to the astral planes. It is not a being or figment of our imagination. To embody death is to personify it, and every so often, we should just let things be. 

What is death to a child?

What is death to a dancer with no passion?

What is death to a music script, finished but torn apart? We can salvage only so many pieces. 

I don’t think death is cold or warm. 

It just is. 

Sincerely, 

A person made of stardust. 

───────♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ . ───────

“Are you ready?” Neteyam asked as he fixed Ao'nung’s hair, combing it neatly. He was so, so cold. 

Ao'nung rested his forehead against Neteyam’s and held the latter’s hand to his cheek. 

“No. I’m not ready. I’m not ready at all,” he whispered.

“I know,” the pianist said. “But don’t let them see that. Show them everything you’ve worked for.”

“Everything we’ve worked for,” Ao'nung held Neteyam’s gaze. The dying man chuckled softly. 

“Yes, of course. Now come on. Mustn’t keep your fans waiting.”

Holding hands, the partners moved to the shrouded, dark stage. The shadows, thick and black, curled around him. 

Ao’nung ensured Neteyam was properly seated before taking his place at the center of the stage. 

Then the music started. 

It was beautiful, pure, and so obviously Neteyam’s. 

Neteyam’s soul joined him on stage. His physical body played with his mind, but his heart followed. 

When Ao'nung danced, he was not alone. He moved with a man, a lover, an ethereal being; they danced hand-in-hand as partners. 

And suddenly, he was a child, and Neteyam was a child. They would run through endless flower fields and grow old together. They would choose when they die and when they will be reborn. In every universe, in every story, it would be them, and only them. 

Neteyam showed him just that.

So Ao’nung danced, and he danced for the story of his breathing. He moved his body for the life they had and the life they could’ve. 

Slowly, as they danced, Ao'nung felt like he'd fallen in love all over again. He spun and twirled like the healed world.

The ballet dancer almost laughed joyfully. 

Neteyam was his sun, his moon, and all his stars. He had the ability to laugh; he was their shared secret. The audience could only hear the hymns from the piano. 

Neteyam’s soul could move as freely as he liked. For all of eternity, he and Ao’nung bounded through the constellations until they became one. 

The song slowed. Neteyam’s soul held his, and Ao’nung tried to follow. 

He couldn’t. 

Their hands unlaced as they separated and retreated to their physical bodies. 

Ao'nung held his final stance as the music ended. He looked past the audience with a longing gaze and arms stretched out as if pleading to the ones in heaven above. The curtains closed, and he fell from grace. 

He sobbed into Neteyam’s cold arms as the darkness enveloped them all.

───────♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ .───────

Your view on the afterlife is rather unique. 

If I had read this letter a decade ago, I would’ve laughed. My view on death was vastly different than it is now. 

I had given death a soul, a brain, but no heart. Those cannot coexist without each other. 

If death truly just is, I cannot blame it for my sorrow and losses. If it just is, it does not take. It is a cycle. 

Ten years ago, I would ask:

Why do we give flowers if they are meant to wither? 

Why do we live, hope, and love if it will always end in the same way?

I know why, now.

Forgive my childlike wonder. This is the type of moral ending one can find in a fable. Alas, I will repeat it. 

We do all these things to give ourselves meaning. 

Life cannot be without death, just as death cannot be without life. They are two sides of the same coin. The same music note in different genres. 

We live to study ourselves and find that there is beauty in imperfections. 

Ha, I am laughing and shaking my head. How silly do I sound? 

The clock has been fixed. You will leave soon, so I will end this letter now. I will follow when the time is right. I hope I wasn’t too abrupt, as I tend to be. 

Do not worry, I will observe life with just a little more care and learn how to slow things down. This is my second promise to you (the first is that I will never leave your side, of course. No matter if you are in this world or the next). 

Sincerely, 

The one who stayed (also a star, eventually). 

───────♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ .───────

It was the small things that filled the time left.

Ao’nung had quit ballet, much to Neteyam’s dismay. The press grieved, the people mourned for his sudden absence, but they would move on soon enough. 

Ao’nung moved into the pianist’s apartment so they’d never have to be apart. The minimal space was just fine; they didn’t need more than one bedroom. 

Neteyam’s mobility drastically declined from there. 

In their apartment, Neteyam had the most beautiful piano. It was the same one he had used when he was a young boy, learning the keys for the very first time. 

I haven’t played in days, Neteyam had said one afternoon. I want to try.

Ao’nung dusted the piano and cleaned it until it shone. He stood to the side as Neteyam took a seat, feeling the old and familiar keys. 

Neteyam’s fingers knew where to go, but they were too slow to actually create something beautiful. He tried once, and then again, and then again, each attempt more miserable than the last. Neteyam slammed the keys in frustration and turned away.

That was one of the few times Ao’nung had seen his partner cry. 

I can’t play, Neteyam realized, and it was final. He said they should sell the piano, but Ao’nung opposed it. 

It still has memories, Ao’nung had insisted, and it truly is a beautiful piano. It would be a shame to let it go.

In the end, the piano stayed. They did their best to move on.

They went to a small French cafe in their finest suits and pronounced every delicacy with a horrid accent. Neteyam laughed when the white cream dripped from Ao'nung's upper lip like a mustache and said he resembled Tsu’Tey. They bought extra bread and fed it to already-fat pigeons. 

Neteyam realized too late that he wanted a cat, but it didn't matter. A fluffy, black and white cat was part of their life by sunset. One could see the whole world within her blind, muted blue eyes. 

When Neteyam lost his ability to walk, they turned to a wheelchair, and at times, Ao'nung carried him on his back. The dark-skinned man buried his face in Ao’nung’s long, curly hair. He always smelled like the sea. 

Soon after, oxygen tanks weren’t an uncommon sight. 

They took long, warm baths filled with lavender soap and rose petals to be extra romantic. When Ao'nung washed Neteyam’s hair, he never mentioned the fallen clumps, though Neteyam already knew. 

At home, they talked about nothing. They talked about everything. During the nights, they would lie close together, bare bodies warm. 

“I love you,” Ao’nung whispered one night, cupping Neteyam’s cheek. 

“I love you, too,” Neteyam kissed the rounded tip of his lover’s nose. 

Ao’nung snuggled closer, resting his head against the pianist’s chest. His heart beat, though slow and irregular, soothed him.

“Tomorrow, we’ll visit the flower gardens up north, yeah?” Ao’nung murmured. “It’s going to be a long drive, so rest up.”

“I can’t wait,” Neteyam replied. “Now sleep.”

Ao’nung mumbled an incoherent acknowledgement, already finding himself lost in the Garden of Eden. 

Together, both lovers drifted off into sleep, intertwined and inseparable.

Neteyam and Ao’nung.

Ao’nung and Neteyam.  

Sometime during the night, Neteyam’s hand loosened around his lover’s curly hair. His fingers fell softly across the other man’s face before falling limp to his side. 

His breath slowed, each one shorter than the last. 

His heart, so content and so pure with love, finally gave rest. 

Neteyam passed away silently that night. 

Ao'nung expected to feel his heart tear through his skin and bleed in his hands. Surprisingly, it was still there, and only a bit heavier. Neteyam had made a room inside his heart, decorating it with tall lamposts emitting a soft light, an assortment of pillows, and bread. So much bread. In one corner was his piano, and in the other, Ao'nung’s dancing shoes. Those were well-kept but unused. 

They had taken a liking for stargazing, after all.

So Ao'nung’s heart beat for the both of them, as robust as the day he was born. 

A’hari mrrowed and rubbed herself against Ao’nung’s leg. 

“Come on, A’hari,” Ao’nung smiled and gathered their cat in his arms. He opened the balcony door and stepped outside. 

The moon was whole tonight. Two pigeons had settled in the corner of the balcony. The birds had spent a few days gathering twigs and sticks, and now they had a sort of nest. Nestled inside were two eggs. 

A’hari was kind enough to leave them alone, even though Ao’nung knew she could smell their scent. She slipped out of his grasp and sat on the ground. 

Ao'nung moved forward and leaned over the railing. He looked out at the vast, endless sea of stars. He imagined the whole world belonged to Neteyam now. 

The sky was beautiful. 

The stars were beautiful.

Neteyam was beautiful.

───────♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ . ───────

Many, many years later, Ao’nung stayed content in the apartment. He was never truly alone. The pigeons had realized Ao’nung was the source of their favorite food, so now the balcony was always full of them. A’hari recently had a litter of kittens, too, so that kept him busy. 

It was a bright spring morning, the sunlight filtering through the open windows. Ao’nung planned to uproot a few peonies from his garden and move them into separate pots around the apartment. Then, he would reorganize the bookshelves. 

Astronomy: The Study of the Sky, The Autobiography of Kiri Augustine, Botany (Floral Biology), and The Tell-Tale Heart were a few of many in particular that needed reshelving. 

Ao’nung was in fact writing a book of his own. 

The process had been rather difficult, if he were to be honest. Though, the easiest part was the dedications on the first page: To Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk'itan: my whole world, in this life and the next. 

The doorbell rang at 9:46 a.m, which was peculiar because the mailman always came at 10:00 a.m sharp. The clock surely wasn’t broken; he had gotten it fixed years ago by the best clockmaker in the city. 

It rang again. 

“Coming!” Ao’nung called out, slipping a shirt on. 

Still, the doorbell rang once more. 

Maybe it wasn’t the mailman, but rather the deliveryman, Ao’nung decided. Usually, the only deliveries he received were from Kiri. The dancer was out in the world doing great, big and beautiful things, and she never forgot to send Ao’nung a little trinket. 

Ao’nung opened the door just as the doorbell rang for the fourth time. His gaze dropped down. 

A dark-skinned girl, tall and lanky. In her hands, she held a glass vase with white lilies of the valley. A fluffy pigeon sat on her shoulder. 

She was familiar in a way Ao’nung couldn’t place. A smudged memory. 

“Hello?” Ao’nung leaned down a little to get to the girl’s level. 

“Is this the Tsika'u residence?” 

“Is is,” Ao’nung hummed. “How may I help you, little lady?”

“Oh, I don’t need help.” The girl reached into her pocket, pulled out some bird food, and fed it to the pigeon on her shoulder. “But I’m here to help you.” 

“Help me?” The man murmured, brows furrowing. The young girl nodded and offered Ao’nung some bird food. He took it and held his hand out to her pigeon, who was more than delighted to receive more pellets. 

“Yes,” she whispered. 

“I don’t think I’m in much need of help right now.”

“Oh, but you are.”

“What can you help me with, then?"

“I can help you dance,” she smiled, showing off a little tooth gap. 

Ao’nung froze. 

She giggled at his expression, twirling her key necklace. A key Ao’nung had the exact replica of. Then she looked at her watch.

“I must be leaving now,” she said. “The clockmaker despises me being late. Fitting, no?”

She turned on her heel and skipped away, humming a song that Ao’nung recognized instantly: Clair de Lune.

He shook his head and managed to call out, “W-wait!”

She paused and looked over her shoulder. “Hm?”

“I don’t even know your name,” Ao'nung whispered.

The girl smiled. 

“It’s Tuktiery.”

Fin.