Chapter Text
There is something about the scent of the nighttime air that can never quite be replicated. Castor doesn't know how to put it into words (doesn't know how he would begin to describe it), only that it is something memorable, something unique, something that is a memory carefully tucked between the ribcage and flesh beneath it, held firmly within his chest.
There is something about flight, amidst that nighttime air, that is a form of prayer in itself, Castor thinks. He would not know how to put it into words, but it is a memory that he tries to share, with his dearest people. Though Pollux's wings have long since been lost, it was. . . a quiet ritual, of theirs, to stretch out their wings and let the evening breeze comb through the feathers, in that glorious, beautiful week that they had first been free.
Now, on evenings that neither of them can sleep, Castor will take Pollux by the hand, and they will wander through Mythag's hallways until they come to a space where the roof opens above their heads, where the sky is in sight. Then, Castor will carefully hold his brother within his arms, and dark wings will launch them both into the sky. Or, on worse nights, when ghosts feel too present and the soft click-click of maidens' heels on tile is too loud in his ears — Castor will exhale softly, and lean against Pollux, and they will simply meld together, until it is Pollux-and-Castor, and Pollux-and-Castor will lift Their wings and They will rise into the night sky, stars all around Them, and dance amidst the starlight and moonlight and feel the breeze through Their feathers. They will swoop and twirl and be, and though it will not be the same as if Castor and Pollux were to fly side-by-side, Pollux-and-Castor will revel in the feeling of flight, unburdened and joyful.
(And in the soft edges of the morning, later, Pollux will hug Castor tightly, and thank him. For the memories. For the gift. And Castor will hug Pollux tightly, and say that there is nothing to thank him for, that Castor is merely doing what an older sibling should to ensure the younger's happiness. The memories made in that shared body are given to them both, after all.)
Now, too, are times when Pollux is sleeping too deeply, but Castor still itches for movement — he will leave a note, written in careful elegant penmanship, on his brother's bedside, and he will leave their shared room. Sometimes there is no one else awake, on those quiet nights, when Castor wanders the campus like the ghosts that haunt him — but sometimes, he will find Sylvester, leaning out of his dorm room's window, a half-drank cup of tea on the windowsill.
(Castor had been bashful, that first night that he had asked if Sylvester would like to fly with him. Had tripped over his words, stumbling clumsily, not sure how to ask at all. Sylvester had laughed, softly — had clambered out of his room, over the windowsill, laughing softly as Castor had rushed to catch him.
"I trust you." Sylvester had said, with all the ease in the world, as if it had not meant so much to Castor to hear. "Take my flying. I want to feel the sky.")
Now, it is another almost-ritual — Castor could not count the times he and Sylvester have flown, the times that Sylvester had carefully leaned against Castor's chest, arms carefully wrapped around his neck and beneath the joint where his wings attached to back, head tucked in that space between Castor's neck and shoulder. Sylvester's silver eyes reflected the stars within them, and even if the stars here at Mythag, so close to Londinium, are not nearly so bright and visible as they had been out in the desert — the stars are still so beautiful, and Sylvester's eyes make them even more so, reflected as they are.
It's easy, to carry Sylvester. It isn't that Sylvester is particularly light, or thin, but— it is the easiest thing in the world, to gather Sylvester into his arms, and lift them both into the sky. Sylvester is warm against Castor's chest, just slightly, but it's almost soothing to feel the slight thrum of Sylvester's heartbeat, to feel the rise and fall of Sylvester's chest as he breathes.
It's more a dance than anything, when Castor flies with Sylvester. Less in that there's any fancy movement, more in the way that Sylvester is held so closely, so tenderly. In the way that Sylvester leans further against Castor, hands buried in soft feathers deep enough to feel the down, and in the way that Sylvester will laugh when Castor twirls, just for the sake of it.
(It's always a bit sad, when Castor has to return to the ground, chest heaving from exhaustion, wings almost dragging against the ground. When Castor has to set Sylvester down, and Sylvester leans against him still, and they have to return to their individual rooms. Castor delights in holding Sylvester, in sharing the quiet peace and memory of the star-filled sky and night air, and. . . Castor thinks that Sylvester enjoys it, too. He's almost certain, with how eager Sylvester is to meet him at nighttime, to take Castor's hands and be carried into the sky.)
Even in the middle of the day, the thought and memory of it brings a smile to Castor's face. (Sleepless as the nights leave him in the day after, Castor would not regret a single second of his nighttime flights. Not when he's free to do so, not when he has the choice of whether to fly at night and whether to skip classes to sleep or whether to attend to classes sleep-deprived, knowing it was his own fault. Mythag, truly, has become a place to choose, and to be.)