Flight

“Paul did not realize William was dead; it was impossible, with such a bustle going on.”

- Sons and Lovers, D.H. Lawrence

“You must be Paul, yeah? I’m Avery. Welcome to the house!”

The old door creaked open. Paul picked up his bag, which he had put down to knock on the door, and stepped inside. The residence was on the older side, and the entryway was dressed with dark wood and high ceilings lit by an ornate chandelier. On his left was a staircase leading to the second floor, and on his right was an open doorway that led to a cozy-looking living room. Avery walked up the stairs, and Paul followed behind, awkwardly carrying his rolling suitcase in front of him. It was deceptively heavy.

“So in the first room here we’ve got Katherine, she only really comes out for meals, and then the bathroom, then Lou’s room, right across from mine, she’s kinda the life of the party. You’ll be seeing a lot of her, especially at our weekly game nights. I mostly just hang out and eat the snacks at the parties though,” Avery explained. “We’ve all been here since fall term, but um.. circumstances meant we had to get a different roommate. That’s you. Anyway,” they continued, “Here’s your room. It’s a pretty nice one, yeah? I’ll leave you to move in.”

And with that, Paul was alone to unpack. It was a nice room, Paul decided, and after a bit of decorating, it could really feel like home. He pulled out his books. He may have packed a few too many books, although he still wished he could have taken more. He would definitely be frequenting the library this term.

It was spring, and his college campus was quickly recovering from the snowy weather of a few months prior. A flower box sat outside his window with what looked like a small tumbleweed inside. Paul guessed that whatever the previous tenant had planted had died over the winter.

He made to close the window, but noticed a note sitting in the soil.

Not quite dead yet, please water me!

Paul chuckled and grabbed his water bottle. Perhaps there was still hope for this little plant.

It was a cold winter evening, and game night was in full swing. While Paul usually found the space to be cozy, his new house was currently overflowing with his fellow college students, more than usual. The buzz of laughter and conversation pressed in on him, and anxiety clawed at his chest. It was all too much.

He slipped into a nearby closet. While he could still hear the sounds of the party, it was an improvement. The darkness fell over him like a blanket, and his racing heartbeat started to slow. He breathed a sigh of relief.

“Hello.”

Paul squeaked, knocking over a broom. His eyes were slowly adjusting to the light. Squinting, he began to make out the shape of a person around his age.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know anyone was in here,” Paul blurted out.

“‘S fine.”

He didn’t recognize the voice. Was this one of his housemates' friends?

“Do you live around here?”

“Yeah.”

“Why are you in the closet?”

“Could ask you the same thing.”

“I live here, I can be in the closet if I want to.”

They just stared at him, raising an eyebrow. By now, Paul’s eyes were adjusting to the darkness of the closet. He could make out messy hair and dark, baggy clothes. Paul fidgeted with the strings of his hoodie.

“It was just too loud, I guess. I don't like crowds.”

“Me neither.” They offered a smile.

The two fell into an awkward silence. Was it awkward? He could never tell. He didn’t know what to say. Did they think he was weird for not saying anything? He had to say something.

“So, what year are you?” He pushed past the tightness in his throat.

“I’m s’posed to graduate in the spring.”

“Me too. What’s your major?”

“English Lit.”

“Same here. Maybe we’ll be in a class together.”

“Maybe.” They picked at their shirt.

Paul struggled for something to say.

“I just really like reading. I can’t imagine doing anything else,” he admitted.

“Mm. I like Shakespeare. ‘S funny.”

“Really? I thought his stuff was kind of sad.”

“Some of it is. There's a lot of funny ones though. You just gotta look past the old-timey language.”

“Really? Like what?

The student began to explain a bit involving thumb-biting in Romeo and Juliet. They were much more talkative now, Paul thought, and much more expressive. The sound of their voice washed over him like warm waves lapping against a shore. He couldn’t make out their eyes, but he wondered if they were as easy to get lost in as their voice was.

Paul realized that they were looking at him expectantly.

“Sorry?”

“I never caught your name,” they repeated.

Paul hesitated for a moment, finally mumbling his name. Not the “nickname” he held close to his chest and dreamed about at night, not really understanding why. No, he spoke the name everyone knew him as. It felt wrong in his mouth, like it belonged to someone else, but he pushed it out nonetheless.

“Nice to meet you. I’m William, but you can call me Will. They/them.”

“Yeah, nice to meet you.” He hesitated for a moment, but decided against replying with the pronouns that he used. They never felt quite right, anyway.

Classes started the next day, and the week passed in a blur. Friday finally arrived, and with it, another party. Paul had found himself anticipating it. He wasn’t one for large groups, but the thought that he might see Will again filled him with a strange excitement. Something else was on his mind, too. He worked over the question in his mind until he was almost certain as to the answer.

He sat in the treehouse in the backyard. The yard was small, but fairly private, with fences and trees blocking the view into the yard. However, up in the treehouse, he could just catch a glimpse of the street below. It was there he sat with a book, but his attention was not fully on reading. He kept sneaking glances at the street, hoping that his new friend would soon pass by. Hours passed, and he sighed. The night was coming to an end, and still no sign of Will.

“Whatcha reading?” A familiar voice asked from behind him.

A wide grin spread across his face, and he turned around to see Will. In the light of the window, Paul could see that his friend’s hair was actually a bright red. They wore all black, and although it had been a cloudy day, a pair of round sunglasses rested on his nose.

“Will! How’d you get behind me without me noticing?”

“Magic,” Will deadpanned. “Is that Twelfth Night?”

“Oh, yeah. Have you read it?”

“‘Course I have.”

“I’m having trouble parsing the language here. Do you happen to know what this means?” Paul flipped to the page in question, pointing at a section of text. Will leaned over, tilting their head, then, as if acquiescing that they needed a better angle, took a seat next to him. As they spoke, they leaned over slightly. Paul felt the warmth of their breath on his neck. Once they finished explaining, he thanked Will for their help. Adjusting slightly, Paul decided to ask the question that had been bothering him all week.

“How did you figure out your pronouns?”

They furrowed their brow.

“Well, it took me a while. Started using ‘he’ and ‘they,’ but I realized it just felt right when people used ‘they,’ y’know?”

“And you didn’t change your name? Isn’t it kind of masculine?

“Don't really care if other people think it’s a man’s name. It’s my name, and I'm not a man, so..” They shrugged. “Honestly, it just felt like lying to tell people I was a man. I get why lots of people don’t reveal that they're trans, but I just felt like I’d be more comfortable coming out, y’know? At least to my.. to the people in your house,” he finished awkwardly.

Paul hesitated. Will filled the silence.

“Will is on the gender-neutral side, too. Lots of Willows and Willa’s out there.”

Another pause.

“You okay?” Will asked gently.

“I think I’m trans.”

“Awesome. What do you want me to call you? Something different, or..?”

“Paul. And, uh, he/him pronouns,” he said, a giddy grin spreading across his face.

“Paul. Solid name. I like it.” Will smiled back.

Their treehouse meetings quickly became a tradition. Nearly every night, Paul would make his way up to the treehouse with whatever he was currently reading, and without fail, Will would meet him there and discuss it with him. On the odd night Paul made an appearance at a party, however, Will was nowhere to be seen. That’s alright, he thought. I’m not much for parties either. Still, they would be a bit more tolerable with a friend.

The next night, he decided to bring up their absence.

“It’s like you don’t actually go to the parties here at all. You’re like a ghost. Are you haunting me or something?” Paul teased.

Will went pale.

“Will?”

But it was too late. They were already gone.

He knew he couldn’t ask his housemates about Will. Something was wrong, and he didn’t know what. He taped a note to the tree that supported the treehouse. Their tree.

Meet me at the treehouse at nine, it read. Please. I miss you.

The following night, the two met up again at the treehouse where they’d spent so much of their time together as friends, but now they stood on the grass underneath it, not quite ready to go up the ladder. Not yet.

“What’s actually going on, Will? Is something wrong? Are you okay?”

“Nothing’s wrong, exactly, I just—” Will made a frustrated sound, scrubbing their face with their hands. “I never wanted to lie to you, Paul. I had to. If I told you what I really was, you would run away.”

“Try me.” He crossed his arms. They stared at him for a long moment, then sighed in acquiescence.

“Okay, fine. It's just— it’s better if I show you. Stand right here for a sec.”

Paul stood against the tree where his friend had indicated, crossing his arms. Will ducked behind it, tossing their coat to the side. Paul was close enough to catch his friend’s now familiar scent as it drifted on the breeze. They always smelled like electricity and petrichor, the wind before a storm when the clouds were gray and threatened to spill over at any moment. It reminded him of the way his cat would smell after a day spent by an open window, when he would press his face against her soft fur and breathe in the sunlight and the breeze. He wondered absently what William had done to obtain such a scent, his mind conjuring an image of his friend perched on a roof, head tilted back, breathing in the wind.

From the opposite side of the tree, Will tossed their shirt to the side. Paul picked it up off of the mossy ground, head turned away to give his friend some small amount of privacy. Will’s arm popped out and flung something beige to the side, and Paul picked this up too, his confusion growing. He brushed his fingers over the bandages, inspecting them for blood, of which he found none.

“Are you hurt?” he asked anyway, concern furrowing his brow.

“No, not at all, I just can’t have these things out and about, y’know?”

Paul did know, and his stomach plummeted at the thought of what Will must have been using the bandages for. He had done some research after one of their late-night chats in the old treehouse. The Internet had called it chest dysphoria, and almost every webpage he read had warned against using bandages to ease it, citing serious injuries in one’s lungs and ribs. Paul had opted for two sports bras, which was mostly safe, he read, so long as one didn’t wear them for more than eight hours a day.

“I thought you said binding with bandages was dangerous! You’re gonna hurt yourself!”

“I know, I know, I’m a hypocrite, but this is a special case.”

“How’s that?”

“It’s not my chest I’m binding. You can turn around now.”

Paul spun around, preparing a rebuttal, which was quickly aborted when he saw them.

The wings were similar in color to a pigeon’s, but far more beautiful — not to insult pigeons, as he was particularly fond of the often maligned birds.

They were a gradient of soft grays, feathers resting in a speckled pattern that drifted to a charcoal color at the wingtips. They seemed to catch the light trickling in through the treetops, almost becoming iridescent in the dimming sun. Paul thought that they resembled a pigeon’s wings, although these were far more beautiful — not to insult pigeons, for he was particularly fond of the often maligned birds. Will’s hands fidgeted at their sides. Their posture showed little care for the cold air of the winter evening. Their wings arched around their body in a gesture that seemed almost self-conscious, although he was certainly no expert in the body language of winged people.

Paul reached out a hand, entranced, before catching himself, meaning to stutter out a request for permission, but Will closed the distance, pressing their wing against his hand. The soft feathers brushed against the bare skin of his wrist, and Paul was reminded at once of the downy tufts of fur that sat behind his cat’s ears, and of the soothing feeling of the cool side of the pillow.

“How is this possible?” he found himself murmuring.

“I died.”

This broke Paul from his trance, and he met Will’s eyes, and saw no humor there, only sincerity. Everything started to make sense. The presence of the note by his window planter. Why Will always snuck up on him, as quiet as a ghost. Why none of his housemates mentioned them in their stories. Why they never attended any parties. It was as if they didn’t want to be seen by anyone but him.

“That’s why your room was up for rent. I did think it was a little strange that such a close group of friends was looking for a complete stranger for a housemate.”

“Yeah. My sudden… departure didn’t give them much time to find someone.”

Paul laughed, slightly hysterically.

“Do they know?”

“No.”

“Why?” Will hesitated, and when he spoke, his voice sounded choked.

“I guess I was scared.”

“Of what, that they’d run away if they found out their friend was a.. ghost? Angel? Wait, what are you, exactly?”

“Pretty much. I’ve actually got no idea what I am now. I’ve got wings, and.. these.” They pulled off their dark glasses, the ones they always wore, revealing a pair of glistening golden eyes. They had no whites or pupils, only a glimmering gold that seemed to shine brighter from the tears that threatened to spill over. Their eyes looked inhuman, and judging by the fear on Will’s face, they knew this. They were terrified that he would react badly.

Paul stepped forward, reaching out. Will flinched, but stood still as he rested his hand on their cheek. He watched the flecks of yellow and amber dance in the light. Paul thought that the eyes might be frightening in anyone else’s face, but this was Will. He could never be afraid of them. He pulled them close.

“I— you’re not leaving?”

“You can't get rid of me that easily,” Paul whispered into their hair.

Will choked out a sob, clinging tightly to Paul. They held onto each other for a long moment.

“So, wait, can you actually fly with those?”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Will asked.

“Yep. It’ll be fun!”

“I’ve only ever done this on my own. What if I drop you?”

“I trust you.” Paul smiled and turned around to kiss Will. They shared a moment together, before Will broke the silence.

“But no, seriously, what if I drop you?”

“Will. You’re, like, super strong now, remember? You’re not gonna drop me. It’s fine. We’ll be fine. Besides, I know you’d catch me.”

“Okay. Alright. Ready?” Will held tightly to Paul, and leapt off the building. For a moment, all he felt was the heart-wrenching sensation of freefall.

Then, there was a beating of wings, and the two took flight.

A little ways over, in the flower box on the window of a house in a small college town, the rose of Jericho bloomed.