Grounded
Title: Grounded
Word count: 600
Time frame: Sometime next week.
Notes: This drabble did not fail me.
This cliff is the highest place in Flamingo Heights.
But it isn’t the same.
It isn’t flying.
Sometimes, he stands on the very edge of the cliff, toes dangling, and looks down. He’s not afraid of heights. He can’t be, not with what he is.
…Was.
Sometimes, he closes his eyes. Lifts his arms. Once; twice.
Nothing happens.
Other times, he holds his arms out, just letting the ocean air wash over him. Imagines that breeze catching his wings, filling them and lifting him up, up, up.
Only he hasn’t got his wings any more.
Not in this body.
He looks at his hands. Useless. He can’t fly any more. Being grounded is maddening. He wonders what will happen if he simply lets himself fall to the ocean far below. The wind will no longer break his fall, no longer lift him.
He won’t, of course. He’s nothing if not a coward. Instead, he falls backwards into the fragrant grass. Stares up at the sky, once his home. Once the place they had shared.
He lets the name they’ve all come to call him flitter through his mind. Waspy. A silly name for a silly person. The name doesn’t suit him at all when he’s trapped in this body.
But what makes it worse…The first one to call him by that silly name is dead.
Now, every time he hears it, there’s a strange tightness in his chest. It never hurt this much before, but then…Feelings weren’t quite the same before. He didn’t quite have a heart before. When he thinks about it now, it hurts almost more than anything.
Inferno doesn’t understand. He can’t understand. The sky isn’t a natural part of him and he’s not wired to want friends. They haven’t bonded over it because it isn’t something for them to bond over.
There is nothing to tie them together. They don’t share anything. He knows that. That’s why it’s not the same. He never knows what to expect. That’s why it’s not the same.
They had been young. They had been idealistic. They had stolen a spaceship together. They had both wanted the same things, but never knew what to do with them when they had them. They had flown together; the sky had been theirs. Blue sky. Grey sky. Pink sky. Red sky. Night sky. Their sky. They belonged to the sky.
Ants belong in the ground.
He doesn’t like big rooms, but he likes open spaces. Needs them, really. Being cooped up inside gets irritating after a while. It's a reason they bonded; the desire to be free in that sky. The need for it. Inferno doesn’t have wings. He can’t even fly in his beast mode.
That’s why it isn’t the same.
He closes his eyes.
Imagines what it would be like to have his best friend here with him. They would stand together, arms spread, pretending to fly. Imagines him in a body like this, a body with frail limbs and no wings. His hair would be red. His nose, still vaguely beak-like. His face would still be too pretty to suit the rest of him. They would still squabble. He would still be a vain, arrogant jerk, but at least he’s aware of it.
Opens them again.
The sun starts to set over that thin line drawn between sea and sky. The sky explodes in a wash of soft hues. He doesn’t move. He likes the color red. Except it reminds him, and there’s that painful tightness again.
He rolls over.
Buries his face in the crook of his arm.
And cries.
Word count: 600
Time frame: Sometime next week.
Notes: This drabble did not fail me.
This cliff is the highest place in Flamingo Heights.
But it isn’t the same.
It isn’t flying.
Sometimes, he stands on the very edge of the cliff, toes dangling, and looks down. He’s not afraid of heights. He can’t be, not with what he is.
…Was.
Sometimes, he closes his eyes. Lifts his arms. Once; twice.
Nothing happens.
Other times, he holds his arms out, just letting the ocean air wash over him. Imagines that breeze catching his wings, filling them and lifting him up, up, up.
Only he hasn’t got his wings any more.
Not in this body.
He looks at his hands. Useless. He can’t fly any more. Being grounded is maddening. He wonders what will happen if he simply lets himself fall to the ocean far below. The wind will no longer break his fall, no longer lift him.
He won’t, of course. He’s nothing if not a coward. Instead, he falls backwards into the fragrant grass. Stares up at the sky, once his home. Once the place they had shared.
He lets the name they’ve all come to call him flitter through his mind. Waspy. A silly name for a silly person. The name doesn’t suit him at all when he’s trapped in this body.
But what makes it worse…The first one to call him by that silly name is dead.
Now, every time he hears it, there’s a strange tightness in his chest. It never hurt this much before, but then…Feelings weren’t quite the same before. He didn’t quite have a heart before. When he thinks about it now, it hurts almost more than anything.
Inferno doesn’t understand. He can’t understand. The sky isn’t a natural part of him and he’s not wired to want friends. They haven’t bonded over it because it isn’t something for them to bond over.
There is nothing to tie them together. They don’t share anything. He knows that. That’s why it’s not the same. He never knows what to expect. That’s why it’s not the same.
They had been young. They had been idealistic. They had stolen a spaceship together. They had both wanted the same things, but never knew what to do with them when they had them. They had flown together; the sky had been theirs. Blue sky. Grey sky. Pink sky. Red sky. Night sky. Their sky. They belonged to the sky.
Ants belong in the ground.
He doesn’t like big rooms, but he likes open spaces. Needs them, really. Being cooped up inside gets irritating after a while. It's a reason they bonded; the desire to be free in that sky. The need for it. Inferno doesn’t have wings. He can’t even fly in his beast mode.
That’s why it isn’t the same.
He closes his eyes.
Imagines what it would be like to have his best friend here with him. They would stand together, arms spread, pretending to fly. Imagines him in a body like this, a body with frail limbs and no wings. His hair would be red. His nose, still vaguely beak-like. His face would still be too pretty to suit the rest of him. They would still squabble. He would still be a vain, arrogant jerk, but at least he’s aware of it.
Opens them again.
The sun starts to set over that thin line drawn between sea and sky. The sky explodes in a wash of soft hues. He doesn’t move. He likes the color red. Except it reminds him, and there’s that painful tightness again.
He rolls over.
Buries his face in the crook of his arm.
And cries.