spheniscidae
She smiles, and the smile turns into a laugh, and before they know it they're both laughing and rolling over and mud and grass are getting on their clothes and faces and hair but neither of them really mind, much; there's a lightness in the air that was never there before, and a kiss that tastes like July rain, and all of it feels a little bit like hope and a lot like forever.
"I think we'll be fine," she says, and means it.
So he swallows and looks. It's not hard.
"I don't want to forget," he says, and there's a sort of pounding in his veins, how easy it is to want, how easy it could be just to reach out and touch, and how final this feels, like two people who are meeting for the last time in their last life.
He shakes his head and smiles. Too late, he realizes he's smiling back.
"You don't have to. This...isn't the end."
"I know," he tells him, and realizes that he means it.
"I don't understand," she says, and it's sort of funny, really, how she can look at him with any sort of expression and still the light behind her makes it look like she's glowing.
He breathes. The light breathes. It hurts to look at her - she's so bright and so beautiful and she is everything he wants in the world.
"I don't want to lose you," he says.
You make me feel like I have wings, he doesn't say. You make me want to fly again. I used to be scared of the sky, but now I'm scared of this more: falling, falling, letting you lift me up like I weigh nothing at all, and I'm scared because this might be the best, it might be the realest thing I've ever known.
It's not easy. It's never easy.
The memory of it haunts him like a dream, like a broken record; the sound of something that shouldn't be, where he's dragged off when all he wants - wanted to do - was shout to the world. But they don't listen because stricken-deep impressions can only change so much (nothing at all).
He's not a king.
It does not feel like a prison.
It's not like - it's not like it's easy. It's not like he can catch the ball in his hands, toss it in the sky; strike it to the starting line as naturally as breathing. He's not a genius. Will never be a genius. He's nothing like the others in his sport and nothing like a star, but he's. He's something.
But it's not like it's a limit, either. Doesn't feel like there's a limit. When there's six hours of practice behind his back and air tasting sharp and acid in his lungs, when there is only the court beneath his feet and the blood burning in his veins, he is /unstoppable/. These times are the best and no, no one really understands: the net is no wall to climb over if only they could see it that way.
You're overworking yourself, they say. Maybe you should stop. Maybe it's enough. Maybe one day it will be enough. He doesn't have to keep himself in his tiny cage and only live on half-formed plays. Everyone tells him this: you have enough, you have the better and the best, or at the very least you have more than your body your mind your soul can hold.
He does not stop. He does not breathe.
He is not a genius.
He lives.