“Grandpa, do you think your ship is still out there?” A young Tristan asked. He must’ve been around thirteen; it was a couple of years after his parents went missing. 

“Out there? What, in space? No way, kid! That hunk-a-junk’s here on Terra! Landed way up, in North Axis.” His grandpa retorted. He was a cranky, older man who loved to talk about the glory days, and he loved Tristan with all his heart. Even if he never told him that. He was a baby on the Elric and was raised in Axis. He helped build Meridian itself.

“Axis? How did you survive?” Tristan asked, wide-eyed.

“Had a good Captain, that’s how! She landed us on the largest piece of land she could spot. Locals weren’t too happy, but they got over it. Lotta the stuff they had looked awful familiar too, uncanny type. Their houses looked like ours, their music sounded like ours, hell, even the language sounded like ours. But their accents… I couldn’t make out a lick-a what they were sayin’, like they was chirpin’ the words...And their wood looked like rubber, and their rubber looked like wax.” he scratched his chin and took a sip of his rootclear. Tristan has drunk some on accident once, he remembered having a fun evening but a terrible morning after.

“If they already lived like you, then why did you leave?” Tristan asked.

“They were crazy!” He exclaimed, “Our morals didn't fit. We fought em’ like hell! Not all survivors left with us; some of ‘em crazy sonsabitches stayed behind, to protect the ship and whatnot. I’m sure they got-got shortly after we left. Got refuge here, in Axion. Not many people, but the ones who were here let us stay kindly enough. We gave em’ stuff they didn't have. Been in that fight since we landed pretty much, why the war’s still goin’ on,” he grumbled. Tristan twirled his thumbs together, and he thought about what his grandpa told him.

“What are morals?”

“What? Morals! Like… What ya believe in—like… God and things. You'll find your morals someday,” he said. 

“Everyone on your ship believed in God?”

“Well, no, but a lot of us did. There's lotta different people on the ship, believed different things,”

“If you were different in the first place, then why are you fighting now?”

“I ain't fighting! I'm too old! Eh, and I'm not as set in my ways anymore. I used to be a lot more… Of an asshole.” He said. Tristan smirked. “Hey, no jokes,” his grandfather warned.

“Maybe that’s where mom and dad went, to Axis to find your ship,” He said. His grandpa scoffed and set his drink down sharply against the table. Tristan jumped slightly at the sudden noise. 

“They did no such thing. They chased ghosts, not ships,” his grandpa mumbled into his glass. 

“Then where did they go?” He asked, his impatience growing.

“Nowhere! They left to go find somethin’ that doesn't exist,” 

“Doesn't exist?”

“Doesn't exist! They were chasing a legend, and probably got lost in the desert, or eaten up by lions, or lost in those god-awful tunnels. They were explorers. Like their parents. Like I was.”

“What if we can find them?”

“Look here! Your parents made their choice; best not dwell on it!” He said, pointing a finger at Tristan’s chest. Tristan nodded quietly. His grandpa shifted in his chair, settling into its handwoven cushions. He cleared his throat.

“Look, Tristan. I don’t know what happened to your parents, and I miss your mom every day. Your dad, I'd leave him,” he said with a smirk. Tristan smiled at him. “Nah, he was a good man, but they both were more brawn than brain,” 

“I thought they were smart?”

“They did their best… Hey, the lady next door was cookin' tarts for trade tonight. Goldcrust, she got hold ‘some siren pine,” his grandpa offered. Tristan's eyes lit up like he'd been offered a valuable prize, but it was in exchange for giving up the conversation. He thought it over and decided the offer was too good to pass up.

“I'll grab my coat!”

“Look, Clio! This is it; it has to be which bird you are!” Tristan said eagerly, holding the third book he’d gone through open to show him.

“I’m not a bird, Tristan. I’ve just got wings,” he responded, moving over to the couch to look at the book with him. "What birdy do we have this time?” he asked.

“Bird-brained enough, right? Look, look…” He pointed at a picture of a Great Green Macaw, which he had never heard of but looked similar. He looked down at Clio’s feathers and back at the picture. Green and blue, that wonderful hue. Long, somewhat fluffy up top, and huge. Clio’s wings were significantly larger than most other hybrids. 

“It’s close. Do you think that's it? What does it say?” Tristan asked.

“Where are your glasses?” Clio asked back. Tristan sighed.

“Forgot them in the room; I’ve been using the magnifying glass. Just read to me,” Tristan said, snuggling against Clio’s soft wings. Clio rolled his eyes and began to read the small paragraph about the bird. 

“The Green Macaw, also known as a Great Military Macaw, is the second-largest parrot known to man.” To man, that phrasing dated the magazine instantly — pre-war, maybe pre-Terra. The paper felt slightly waxy, but worn. Old World for sure. Language always reveals what history tries to hide. It’s not uncommon to say ‘humankind’, or to have recently heard the phrase ‘allkind’ at school, although older generations widely disregarded this. 

“Its long green feathers are likely to be confused with those of the Military Macaw; however, Green Macaws are larger with white bills. They have blue flight feathers with red head and tail feathers. They can be seen flying in pairs, as they are believed to mate for life, often in couples or small flocks. They are found in Honduras, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, and Panama.” Those must be old cities on Earth, he thought.

Clio finished reading and simply stared at the page. Tristan looked up at him and couldn’t quite discern the look on his face. 

“What are you feeling?” Tristan asked. He opened his wings and picked Tristan up, sitting him directly next to him. The words settled between them like something already decided. Clio closed the book and sat quietly for a moment. 

Tristan and Clio met in Tristan's first year at college. He was a year older than him. He was instantly drawn to Clio, but who wasn’t? He was tall, handsome, and influential. Not to mention the rainbow of colors that fell in neat lines along his back. But something about him felt different. Like the fact that his feathers were Tristan’s favorite color, or that his handwriting was the most beautiful he’d ever seen. He never approached him, of course. At that period in his life, Tristan felt very lowly, as his disability had recently worsened. He was a wheelchair user, as the older he got, the less his legs wanted to support his body weight. Tristan could move them and stand for a short time, but couldn't move his legs long enough to walk. The doctors suspected he would need a wheelchair for the rest of his life. 

The day Clio approached him is one he would never forget, the day they knew they were one and the same. 

“May I sit?” He asked Tristan.

“Please, sit.” He responded, gesturing to the chair beside him. They both frequented the public kitchen near Blackrock University. Tristan went there because of its proximity to school, and Clio went because it was between his home and work. 

The kitchen was large, with public seating surrounding a large, circular geothermal grill in the middle where the chefs worked. There was a large smokestack that led straight out of the roof to carry heat away from the rest of the kitchen, making it pleasantly cool during the day. Food was made-to-order to avoid waste, and although the rations provided were fine (but bland), sometimes Tristan had herbs or fish that the chefs would add to his meal. However, since it's getting harder for him to get to the river, he's had less and less to trade, so most of his meals consisted of thick mineral broth and boiled roots.

It was a slow buildup. Tristan noticed him walk into the kitchen and watched him every time. His wings swept behind him, giving the illusion that he slid across the floor rather than walked. He didn't think Clio saw him at all, but he noticed that Clio would sit a little closer to him, day by day. He never made eye contact until then.

“Thank you,” he pulled out the chair and sat across from him, squatting on one leg. “I’ve seen you around. No offense, but you're not hard to miss,” Clio quipped.

“That seemed uncalled for,” Tristan responded, prompting Clio to click his tongue against his teeth.

“You were supposed to make fun of my crooked teeth or the molts I can’t reach alone,” Clio joked. 

“If I did, I’d be competing with a professional—and I know when I’m outmatched,” Tristan joked back.

“Bold words for someone I’ve only just met,” Clio said. Tristan filled with dread immediately. He was right; why did he say that? He would never normally speak to someone like that. Or make such a rude joke. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, and he fidgeted with his grasswoven pants, pulling at a fiber. It wasn't bad material; Tristan just rarely got new clothes, and it was time to turn them in.

“I’m Clio,” he said, sticking his feathered hand out to shake Tristan’s. He accepted, shaking the man's hand slowly and looking incredulously at him.

“Now we’ve met. Has the world changed?” He asked. 

“Not in the slightest,” Tristan tried to say confidently, slightly wavering in his execution. Clio smiled brightly.

“Then why are you still holding my hand?” He asked. Tristan looked down, realizing he’d kept their hands together after their handshake. He quickly recoiled, folding his hands in his lap. Clio laughed and stood up.

“I must go. But next time you see me, don’t pretend you haven’t!” Clio said before swiftly making his exit. Sometimes, He moved like gravity had made a separate peace with him, otherworldly and ethereal. Othertimes, he clambered around the kitchen in a racket. He was popular, it seemed, always chattering to someone, except he always came in alone. 

After that, Clio joined his study sessions, meeting weekly. Soon, they saw each other every day in the kitchen. It wasn’t long before Clio got bored with pretending to study and moved their study sessions to a dorm room instead. Now, he was with him, visiting his home and his soon-to-be wife. 

Clio was unique; how could someone overlook him so easily as just another industrialist? How can he look at Tristan and see nothing more than a person? And even Regina’s, for that matter. He remembered hating his body for so long. It felt like his legs gave up on him one day, despite him doing everything he could to fix them. He would walk for hours, struggling, just hoping it was enough exercise to strengthen his muscles to support him. But he would fall. He would feel guilt residing where confidence should be. Until one day, he couldn’t get up again. 

“Imagine being lame, deviant, and abandoned. The gods really have a sense of humor.” Tristan said playfully, playing with Clio’s feathers in bed. Clio sat up slowly, stretching his neck and opening his wings wide as if stretching them too. They are amazing to see every time. His favorite was seeing him fly; he looked like he would never come down sometimes, but he always did. He always went back to Tristan and Regina. Tristan had a distinct feeling he knew what Clio was about to say. He brought his wings back close to his body, swooping Tristan when he did, sitting him on Clio’s lap.

“Without this war, I’d be behind glass somewhere — an exhibit of God’s sense of humor. We both know that,” Clio said gently, “I’m not comparing. I just wish you could see that I love you for the same reasons you love me. Most people are still scared of the feathers. They don’t know what it means,” Clio explained.

“It doesn’t matter because I can see you, and I know what it means,” Tristan said, resting his palm against Clio’s lightly feathered chest. It was quiet for a moment.  

“Do you want me to hold up a mirror?” Clio responded sarcastically. 

“I wonder where Panama is. I wish we had an old map,” Clio asked, pulling his eyes back to the article. Tristan rolled his eyes.

“Maps always matter, sure. I might have one in my dorm… Even the wrong ones tell you what people believed… But Clio, what are you thinking?” He asked again, patiently. It was quiet for a long moment as he watched the wheels behind Clio’s eyes work overtime.

“This is it. My twin is a large parrot, and this macaw, it’s something deeper than just wings. There’s a bond; I needed to know this, I think,” he said, chuckling. “A large parrot that mates for life… How romantic,” Clio said in a low voice. He used his wing to raise Tristan's chin, forcing him to sit taller. Tristan felt the blush run to his cheeks as he was made to stare into Clio’s green eyes. 

“I never expected this to be, but here we are. I’m sure Regina knew long before either of us, but this was the final clue. I am bonded to you, Tristan. I think you found my wings… No, I mean… You make me feel less accidental,” Clio said. The words made Tristan’s heart skip a beat. He smiled widely, even if he didn’t quite understand what he meant.

Tristan didn’t wait for an explanation. Tristan took Clio’s face in his hands and kissed him. His lips were soft, and Tristan could feel Clio’s feathers flutter at the touch, warm and smooth, a feeling that spoke to something undefined between them.

“Always so chatty; say I'm yours. Properly,” Tristan demanded in a flirty tone.

“You’re mine!” Clio demanded loudly, suddenly standing up. They froze for half a second, listening, before laughing. Tristan wrapped his legs around his waist while Clio spun them around the living room floor. “I love you!” 

“You’re mine, and I love you!” Tristan said, matching his volume, laughing.

“Hey! Dummies! Could you be a little less flamboyant in the waking hours? We have neighbors,” Regina yelled loudly from her bedroom doorway.

“Just because our girlfriend died in a horrible tragedy doesn't mean we have to be miserable the rest of our lives!” Clio retorted. She turned and closed the door. They both waited and listened with bated breath. Silence.

“Too much?” Tristan whispered to Clio.

“Never enough. We should really consider being nicer to each other since we’re getting married,” Clio quipped. 

“I love you too, Princess!” He yelled toward Regina’s bedroom. They waited again. 

A long pause. Then, from the bedroom: 

“I love you, both.”

Now, Regina and Tristan sat on opposite ends of the living room. A couple of months after the funeral, the people who pretended to care for Clio had come and gone, including Clio’s father and Regina's mom. Tristan reflected on the last few days. At the wake, Regina refused to acknowledge his father at all. Tristan himself wasn't allowed to cry. He wasn’t supposed to act as if his lover had died. He was simply a friend. A good friend with whom he would study. Nothing more. His hands shook in his lap as he sat in his chair, watching as people passed him by. They quietly conversed around him, talking about Clio like they knew him at all. Giving their love to Regina, while Tristan was forced to sit. To listen to them. 

“Tristan, I’m pregnant,” She stated plainly. There was no enthusiasm in her voice. He looked at her and nodded. 

‘Is it… His?” Tristan asked quietly. Regina shook her head.

“Clio is the father, no matter what,” She retorted. Tristen nodded again. There was a stiff silence between them. He again found himself reflecting. 

They had all experimented together before, but Tristan and Regina never clicked the way she and Clio did. They never quite shared that spark. Nonetheless, Tristan came to love Regina over the years, simply not romantically. She cared for him deeply as well. If asked, Regina would be his first answer as to who his best friend was. However, after the funeral, they had a vulnerable moment together. They sought comfort in each other, the only two people who understood what the other was going through. They never talked about it. Tristan had left early that morning, even though he knew Regina was awake, pretending to sleep on the other side of the bed. He should have said goodbye, but instead, he simply left, closing the door quietly behind him. 

“I- I’m sorry for leaving you alone; I should never have-” Regina cut him off by raising her hand in front of her. 

“I don’t forgive you,” she said again, coldly. “You never came back. You never left a note. You never…” She drifted off momentarily, her eyes leaving him and her words lingering like heavy smoke. She took a couple of deep breaths and looked at him again. 

“I don’t want to see you again, Tristan. You remind me too much of him,” She said with the same tone, but tears were growing in her eyes. Tristan, already crying, shook his head fervently and moved his chair to Regina's side of the room. She did not stop looking ahead of her. He pressed her hand to his mouth and kissed it, tasting salt and smoke. He wanted to stand, but knew his legs would wobble too badly.

“Please, Regina, I’m sorry. I will stay with you every day. I will do my best to help with the child. I will cook. I will clean. Regina, please… Don’t push me away, please…” He begged her—memories flooded in unwarranted—some of Clio, some of Regina. Most were of his parents, walking out the door for the last time. He cried at the door until his grandpa carried him to bed. They were meant to be gone for a few months. He never saw them again.

He watched her through blurry eyes as she began to cry as well. She used her other hand to wipe the tears from her face. She snatched her hand away and stood up, walking behind Tristan's wheelchair and holding the handles firmly. 

“It’s time you leave,” She said, cold as ice, tears still in her eyes. There was no warmth there. Suddenly, he was embarrassed, realizing the position he put himself in. He wiped his face with his sleeves and sat back in his chair. He nodded silently, and Regina took it upon herself to wheel him to the back door, where she hesitated to open it. Tristan hoped she had changed her mind, but she moved out of the way to allow him to roll himself outside, never looking at his face again. 

“Go on living, Tristan. Someone should,” she said lightly before closing his entire world behind her. He sat there dumbly. She rolled him through the back door because that is where Clio built a wooden ramp for him to access the house easily, and at night, it was much safer. He even made his own grip out of Aspen silk and sand so he wouldn't slide. He was innovative; he would've done wonders at Bellforge. 

Tristan cried when Clio showed him the ramp for the first time. 

“What? Are you okay?” Clio asked when it happened, placing a hand on Tristan's shoulder to show support.

“Yes, of course. For how smart you are, you’re pretty thick,” Tristan said jokingly, wiping away his tears. No one had ever done something so thoughtful for him. No one bothered trying to give Tristan an ounce of independence, aside from the one person he never wanted to be away from. Well, after a while, it became the two people he would never want to be away from. It made him tear up again now.

“It's your home now, too,” he remembered Regina saying once, as she handed him a key. They were all watching the night sky, sitting on the warm sand at the edge of the desert. Far enough from the city to escape the lights. The moons were missing from the sky, usually a time when people hunker down. But they were a curious group and enjoyed exploring on these nights. 

They used the darkness to watch the comets pass and to be in the open together. There were more comets that night than usual, and he tried to make a wish on everyone he saw. I wish I were strong enough to pick Clio up for once, he had thought; I wish to find the perfect ring. He pulled his eyes away from the sky to smile at Regina, whose idea it was to spend the evening there. She looked at Clio with a questioning undertone, and in return, he nodded. She pulled it out of her jacket pocket to offer him. They weren’t the couple the world thought they were, but they were partners in every way that mattered. Her laugh still brought him joy; her presence felt like home—even if the space between them was carved by secrets they never spoke aloud.

“Thank you… Do you remember when we met?” Tristan asked her. Regina smiled.

“Of course, the day Clio brought you home. Gods, I was so angry with him, but it all worked out all right,” Regina remarked. Tristan smiled and shook his head. 

“I was at the school with my grandpa, and he was there asking about enrollment. He wanted to check it out because it was closer to his house, and I had started living with him full-time. I had wandered off, exploring on my own, trying to find the library. I heard something outside, I couldn't see through the glass, so I went out to look. And there was this girl, crying by the equipment shed, bleeding from her head. I panicked and ran to find my grandpa as fast as I could. He came as fast as he could and helped you to the clinic. My legs hurt for days after,” Tristan said, almost like a confession. Regina and Clio both sat straight up, looking at him with their silhouettes. 

“What?! Tristan, that was your grandpa? Why didn’t you ever say anything?” She pondered.

“I felt bad! I never even went up to you, I just ran,”

“Ran to get help, Tristan. You might’ve saved her life,” Clio said, impressed. 

“Oh, I wasn't dying, just in bad shape… I can't believe you remember that. How did you know it was me?” She asked.

“Well… There aren't many girls without ears. Plus, I could never forget you,” Tristan said, blushing, thankful for the cover of night. Regina grabbed his hand, and Clio grabbed hers. She was crying; he could hear her sniffling. Now Tristan sat up. 

“I'm sorry, Regina, I should've done more,” he said. She shook her head and raised his hand to feel the scar above her eyebrow. He let his hand go and wiped her face.

“No, no… It's just… You ran back fast enough,”

He fiddled in his pocket before pulling out his key ring, examining it, and slowly removing the key to the house. He looked at it like lost love, kissing it lightly before gently leaning over and placing it on the porch. 

Tristan wouldn’t see Regina again for another thirty years.