Alfred has wings that, unfolded, span the length of the room. He stretches them out sometimes and the tops of them are dusky white freckled with brown. He used to say he was an eagle, and he'd gather Matthew up in his arms and try to fly away with him, laughing. They were young then, when Alfred hadn't listened to Matthew's soft protests.
(Matthew had found him on a roof top once when they were thirteen—stubborn down clung in between each feather and Alfred complained about it all the time, pouting. It itches, he'd say, so Matthew would shove fingers in between quills and scratch.)
(he'd said, watch this, Matt, and splayed his wing span and then fell off. Matthew had nearly fallen too, running after him, until he'd flown up breathless and shouted I can fly)
(he'd taken Matthew's hand saying, think happy thoughts, and Matthew had, harder than he ever had before, but he shook and cried anyway when Alfred pulled him into the air)
Alfred runs a finger up an antler. His hands come away with soft down and he scrunches up his face in a grimace. "You're shedding," he says, wipes his dirty hand down the front of Matthew's sweatshirt.
"I do that," Matthew agrees. "It itches."
"Man, you kinda got the short end of this deal. I mean, antlers are cool but—you gotta rub them against trees and stuff." Despite his words, Alfred's hand goes back up to an antler and rubs at it.
"I hope you don't think I actually rub against trees."
Alfred smiles—he has to preen sometimes, pluck at broken feathers, but he laughs at Matthew and his antlers. Matthew wants to shoot something back at him about it, but his eyes drift closed at Alfred's touch. "I think you do. Just when I'm not looking. Oh, the embarrassment if Alfred saw me!" He ends in a falsetto.
They're quiet for awhile. Alfred says, "I wish you could fly with me," sadly and like he's said it before. "It's beautiful up there. I could take you to this one tree, we could sit at the top—it has to be a thousand years old, Matt, with these huge, strong branches, we could watch the sunset—"
"A bird and a fish," he interrupts, placating. It's an old conversation. Alfred's hand stills on his head, near the base of an antler.
Alfred's mad, he's always mad during this, furious. He spits out, "You're not a damn fish, Matt, you're a fucking moose, you don't have gills. If you weren't so fucking scared—" he huffs a frustrated breath and then his eyes go soft. "Happy thoughts," he says, "why is that so goddamned hard?"
Matthew shrugs. It takes him away from Alfred's hand which knots into his hair before letting go. "I'm a moose," he laughs, a little hollowly. "And I do think happy thoughts. I think of you, and the way you look when you're flying. I just—a bird and a fish, Al."
"Stop saying that like it'll make me love you less! My wings can be clipped, I don't have to fly!"
But he does, Matthew wants to say. Because he's a bird and he has giant windows that he leaves open at night so he can catch the fresh air. Because he wakes up at five every morning and comes back cold and bright-eyed and talks about the sun rise, how it looked from wherever it was he perched that day. Because Matthew loves him for it, for his freedom and his wings, because he could never ground him.
He nudges his head back under Alfred's hand. "Keep scratching?" he asks. "They itch."
Alfred does.
(it goes a bird and a fish can fall in love, but where would they live and that all it took Peter Pan to fly was fairy dust and happy thoughts. Matthew has no reason to fly)
(do happy thoughts extend to homes, he wonders and thinks them just in case)