The seaside is lovely this evening. Salt air dances in zephyrs, bearing particles of sand in her waltz and sweeping through strands of blond as the sun sets.
Breathe in, exhale.
Some might say that Gordon sits at the edge of the world, his arms circling his knees curled into his chest as the tide tickles his toes, but he knows better. He knows the expanse of the universe below the water; he came from there himself, just as life had at the start.
The ocean is no more a boundary for Gordon than the skyline is for Scott, whose big brother wingspan could right a misaligned world, could wrap a torn family twice over and keep them warm against the snow. What is the horizon if not a simple mile marker to a child of the sky?
Inhale.
Gordon releases his knees and reaches his legs towards the ocean, collapsing backwards into the bed of sand. With gentle strokes, he kneads at the fine grain beneath his fingers, creating little dunes where he lets the granular particles fall as he sighs deeply. Exhale.
He feels a distinct texture press against his wrist. He lifts it up to the sky to examine the shell he's found, a piece of history with its own story. Pholas chiloensis, he identifies, an angel wing, so petite in his grasp and all that's left of the home that once belonged to the mollusk within. Maybe that's the part of the shell that makes him think of Scott. Scott with wings that protect instead of fly and feel like a home instead of an escape.
The sun dips into the Beyond with a last surge of rays converging into an artist's palette across the sky with oranges, reds and purples all at once. This is the golden hour according to Virgil, who sees the seascape in shades, highlights, and pigments, and frames them in palm trees within his canvas. Virgil, who sees the beauty of the world as Gordon does, just differently.
The sky bathes Gordon's skin in copper as he breathes the day away…
Inhale.
…fading into late evening.
Exhale.
The best time for the beach according to John is this time when the sun slumbers and the stars rise with their laughter twinkling over the moon's reflection. For that is when the skies come alive.
The cold sea water of night tingles against his toes.
Opposite, it is broad daylight for Alan who looks out at the shore and sees movement, sees the surf and the balance of his board as the waves roll. For Scott, the perfect time is at the clouds' first glow, in the earliest hours of morning when he can hitch a ride on the back of Apollo's chariot and chase the sun.
Gordon himself doesn't have a golden hour for the ocean; he comes when it calls. He can blend into orange, breathe with the motions of the currents, swim with the moon's reflection, and race Apollo at the end of night to welcome day. He is made of ocean waves and salt air, of shells powdered into white sand.
For that reason, he knows he is welcome among the seashore; he's practically a part of it.
But still, there are no brothers here to call him back home. Just memories and the faded fossil of Scott's wings in his hand.
Night turns into day, day into night, and Gordon breathes with the motion of the spheres, collapsed along the beach where the water nips at his toes, and he wonders what kind of lonely place exists where time passes without tides. Perhaps he is at the edge of the world.
He inhales. And he holds his breath.
A/N: Some continuity in themes in this segment! I am so happy the threads are coming together, fam. I might be able to write an actual story one day yet.