Collision; Larry

31.

Time ticks on steadily. Louis still finds that comforting.

Autumn has approached the otherwise always sunny and green university area—Louis can feel it in his bones. He’s not meant for the chillier months, and it’s prominent to him the way he’s gradually growing a little more tired, a little heavier and slower, in his body and in his soul. He doesn’t see a lot of winter, usually—by the time the winter assigned fairies start appearing with their slow withdrawal of life from trees and lawns in Grimm, he’s tired and cold and ready to reside permanently in the evergreen Forest and get his well-deserved time off. But he can’t really do that here—the university has all four seasons, and Louis is to live here for another four years. He’s going to have to learn to deal with it.

Still, it doesn’t really mesh well with his PTSD symptoms, this creeping sluggishness. A lot of the time he feels like his progress is slowing down—maybe even coming to a halt, regressing, but his therapist makes sure to always assure him otherwise, remind him of his victories.

Because there are plenty of victories—he used to refuse walking down in the basement, and he used to have to close his eyes and cover his ears and breathe whenever he encountered another fairy-like creature with their wings still intact, and he used to cry when someone brushed past his side in the hallway. He used to feel like the only place he could truly, really breathe was where he could see the open sky and feel the sun on him, and everywhere else was a prison cell. He doesn’t feel like that anymore. His mood swings are better, too, his triggers aren’t as many, his nightmares not as abusive, his concentration is better.

The moments of hopelessness are still tough—he thinks maybe he’ll never truly stop having those dips, the ones where he feels utterly lost, stripped of himself. But people around him are good at reminding him of what he does still have by now, make sure to underline his importance, his progress, his everything, and he dares believe them a little bit more for every time they do.

(“My wings were what made me into me,” he mumbles one night with his eyes fixed on the twinkling stars, Harry next to him in the damp grass.

“No,” Harry says. He doesn’t make Louis look at him; just scoots a little closer and takes Louis’ hand in-between both of his. He holds it against his chest. Louis breathes to the feeling of his heartbeat. “You were what made your wings into your wings. They were lovely because they were part of you. And you’re still here.”)

Louis is getting better. The weather won’t ruin that for him.

Besides, his new wings help a lot. He’s decorated them, to make them feel more like his—he’s tied lavender and forget-me-nots and daisies to them in delicate patterns, and he’s quite proud of the result if he says so himself. They feel more like him, now, more alive.

He hasn’t learned how to maneuver them fully yet, but he’s getting there. It’s something that keeps him motivated, always, without fail—no matter how hard it is and how many new things he has to take into consideration that his old wings just took care of on their own. The thought of flying again never fails to keep his spirits up. Even if it’ll be a special occasions only thing. Even if it won’t be easy as breathing anymore—or for a while, perhaps. He likes to think it’s going to keep improving. He makes sure to keep in close contact with Camron about it, inquiring about technique, and maintenance of the leather, and Camron is always more than enthusiastic to help. It’s become sort of a passion project for the dwarf now, actually. He’s made himself a new leg by now, too, hoping to be able to disgard the cane completely soon enough, and he’s told Louis about his hopeful vision of maybe being able to specialize in the making of prosthetics once he graduates; it’s a severely underdeveloped technique in magical worlds, and he’s adamant to make it a more accessible option for creatures who need it as an alternative to magic. It’s wonderful to see him, this little, humble, insecure being Louis grew familiar with in the beginning of the year, gain such a clear sense of purpose. Perhaps Louis will be able to get a pair of wings more alike his old ones, one day, too. But he doesn’t dwell on that possibility too much—doesn’t feel the need to, anymore. He knows he’ll be fine no matter what happens, by now. He’s growing to know and love the wings he has, memorizing every inch an crook and piece of them like the back of his hand, and he’ll fly with them soon enough. He will.