The Northern Lights

Chapter 35. Unimaginable

France, 2020

Their legs dangle from the rooftop of François' home. From the ground up, it didn't seem that high, but from where Arlo is, he feels as though he's scraping the sky. Arlo was never a fan of heights, despite wanting to be a pilot as a child, the irony.

Thin crystals of snow begin to fall between the gap that separates their shoulders. Both of the young men cover their hair with thick hoods, "Seventeen huh?" François asks.

"Yep." Arlo cracks the icy can open, pulls it towards his lips, "Seventeen."

"How come you never told me when your birthday was? I mean, we've been friends for how long now?" he begins to flip his fingers up.

Before he can finish counting with his hand, Arlo interrupts him, "Ten years Franco. Ten years."

"Gee. We're getting old."

Arlo gulps the fizzy drink, "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I just," Arlo tightens his grip on the can, "don't like celebrating it."

"It's alright, birthdays are overrated anyway." Franco breathes out, mist falls from his mouth. He notices that, behind his glasses, Arlo is staring at the night sky, an expression of grief in his eyes, "You okay?"

Arlo snaps away from his thoughts, "Yeah, yeah I'm good," he sniffles, the icy droplets of water seep from the soda can into his gloves, "what do you think happens, after we die?"

"Damn, you really are a psychopath." Franco laughs, scratches his head.

"I'm serious man, what do you think happens?"

Franco swings his legs off the edge of the rooftop, his shoelaces begin to flap, "Does it really matter what I think?"

Arlo looks away from the twinkling twilight sky, "Aren't you scared?"

"Of what? Dying?" against all the odds, Franco smiles, "Not really..."

For a moment, it feels as though Arlo's whole life has just been a series of existential crises, riddled with the ultimate fear of death, or rather, what comes after, "Have you ever thought about it?"

"I have..." Franco snatches the can from Arlo, and before taking a sip he asks, "but what's the point?"

Arlo watches his Adam's apple shift as he takes guzzles down his drink, "Of what?"

"Of thinking about something that you'll never really be able to know."

Arlo takes back the can, "Huh. I guess you're right."

"Of course, I am. When am I not?" Franco begins to climb down the ladder, "Come down, I got something to show you birthday boy."

Arlo follows, and as he opens the front door of his home, a small crowd of his closest friends cheer, "Happy Birthday!" some pop up from behind the sofa, some haven't even bothered to hide, but all of them have smiles on their faces.

With a shimmering party hat on her head, and streaks of grey strands visible, Azra walks towards Arlo and squeezes him tightly, Ede- Arlo's leather jacket brushes against her cheek, "It's time for you celebrate your own birthday my mountain, you deserve it," she says quietly.

And for the first time since he had turned five, Arlo finally believes that he does, "Okay," he whispers back, "did you do this?"

"No." she says, pointing back at Franco.

Arlo turns to his best friend, gives him a huge smile, one big enough to tell him
"thank you" without using his voice.

They spend the rest of the night dancing, singing. And at one point, Arlo's childhood crush, Jolie, kisses him on the cheek. He still hasn't stopped blushing. A cake with seventeen coloured candles sits on the dining table, and the crowd begins to surround Arlo. Each one begins to light up, and Azra the room becomes dim. They sing, and as they finish, Franco yells, "Make a wish!"

And this time, Arlo doesn't wish to see the Northern Lights, this time, Arlo wishes for something else as he eliminates the flames with one powerful blow, I wish to see him again, I hope he's happy, wherever he is.