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He had heard a story, as a child, of a boy who had flown too close to the sun and fallen to his death in the sea. It was how he saw his own life at the moment. He was drawn to his own Sun, the thing - the person - he had revolved around for most of his life. But he knew that if, when, he got too close, it would cause a catastrophic fall and be the end of him. Yet the Sun was so beautiful that he could not resist.
He had made his own wings to bring him closer to his personal Sun. He knew in his heart that they were weak things, with many flaws, but for a time, they gave him access to the sky, and took him higher. His flight was not without fear, and not without falls, but the beauty of that thing that drew him caused him to rise, time and again, ever pushing closer to his goal.
In one moment when those wings failed him and sent him spiraling, dreading that this would be the last, his Sun took notice. It beckoned him, encouraged him. He rose again, called by the warmth, lured by the beauty, pulled onward by the new familiarity. Closer he closer, drawn by the gravity. Those shaky wings brought him closer to the ruin that he knew had to await at the end. Not a burn or a fiery fall perhaps, but ruin nonetheless. An end to the dreams that he didn’t dare speak of. A death to the person who dared approach a God with such impure thoughts and feelings.
His confidence grew, and he forgot himself more and more often, forgetting to keep his distance, forgetting that the warmth was a trap, that the closer he climbed, the farther he would fall. He didn’t notice when he was past the point of no return, until a cloud briefly covered the Sun and caused him to doubt for an instant his welcome. Only then did he remember that his wings were ugly and false, not worthy of being near a God. There came a pain, a shock, and the realization that the feathers were coming undone. But it was too late, and he could no longer fling himself away for his own safety. Doom now assured, the only firmament that met his flailing hand was the person themself. He reached out, and his Sun reached back, took his hand, drew him still closer.
There was panic at first, the fear of the plummet bright in his mind, but when no fall came, it began to fade. But now, he feared the release, the moment when that offered hand would be withdrawn, when his hand would slip, when he would be cast away, now wingless. Helpless now, within the center of his orbit, but with nary a feather to be found.
Together they spun, a dazzling dance in the bright sky. He could see the glow, feel the heat, and his comfort grew. He felt he was reflecting the light, so bright was his companion in his eyes, so strong the glow that even one such as him might seem to be filled with it.
He began to revel in the dance, lost in the glow and the heat, his head dizzy and his body weightless, light spilling from his fingertips where they were tangled with the one who held him up. He spun closer and closer until at last the space between them was so small that even the light could not come between them.
And that is when the hand holding his let go.
Gasping, still spinning in sync but now free to fall, free to plummet back to the cold darkness. He instinctively thought of the wings he had built, and the sorry tatters they must be, melted by the warmth, darkened by the glory, rendered useless and broken at his back where the Sun could see how pitiful they were.
But it was not twisted, broken wings that spread from his shoulders, but glowing feathers of light, strong enough to carry him to the side of the one he had always sought. Strong enough to hold him there, to fly even higher, to extend his own hand down to his personal Sun.
He believed that the object of his desire had given him these new wings. He felt grateful, saved from falling by the person he so admired, as if he had any value to them, and was worth saving. He tried to spread those beautiful wings and carry his own weight, take the burden of the flight from the other and shoulder it himself, to keep from being a weight on them.
With every beat of his wings, his strokes came more surely, more naturally, like these wings were truly a part of him and not simply tools he had built himself from bits he had found. They felt wonderful to him. They felt right. As the Sun held his hand, he thanked them. Blessed them for gifting him these wings that they had made that were so superior to his own weak things.
But his Sun refused his thanks. No, they told him - I did not give you wings, I deserve no credit. The wings are your own, they said, and they have been there all this time, gleaming and lovely. It is I, said the Sun, who would bless your wings, for they brought you to me, to make me shine.
It was hard to believe for him who had felt held down so long by wings of wax, but the Sun illuminated everything, and he could finally see. Traces of wax on gleaming feathers, now melting away. Hints of the weak that once covered the strong, smudges of darkness, now burning away, that obscured the light.
See, said the Sun. See, beloved, how I have always seen you, glowing bright, calling me to come meet you. Your beautiful wings were your own all along, and your fear for your false wings only held you back. Let the wax melt, let the found feathers fall away, and fly with me forever.
And he wrapped his arms around the center of his universe, and they flew higher.