Chapter Text
Bobby walked down the bustling street, filled, as always, with people and birds. They were paired off together—a woman with an owl perched on her shoulder, a man with a songbird fluttering by his side, a child with some type of shorebird scuttling closely behind them. They were their Aves, the manifestation of a piece of one’s soul in the form of a bird.
Bobby walked alone though, with no such companion, and he only had one month left to live because of it.
No one is born with an Aves. The bird comes to you at a random time in your life—for most people, in their childhood. The unfortunate truth was that you could only live so long while missing a piece of your soul. If your Aves didn’t show up by the time you turned 25, you died a peaceful death.
Bobby’s 25th birthday was on June 20th. It was May 19th.
He crossed the busy street of Seattle at a jog, and he reached the building he was looking for. He could hear the unique and intrinsically beautiful song of the Wood Thrush from outside the door, and it came to halt when he knocked.
The front door opened, and the Wood Thrush was perched on Joe’s shoulder, as it often was. It was a cute bird, with light reddish brown on its head and back, its belly white with darker brown spots, and about the same size as a robin.
Joe gave a kind enough smile, but Bobby knew what was going through his mind to see him again—it was what went through everyone’s mind when they looked at him nowadays. “Hey, Bobby. Come in.”
“Bobby!” Joyce strolled in from the other room, a flash of bright yellow speeding past her. Her Prothonotary Warbler landed on a lamp near the two men, giving a soft chirp until Bobby offered out his hand, for the bird to jump down and use as a perch. For never having his own Aves, he was used to his friends’ birds swarming him for attention.
“Hi Joyce, hi Lemon,” he said to the bird, tilting its little head back and forth to inspect him. The warbler was almost entirely a bright yellow, except for its wings and back, which were a deep olive green.
Joyce came over to hug him, her smile wonderfully bright—a nice change of pace from the looks Bobby was growing used to. “How were your parents?”
“Ah,” Bobby sighed, waving his free hand. “Only as good as you can be in this situation, I suppose. Ma keeps insisting I return home next month for the big day. But I’m still personally partial to disappearing out into the woods, like a stray cat. Or maybe getting pushed out to sea in a shell, like a viking funeral. I bet I could even convince Ulbrickson and Mr. Pocock to give me the Husky Clipper , she’s so old now.”
“We’re just jumping right into this, huh?” Joe asked casually enough.
Bobby shrugged. “Might as well. It’s one of the few perks—how many people get to decide where they’ll die?”
Joe sighed tiredly, and Joyce looked between them.
“Let’s get lunch,” she announced, and Lemon fluttered over to her shoulder as she walked to the front door.
It was a nice day outside, so they sat in the patio of the restaurant, watching as people walked by, the calls and chirps of their Aves making the streets feel extra alive. Joe and Joyce’s birds perched on the extra chair at their table, next to each other—the thrush was calmer, and the smaller warbler was more energetic, hopping around the back of the chair, scooting closer to the thrush only to spot something new and curiously hop away to inspect.
Bobby enjoyed watching them. It was a strange regret to have, but more than he expected to, he wished he could have known what type of bird his Aves would have been. It was a curiosity he’d have to die with.
“You just got back this morning, right? Have you seen Chuck and Roger yet?” Joyce asked.
Bobby nodded. “I dropped my stuff off at theirs before coming over here. I figure I’ll stay there for a week or so, then maybe hop over to yours, if you still don’t mind.”
“Of course not, Bobby,” Joyce said, Joe nodding in agreement.
Bobby had never bothered getting a place of his own. After graduating and winning at the Olympics, he spent a year traveling the world. The older he got without an Aves, with the sense of a ticking clock looming, he knew he didn’t want to live with any regrets, or at least as few as possible. It was why he pursued college, and specifically coxing, his true passion in life—he did it with the intention to be the best, and they’d done it. With that dream accomplished, he figured seeing the world before his time was up wouldn’t be such a bad idea. And if the hopes of the off chance that his Aves had just gotten lost on the wrong continent that he could stumble upon in his final years had crossed his mind—well, he’d disregarded it. It’d been a foolish hope anyway.
The year of traveling had been incredible, and he saw more beauties and wonders of the world than he ever used to think he would, but it had been a long time away from home. He missed his family, his friends, and rowing. For as much as he’d wanted adventure, once that craving was satiated, he discovered that for his last year of life, he instead wanted comfort.
He approached Ulbrickson, who was happy to have him as an assistant coach for the year. He was provided with housing through the university, and he enjoyed getting to experience teaching and encouraging the next generation of great rowers. Happy with the season they had, when final exams ended in early May, he moved out of the university housing. He went to stay with his parents for a week, but he wanted to come back to Seattle. Chuck and Roger had offered their couch, and Joe and Joyce did as well. He figured he could couch hop between them for the last month of his life, if he didn’t decide to also go to visit the guys who’d moved out of Seattle. Well, most of them, at least.
As if reading his thoughts, Joyce said, “I was thinking, would you be interested in a reunion with the crew here in Seattle? Might be easier on you than traveling anymore. I’d be happy to reach out to everyone and arrange it. You guys could even go out on the lake, row again.”
Bobby gave a small smile, but it faded quickly and he looked down at his glass of water. “Might not be full shell, and it’d be hard to row without a stroke.”
Joe set down the fork in his hand, looking at Bobby, a combination of aghast and offended. “He would show up, Bobby.”
Bobby’s heart stung, and he tried to ignore the lump forming in his throat as he gave a small shake of his head. “I wouldn't blame him if he didn't.”
“Of course he would! Of course he would want to see you before you fucking—” Joe’s voice cut off after it’d started to raise. He looked away, lowering his head—the Wood Thrush fluttered over to his shoulder, the warbler to his wrist. Joyce reached over to take his hand.
Bobby took in a shaky breath. Sometimes he felt guilty for being friends with Joe at all. He knew Joe had already had to face so much death in his youth; it felt cruel that the world put in him a boat with someone who was going to be leaving soon, too.
“You’re probably right, Joe,” Bobby said, clearing his throat, taking a sip of water. “Maybe it’d be nice.”
Joyce gave him a gentle smile. “Why don’t you think about it for a couple days and let me know? It’s whatever you want, Bobby. We’ll make sure it happens in time.”
He nodded. “Thanks.”
~
Bobby spent most of the day with the couple, saying goodbye just before the sun was setting, and he returned to Chuck and Roger’s. With a turn of the key, he stepped inside to the incessant cawing that he was trying to get used to as a welcome home.
Chuck stepped into view from the kitchen to greet Bobby. “Oh hey, you beat Rodge home. How’re Joe and Joyce?”
“Good, I think. I mean, I make everyone depressed nowadays, so it can be hard to tell,” Bobby said, groaning as he sat onto the couch.
He looked over at the Blue Jay that was on the end table, giving a final mechanical-like caw at him. He reached over, petting its crest down over its head until it pecked at his finger.
“I’m sure they were glad to see you,” Chuck responded.
“I know, but it came up, and Joe just…ugh, I just wish this wasn’t so hard on everyone else. Maybe I should have never come home after the Olympics,” Bobby said, resting his head against the back of the couch.
“We never would have forgiven you for that,” Chuck said, stepping out into the room. He exhaled as a whistle. “You sure you don’t want a drink? You look like you could use one.”
Bobby shook his head, bringing his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “It’s tempting, but no, I’m okay. I intend to be clear-headed for the rest of my limited existence.”
“Your call,” Chuck said with a shrug, turning back around. “I’ll grab you a water, at least.”
Bobby hummed an acknowledgement of thanks. Chuck had barely disappeared into the kitchen when his Blue Jay started up cawing loudly again.
“Sparky, what the—” Bobby started, but the sound of the key turning in the lock told him that the bird was just excited for Roger’s return home.
As soon as the door opened, an impressively fast blur whooshed past. Sparky leaped into the air in time to collide with the other bird, both of them squawking intensely as they danced around each other in flight.
“Hey Bobby,” Roger greeted, voice calm as ever despite the racket.
“Jesus, they really do this every time you come home?” Bobby asked, watching the tangle of talons and feathers, never hurting one another, but demanding each other’s attention, eager to play-fight.
Roger chuckled fondly. “Yeah. Stub once said that in nature they’d be enemies, but that doesn’t really matter for Aves.” He then whistled, tilting his head in a gesture. “Apollo, come here, I think you’re giving Bobby a headache.”
The American Kestrel, a tiny falcon the same size as the jay, broke away from Sparky, and in a swift swooping flight, he landed onto Roger’s shoulder. It was a beautiful bird, a blend of deep blue, brown and tan, covered in speckles throughout. Its gaze was intense, its head shifting to pick up new details around it.
Sparky gave another caw before taking flight again, over to where Chuck was returning from the kitchen, landing on his arm.
“Hi, baby,” Chuck greeted, stepping over to Roger after setting down the drinks he’d brought out.
“Hi,” Roger murmured before they kissed.
Bobby felt shy at their affection. Except for Joe already dating Joyce, none of the crew had fallen into relationships until after the Olympics. Bobby was, of course, happy for his friends who’d gotten together since he’d been away, but it was still something he was getting used to. And something he tried not to be deeply jealous of—it would be hypocritical. He’d made the choice he did two years ago.
“Have I missed much?” Roger asked.
“Nah, I was just telling Chuck about how I upset Joe at lunch,” Bobby said, returning to the couch.
Roger furrowed his brow, and Chuck elaborated, “Just about the situation. Bobby didn’t actually do anything wrong.”
“I dunno if that’s true. Joyce suggested a reunion of the crew, before the big day. I don’t think I was as excited at the idea as I should be,” Bobby said, grabbing the drink off the end table to have something else to focus on.
The couple settled onto the loveseat next to the couch, their birds fluttering off deeper into the apartment.
“A reunion would be nice,” Roger said. “I mean, hell, when was the last time we were all together? The Olympics? That can’t be right.”
“It is. A few of the guys had moved out of the state by the time Bobby got back,” Chuck said.
“One definitely had,” Bobby muttered.
“Oh, that’s why you’re being weird about a reunion,” Chuck said.
Roger furrowed his brow again, looking between Bobby and his boyfriend. “Wait, Bobby, were you not planning to see Don before—”
Bobby set the glass down, shaking his head. “I don’t want to talk about this. Joyce said I could think about it for a couple days, and I will.”
Chuck studied him for a moment, before saying, “You know, it might not come down to Joyce, or even you. Don knows—he could just show up.”
Bobby’s heart skipped a beat at the idea. The thought had occurred to him already—of course it had. It would be a lie to claim he didn’t spend everyday secretly wishing that Don arrive at his doorstep, just to lay his eyes on him again. But if Don was going to see him before it was too late, he sure was deciding to cut it close. And Bobby really wouldn’t resent him if he just wanted to stay away.
Bobby shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant on the matter, even if his friends would know better. “Maybe. But I can’t hope for that anymore than I can for an Aves at this point, so I’m not holding my breath.”
~
The sound of waves crashing was the first sensation Bobby experienced. His head hurt, and when he shifted, he felt the graininess of wet sand sticking to his skin. The waves crashed again, and this one rose up high enough to hit his legs with the salty water.
Dazed, Bobby groaned, rubbing the back of his neck, trying to wipe off the sand, but his hand was covered in it, too.
He opened his eyes, squinting in the sunlight; his vision was blurred at first. But once his eyes adjusted and focused, he jumped at the sight in front of him. “Jesus Christ!”
A large black bird stood over him, peering down at his face. What it was, exactly, he had no idea. It was mostly black, except for some orange around its beak and eyes, which were themselves a fierce, teal blue unlike anything he’d ever seen in a bird. It also had two tufts on either side of its head, wispy and easily blowing in the wind as it tilted its head in inspection of Bobby.
The bird opened its beak, and it talked .
“Not quite,” it responded, then let out a deep cackle, as if laughing at the joke it’d just made.
“What the hell is going on?” Bobby said, sitting up, gaze wandering over the surrounding area, but there was nothing but sand, ocean, and more birds scattered about. “Where—how?”
“Relax, it’s a dream,” the bird said, taking a step back to give Bobby some space.
Bobby furrowed his brow, looking down at his hands, and they grew blurry—
“Hey, no!” the bird snapped, giving another short grunt. “Don’t let the self-awareness pull you out of it. This is important.”
Bobby drew in a sharp breath, and his eyes refocused as they returned to the bird. The bird . That was talking to him. His heart fell to the pit of his stomach, and he felt something close to dread, because this had to be a joke.
“Don’t tell me. You’re not, you can’t be—” Bobby said the words, but even he couldn’t deny it, the longer he stared at the bird. It didn’t say anything, but simply waited for him to process the undeniable truth.
It was his Aves.
“What—where the fuck have you been my whole life, you fucking bastard? Hell, where are you now, if this is only a dream?! I don’t exactly have much time left!” Bobby exclaimed, his heart racing.
“It’s not ideal; trust me, I know,” the bird said with a huff, shaking its head. “And it’s still not going to be—I’m reaching out to you this way for good reason.”
Bobby stared at the bird, the sinking feeling in his stomach making him want to puke. “Why?”
The bird’s webbed feet padded in the sand as it stepped closer to him. Its blue eyes stared at him intensely. “If you and I are going to make it, we’re going to have to do things a little different. I’m going to need you to meet me halfway.”
Bobby scoffed, he nearly choked on the air. He threw up his hands in frustration. “What the fuck do you mean? Just fly to Seattle, you piece of shit! Can’t you just—whoa!”
He startled when the bird suddenly hopped onto his lap—surprisingly light for its size, and it smelled of the salty ocean water.
It tilted its head back and forth as it spoke, as if studying Bobby. “We’re in a precarious situation—it’s not so easy for me to fly to the west coast.”
“Why—why not?” Bobby asked, confused.
“You and I aren’t so dissimilar,” the bird said. “We were both stunted in our youths.”
Bobby’s eyes blew wide at the accusation, because how the fuck did a bird know about what happened in his childhood? But his Aves, still balanced in his lap, stretched out its wings to demonstrate. One extended, long and full, perfect sleek black feathers. The other barely reached half the span.
“I’m not the best flier,” the bird said snarkily. “I’m a better swimmer.”
Bobby chewed on his lip, looking out across the horizon, and he tried to ignore the tears stinging at his eyes. This was so unfair. It wasn’t right. Half of the time he wondered if his near death experience was why he never had an Aves—if he wasn’t supposed to have survived at all, and that was why a piece of his soul had just never shown up. But now he had one—and it still came back to that. He was so fucked up, even the purest part of his soul was broken in some way.
He brought his hands up to his face, lying back down onto his back in the sand, not caring that the waves were reaching higher, up to his waist. “This is so fucked.”
“Really?” the bird grunted, hopping down from Bobby’s lap to walk closer to his head. “You’re Bobby Moch , and you’re giving up this easily?”
“Don’t ‘Bobby Moch’ me! I’ve been coming to terms with my inevitable death for the better half of my adult life. Maybe I’m ready to embrace it. Maybe I’ll ignore this dream and just die,” Bobby spat, moving his hands away to glare at the bird.
It shook its head. “You won’t.”
“Why not?”
It almost seemed to smirk at him. “ Because you don’t want to .”
Bobby drew in a breath, his hands turned to fists. He looked up at the sky, and he screamed. It was a dream, it didn’t matter—he shouted louder than the crashing of the waves.
And then he stopped. Looked at the damn bird.
“Okay. What do I have to do?”
The bird looked pleased. “I’m faster if I stay by water—and I’m in the gulf now, in reality. I’ll go up The River—you can meet me there.”
The ocean waves crashed higher—they nearly picked up and swept away the bird, but he fluttered his wings, staying on the sand as it receded.
“What—what river?”
Another wave, this one reaching all the way to Bobby’s chest, nearly his shoulders. It was deeper too, and the waves were starting to crash more frequently.
“I should go,” the bird said, fluttering into the wave on purpose this time. “I’ll contact you again. I know our time is limited, but you must still sleep; for now I can only reach you in dreams.”
“But what river? There are so many rivers in this country, wait, wait —”
A surging wave crashed over him entirely, submerging him into the dark water. He hadn’t taken a breath first, and he immediately felt disoriented, unable to find his way back to the surface. He couldn’t breathe, the bird was gone, it was so dark—
Bobby sat up with a jostle, gasping for breaths, all too shallow. He was having an asthma attack.
It was dark outside, the middle of the night, and he sat up on the couch, still gasping uselessly, padding at the table to find his inhaler. He realized as he grabbed it that he must have caught the attention of the birds of the house, because both the jay and kestrel were squawking loudly.
The light turned on, and Chuck and Roger came rushing out of their bedroom.
“Bobby, you okay?” Chuck asked, sitting down next to him.
Bobby coughed after using the inhaler, but it’d done its job, and he could breathe properly again. But he barely registered his friends’ words, he was so overwhelmed by the dream. His heart was racing, pounding in his ears, and he stared at the two birds sitting on the table in front of him, staring in return.
He could hear Chuck and Roger still talking, even felt Chuck’s hand go to his arm, holding his wrist—maybe checking his pulse—but he couldn’t take in their words, he couldn’t get himself to speak.
Everything he thought to be true was wrong. Everything he had accepted about his fate was now up in the air again. His Aves was out there. If he could find it, he could live. He could live .
Or what if he was just crazy? An Aves was supposed to show up in real life, not appear as a taunt in a dream. Maybe his brain was just creating hopeful hallucinations as a final, cruel joke in his final days.
“He’s exhibiting shock, I’m not sure what happened—”
“Do we need to get him to a doctor or something?”
“I am a doctor!”
“You’re still in med school!”
“That’s close enough, I—”
“Guys, I’m—” Bobby managed to say, but his voice cut off. He was going to say ‘fine’, but well. He wasn’t sure he was fine. He corrected himself, “I don’t need a doctor.”
“What happened?” Chuck said, his fingers still on Bobby’s pulse.
“Umm…I have an important question for you both, because maybe…maybe I’m just finally losing my mind. Maybe it’s like the first step to this dying thing that I wasn’t aware of,” Bobby said, giving a humorless laugh.
“What is it?” Roger asked. He’d stayed standing in front of them, looking ready to move at the moment’s notice of anyone needing anything.
“Can, umm…can your Aves talk to you, in your dreams?” Bobby asked.
Chuck and Roger exchanged a glance—Bobby couldn’t read their expressions, and his heart pounded in his chest in the seconds it took them to respond.
“Yeah,” Chuck said plainly, and Roger nodded in agreement.
Bobby took a shaky breath. Okay, so he wasn’t crazy. But that meant…
He looked between his friends. “I just met my Aves.”