Warnings: It's short and so are the guys.

Metamorphosis
by Miriam Heddy

     Paper was an interesting thing, wasn't it. Yes,yes it was. To all appearances, two surfaces, though of course, once you began to fold it, the practical implications of three dimensionality were in evidence,complicating the sharpness of the folds, making some just impossible outside the realm of the theoretical, influencing the design away from the purely aesthetic or aerodynamic and into the simpler, more practical questions Larry actually preferred. Will it fly? Fall? Fail? Probably. There were countless variables, and he preferred to test each plane assuming he knew nothing at all about the mechanics of flight, treating each one as the miracle it had been when he was ten and about as accomplished at it as he was now, actually.

The whole enterprise was an exercise in the pretence of precision, though Charles hated to admit it. Larry's own method of choice was to run his thumbnail over each crease, for no real reason beyond the satisfaction of it,the sound it made, the sense of purpose in the gesture that made it feel very much as if something real was riding on the experiment. Charles preferred the dull edge of a letter opener, a butter knife, something more explicitly tool-like, less tactile. Larry actually suspected that, if it were within the rules to do so, Charles wouldn't use paper at all but simply model the things on his computer, forgoing the messiness and unpredictability of human error,the way the folds were always just slightly flawed, the paper's smooth planes ruined by the faintest traces of grades inscribed on the wings, runnels visible only under the light,mostly Bs, which were a relief given that he sometimes wondered if he should give up teaching entirely, take Charles here as a remarkable, unsought-for gift, and be done with the rest. They were all a disappointment after Charles, really, he did have to admit that.

And then there was the blood, the cut clean enough that he barely even felt it, though the brown spot on the paper suggested it was deeper than most.

He drew his thumb to his lips and sucked on it until he couldn't taste it, and ignored the way Charles was looking at him, amusement plain, but no,no particular signs of desire there, not that he expected any, really. Flirtation, as Charles performed it, at least,somehow didn't really require it, though why that was remained a mystery given that there was chemistry between them,that ineffable something that often lifted his days with Charles from the merely ordinary into something almost sublime, then inevitably back into the ordinary again.

He aimed the finished plane at Charles' nose, then corrected for the updraft coming from the doorway, and Charles stared at him, eyebrows raised, mouth slightly open, as if not quite believing he was the target. And Larry let it go, pleased at the steadiness of his course, the way the narrow body skimmed a nearly straight line. The nose of the plane crumpled just a tiny bit as it made impact, missing Charles' face entirely and instead landing in his curls at a rakish angle. First Don and now Amita, interrupting, always interrupting, appearing in the doorway, which he should have thought to close, and perhaps lock. If they had any hope of winning this, they really would have to focus, stay the course, yes. Though Charles had turned at the last moment, a movement with no place in any computer model, though it was predictable nonetheless. The Wright Brothers, he was sure, must have suffered through similar distractions, though perhaps not actually similar after all, murder and ill-advised flirtations with graduate students being something of a specialty unique to Charles. Larry felt the smile on his own face stretch just a little tighter than was comfortable as Charles swatted the plane out of his hair, placing it on the desk more carefully than it deserved as he got up and went to the door.

Larry picked it up, seeing only minor damage, and sighted down it, imagining taking Amita out with a single, suicide run. He didn't, of course, instead smoothing his fingertips over the graph paper, noticing his hands were sweating slightly, the paper deforming under his touch.

He set the plane back down again, finding a clean sheet and concentrating on a new first fold,the one that would determine the rest of the design. And by the time he finished it, they were alone again, and Charles was back with him again, sitting on the edge of the desk, leaning over him, hovering as he pointed out his latest innovations, the hot air of Charles' endless criticisms offering more lift than he would have thought possible.

He might kiss Charles one day, he decided, not out of any belief that something would necessarily come of it, but because it would be interesting to try it. Not today, of course. No. Probably not today.

Charles stopped talking, as if he suddenly realized that Larry wasn't really listening. And when Larry glanced up at him, there was something that could, possibly, be desire in Charles' wide eyes, though it might just have been confusion as to why Larry's hands were covering his own, the plane trapped somewhere between them. And Larry wondered whether today wasn't as good as any day after all.

It was fascinating, really, the way that some planes would meet all the basic criteria for sound science and utterly refuse to fly, while others,abominations in terms of physics,would suddenly soar in defiance of any laws. Charles really hated that, he really did, but it was why grown men did this, was it not? The human touch,the minute variables that made each plane,and each moment of flight,unique, surprising, joyous, and entirely unpredictable.

—FIN—

 

Thanks to Kate for again flying the friendly skies.

© 2006

 

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