That hurt them both, so much, in so many ways. Every time he visited they'd sit together and Futch would massage those withered muscles, flexing the wings gently as Chaco bitched in his newly cracked voice and scratched at the bed with those huge clawed toes. Bright's muscle liniment could only do so much, though, and even though the wings moved freely once Futch was done Chaco couldn't fly on them any more.

But Futch kept trying. He had to. His thumbs stroked along the ribs of Chaco's wings and his fingers brushed over the tattered pennants and sometimes Chaco would catch his breath and sometimes Futch would, but that was all, these days.

Forty-five came and went, and fifty drew near. Futch's hair was entirely silver, and Chaco's was a dirty white; he walked with difficulty and breathed hard, but always found the energy to tease Futch, or just to complain about how lousy getting old was.

And then there came that morning that Chaco fell down, clawing at his chest, and couldn't stand back up. By the time that Futch reached him Chaco couldn't talk, but his eyes were feverishly bright, and his gnarled fingers clutched weakly at Futch's shirt.

"I know," Futch said, bundling the dying Winger up in his arms (so light, he was so light, like a dried seedpod). "I know what you're asking for. Just... hang on."

And Chaco did, all the way to the outskirts of town, where Futch whistled for Bright, so big and white and beautiful, big enough for seven men to ride. "I can finally return the favor, it looks like," Futch whispered.

And with an ear-splitting screech Bright exploded into the air, and they flew towards the rising sun.