I wake Tegan up at one in the morning. I haven't slept all night, but she went to bed at nine- it is a school night, after all, as she grumpily reminds me.
'One in the morning is nothing.' I tell her. It's early, anyways, and we both know this. I have a gift for giving the small things more hype than they deserve. But it's what brings me- or really, both of us- immense joy.
So we continue, popping popcorn at one in the morning to the scorn of our parents, gathering heavy woolen blankets and piling them at the door, and finally dressing in clothes that are not warm but comfortable- I wear three layers of socks, two layers of fleece pajamas. I wear my shark covered hoodie, a gift from Tegan, and she laughs and runs up stairs to retrieve her planet themed socks- a gift from me. We hate each other's interests to the point of pure enjoyment.
Then we hike. I carry more than her, and it weighs me down, but I put on a show of balancing two blankets on my head, one under my arm. Tegan carries just one and doesn't comment on my dedication, but sometimes she laughs so I know she's showing at least a little bit of appreciation.
It's not so much a hike as a walk, but we like to call it an expedition. We're always talking about 'journeying to the store' or 'questing to downtown'. So to climb the grassy hill down the road from the fields surrounding our house?
That's an expedition for sure.
We spread the blankets, and then pile them, curling up until we're both ridiculously overheated but unwilling to admit to such weakness.
The stars are bright now, clear and everywhere, as purple and busy and chaotic as they've always been. They're what drove me to this life of expeditions in the first place, and in careful dots of glowing paint, I've charted them across my bedroom's ceiling.
The popcorn lies between us on the ever wet grass, and we're half way through before anything begins to happen. I don't let myself doze- instead, I speak to Tegan of Cepheus and Pegasus, the Latin blissfully unknown to my tongue.
Then a star falls. And then another, and another, and I am at once too caught up in what I see to remember to wake Tegan up-
And nothing changes then, because even with her awake, neither of us speaks or even dares to breathe, the silence of the early morning night almost paling to the invisible sounds of the occasional and prized streak of light.
And the stars continue to fall.
And then I look at Tegan again, and I realize this is not a memory, for she is as old as she'll ever be, and so I am I, and for once in our lives we're not divided by anything more than what memories the living hold of us-
And then I cough water into my lungs again.
And I realize I've never been creative enough to dream.