Tybalt was randomly gifted creaky metal wings, but they’re wings, so he loves them. They’re maybe noisy, but they jet him across the sky just fine. Just maybe he won’t be able to sneak up on anyone tonight. Which is also just fine, for right now. He’s supported in their cool cocoon, staring up at stars he forgets to watch a lot. They’re blocked in Boston, by lights and by clouds. He’s lulled into a peace, remembering how many there are. But the peace is quickly broken. He props himself on his elbows, eyes twinkling like the comets themselves.

“Am I that good.” He shakes his head, faux-disappointed that it’s even a question. “You want a star?”