Oblivious to Hawkeye's plight, Phil takes a moment to feel out the new pace, but falls into it as easily as kingfishers and loons into water. They sway together; they glide. They weave patterns over the floor. The man wasn't lying when he said he had magic feet. He hasn't had a dance this good since Henry. Hawk will follow him wherever he goes, and Phil will do the same. He wants to give him a good night.

Phil keeps singing, and he lets himself get lost in the movement of it. He tugs the two of them along with the swells and syllables as they turn and lean. The song repeats its lovely chorus twice. The first one goes by, but in the lead-up to the second, he brings them towards the middle of the room where they'll have room, and his voice closes in,

and like a gull catches an updraft over the sea and is cast upwards into a heavenly arc, an arrow of white in endless blue, his voice soars to that soft and high place as he dips Hawkeye. His hold is secure, his eyes crinkling at the edges with what tender gaze he gives him. His wings spread behind him for balance, mantled in a sodium-orange glow.