Altair could not sleep.
Which was, frankly, rude. His bed was perfect. His sheets were crisp, scented faintly of lavender. His pillows plump, his blanket divine. By all accounts, the universe ought to have delivered him into blissful dreams the moment he closed his eyes.
And yet—his mind refused silence.
Or rather, one person refused silence.
Cassian.
Tall, steady, infuriating Cassian.
Altair had known, of course, even as children. Cassian was destined to be an Alpha. The signs were painted across him as boldly as constellations: the way he stood unshaken during their quarrels, the way he carried himself with the weight of inevitability. Altair had always told himself he didn't care—had rolled his eyes, scoffed, mocked. But lying there now, staring into darkness, his chest buzzed with restless, traitorous awareness.
With a growl of frustration, Altair kicked off his blanket and stalked to the window. If sleep would not come, then the stars would suffice. The night sky always had, a vast theater above, waiting for him to whisper his secrets into its velvet folds.
He shoved the window open, cool air spilling in. The stars twinkled, distant, aloof. "At least you don't follow me around," Altair muttered to them.
And then—movement.
Altair froze.
Across the narrow strip of garden that separated their houses, another window creaked open.
Cassian.
For a moment they simply stared, two silhouettes framed in golden lamplight, the years between them collapsing into this ridiculous, inevitable symmetry.
Altair recovered first, of course. "Oh, wonderful. My insomnia has a face."
Cassian leaned casually against his windowsill, as if the night existed solely for his amusement. "You're loud for someone who can't sleep."
Altair huffed, resting his chin on his hand. "And you're presumptuous for someone invading my stargazing session."
"Invading?" Cassian's mouth curved slightly. "Funny. I've always thought this window was mine."
Altair squinted. "Possession of wood and glass is nine-tenths of delusion."
Cassian chuckled, the sound soft enough to tangle with the wind. "You haven't changed."
"Neither have you," Altair retorted, though quieter this time. His gaze flicked over Cassian—his sharper jawline, the steadiness in his shoulders, the faint shadow of adulthood settling over him. Time had not dulled Cassian; it had only refined him. And Altair hated it. Absolutely hated it.
"…So," Cassian said after a pause, "how have you been?"
Altair blinked, caught off guard. "What sort of absurdly mundane question is that?"
"A normal one."
"Since when are we normal?"
"Fair point," Cassian conceded. "But still—I'm asking."
Altair tilted his head, lips pursing. "I've been… radiant, obviously. Busy dazzling the masses, humiliating suitors, preserving the sanctity of my boredom. The usual."
Cassian's eyes glimmered with something suspiciously like fondness. "Sounds about right."
"And you?" Altair prodded, his tone arch as ever. "What did you do in the wilderness beyond Astralis? Wrestle bears? Count clouds? Bore everyone senseless with your rationality?"
Cassian smirked. "Studied. Trained. Learned to keep up with you."
Altair's chest gave a traitorous flutter. He masked it with a scoff. "Flattery will get you nowhere."
"Who said it was flattery?"
Their eyes locked across the narrow distance, silence thickening like velvet curtains. The stars blinked above, eavesdropping.
Altair broke it first, because of course he did. "You've grown taller," he accused.
"And you've grown sharper," Cassian countered.
Altair sniffed, pleased despite himself. "Naturally. One must hone their brilliance, or risk being dull like everyone else."
Cassian leaned his arms on the windowsill, studying him with maddening calm. "You've always been brilliant."
Altair faltered, caught between preen and protest. In the end he settled for rolling his eyes so hard he nearly saw his brain. "Careful, Cassian. Compliments from you might give me hives."
Cassian only smiled, quiet and knowing.
They talked like that for a long time. About school, about their families, about the strange ways the city had changed while staying exactly the same. Every sentence was laced with jabs, every answer sharpened into a blade—but beneath the bickering was something warmer, something almost… safe.
Altair found himself leaning more and more against the windowsill, his posture relaxing, his words softening despite his best efforts. The moon climbed higher. The night deepened. And still, their voices wove between the two houses, filling the space with something that had been missing for years.
At some point, Altair's eyelids began to betray him. They grew heavy, fluttering despite his determination.
Cassian noticed. Of course he did.
"You're falling asleep," Cassian murmured.
"I am not," Altair protested weakly, words slurred with exhaustion. "I am simply… resting my eyes… while formulating a scathing remark…"
But his head dipped lower, his cheek brushing against the cool frame of the window.
"Altair," Cassian said softly.
"Mhm?"
"…Goodnight."
Altair's lips curved into the faintest smile, though his eyes were already closed. "Unbearable," he mumbled, the word dissolving into the rhythm of sleep.
From across the way, Cassian watched him. The proud tilt of Altair's chin had softened, his sharp tongue silenced at last. The fox at rest, lulled into dreaming under starlight.
And for the first time in years, the night between their windows felt whole again.