Work Text:
Martin leaves the reading of the will with shaking hands. He can see it, and he knows what it means: shock, but he can't feel it. He can't feel anything.
His father loved him; Martin has no doubt of that. A childhood full of laughter and books, of being lifted into the air and spun around, arms outstretched, you're an aeroplane, Martin! He thought his dad would live forever. He thought he could grow up to be an aeroplane, if he ate enough aluminum. Eventually he learned better, and set himself to the task of becoming the next best thing: a pilot. Anyone could be a pilot if they tried hard enough.
He knows better now. He's tried and tried and failed to become a pilot, the only thing he ever wanted (except before he was six), and his family has supported him, even through Dad's illness. But this is, this is as clear a message as has ever come from beyond a grave.
You'll never be a pilot, Martin. Give up. Start earning money, start your real life. It's hopeless. You're hopeless. Eating aluminum causes Alzheimer's and you will never fly.
He has some money saved, trying to scrape together the fees for his next flight test. He'll get the van painted over. He doesn't know anything about electricity, he can't do what his father did, but he can, he can move things for people, he'll be a man with a van. Icarus Removals--the man with a van and no hope.