Work Text:
Sol slumped against his bathroom sink, arms trembling and knuckles white. The mirror in front showed glazed over brown hues staring right back at him. Sol tried to focus on that; on the reflection of reality before him and not the disturbing images and sensations flooding his brain.
He was here. He was standing in his bathroom, not scrambling about the HAT-1 shuttle. He was here. He was—
“I was alone… All alone, with nothing to listen to but the sound of my breathing and heartbeat.”
Radio down. Communication with home base could not be restored. Every sort of alarm went off in his mind; the oxygen was leaking, the power failed and none of the emergency protocols drilled into Sol’s head made any difference.
He scrambled about, making repairs here, making repairs there—damn! The windows aren’t going to hold; cracks spread through them like spider webs. No time to stare in horror. The control panel came lose—maybe if he can get it to work—
—Damn! He just fixed that! Hurry, he has to hurry… Oxygen’s getting thin…
Sweat dribbled down his forehead, dripping off his nose and stinging his eyes. No matter how deep he inhaled his head wouldn’t stop spinning. If his hands would stop shaking maybe he could catch up with the repairs.
How long had he been here? How many times did he repair that? Was he ever going to land?
Alone… he was alone. Sol’s only company was his pounding heartbeat; his erratic breathing.
Burning up; he was burning up. (The heat shield. It must be the heat shield.)
Ahh, that’s better. The freezer’s nice and cool.
The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and Clay felt as if nothing could bring him down. The young astronaut to be sauntered into the Cosmos Space Center with his head held high. As one of the two chosen for the HAT-2 mission Clay couldn’t have been any happier.
Well—there was one other thing that made Clay pretty happy. Just a few short weeks ago something amazing happened: The crush Clay harbored for his beloved idol and now mentor turned into something more. The young astronaut still wasn’t entirely convinced at times it actually happened. Maybe he’d go to give Sol a kiss and be greeted with a very confused astronaut, but once they were behind closed doors those thoughts were very quickly done away with.
As usual, he and Sol trained side-by-side. Every so often Clay would flash the seasoned astronaut a goofy grin, a cheery ‘tough day, huh,’ or—if he felt particularly daring (and he did)—a salacious wink. Their little interactions between throwing themselves into their work, whether training in zero gravity or being prodded by physicians to check their health, made Clay’s dream job all the sweeter.
Today, however, Sol hardly acknowledged Clay at all except to give his coworker one of Solomon Starbuck’s (in)famous sighs. Sol lagged behind in his exercises. More than once did Director Cosmos chastise Sol for spacing out, launching into another one of his tirades about the importance of the HAT-2 mission. He went on… and on… and on. Sol, rather than be encouraged, seemed to withdraw further into himself. It reached the point Cosmos dismissed them for an early lunch.
“Come back with your eyes aimed for the stars!”
He never noticed how Sol’s face went six shades paler nor how Sol dragged his feet on the way out. Clay, on the other hand, did.
He slowed his steps until he and Sol were side-by-side. Clay’s bright smile dissipated into a worried frown. “Everything okay?”
“Haaaaaaaangh… I’m fine,” he mumbled, rubbing at his tired eyes. “Let’s just get some lunch.”
Despite being unconvinced of Sol’s exact level of ‘fineness’, Clay nodded. “If you say so, let’s go.”
As they walked to the cafeteria, Clay swore he saw Sol roll his eyes.
All through lunch Clay talked non-stop about the HAT-2 mission, the new Doctor Who episode that Saturday and how excited he was about it, and about this mega weird but super cool thing he read about in the paper. He talked and talked and talked, mostly about the upcoming mission, not once minding Sol concentrating more on his food than the conversation. That was fine; maybe he was just hungry. Nevertheless, Clay could talk enough for the both of them.
“Hey, are you sure you’re okay?” Clay asked, again.
He never got an answer. Sol grabbed his tray and stalked off.
Stunned, Clay gawked as Sol disappeared from sight. “What’s his problem…?”
The rest of the day passed in relative silence. Clay continued to cast Sol concerned looks. Sol, in turn, continued to ignore Clay and grit his teeth when asked for a third time if he was all right. A snappy “Get back to work,” was all the acknowledgement Clay received.
By the end of the workday Sol wanted nothing more than to run home and lock all the doors. He hastily gathered his things from his locker and made his way to the parking lot.
He almost, almost made it to the exit when Clay caught up, hollering Sol’s name for all to hear as he bounded towards Sol.
“Sol, wait up—C’mon, I need to talk to you!”
Finally! Clay caught up with hands-on-his-hips, I’m-listening Sol. Too breathless to feel the full brunt of Sol’s glare, Clay was not, however, too breathless to feel the hurt of being completely snubbed for the entire day.
Straightening himself, Clay sucked in a breath before asking, “Did something happen? You’ve been acting strange all day. I’ve never seen Director Cosmos have to get on your case like he had to today.” His voice softened. Sol’s expression did not. “Are you sick, or something? Look, I know you’re excited for the mission—I am too!—but if you’re not feeling well, maybe you should take some time off? It’d be better than wearing yourself out and really getting sick. I’m sure the Director would understand if you just—”
“This really isn’t the place to have this kind of conversation,” Sol interrupted.
“Sorry, I—”
“I’m fine. I don’t need you constantly asking me otherwise.”
“Okay, it’s just—”
“I don’t want to hear it. Just let me be, okay? I’m fine; I don’t need you worrying about me all the time. Focus on yourself. Cosmos is going to get on your case too if you don’t stop goofing off on work hours. And stop yelling my name for the whole world to hear. Sol, Sol, Sol!—Cut it out, you’re not a kid anymore, it’s not funny, it’s not cute, it’s child—”
“I get it!”
That time people really did look. Passersby, simple civilians hoping to see the Space Museum, as well as one Director Cosmos and another Aura Blackquill turned their heads towards the noise. Clay barely noticed them between his shock Sol would say such a thing and his anger Sol would say such a thing. For once, he was quiet.
Finally, Sol thought wearily.
“I get it,” Clay said again, quieter this time. His face burned; he could feel eyes boring into the back of his skull, staring him and Sol down. The moment those words left his throat he wished he could take them back. Not only was it humiliating to shout like that in public but also horribly unprofessional; they had caused a scene where guests could see them. A stupid spat, right in front of everyone; the only thing missing was the overhead spotlight.
If Sol noticed the red tinge to Clay’s face and ears he didn’t show it. Instead he rubbed his eyes and sighed. Long and drawn out; a mix of irritated and defeated.
Sol said something Clay didn’t quite catch before leaving the scene. Then it was Clay’s turn to laugh it off, to rub the back of his neck and look only mildly embarrassed as to cover up his confusion. A few of the passersby whispered amongst themselves. Ducking his head, he left some seconds after Sol did, for once thankful his and Sol’s routes home did not intersect.
He left the Space Center so quickly he missed Aura coming up behind him to ask What the hell just happened? Probably for the better; the last thing Clay wanted was to have her laugh at him.
Space. Space, space, space, space—space.
Could Clay not talk about anything else?
Sol’s sense of reality ebbed and flowed during the work day. He felt his throat dry and his mind drift off to places; to seven years past when he did not know whether he would live to see Earth again. Clay did not know this; he remained ignorant of the damage done to Sol’s psyche because of the HAT-1 mission. Logically, no blame should fall on him. Innocence by ignorance, as they say; except ignorance didn’t help Sol’s current state.
He broke into a cold sweat six blocks from his apartment complex. Five blocks from it, the dry mouth returned. Three blocks left to go and Sol ducked into an alleyway to dry heave in peace. He just made it to his apartment when his lunch joined the party and his carpet needed to be replaced. How did some material stain yet hold no stench while other materials were so fantastically stain resistant but smelled horribly?
He trembled, scrambling to find his anti-anxiety pills. One or two, or three or four or five, pills would do the trick. Reality seemed to fall away; the only reminder he was not burning up in the Earth's atmosphere the rough texture of the carpet beneath his palms, rubbing raw his knees.
The cool tile was no better. It reminded him of the cold insides of the freezer; the smoothness, then the wetness as the shuttle heated to degrees once thought unimaginable. The pill bottle felt so slippery in his hands. Sol dropped it once, twice, curled up on the floor, eyes wide but unseeing, reliving those horrible moments in which he could no longer breathe, choking on his own fear.
Never once did Sol black out when returning to Earth. He had been awake for every Hellish moment of that trip home. Every second was ingrained into his memory; a nightmare he would never forget, that would seemingly haunt him for the remainder of his life.
For the first time since being selected for the HAT-2 Mission, Solomon Starbuck decided to back out of the program.
There would be no return to space.
Hours later Sol came to his apartment reeking of vomit and body odor. His medication lie beside him, still in reach. As the trembling had not yet subsided he gathered the pills and took two. Enough for a decent night's sleep to keep the night terrors at bay.
Slowly, he gathered himself, climbing to his feet to begin in cleaning his apartment, then himself.
Tonight he would spend alone.
Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Did he mention he was stupid?
Well, he is. Clay Terran is stupid, everybody.
Okay, so maybe he could be a little dense sometimes. Maybe he accidentally got onto Sol’s nerves without realizing. He didn’t try to; it was always an accident. Clay couldn’t help being excited over the HAT-2 mission. Sol had been his idol since childhood. Had been even more than that until just a few hours ago.
He felt like a child, getting scolded like that.
Aura would probably crack jokes about it tomorrow. Director Cosmos would—Clay didn’t know. Maybe give them a lecture about professionalism. Hopefully he would not try to force them into some trust exercise. Maybe he’ll calm down if I give him some space.
They had fought before. Nothing serious, just little squabbles. Sol had his bad days, though hell if Clay knew why.
Still, Sol hadn’t outright mocked him before, taking on that high-pitched squeal and crying “Sol, Sol, Sol!”
Huffing, Clay threw his jacket onto the couch, followed by his shirt, stripping on the way to the shower.
Maybe Apollo would know what to do. “Yeah, I’ll call him…” … Or maybe not, he said he’s been pretty busy with a case. I shouldn’t distract him.
Turning the water to a scalding degree, Clay sighed.
“Tomorrow,” he promised himself. “I’ll call Apollo tomorrow.”
In the end, Sol had to drag himself out of bed in the morning and Clay never told Apollo about what happened. The former simply refused to miss work while the latter did not want to get in the way of Apollo’s trial. Besides, Aura was plenty nosy enough for her and the brunet.
“So,” she said, folding her hands atop Clay’s head. She tucked them beneath her chin, her front pressed against his back. “Quite a show you gave us yesterday.”
Clay huffed. Nosy was definitely the right word for Aura. “It wasn’t a show.”
“Uhuh. What happened, anyways? Sol have another one of his bad days?”
“It’s nothing.”
“It didn’t sound like nothing.” Aura ruffled his hair and backed off. He turned to face her. “Whatever. If you two are going to mope around for the next few days, be my guests.”
Exasperated, Clay heaved a sigh. “Gee. Thanks, Aura. That’s very supportive of you.”
“Just don’t get into another spat in front of Cosmos. He talked to me about you two, you know. Said he planned on keeping a close eye on you and Sol, considering the sloppy performance recently.”
“My performance hasn’t been sloppy.”
“I know.”
“Great.”
“I know.”
When Clay shot her a scowl, Aura smirked.
It had been as Aura said: Cosmos stuck to him and Sol like glue, keeping a close eye on them both. Not just Sol, but he scrutinized Clay’s performance at well, several times chiding the younger trainee for losing focus.
They did not get an early lunch today. “To make up for yesterday,” Cosmos claimed.
Only once did the two meet eyes; Sol happened to look up to catch Clay staring at him.
Clay huffed and looked away.
They did not do it again.
Clay went to bed that night, hurt turning into anger, his phone turned off and hidden in his drawer (to forbid any temptation of texting Sol; it was clear where they stood currently). A second time he considered calling Apollo only to discard the thought. He had received a text earlier that day—a simple one, apologizing for being busy lately and promising that they could get together on the weekend.
Sol went to bed that night, pills in his belly and nothing else. He did not feel hungry; only tired, dimly aware he would wake in the morning feeling ill and completely unaware of the fact he did not eat dinner the night before. At least with the pills there was sleep. Quiet, dreamless sleep in which nightmares did not exist. There was no space and death looming around the corner.
The next day, one of these two did not go to work.
“He called in sick,” was all the other heard.
It happened a second time. Then a third. On the fourth day Clay walked into the Space Center and once again found himself the only HAT-2 astronaut who bothered to show up for work.
At lunch Aura commented she tried calling Sol only for him to not pick up. “I guess he’s really sick,” she mused aloud, giving Clay a not-so-subtle nudge. “Usually he’ll come in even if he looks like a beaten down dog.”
Clay squirmed where he sat. He opted to eat with Aura today, taking the floor next to her chair as—for whatever reason, and he dared not ask why—her other chair had been destroyed. With Clonco recharging Clay insisted it was fine; they would replace the broken chair later.
“So you two still haven’t made up? It’s been—what, a week?”
“Five days,” Clay answered dryly. He had since calmed down from the incident. He wasn’t happy with it, not by a long shot. Sol had no right to talk to him like that; to treat him like a little kid! But worry mingled in there. He hadn’t seen Sol ill before; usually the veteran would show up for work, rain or shine. It must have showed (or Aura was simply supremely perceptive) as the lavender haired engineer chimed in with:
“Maybe you should check on him. You know where he lives, right?”
Clay laughed, then, because she was so obvious.
“I’m serious, Space Boy. Or, whatever. Hope no one’s broken into his apartment and slit his throat in his sleep.”
“Aura!”
She shot him a look. He backed down, shaking his head. “Never mind.” He should not have expected anything less coming from the resident Blackquill.
They finished lunch in relative silence. Aura shot Clay a quick, "Don’t kill yourself, Space Boy," as he headed for the door. Clay responded with, "Don’t experiment on my corpse if I do."
“I make no promises!” she hollered. Clay’s laughter could be heard from all the way down the hall.
Sol rubbed his drooping eyelids, mind on the brink of consciousness, acutely aware of the rumbling of his stomach and the aches in his muscles. Groaning, he pushed himself off of the couch and stumbled into the kitchen. His movements were uncoordinated at worst and groggy at best. He’d just woken from a nap.
The stove clock helpfully reminded Sol another day had passed; another day he had not gone to work. He ought to give GYAXA a chance to pick another to accompany Clay to outer space. The Director seemed to believe Sol’s story—that he was sick, it was just a passing bug—for now, but he wouldn’t for much longer.
Sol slammed the refrigerator door shut. There was nothing good in there. He settled for a bowl of cereal and retreated to his couch. The TV was on. Had been since last night. The mind-numbing infomercials and reality shows kept Sol’s mind off the deafening silence.
As long as he stayed away from the Sci-Fi channel, anyways.
“Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaang…”
Staying inside did little to lift Sol’s mood. The anti-anxiety medication did even less; it left him lethargic, too tired to do anything but sleep. When he didn’t take his medicine the PTSD flashbacks threatened to overcome him completely; to swallow him whole, like a monster would its prey.
"I need to quit.”
His voice sounded foreign to him. Defeated, without an ounce of fight back left.
One call and it would be over. He already made up his mind, hadn’t he? It was too much. Putting the bowl aside Sol raked his hands through his hair. Pressed his palms to his eyes, furiously rubbing the lingering sleep from them. Going into space was once his dream. Now it was his nightmare.
The HAT-2 mission horrified him. The date was still a ways off; Sol had time to prepare himself, physically and mentally, but it never felt like enough. Panic attacks came more often. He would stow away in a restroom, locking the stall door and taking deep breaths, trying to calm himself before anyone saw. No one could know how deeply the HAT-1 mission affected him.
No one, especially not Clay.
Sol picked the bowl back up and finished off the rest of the cereal. Afterwards, the bowl went into the sink and he washed the dirty dishes accumulating in his kitchen. He could at least do something prior to throwing his life's work away.
They wouldn't understand. He didn't expect them to.
Not but thirteen minutes after reaffirming his decision to quit, someone knocked on his door.
Clay bounced on the soles of his feet while waiting. Rather than going to Apollo's for the night Clay shot the brunet an apologetic text before heading over to Sol's. Clay still had a key (Sol's spare, given to Clay in case of an emergency), but this time around he respected Sol enough to wait.
And wait.
And wait.
And wait...
"Sol?"
There was a muffled sound on the other side of the door. A moment later and it opened, revealing a fairly disheveled Sol with dark rings under his eyes.
"Clay." He sounded--wary, almost. It stung a little. Clay brushed the feeling away.
"I came to check in on you. Everyone's getting worried, you know. It's not like you to skip work, even if you're sick. Um--" He fidgeted, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Can I come in?"
After a moment's hesitation, Sol nodded.
Sol closed the door behind them without a word. Clay sauntered in as he always did; as if he owned the place, though his typically vibrant spirit felt as if it'd been left at the door.
"So you're feeling better?" Clay asked. "You don't—I mean, you don't look great, but from how the Director and Aura made it sound I thought you were—"
"I'm fine."
"Yeah, sure, sure."
Silence fell upon them again. Sol drifted over to the couch, inviting Clay to sit. His movements remained sluggish; Clay took notice, a crease forming on his brow.
"Have you been sleeping?"
Sol hummed absently. "Just fine."
“Then will you come back to work soon?” Clay shifted closer to Sol, closing some of the space between them—from frigid to friendly. “It’d be nice to have someone to talk to again during training.”
“The Director’s always there,” Sol pointed out.
“Yeah, but I like talking to you.”
Dead air filled the room.
So much for that sentiment, Clay thought with a cringe.
Sol rubbed his eyes. Clay would persist—he always persisted—until Sol told him the news. Better to do it now. Get it over quick, like ripping off a band aid.
“Clay,” it came out strained and tired, because he was; he did not have the energy to fight back through the PTSD flashbacks, the anxiety; the depression, “you can’t talk to me at work anymore, because I’m not going back to work.”
The information did not appear to get through Clay’s skull. The blank look told all.
“I’m quitting.”
The reaction was immediate: Clay’s eyes widened and he drew back. Eyebrows narrowed, now, as he scrutinized Sol’s expression for signs it was a joke. It was not.
Clay looked horrified. One would have thought Sol announced his upcoming and untimely death. “Why would you want to quit? You love space!”
Inevitable as the question was it was not one Sol prepared himself to answer. Stalling, the redhead rubbed his eyes. Clay had none of it and swatted his hands away. “Clay—”
“Don’t ‘Clay’ me. You were the one who inspired me to become an astronaut. If you’re going to—if you’re going to quit, I want to know why.” Expression softening, Clay spoke again. “I can tell something’s wrong. Something’s… been wrong, hasn’t it?” He’d seen the shaky hands. Sol’s unexplained tiredness, chalked up to a hard day at work. Sol forgetting little things; Clay remembered each instance though he only ever blamed long days at work. Who doesn’t forget a thing or two? And who doesn’t have a bad day every now and then, when they push others away? He never thought much of it, but now…
What Clay once chalked up to as minutiae of Sol was now associated with symptoms of something bigger. And, if the expression Sol wore was any indication, he was right.
“Sol?”
The red haired male sucked in a breath. When he exhaled words came with it, unbidden, with minds of their own.
“I can’t do it.” The first admission, leading to others; leading to the first panic attack he ever had in front of Clay. The spacious apartment disappeared, replaced by cramped quarters with so very little air.
For a terrifying moment Sol returned to the HAT-1 rocket until strong hands gripped his shoulders and squeezed hard, strong enough to momentarily jar Sol from the PTSD-induced flashback. He looked up at Clay with wide eyes, only dimly aware of Clay panicking over him.
When—when had he gotten here, he—
He didn’t—
…
Once Sol calmed from the panic attack that had ensued Clay and Sol laid side-by-side on the latter’s bed. Clay had moved Sol there with little difficulty; the attack left Sol’s legs weak yet his grip had not been diminished as he clung to Clay as though his life depended on it. Clay helped immensely by anchoring Sol to reality. He called the redhead’s attention to the feel of the sheets; to the hands on his shoulders, his back, helping him onto the bed—yes, the bed, which was real and there.
In return all Clay asked for was an explanation. Sol (once the attack subsided) gave it to him.
Clay listened to it all; to the frustrated admissions, the drawn-out weary sighs, the self-depreciation thrown in for reasons Clay couldn’t possibly understand. His heart went out to his mentor, his idol, his lover—how brave Sol had been to face the HAT-2 mission despite his fears.
The only time Clay interrupted was when Sol went back to saying he had to quit, that he was “incapable of going back into space.”
“Of course you’re capable!” Clay exclaimed, propping himself onto his elbows so his face was angled above Sol’s, only inches between them. “You’re Solomon Starbuck, remember?”
A shudder racked his body. Yes, unfortunately, he did.
“I know you’re afraid, but you can get through this.”
“I’ve tried. For months, I’ve tried.” Sol rubbed his temples, fixating his gaze on the ceiling. “I’m afraid of going into work. I can’t breathe, it gets so bad.” Hiding it always made the episodes worse. Clay remained undeterred.
“Don’t you want to go back into space?”
Sol sucked in a breath before answering.
“Not—not if it happens again.”
“It won’t.”
Exasperated, Sol asked, “How do you know?”
“Because I’ll be there,” Clay answered. “You’re not going to be alone. Whatever happens, we’ll handle it. Together.”
He hooked his left leg around Sol’s right, draping his left arm over Sol’s chest. Not pinning him down, just there; a comforting weight. “If I believed you really didn’t want to go to space, I’d understand, but I know that’s not the case. I’ve heard the way you talked about space! It’s this vast, untouched frontier—and we get to go there and see it for ourselves!
“You were the one who said to me, and I quote, ‘this new mission is a dream come true for me.’”
“I should have said nightmare.”
Clay frowned.
“You’ll regret it if you quit now. Even if you’re afraid, you still love space.”
His hand slid up Sol’s chest and neck, cupping his cheek.
“I love you, you know that? You’re afraid now but that doesn’t mean it’s over for you. If you quit, though, and they find a replacement—you’ll have lost your chance to do it again, to do it right, and who knows when the next mission will be?”
He sighed, a sad smile finding its way to his face.
Beneath him, Sol shifted, reaching up a hand to run his fingers through Clay’s hair. Unconvinced but thoughtful, Sol’s eyes focused on Clay’s mouth rather than his eyes.
“I believe in you,” Clay murmured. “So don’t be ashamed, or embarrassed, and don’t hide it. It’s okay to be afraid. And… if it really is too much, and you still don’t want to go back up, I’ll support you. Just think on it, okay?”
“I don’t know why you’re doing this,” Sol admitted, hesitating now. “I’m just some washed up astronaut. You can still do it. You’re young and smart. You don’t need me.”
“Didn’t I already tell you?” Clay did his best to sound exasperated. “Guess I’ll have to remind you.”
The next time Sol opened his mouth Clay quieted him with a kiss.
Later that night, with Clay’s warmth behind him and arms wrapped around his midsection, Sol laid in bed and, for the first time in the past few days, found himself no longer (for the time being) in dire need of the anxiety pills.
Clay shifted and nuzzled his face against Sol’s shoulder. He sighed, content. “… I really do believe in you,” he mumbled, lips moving against skin. “You always believed in me, even when I doubted myself. I mean, who would pick me, of all people, to be an astronaut? There are better candidates out there.”
“You worked hard,” Sol answered. He closed his eyes, careful not to fall asleep too soon. “You deserve your spot on the shuttle.”
“I was making a point, old man.”
“Mhm.”
“And I think it says something about you. That you’ve made it this far into training.”
Sol stifled a groan. “Clay—”
“No, hear me out. You love space more than anyone—more than me! I think that’s stronger than any fear. The fact you’ve made it so far proves it.”
Clay kissed Sol’s shoulder, apologetic. “Sorry. I just... wanted to let you know.”
“Thank you.”
“G’night, Sol.”
“Good night, Clay.”
That night, when Sol closed his eyes, Clay’s presence stayed with him.
There will always be those bad days, Sol reminded himself. He couldn’t always avoid them. He could, however, work past them.
Two days later, after what felt like forever holed up in his home, Sol returned to work.
Clay had asked him, “Are you sure?” and he’d nodded, flashing Clay one of his winning smiles.
(If only Clay could see his own smile right about then; it reminded Sol of—and Sol knew Clay would appreciate this comparison—a shining star.)
“… ‘Cause you know what?”
Oops. Sol spaced out for a minute there. (Hoo boy. ‘Space’d.)
“You’re fine.”