Archive of Our Own

It wasn’t obvious that Shōyō Hinata was an alien from another galaxy. However, he was, in fact, not from Earth, the Solar System, or the rustic, spiral galaxy rotating along in this- frankly, quite desolate- quadrant of the universe. At best, he was a neighbor from the Andromeda Galaxy, although 2.5 million light years was being generous with the term “neighbor.” Even with the faster-than-light transit relays for ships and FTL engines employed by the more social galaxies of the Messier Galactic Group, it had taken him over a full Earth year to reach the backwater planet.

Looking up from the light-polluted surface of the annoyingly perfect planet as he was doing now always reminded Shōyō how far from home he really was. He squinted into the night sky, as if it would help him locate his home galaxy which was supposed to be visible from the surface. When he failed to find it, he turned to his human partner who was so intent on their shared task that his whole face was scrunched tight into a stellar frown. Shōyō grinned.

“It’s not that important,” the alien chuckled, rubbing his own tired eyes and brushing the long orange waves of his bangs from them in the process. “Don’t give yourself a headache.”

The young man beside him turned his intense blue-eyed gaze from the sky. “It’s important,” he insisted, his voice short and sharp. Where at first he had been intimidated by Tobio Kageyama’s brusque manner of speech, Shōyō had grown familiar enough to understand the heart of Tobio’s often poorly communicated sentiments. His grin grew so wide he thought his cheeks might crack.

“It means a lot to me that you’re trying so hard,” he said, which was rewarded with a small huff from the other young man that signaled his reluctant pleasure at the acknowledgment. After several years on Earth, Shōyō was fairly certain that his first and best Earth friend was unique amongst their friends in his difficulty relaying emotion. Within his first day on Earth, the alien had been surprised to learn that humans could only share their thoughts and feelings with spoken words. Being of a species in which sharing feelings was innate amongst the group collective mind created an emptiness that he had worried would never be filled until he returned home.

It happened that, several days after his arrival, Shōyō met Tobio by chance in the park and discovered he could still forge a mental link with humans if he shared physical contact and focused on what he wanted to convey. At first, it didn’t provide the same kind of comfort he’d enjoyed back home. The constant presence of others literally prickling at the edges of his mind and heart meant he was never alone. Tobio had been quick to inform him that it was abnormal for humans to communicate this way, and especially unwelcome to try and pull information from someone, rather than just projecting it. Tobio would know: he was the only one Shōyō ever tried it with.

Thoughtfully, Shōyō chewed his lip as he observed the pale reflection of light in his friend’s eyes as the other continued his focused search of the stars, craning his head this way and that. Thanks to Tobio, Shōyō found peace in living an authentic, Earthling life even after the trouble of a long journey, several unpredictable years and the creation of one human body. He could appreciate the challenge of trying to discern the heart of people’s words without access to their feelings. Unlike on his home planet, if he linked with someone now, it was special, deliberate. The desire to connect with everyone he had felt at first, the one fueled by loneliness, had faded, and he reveled in his newfound ability to choose the action.

The alien forced his amber eyes away from the figure seated next to him in the grass and back to the sky. Even with a little piece of home in a foreign world, there was a part of him, the part that had known weightlessness and interstellar space, that wanted to return. Away from the pull of a planet or the influence of a star was the region of the universe where the stardust in his body begged to return. Shōyō wondered if there were humans who could feel the pull, too. Everything in the universe contained a little piece of the stars, but maybe, he thought, only those who had touched it knew what they were missing.

He shifted his legs, cool grass almost damp against the bare skin of his calves, but the sudden warmth that came from contact with the angles of Tobio’s knee brought Shōyō back to Earth. The alien eyed the young man again. There was a lot about Tobio that was sharp: the slant of his blue eyes, the black bangs on his face, the downward curve of his mouth. The ways in which the two were different were myriad, but for the sake of an alien, the tetchy human was staring himself cross-eyed and stiff-necked at the inky sky. This, too, made Shōyō feel like he was weightless.

“Would you like to see the stars?” he breathed.

Kageyama glanced at him, his version of a curious expression painted on his face when he asked, "What?" Like most of his expressions it was based in a frown, but after years learning the language of Kageyama Tobio, Shōyō was adept at deciphering the nuances of Tobio's muted feelings. Curiosity was marked in the slight elevation of one eyebrow, soft squint, and a frown that skewed slightly to one side. And like a biological reflex ingrained at the cellular level, Kageyama's curiosity sparked Shōyō's desire to tease him. It felt so instinctive at times that if he’d thought it possible, the alien might’ve believed he’d incorporated Tobio’s feelings into his own DNA when he’d created this body.

"I said, do you want to see the stars?" he repeated, plastering a polite smile on his face.

He was successful in rankling the taller boy, whose face became pinched at the obvious ploy. "What do you mean," he demanded with a huff. "Obviously we can see them now."

Shōyō directed his gaze skyward in faux disdain. "This is a pale imitation, Tobio." The use of his friend’s given name saw the other go still; Tobio had given up lecturing Shōyō on calling him Kageyama after several months of his pointed refusal to subscribe to the custom. Still, the alien made attempts to only address him as Tobio in order to make a point, opting otherwise for one of their vast array of rude or ridiculous nicknames. For the reaction Shōyō received- the stillness that enveloped Tobio upon hearing his name- he used it like a weapon. With the carefulness of a hunter, Shōyō’s hand slid down his friend’s arm and locked around his pliant wrist. "I want you to see what I see."

Prey like, Tobio shivered at the contact, but the reaction was nothing new. The link was like being plunged into sudden warmth, like sunlight radiating from the touch to fill every crack and crevice in the body. It was so different from the constant link Shōyō knew before that it made him crave it all the more. But he redirected his thoughts before they veered and imagined the view of the planet from space, the oceans of stars and colorful nebulas tossed about like silt. Shōyō wondered, watching the human tremble, if he could feel the same pull he felt, the magnetism of space that begged him to come home. It’s the stars inside you, Shōyō thought as the other boy’s hand curled into a white-knuckled fist beneath his own. The alien pried his friend’s fingers open and entwined them with his, prompting Tobio to open glassy eyes.

“How?” Tobio’s voice was breathless and its edges were soft.

“How else? We’ll take my ship,” Shōyō replied, squeezing tight to Tobio’s hesitant hand. I want to share this part of me with you, he declared, and he wondered what the thought had translated to when he saw the flush creep up his friend’s neck.

Even so, Shōyō hadn’t won him over quite yet. He needed no link to see the worries on his friend’s face. “What if something goes wrong?” Tobio hissed, brows furrowing.

Shōyō didn’t want to seem too flippant; casual space flight was a long way off for the young species. “Nothing will go wrong,” he assured. “I took her out last week. The artificial gravity works and the radiation shielding is good. I updated the auto flight pathing since there’s all those satellites, too. You’ll be fine for a short trip. Take off and re-entry is a bit rough, but in my ship it’s not worse than one of those roller coasters we went on last year. Remember that?”

He could see his progress in the softening of Tobio’s eyes. The human boy frowned, gaze falling to their linked fingers as if he only just realized how tight he’d been holding. When Tobio extricated his hand, Shōyō also remembered that he was constrained by gravity. His own voice went hard as he breathed, “I know you want to go, so let’s go.”

“We could die!” Tobio snapped. “You can’t just ask me to fly into space like it’s no big deal!”

Shōyō scoffed. “I do it all the time. Flying is no big deal.”

The two devolved to the most common, primal language and glared at one another. Shōyō wanted to take the other boy's hand again and show him another glimpse of what he was missing, the part of Shōyō himself that Tobio was missing. In the two years since he'd come here, the inclination to share a piece of the stars with his friend had already been present, but this was a demand, dragging at him from beyond the atmosphere. The stars had something to tell him, to share with them both; Shōyō just didn’t know what it was, yet.

"When I first got here, I didn't have anything," Shōyō said suddenly to break their stubborn silence. "I didn't know anything about Earth, I was on the run from freaking intergalactic terrorists and I couldn't talk to anyone. I mean the language, aside from being apparently terrifying." That earned a small snort from Tobio at the memory and emboldened the alien to continue. "And then we met," he said simply, even though the very statement was far from simple. "And you were nice to me even though you're also a total jerk-" a statement which earned an indignant shove. Shōyō giggled as he collapsed into the grass and continued, "You helped me make friends and taught me how to be human." He trailed off, seeing the rising embarrassment on Tobio's cheeks at the unabashed praise that was a rarity between the two. So before Tobio could argue or deflect, Shōyō finished, "I've never really thanked you, so let me give you this. Just trust me."

From his vantage on the ground, Shōyō saw the soft, barely-there frown on Tobio's lips that signaled that the human was relenting. "Fine," Tobio agreed. And Shōyō wished they were still joined by the hand for the appearance of an unreadable new expression that alighted for a moment on his friend's face. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen that much gentleness in such a small smile.

Flashlights in hand, the two boys tramped through the rundown park where they’d first met and into the wild brush that surrounded it. Between Miyagi and the next town over the mountain, Yukigaoka, there was a swathe of unused, mountainous land that was perfect for hiding a spaceship. Shōyō said nothing as they hiked, aware of his friend’s stiffness that indicated a heightened anxiety, but he hummed a tune, low and sweet that he hoped might ease the tension. This was good, he felt, and he didn’t want to jeopardize the chance Tobio was giving him.

“Just a few more minutes and we’re there,” Shōyō advised after twenty minutes of quiet walking. Beside him, Tobio gave a curt nod, eyes unwavering from the trace path that the alien had carved after repeated trips. When at last they stumbled past the last tree, Shōyō could not help the proud smile that always grew at the sight of his little vessel. It was a sleek and shiny navy color, but rather nondescript outside, marred from pure uniformity by several blacked-out windows. She wasn’t very large either, not much taller than Tobio nor much wider than their favorite after-school corner store. It wasn’t the first time Tobio had seen her, but it would be the first time he’d been inside. Suddenly nervous, Shōyō paused to kick at the grass trying to grow around the ship’s base. “If you really don’t want to, we don’t have to,” he mumbled.

Disgruntled, the human huffed, “I didn’t hike all the way out here just to turn around. Open the door.”

The redhead exhaled, eyes closed, as the pace of his heart dared to increase. “Okay,” he said, more to himself than Tobiol, then louder, “Okay!” Fumbling a card from his pocket, Shōyō swiped it against the door and the ship brightened, waking from sleep. From the side emerged a glowing handle which the alien grabbed and pulled out and up, throwing open a little hatch to the interior. “All aboard!”

“You’re an idiot,” Tobio answered, though he looked like he was straining to hold back a grin.

“And you look like a maniac,” Shōyō retorted as he ducked to avoid the incoming grab for his head that tended to follow such insults. “Come on, I’ll give you a tour!” he declared, pushing against Tobio’s back and forcing him inside. In truth there wasn’t much touring needed. The floor was lined with delicate emergency lighting that took them from tiny space to tiny space. “This part’s the only actual room in the ship,” the red headed alien explained as he slid open a door to the right of the entrance. It was small, but there were two bunked beds, each with a chest at the foot, and an even smaller square of space cordoned by a door. “That’s the shower and bathroom,” he said, pointing to the corner while flinging open a chest. “Look! My spare jumpsuit.”

The jumpsuit in hand was white and iridescent, crinkling in his grip as he toed off his shoes and shoved his body inside it. Tobio coughed out something that sounded suspiciously like a laugh as Shōyō showed off with a twirl. “You look stupid,” he grinned.

The alien looked down at his arms and legs and laughed as well. The whole suit was nearly a handspan too short at every sleeve. His human body had not grown much in the last two years, but even at his short height he was taller than he was in his original body. “I’m keeping it on,” he declared as he zipped it over his clothes. “It’s nostalgic!”

The frown on Tobio’s face failed to hide his amusement. “You should bring it back, then,” he said, rolling between his fingers a bit of slack fabric at Shōyō’s shoulder.

“Are you jealous of my awesome spacesuit, Yamayama?” the alien teased. “Maybe you can have my other one.” Tobio snorted and Shōyō had begun giggling at the image before he’d even finished his sentence.

Satisfied, the redhead pranced past his friend towards the door until Tobio called, “Wait, idiot. You didn’t explain what this was.” Head cocked, Shōyō turned and saw that Tobio had paused to peer into one of two white oblong pods opposite the room from the beds.

Shōyō gasped and leaped back to Tobio’s side. “I can’t believe I forgot. Okay, so these are like storage pods for your body when you’re taking long FTL trips. I mean, think about this: space is super big, like, crazy big, right? So even if you’re flying faster than light, it can take forever to get places. So you can spool up a pod to sleep in for a few months at a time.”

There was a look on the human’s face like he’d just been punched but was trying very hard not to show it. “How do you just sleep for that long?” Tobio questioned.

“It fills with this gel that, uh, how was it told to me? Ah, it’s like blood-”

“Blood!?”

“I mean, it’s not literal blood,” Shōyō backtracked quickly. “You just breathe it in and it acts like blood for you? I think it’s like that. Nutrients and air and stuff. But you can’t just lay around for months without losing all your muscle so you can only sleep for a bit at a time before it wakes you up.” He pointed to the small screen on top of the opaque glass top. “People can monitor your vitals and stuff here, just in case.”

Tobio frowned at the pods as if their function both offended and confused him- which was probably true, Shōyō realized. Then Tobio reached a tentative hand towards the one on which Shōyō’s hand rested. “Was this one yours?”

The alien looked down at their hands, dangerously close on the glass. He wanted to take it and share every image from his very long journey here, because he felt compelled to share everything with his human friend. But he blinked back the pressure and nodded, incapable momentarily of speech.

“You were by yourself. Even though there’s two of everything.”

Their eyes met and Shōyō became ungrounded. Of course Tobio knew he’d been alone when he arrived on Earth, but he wondered if now he could visualize the starkness of it in a different way, now. That year of travel had been the worst of Shōyō’s life, and as if understanding that himself, he pulled his hand away from the glass and tucked it safely back to his side. “Yes,” he said, shortly with a sharp shake of his head that sent orange waves swishing across his face. “Well, these kinds of ships are really meant for a minimum of two people. Ideally you don’t get into the pod unless someone’s there in case it malfunctions.” Shōyō straightened his shoulders and pushed his friend out of the room before he could ask anything else, though, and directed him back down the hall.

The slick floor squeaked with each step of sneakered feet as Shōyō took them into the main room of the ship. It was a large space, and 75% of it was dedicated to storage: lockers and drawers protruded from the walls; the space that didn’t house any was a tiny kitchenette. Shōyō let his hands wander along the metallic surfaces as he explained the function of the rehydrator, then pulled a shiny packet from a cabinet. “Want some alien space food?”

“No way in hell.”

“Good answer. It’s garbage. That first bite of curry you gave me was so good I didn’t care if it killed me,” Shōyō recalled, wiping a fake tear from his eye. He noted, with relief, that his joke seemed to clear the heavy atmosphere that had followed them from the bedroom since Tobio now wore a little smirk on his face. With light steps he gestured for his friend to follow him to the front of the ship where the cockpit awaited.

Tobio lingered awkwardly beside one of the two seats as Shōyō flitted about the little cabin pressing buttons. So engrossed in powering on the ship was Shōyō that he almost missed when the human muttered, “I’m glad you didn’t die.”

Shōyō whipped around and saw that his friend had taken an unrealistic interest in the floor, and he was almost glowing from the bright flush that was overtaking his face. Like going into zero gravity the first time, the shorter boy’s stomach flipped and, driven by instinct at the feeling, he seized Tobio’s hand with his own. Tobio’s gaze held steadfast to the floor even as the rest of his body followed suit, freezing stiff at the contact. He wanted to share how completely overcome with appreciation and warmth he was now that Tobio was here.

Because it was overwhelming at times, holding every bit of every feeling. Sometimes it felt like there wasn’t enough space in his small body to contain it. A lifetime of sharing thoughts and feelings almost constantly with family and friends caused it all to be watered down; having it all to himself could be too much as it was now. Except this time it was hot and sparkling, like a star was being born inside him, all the space dust he was made of collapsing after a collision with Tobio’s simple statement. He gasped for breath that seemed suddenly difficult to come by, choked out, “Thank you,” and wondered if that was enough for Tobio to really understand.

Maybe it was, in their weird way of understanding one another. While the flushed boy kept his eyes averted, he offered a soft hum of acknowledgement and squeezed the small hand in his very lightly. Shōyō exhaled, shaky, then withdrew his hold to return his attention to the dashboard of his ship. He could feel the slightest tremble in his knees. A few moments of typing a startup code was enough to help him regain his composure, but the warmth of a new star still heated him from inside.

"Okay,” Shōyō said, turning to his friend, “sit here, but don't touch any of the controls unless I tell you to, okay?"

The human nodded tightly as Shōyō ushered him to sit and clicked the seatbelt shut on his chest, before he plopped down into his own seat an arm’s length away. While he tapped away at the screen by muscle memory, Shōyō watched from his peripheral as Tobio whipped around wide-eyed at the sleek little vessel. Against his ribs, his heart pounded enthusiastically at the sight of his friend as his co-pilot.

“First time in a spaceship, huh?” he joked.

The annoyed glare which Tobio directed at him only served to release the frenetic tension building in Shōyō’s chest in a fit of giggles. The human swiped at him from across the short aisle but only made glancing contact with his arm. “I’m still kind of thinking we’re about to die,” he grumbled into the smooth black dashboard. The boy jumped as Shōyō swiped an interactive screen across the space which proceeded to blink in Tobio’s face. “What the hell is this?”

“Press the green button, the one that looks like a sideways boat mashed with a division symbol,” Shōyō grinned. Tobio squinted at him, a mix of suspicion and anxiety highlighted in soft electronic blue, but he scanned the screen, held his breath, and mashed the button. With a quiet purr and soft jolt, the engine hummed to life, and even the emotionally suppressed human let out an audible gasp. “Thank you, co-captain,” Shōyō said with a salute.

“Shut up,” Tobio shot back, though it lacked any weight as he stared past the alien’s mischievous grin and into the more complex screen that popped up now that the engine was running. "How does all this work?" he asked, gesturing at the screen.

"Oh, well." The alien ruffled his own hair, quiet for a moment. "I type in the instructions to start the engine and then the computer starts the engine? Then I just make sure all the basic systems are on and they aren't showing errors and-"

"But, like, how does it work?" Tobio pressed.

Shōyō sent his friend a scathing glare. "You know I'm not that smart." He could see the swelling anxiety in the tight line of the other boy's lips at his response, so he assured quickly, "I don't need to know exactly how it works to know how to fly, idiot. It's like how you don't know how a car works but still know how to put the key in and drive it."

Tobio began to argue that he did know how a car worked, then stopped his explanation at, "The gas goes in the thing, and… okay, fine."

"Dumbass," Shōyō snickered.

"Shut up, moron."

"At least I can admit when I'm dumb."

"That's not an accomplishment."

The two shared a glance and dissolved into a fit of giggles. At least, Shōyō did and Tobio pressed a fist to his mouth like it would stop the broken laugh escaping him. Something about the sight of his friend's shoulders shaking in repressed mirth gave Shōyō goosebumps. Still wearing a giddy smile, the alien glanced at his screen, blinking green now, then back to Tobio. "You still want to go up? We can always go back."

The human must not have realized he'd been holding his breath when, after a moment, it left him in a whoosh. He had the same look as he did before a volleyball game: determined, self-assured, and with the encompassing belief that Shōyō would be there when he needed him to be. “Yeah,” he said. “I want to go.”

The thing in Shōyō that demanded this very agreement crowed in victory. He spared no more words and punched the button on the display; the screen blinked off and the ship shuddered to life. He heard Tobio curse under his breath as the trees bowed away from the rising vessel then snapped back into place. The alien pushed on the flat panel of the dash and out popped a mini screen from the surface, and in a few short swipes the cabin window went dark. “I’ll be easier this way,” he explained to Tobio, who was already gripping the lifeline of his armrests. “And it’ll blow your mind when we get out there.”

“Wait, wait, wait, how are you gonna fly it if you can’t see it?” the boy questioned, alarm in the rising pitch of his voice.

“I put the coordinates in already!” Shōyō exclaimed. “It’ll fly itself at this point. Besides, you don’t want to see how close we might pass by satellites.” He could have sworn he heard Tobio whimper, but he wasn’t going to rib his petrified friend this time. Instead, he left his free hand out in the space between them as an offering. “Trust me,” he implored. The other boy spared a glance at the suspended gift then took it with a swallow and rasped, “Okay.”

With his free hand, Shōyō swiped up on the screen in his lap and stowed it between his legs. Beneath them, the ship shifted, tilted upward, and between them their clasped palms grew clammy. Reluctantly, Shōyō gave a final squeeze and let go of Tobio’s hand. “Keep your hands together tight, or hold on to your harness,” he said. “Like a long roller coaster. It’s over in eight minutes.” The human nodded, folding his hands into his lap, and then the ship threw them against the backs of their chairs as it shot into motion.

There was little sound as they pushed steadily through the sky, save for the deep hum of the engine spinning from the back of the ship. Truthfully his ship could go faster, but not without the effects being felt on their bodies and Shōyō wanted his friend to feel as little as possible. He’d decided early on that he’d divert the energy towards the gravitation stabilizer, otherwise it would not feel like the easy roller coaster ride he’d promised. Even so, the pull was strong and he couldn’t risk looking to see how Tobio was faring, though the cushioned headrest wouldn’t have allowed it anyway. Instead he called, “You alright?”

“Alright,” came the weak reply. “Has it been eight minutes yet?”

Shōyō grinned. “If you can complain, I know you’re fine. It’s only been two.”

For a moment there was more quiet, then Tobio called, “Next time, put on some music or something. This is the longest eight minutes of my life.”

Shōyō laughed, loud but short due to the press of gravity on his chest. “I’ll take it into consideration,” he advised. He rambled until his chest ached, about getting speakers and an iPod, the kind of music he’d put on it and if one day he could figure out how to make the internet work on it too. Tobio didn’t tell him to shut up like he might have under normal circumstances which was all the incentive Shōyō needed. He chattered until the pressure increased against his chest, signalling the last piece of their journey and the return of the feverish buzz in his blood.

“Hey, hey, Tobio? We’re almost there,” he said. “Don’t throw up, okay?”

He could all but see the troubled look on the human’s face and chuckled as Tobio stammered back, “Wh-what do you mean, ‘don’t throw up?’ You never said anything about-”

Then both boys gasped as they went weightless in their chairs.

In his first act of freedom from gravity’s clutches, Shōyō twisted in his seat to look at Tobio, who was staring, stunned, at his shoelaces that now drifted towards the ship’s ceiling. It was not the first time he’d gone into space, but watching his friend experience the novelty made Shōyō feel as though it were. He smiled so big he could scarcely see, but, oh, that might have been the tears trying to bead up in his eyelashes. A laugh escaped him, drawing Tobio’s astonished gaze. The boy’s straight hair floated like a dark cloud around a face of such unabashed awe that the words Shōyō had been a breath from saying, You look so happy, had gone silent in his throat.

Moments after the weightlessness began, the gravity stabilizer of the ship kicked back in and the two dropped back into their seats with a quiet whumph. Tobio blinked, then his face lit up with the same stupid, giddy expression he had the first time they’d succeeded with the improved quick attack in their practice game against Fukurōdani. “Hinata! What the hell!” he shrieked.

"I know, right?" Shōyō shrieked in return. Snapping free of his harness, the alien bounded in front of his friend and released him as well. "How do you feel?" he probed. "Sick at all?"

Tobio shook his head and replied, "I'm fine. Are we going to do that again?" He made a gesture with wavy arms, eyes sparkling.

Shōyō snorted, earning a gentle shove into the ship's console. "If you want," he smiled. "I say we wait until after you get to take in the view to turn off artificial gravity."

"Why?"

Shōyō retrieved the miniature screen as he spoke and set it back into place with a click. "Because when you're weightless and looking into space with no directions it messes up your brain if you start thinking about it too hard. It's like motion sickness." He paused in his button-mashing to look at his friend, a serene smile spreading across his face. “Though, if overthinking is the problem, maybe you’ll be fine after all.”

Tobia stomped from his chair to grab the laughing alien by the hair and growled, “Say that again.” The proximity afforded by the action saw Shōyō’s laughter vanish as his friend’s weight pressed him into the dash. He jerked his eyes up, feeling the warmth of a blush spreading along his cheeks and noted that surprise seemed to be taking over the falsely indignant frown Tobio sported a moment prior. The fingers twined in his wavy hair loosened but didn’t retreat, though Tobio’s eyes drifted away from Shōyō’s in a move that was uncharacteristically hesitant from the decisive young man. “Sorry,” he said, though he made no attempt to move. “Did that hurt? You stopped laughing.”

The urge to let his own hands find purchase in Tobio’s black strands, along his back and arms, to find some way to bring them closer still was compelling. It wasn’t even the first time they’d been in such an intimate position: reaction to a taunt, celebration of a victory on the court, or even a simple nudge to say, I’m here often led to a kind of physical closeness. When two people were partners, it happened that hands might brush or limbs become entangled in the course of their antics. Shōyō realized, as the pressure of Tobio’s thighs against his became more noticeable, that this was a different sort of feeling. His own gaze dropped, past the valley of their chests to the point of contact of their legs and in the same moment understood that it wasn’t any different at all. He’d always wanted to be close to Tobio, but it had only recently become as insistent as his need to be among the stars.

“Oh,” Shōyō breathed, before turning his face back to Tobio, whose softly disquieted frown had deepened in the few moments of silent revelation. Fingers trained by rote during years of space travel pressed two buttons on the dash. Rather than answer, he snaked an arm around the waist of his human companion as the gravity stabilizer and ship lights powered down and the opaque windshield became transparent.

In his arms, Tobio went still in the light of innumerable stars. Shōyō could hear the breath hitch in his friend’s lungs and, despite being where he felt at home, he couldn’t tear his eyes from the look of unadulterated awe on the other boy's face. That look, so soft on such a sharp face, coaxed Shōyō’s heart into a song normally reserved for space. Shōyō felt on the cusp of some great understanding, but he set aside that thread of thought for more practical matters. While the human’s gaze was locked outside, the alien used his free hand to anchor them on a handrail. The moment Tobio's focus shifted fully from the window to the fact that his feet were no longer on the ground, Shōyō predicted moderate flailing.

Moments later, it passed as anticipated once Tobio's eyes dropped to the floor. A soft chuckle escaped the alien as his friend squeezed both arms around Shōyō's skinny frame in a desperate bid for traction. Had it not been for the smaller boy's handhold the two would have bounced uncontrolled about the cabin. "Try not to move," Shōyō advised as his shoulder slammed into the wall. "I've got you."

With how tightly wound they were, he felt the brush of Tobio's nod on the top of his head, accompanied by the elevated thrum of his heartbeat. A deep contentment welled in Shōyō's chest as he finally allowed his own gaze to fall upon the vast ocean before them, and he sighed.

It never ceased to amaze, even after so much time with only that view for company. He felt Tobio relax against him, the long line of the leg that was pressed against Shōyō’s going slack in zero-g. Around them, the engine thrummed, the only noise audible as they watched the stars shine steadily into the infinite distance. He had taken them far enough from the bright little planet to not interfere with other spacecraft and turned the ship from its surface so that the soft glow of the galaxy reached out to them with colorful, smoky arms.

“It’s… amazing,” Tobio said after a brief struggle for words, even though it was obvious by his face that he didn’t believe amazing was good enough. Shōyō hummed his agreement. “Where’s your home?” he continued.

The alien blinked, a little surprised that he hadn’t thought to show him yet, and murmured, “One sec.” A nudge against the wall was all it took to send them drifting back towards the dash. Tobio scrambled to grab onto the captain’s chair as Shōyō tapped the dashboard awake. Its red glow was almost nonexistent as he typed, and a few moments later a display lit up the windshield. It seemed obvious now that it was virtually encircled: a dusty ring surrounding a bright orb larger than its neighbors. “That’s Andromeda,” the alien said. “That’s… where I came from.”

“Do you want to go back?” Tobio asked, and Shōyō was surprised to find when he turned around that the other boy looked apprehensive. The alien was even more surprised when the answer came, confident and true, from his lips without hesitation:

“Not anymore.”

The ghost of a smile fought its way onto Tobio’s face, but he averted his eyes over Shōyō’s shoulder as if embarrassed by the very notion. The redhead found it endearing and suspected that even if they’d been planetside he would have felt as weightless at the simple gesture as he did now. I’m glad you’re here, the smile said in the language of Kageyama Tobio.

“Hey Tobio?” Shōyō asked suddenly. A warm feeling was creeping its way up his chest and he turned back towards the window before the redness became apparent on his cheeks. “You know, space is so big, and even though we can see Andromeda it’s, like, a mind-blowing distance away from here. Right?”

Behind him, he heard his friend give a confused but affirmative agreement. Shōyō wasn’t sure he’d ever felt his heart pounding quite so loudly in his ears.

“Well, you know. I just think: what are the odds that, at just the right time, I’d go millions of lightyears across the universe, land in Japan, and… and meet you?” The alien could feel the pull in his chest, the one that begged him to go home, and he swallowed hard and turned toward its source. “I just think it’s pretty incredible,” he finished, eyes shyly meeting Tobio’s, “that of all the crazy number of possibilities, I got this.”

Tobio’s face lit up pink in a mixture of delight and embarrassment. He fiddled awkwardly with the hem of his shirt which refused to stay down without gravity. A few times he opened his mouth but each time he shut it without having said anything. Patiently, Shōyō waited, and was rewarded when the human, eyes downcast, held out his hand and said, “I’m not good with words.”

He was more nervous than any time they’d linked before, but Shōyō took strange comfort in the fact that Tobio’s hand was just as sweaty as his. The dark haired boy gave him a short nod which sent his errant hair floating further from his face, so Shōyō closed his eyes and reached out through their interlaced fingers. Despite the awkward hesitancy on Tobio’s face, Shōyō had never had an easier time passing the boundary that separated them. It brushed over his skin like a warm breeze that saw them both shudder in response. There was the image of a younger Tobio dressed in black before a picture of his grandfather, and another of him sitting alone at school, both accompanied by such intense, heartrending loneliness that it made Shōyō suck a sharp breath between his teeth at the shock of it.

But it shifted with the image of a short, mop-headed alien in a white jumpsuit tumbling out of the woods. There was annoyance mingled into memories of their first year in high school, which Shōyō had conned his way into. Jealousy and admiration as Tobio watched the redhead leap above the volleyball net like he was not fettered by gravity like the rest of them. Team dinners, victories, losses, always together. The loneliness and heartbreak that tinted everything fading with spurts of happiness that gave way into contentment. Shōyō spared a glance at his friend, whose eyes were still low and who wore a tight, bashful frown.

"Hey-"

"A little more," Tobio interrupted, brows furrowed even further in concentration.

Shōyō nodded and embraced the warmth of their link again, but found more resistance as he tested the boundary. Tobio didn't pull away, though, so he persisted past the hesitation into the memory of marauding space terrorists invading Earth the second year of high school, hunting for Shōyō. The alien recalled what it had been like for himself; mostly he'd felt resigned to the showdown 2.5million light-years in the making. He watched himself from Tobio's perspective, off like a shot in his tiny, reliable ship towards a veritable fleet of destroyers. There was no resignation in Tobio's memories, only an encompassing fear and the burning, unmistakable pull of the heart to the stars.

Shōyō blinked into awareness with a start, then carefully unknotted their hands and met Tobio's still hesitant gaze. The alien opened his mouth with the intent to speak but discovered himself at a loss. In the silence, Tobio murmured with a stiff attempt at a nonchalant shrug, "You should… stay here. Everyone wants you to." He paused, grimaced, and added, "I want you to."

"I think I'm in love with you," Shōyō blurted in answer.

There was a beat of stunned silence then Tobio pushed away from him in shock. However, with no gravity to hold them, the boy collided with the armrest of the chair, bounced up and clanged face first into the ceiling. A strangled yelp escaped him as momentum diverted him back to the floor where, mercifully, Shōyō intercepted him. Blood attempted to stream out of the taller boy’s tomato red face but only succeeded in beading near the tip. “That’s enough zero-g for today,” the alien muttered as they drifted into the wall where he regained their collective composure. He motioned for Tobio to hold on the rail before he pushed back to the dash and reengaged the artificial gravity with a few swipes.

“S-sorry,” Tobio stuttered as he clung, wobbling, to the wall. Blood dripped freely from his nose to form tiny splatters on the floor.

Shōyō wanted to reply but only managed a nod as he paced into the storage area to retrieve gauze that was hidden in one of the lockers, he hoped. He’d finally put words to it, that incessant desire that had been tugging at him. It was like going home; Tobio felt like going home. The annoyingly tall, perpetually serious Earthling, that was where his heart wanted to be. Not out here, at least, not anymore. He wondered if he should feel chained down by the idea; he felt like flying. The alien sighed and looked at the gauze he found tucked away in a corner, then returned to the cockpit.

Tobio was hunched over letting his nose drip into his cupped palm. Seeing the other boy now that his thoughts had caught up to his disastrous and impulsive mouth brought on a wave of nerves that hadn’t been there moments ago. Shōyō shoved the gauze into his friend’s hands and mumbled his own, “Sorry.”

Gauze pressed to his face, Tobio straightened and shook his head. The redness which Shōyō assumed was from face-planting into the ship’s ceiling still lingered on his cheeks. “I was just surprised,” he admitted with a nasally tone. “You don’t have to apologize.”

“Okay,” Shōyō accepted, though an apprehensive knot was tying itself in his stomach. Perhaps they weren’t going to mention what he’d said at all. Somehow, no reaction seemed worse than a bad one. He offered up another wad of clean gauze, but Tobio didn’t take it. Instead, he grabbed the redhead by the wrist and pulled him stumbling into his chest.

“I… feel that way too,” Tobio mumbled. The words sounded muffled to Shōyō, who could scarcely hear with one ear pressed into the taller boy’s chest wherein his heart thumped a little too quickly. “I didn’t know how to say it. I thought if you did your thing, you’d get it. I just didn’t expect…” His already soft voice trailed into silence.

Shōyō raised trembling arms and wrapped them around Tobio’s waist. He felt like he was on fire, the star in his chest sending shockwaves of heat down to his toes and to the tips of his ears. It was overwhelming in intensity but he reveled, for once, in the fact that it belonged solely to him. He fisted the fabric of Tobio’s shirt tighter, mooring himself before he floated away on the sensation. “Can you say it now?” he breathed. “I think I’d like to hear it.”

Tobio’s cheek nestled into his curly orange hair. “I love you too,” he said. And the star in Shōyō’s heart sang, I’m here, I’m home.