Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ship’s log, December 24, 2130. 

It has been 134 days since we left Earth, and 52 since the attack. We continue to run low on supplies; I estimate that we will only last another eight days with the rations we have left, and Schaunard fears that the life support may fail even before then. We have consolidated all power from nonessential decks, leaving only the galley, the engine room, and the main bridge online. Even with these modifications, I fear we may not be able to reach Primavera without some miracle.  

Note that this log has been recorded by Ship’s Navigator Rodo—

“Rodolfo!” 

Rodolfo turned to the voice. From his position at the battered helm workstation, the cosmos unfolding before him, he watched as its owner ducked under a broken beam and approached him. 

“Save log,” Rodolfo dictated, and the ship’s computer lagged before giving a reluctant chirp. “What can I do for you, Marcello?” 

Marcello shook his head, sitting down next to him. “Nothing; I was just seeing what you were up to. I’ve been trying to take pictures of this nebula all night…”

Both men looked out the window, their faces cast in a blood-red light from the glowing dust and gas swirling just outside the cabin windows. 

“The Red Sea Nebula… I feel like I just took a flying leap into the Red Sea itself on a chilly day,” Marcello murmured. He flexed and clenched his fingers before looking up. “What are you up to?”

“I'm looking at Paris, seeing those grey, cloudy skies from all of the thousand chimneys,” Rodolfo replied, smiling grimly. The men paused again, contemplating the bleak and alien landscape just outside their windows— gas, dust, nothingness. “Speaking of chimneys and furnaces, what can we do to get this stupid ship running again?”

“You know how much it’s been through. Honestly, I’m amazed it hasn’t totally given out already, we’re basically running on empty. At least we still have air and gravity, for now.” Marcello laughed darkly. “Rodolfo, I want to tell you a very profound thought I just had: I'm cold as hell.” 

Rodolfo echoed his friend’s humorless laugh. “Marcello, I'm not exactly sweating either.” 

He breathed out, wishing he was not able to see the swirling eddies of white breath hanging in front of his face, and pulled the sleeves of his threadbare uniform down over his wrists and hands.

Beside him, Marcello turned back to the frosty windows, lost in thought. 

“My fingers are frozen... like I was holding them to that enormous glacier of Musetta's heart,” he said bitterly.

Rodolfo chuckled to himself; as scientific as Marcello was, he had always been prone to bouts of melancholy, usually brought upon by thought of his ex-fiancée, Musetta. Rodolfo had heard much about the woman; while Marcello usually spoke of her with contempt, he spoke of her with such frequency that Rodolfo had to wonder if maybe his feelings were not so severe after all. 

Rodolfo patted him on the back. “Love is like a stove that burns too much…” 

“...Too fast,” Marcello continued, agreeing. Confirming Rofolfo’s earlier suspicion, he pulled a small lighter from his pocket, black with gold filigree, delicate roses and vines.  

“Man is the fuel—”

Marcello flicked the lighter. “And woman a spark!” he exclaimed, mirthful outrage coloring his voice. A tiny flame flickered to life.

“He burns in a moment—” Rodolfo said, eying the lighter. He’d never asked why Marcello had it, or whose it was. He hardly needed to.

“As she stands by, watching!” 

“Meanwhile, we're freezing our asses off—” Rodolfo said, moving in, coveting that small warmth, that precious kiss of heat.

“And dying from lack of food!” Marcello finished, any trace of humor faded from his voice. There was a grim beat of silence between the men as they reflected on the harsh reality of their situation. 

Rodolfo looked around dejectedly, taking in for the thousandth time the fallen beams, the wires and piping that hung from the ceiling like exotic vines, the cracked and burned-out displays, the stripped walls and chairs, the bridge no longer the beating heart of their ship but instead more like a carcass, picked clean.

The cold ached in his bones; he felt it more intensely than either hunger or fatigue. “Marcello, we have to have a fire. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t be cold anymore.”

Setting things on fire in a space ship was not a great idea, and was generally frowned upon. Rodolfo was willing to bend the rules; either they were warm for a little while before they died, or they exploded instantly and didn’t have to starve to death first. 

Marcello seemed to agree, his eyes roving the destroyed bridge wildly, looking for something, anything, to keep them warm. He stood up and spun around dizzily, his gaze finally landing back on the chairs around them on the bridge. 

“We'll sacrifice a chair!” he said brightly, stepping forward to try and yank a nearby chair from its base. 

It remained stubbornly, sturdily anchored to the deck. Before Marcello could continue trying to destroy one of the only half-comfortable places left on the entire ship, Rodolfo pulled him back, atrophied muscles straining as he pushed Marcello’s hands off the chair. 

“Stop, stop,” Rodolfo panted, trying to catch his breath, trying to conserve his strength. “Jesus, Marcello, stop. I have a better idea.” 

Marcello looked up, a thin haze of sweat forming on his forehead despite the chill. “Do you want to burn some of the prints I’ve made? The research papers?” 

Rodolfo sighed, his lungs aching from the cold. “No, no, no… you’ve spent so many hours on those… and besides,” he added, wrinkling his nose, “the ink of the prints smells terrible when it burns.” 

He tapped the breast pocket of his worn flightsuit, feeling the form of a small notebook underneath. “My journal.” 

“You’ll warm my heart with its thrilling and captivating drama? God, then I’ll definitely freeze...” 

“No, dumbass, I’m offering to burn it!” Rodolfo shot him a look; Marcello rolled his eyes, but offered a small, sincere smile nonetheless. 

“You don’t mind?” he asked. “Burning it and all?” 

The small question hung in the frigid air. Did he mind? Rodolfo unsnapped the pocket and pulled out the small, neat notebook, its cover worn smooth and pale at the edges from months of writing and time spent in his pocket. For its small size, it felt strangely heavy, weighed down with memories. He’d always kept a journal, one of the few personal effects he’d carried from ship to ship. 

He looked at the little notebook, then back up to Marcello.

“It breaks my heart, but...” he shrugged. “I’m so cold I’d burn my life’s savings if it'd keep me warm right now. Most of the important stuff is backed up in the ship’s logs, anyway. Here.” 

He looked away before sharply tearing out a fistful of handwritten pages and handing them to Marcello. The click and hiss of the lighter drew his attention back, and he watched silently as the pages shivered before catching on the tiny flame. The two men huddled together, soaking up the fleeting, glowing warmth before it was quickly swallowed into the cold belly of the ship. He blew on the flickering flame, watching as bits of paper and ink danced into the air like snowflakes. 

Behind them, a shuffle of footsteps and a bang. A man’s voice cursed sharply. Rodolfo and Marcello turned and found Colline, gingerly touching his head where he had just smacked it against a fallen beam. 

“Could this Christmas get any worse?” he muttered to himself. His eyes brightened as he looked up. “Oh— a fire!” He shuffled over to the men, rubbing his head and grumbling to himself all the way.

“We’re finally getting to see what’s inside Rodolfo’s diary,” Marcello said, deadpan. 

“Excellent!” Colline responded, and Rodolfo rolled his eyes. 

“Are you all enjoying this little drama?” he asked. 

“I find it quite illuminating,” said Colline, the glow reflected in his glasses and sparkling off the dark piercings that studded his ear.

“Brilliant, but brief,” added Marcello wryly as the flames began to die. 

“Oh, so now you wish I’d written more! I see,” retorted Rodolfo, tearing up more pages. 

Colline gave a mock bow. “Mr. Author,” he said politely, “scoot over.”

Rodolfo snorted but shifted over, allowing Colline to sit next to him. Beside them, Marcello gave an exaggerated yawn. 

“These intermissions bore me to death. Get on with it!” He nudged Rodolfo, who ripped out more pages. How strange it was indeed! To be so grateful to see his precious journal go up in flames! As Marcello fed the pages to the fire, he felt a sharp  pang of sadness, even as the blissful warmth kissed his cheeks and forearms.

They continued to banter with each other as the fire consumed the papers, their voices floating around the cabin while their eyes were transfixed, mesmerized by the curling, beautiful wisps of flame. It was as though in their palms they suddenly held some tiny, precious star, beautiful and brilliantly-bright compared to the dim lighting of the ship and the murky, faintly glowing gas outside. 

“Beautiful death in the joyful flame…” Colline mused. “I am sorry you had to burn your notebook, though. Oh, Christ. Now it’s going out—”  

The flame sputtered and died. Around them, the dim lights flickered, then went out, leaving the men staring at each other in near-darkness; now the dull, red emergency lights were the only source of brightness in their void of space. 

A distant clunk resonated through the ship’s corridors and hull. 

“What a Christmas,” Rodolfo lamented, echoing Colline’s earlier words. Beside him, Marcello grunted in quiet agreement; Colline merely sighed, stuffing his hands into the warmth of the pocket on his brown hoodie. 

Damn. What a Christmas, indeed. They huddled together, feeling not the darkness itself, but the void of what once was. Where once was light, there was nothing. Where once were full stomachs and bright eyes, there was nothing. Where once was hope— 

It was slowly, finally sinking in that he was going to die out here. 

Hell, if they were going to die out here, it might as well be fast. He remembered learning, during his basic training some years ago, that starvation and exposure were both unpleasant ways to die. Not the worst, for sure, but definitely not fun. He tried to do the math in his head for the umpteenth time, counting days since the enviro systems had started malfunctioning, days since he’d had his last full meal, days of clean water they had left. He was tired… it was better not to think. It would be better just to rest… 

With a sound like the sigh of a great machine, the cabin lights returned, and the men shifted as though waking from some long sleep. A distant sound of footsteps banging on the metal decks of the ship echoed closer with every step, and Rodolfo turned just as Schaunard burst onto the main bridge, carrying the remaining foil packets that made up their meals. 

“Food?” “Fuel?” “ Wine ?” the men cried, looking at Schaunard with amazement and confusion. 

He dumped the packets of premade, dehydrated food into the laps of the men before brandishing a bottle. He must have raided the galley, digging out the last of the meals they’d been carefully rationing, Rodolfo thought; as for the wine, well, the captain had stashed two bottles in the back of a cabinet in the galley, likely saving it for their arrival on Primavera. No need now. If they were going to die out here, they might as well enjoy it, he supposed. 

“Bordeaux, boys! Tonight we’ll dine like kings!”

The men gave a cheer, Rodolfo hollering with delight even as stars danced before his eyes. Schaunard raised his empty hand for silence before digging into the pockets of his well-worn overalls, pulling out a bundle of glittering wire and a handful of green computer chips. 

“Where—?” “Why—?” “How—?” Voices and questions collided in air; each time Schaunard tried to explain, another seemed to chime in. 

Finally, he held up his hands for silence again, laughing with satisfied glee. “Guys, guys, one at a time, please! I’ll explain everything, I promise. Now I'll tell you: this gold—” He broke off laughing and continued theatrically— “Well, copper and optic cable, rather— has a very noble history—”

“Relight the fire!” called Rodolfo cheerfully, and Colline chimed in, “It’s freezing up here! Your ass is always nice and warm down in the engine room, you better get the heat working again soon—” 

“Guys, we’re saved! I’ve got like, double good news!” Schaunard continued, and Rodolfo nodded, letting him know they were listening as they ‘set the table’. 

“Come on! Let's set the table!” urged Marcello, gathering the packs of food and moving to a nearby comm station. 

“There’s a small space station somewhere nearby…” said Schaunard. The men continued to chatter lightly as he spoke, their excitement warming the frigid, dead space around them.

“Where’s your lighter?”

“Here.”

“Oh, and grab that food—” 

“...a rough place, really, nowhere the higher-ups would want us to stop, and at first I didn’t even want to mention it, because we don’t have any money…” 

“Roast beef!—” 

“—And sweet pastries for each of us!”

“But I realized that, since we’re barely using most of the ship, I could scavenge some of the materials, some parts... I got some chips, some wiring, and there’s more tubing back in the engine room: all things worth bartering for food, supplies, whatever we need. Boys, we’re saved!” finished Schaunard triumphantly. 

“What a beautiful Christmas dinner!” Rodolfo said; he’d meant it as a deadpan joke, but somehow the hope within him shone through, giving his words an earnestness he had not felt in a long time.

Marcello pulled out his lighter and lit some torn-down insulation, casting a cheerful albeit possibly-carcinogenic glow throughout the space. 

“So here’s the plan,” continued Schaunard, “we’ll just change our heading slightly, and drift into the station. We’ve enough supplies to trade for food for months, maybe even some parts to repair the ship…”

“Eat without a tablecloth?” interrupted Marcello

“I’ve heard there’s some pesky border control around the system. We’ll find out soon enough; we’re passing through soon…” Without breaking from his monologue, Schaunard picked up a folded canvas dropcloth from the table. He bopped Marcello on the head with it before dropping it in his lap. In return, Marcello slapped his ass with the folded fabric before shaking it open and spreading it over the table. 

“What on earth are you going on about?” asked Colline innocently, finally breaking Schaunard’s concentration. 

“Oh, go to hell, all of you…” Schaunard retorted, laughing and elbowing Colline. “Now what are you doing? These delicacies are for the dark and gloomy days in the future. Dine at home on Christmas? Never! We’ll pass by the Momus base within hours, if Rodolfo will do the honors.”

The men toasted, for the future was suddenly bright and hopeful once more. “It’s Christmas Eve!” they cheered. 

~~~

Ship’s log, December 25, 2130. 

It has now been 135 days since we left Earth, and 53 since the attack. There is new hope for us: Schaunard has gathered enough supplies to warrant a visit to the nearby space station Momus. Our heading has been altered to allow us to make contact with the station by 0200 this morning. We wait now, eagerly, for this unexpected blessing. 

Schaunard has warned that, despite the less-than-glowing reputation of the station, the border security around the system is unusually tight; I hope that we will not suffer any further damage to the ship. 

Note that this ship—

“Oh!” Rodolfo broke off. “Computer save log— uh— Everybody come here !” he yelled. “We might have some visitors!” The ship’s proximity sensors were beeping intently, and on the cracked display, he watched a small ship approach their own. 

Marcello rushed in, followed a moment later by Colline and Schaunard. A deep thud; a shudder ran through the ship, followed by echoing silence. 

“They’ve docked,” whispered Rodolfo. 

Through the ship’s communication system, a voice, formal and curt—  “Prepare to be boarded.” 

There was no question, no doubt, no way out. The men eyed each other with curiosity and alarm; Schaunard picked up a length of fallen pipe, and Rodolfo watched from the corner of his eye as Colline held his partner's arm with gentle, cautionary restraint, each second his eyes darting back to the hatch that linked their world to the hostile one outside— 

“Who’s there?” called Marcello. 

The voice answered, “Tollkeep Officer Benoit.”

“Tolls!” Marcello hissed, as if the word was some terrible curse. Although, on second thought, 

“Bolt the door!” urged Schaunard. When nobody moved, he sighed and reluctantly went to check the locks on the hatch. Each footstep seemed unbearably loud in the tense air. 

“Nobody’s home,” called back Colline; Rodolfo elbowed him in the ribs, and Marcello merely rolled his eyes. 

Schaunard returned to the group. “It’s locked,” he said in a low voice, still carrying the length of pipe. 

“Open up! This is official business!” the voice demanded. 

In a loose circle, they quickly debated what to do. In the end, Marcello and Schaunard won, forcing Rodolfo and Colline to concede that no bill could be worse than starving and freezing to death on their broken, battered, little ship. Perhaps they could even argue or plead their way out of it, if they were lucky. 

“Just a word, then,” called Schaunard, and Rodolfo reluctantly moved to open the hatch. He spun the large wheel, and they waited with bated breath.

With a hiss of compressed air, the heavy door swung open. Out stepped a small man with a head of shockingly-white hair and a rather befuddled, grumpy expression. Rodolfo watched the peculiar little man, whose stern voice and forceful arrival certainly did not match his otherwise harmless appearance. Indeed, looking at the officer before them, Rodolfo was inclined to think that the man was all bark and, hopefully, no bite.

He wore a grey-green coverall, plain except for a patch of a white crescent moon over the left breast. With a grunt, he reached into his deep pocket, pulling out a badge that declared him the Official Tollkeeper of the Momus Station. 

“Tolls,” he grunted in that funny, deep voice, extending a hand for payment. 

Marcello elbowed Rodolfo. “Here! Give him a chair.”

“At once,” Rodolfo replied smoothly, catching where Marcello was going. 

“Oh, don't bother, I’m just here for…” 

“Nonsense!” chimed in Schaunard as he caught on. “Have a seat at our lovely table!” He gestured for the confused officer to sit. 

“Something to drink?” offered Marcello, smiling, the portrait of a perfect host. He reached for the bottle of wine. It had been the captain’s, remembered Rodolfo, God rest her soul, and they’d been saving it for— for what? What better time to drink it than now? 

Surprised, Benoit accepted the offered drink. “Thank you.” Rodolfo watched as a hint of suspicion clouded the man’s eyes. Colline, ever the perceptive one, must have noticed too, and he raised his cup ceremoniously before the officer could take the thought any further. 

“A toast,” said Colline, and the other men joined him. “To Christmas!”

Benoit eyed the cup doubtfully before shrugging and downing the wine in a single gulp. He set his cup down and turned to Marcello. “To enter the system, you must pay a toll...” he began.

“Of course,” Marcello said eagerly, smiling and pouring more wine into Benoit’s cup. 

Benoit looked around, surveying the fallen beams, dangling wires, and cracked screens of the ship around him. Rodolfo watched as his eyes scanned the room, catching on the scorch marks on the ceiling, the broken lights around, feeling the chilly air that never again warmed after the life support went offline. A shiver unrelated to the atmosphere ran down his spine as he looked at Benoit, watching as reluctance and distrust and anxiety began to trickle into the man’s face. If they died because of an intergalactic meter maid , he would literally lose his goddamn mind. The stakes were too high for this right now.

Colline took the opportunity to raise his glass again, trying to keep things moving. He turned to Benoit. “A toast. To your health!” 

The officer nodded, clearly warming up to the men, before spotting his badge on the table. He shook his head and tried again. “I’ve come to collect the toll to enter the system… For a ship this size, it should be… oh... about…” He trailed off, his cheeks growing red and ruddy and his eyes sparkling. 

Marcello smiled. “Whatever it is, we’ll pay,” he said grandly, gesturing to the piled wire and processors at the end of the table. 

Rodolfo turned quickly to him. “What are you doing? You can’t say that! We can’t—” 

“Are you crazy?” hissed Schaunard. 

Marcello jerked his head and shot them a look, clearly demanding their silence; for now, Rodolfo decided to play along. 

“Stay with us a moment,” said Marcello kindly. “Tell me, how old are you, dear Monsieur Benoit?”

Benoit chuckled. “Oh, my age? Spare me!” 

“Our age, more or less, I'd say,” Rodolfo mused, suppressing a smile. Surely the old fool was twice their age and then some. 

Colline refilled the glass again. “Oh, boys, I think I know this man! Quite a legend among the ladies of the sector, aren’t you,” he said cheekily.

The old man’s eyebrows shot up. “Me?” he asked, and nobody could deny his pleased smile, nor the flush creeping up his neck and cheeks. 

“They caught him over at the Mabille station the other evening,” Marcello told the men, before turning to Benoit. “Deny it then, sir!” he teased. 

Benoit shrugged. “An accident.”

“She was quite a lovely woman, was she not?” added Rodolfo, and Benoit laughed in agreement. 

Their plan for the night had certainly not been to get a security officer drunk, then tease him about his love life, making it all up as they went, but here they were, it seemed. If they lived through this, they could start an improv group together. 

Hm. Maybe he’d had more wine than he realized. 

“You rascal!” cried Schaunard. 

“Seducer!” added Colline. “He's an oak, a ball of fire! An absolute stud!” 

“A man of great taste!” continued Rodolfo. 

Marcello nodded. “With all that curly, tawny hair.” He clapped Benoit on the shoulder. “How he swaggers, proud and happy!”

“I'm old but strong,” boasted Benoit; oh, there was a definite slur to his voice now. 

“The women can’t resist him!” called the men. 

Benoit stood, wavering a bit, and sat back down. He raised his cup in a wobbly toast. “Now, men, I'm paying myself back now for my shy youth! My favorite pastime now is a lively woman. The best girls are nice and curvy, you know how it is, boys, you know… But not a whale! Certainly not… but definitely not thin, no skin and bones…”

Rodolfo and the others listened as the man babbled on; behind each of their cheery smiles, he could sense the tenseness and anticipation over whether their plan would work. 

“No! Thin women are worrisome and often... a nuisance…” slurred the officer. “Always full of complaints, for example. Like my wife!” He smiled, a wide, wobbly smile, and took another long drink. 

Marcello rose, pressing his hand to his chest in mock surprise and horror

“A wife?” he gasped in indignation. “Did you hear that? He has a wife!”

The others followed, jumping on the opportunity. 

“Incredible!” “Terrible!” “Treacherous betrayal!” 

“He corrupts and pollutes our respectable ship!”

“Get him out of here!”

Benoit looked thoroughly confused now. “What?… I…” he stammered. Rodolfo had the audacity to almost feel bad for him, the poor idiot. But there were places to be, repairs to be made. Even a small toll would have been crippling. If they could just get the guy on his way, they’d be fine, no real harm done.

“Silence! Out, sir!” the men cried, doing their best to look seriously and horribly offended. “Away with you! And good evening to your worship! And goodnight to you good sir!” Nearly pushing him, they escorted the man out the hatch and back to his own ship. 

Colline held a finger to his lips; a moment later, the distinct clunk of the other ship disengaging echoed through the hull, and the four men fell to hysterical laughter. 

When he caught his breath, Marcello said calmly, “I've paid the toll!” and laughter quickly overtook the group once more. 

Several minutes passed before any could speak again.

“Well, my friends, Momus awaits us!” said Schaunard cheerfully. 

“Three cheers to Schaunard! We’re saved!” replied Rodolfo. Marcello smiled appreciatively at the man, and Colline clapped him on the back with great affection. 

Grabbing the handfuls of wire and computer chips off the table, Schaunard offered them to the group. “We'll divide my loot!” 

Once they had their shares, Marcello led the group to a broken display at the back of the room. In the darkened glass, the quartet contemplated their ragged appearance.

“Now that we’re rich, we must look the part!,” he said, and pointed to Colline. “You bear! Trim your fur.” 

Colline winked and tugged on his shaggy, dark beard. “I'll make my first acquaintance in months with a beard-trimmer. Lead me to the knife!” 

They laughed, and Schaunard started to follow Marcello and Colline out of the room. “You’re not coming?” he asked Rodolfo, standing on the threshold. 

“I’ve got to finish my log and make sure we stay on course to dock,” Rodolfo replied. Marcello and Colline reappeared in the doorway. 

“Hurry up!” called Marcello, and Rodolfo nodded back. “Ten minutes. I’ll be ready.”

“We’ll wait for you at the airlock,” promised Colline.

“And you’ll hear from us if you’re late!” yelled Marcello, already disappearing down the hall. 

Rodolfo listened to his crewmates’ chatter as the trio retreated down the corridor. He sighed to himself, watching through the front window; they seemed to have passed from the murky nebula and into a region much emptier. He was not sure if he missed the blood red skies of the nebula. Perhaps anything would have been better than the blackness around them now.

Though he’d intended to finish his log, he was not in the spirit. Without the presence of his friends, without the wine and the laughter of the evening, he found himself suddenly quite alone once more. Sitting by himself in the belly of a great wounded creature, a chill air seemed to descend upon Rodolfo once more. 

He remembered Colline lecturing them on something over a meager breakfast several weeks ago, something he'd read about the science of loneliness and human touch. Frankly, he'd barely listened, but the idea seemed to have wormed its way into his mind nonetheless. And now, without even his notebook to keep him company, he could feel despair creeping in. He tried to push the feelings back down, tried to focus on the panels and lights before him, but it was like trying to ignore a leaky airlock: inevitable, terrifying, and slowly suffocating. 

He and Marcello had lasted five days after the ship’s main power had finally given out before agreeing that sharing a bunk was infinitely better than freezing to death in the long, endless night. Colline and Schaunard, given they’d already been sleeping together probably for the entire mission, had no such qualms. 

They had each other, and Marcello, well, he had whatever was going on with Musetta, for better or for worse. Rodolfo’d never been much of a long-term guy; he’d had a few girlfriends in his teens, had joined the service right after graduation, had fooled around with a couple of girls then, too. Nothing stuck, which hadn’t really mattered; he was young, he wanted to travel, see the galaxy, and a girl back on Earth would only tie him down. He told himself he’d meet someone eventually, settle down somewhere in the system. He had plenty of time, all the time in the universe, really. 

Well, he’d come to regret that plan the minute a marauder ship had fired on them. I’m gonna die alone! he’d thought, definitely panicking. He and the other three crewmen had survived; others had not been so lucky. Neither had their ship. Suddenly the odds of meeting someone had gone way, way down. 

He fiddled with the worn cuff of his jacket and stared out at the approaching station, spiky and round and looming ever-larger in the battered front viewport of the ship. 

A bleary chirp from the computer. 

Another. Another. 

They would not be approaching the station for another thirty minutes. He looked at the display— and gasped. 

ALERT: ESCAPE POD DETECTED IN RANGE OF YOUR SHIP. 

An escape pod? From where? They were truly in the void of space here. Anyone in a pod would have been drifting for some time… perhaps condemned to a fate similar to what his own had been, before this evening… 

Protocol was clear. He was to bring the pod in, for better or for worse. 

He adjusted the bearing of the ship slightly so that the pod could be brought in; after several minutes, he heard the payload bay doors open and shut with a mechanical groan. He waited patiently while the damaged atmospheric systems wheezed and puffed, struggling to refill the bay with breathable air, tension rising within him all the while. 

Even when the light glowed green, safe to enter, Rodolfo found himself holding his breath as he approached the pod. 

Slender, long, and smooth, it was about the size of a casket; it would fit one person, suspended in stasis until they were rescued— or until the life support systems failed. 

Would he open the pod and see a corpse, or a survivor? There were no doctors on the ship, no medicine or supplies. Perhaps on Momus, but that was even a gamble. 

In the back of his mind, every rational thought told him to stop, to wait, to get the others. But curiosity overtook him. He found the button to open the pod, laid his fingers on it, took a breath, closed his eyes. 

Push . He watched through half-open eyes as the glossy black glass retreated, gliding smoothly into the shell of the pod, and squeezed his eyes closed again. 

After a moment, he dared to open them. 

A pale hand was the first thing he saw, a hand so delicate and white his stomach lurched and dropped. Oh God— it was too late after all— he looked away. But his curiosity got the best of him once more, and he dragged his gaze to the person before him. 

She was breathing— a woman, pale as moonlight, with hair as dark as the blackness around them, and she was breathing, her slender chest rising and falling with each life support-assisted breath. She wore a colorful, handmade dress, full of patches sewn on with a skilled hand, and her hair was arranged in dark curls that fell limply around her face. Her face, though distorted by a breathing tube and sticky wired probe meant to monitor her vital signs, was beautiful nonetheless: pale, with delicate, fine features, features more beautiful than any sculptor could create. 

Her eyes fluttered open, dark, beautiful blue eyes; before he could say anything she began to cough, gagging against the tube down her throat as her body fought to breathe on its own. 

Finally, she sat up, yanking the clear tube out of her mouth with a shuddering gasp. Their eyes met. 

“Excuse me,” she said, her voice soft and hoarse from disuse. 

Rodolfo could do nothing but stare. “You’re... a woman…” he started, before stammering to a halt and wishing he could slap himself for his stupid words. 

“I'm sorry… the lights have gone out… could you help me?” she murmured. 

“Here,” he responded, offering her his hand. 

“Would you…” she started, and shook her head. “I’m sorry. My head is so fuzzy. What happened?” 

She took his hand, and he helped her out of the pod. Her legs trembled beneath her, and she shivered next to him. 

“You’re safe,” he assured her, and she looked up with wide blue eyes. “I’m Rodolfo. Here, come in here,” he added, gesturing out of the pod bay and towards the main bridge. 

“No, no, there’s no need, just tell me what’s happened and I’ll be on my way. I don’t want to be a burden.” She shivered again and stumbled forward. 

Rodolfo offered his arm to lean on. “You’re not well.” 

“It’s nothing. I’m just not used to being in stasis.” 

“You’re so pale!” He guided her down the corridor and up to the main bridge; with each step, she leaned on him more heavily. As they walked, he explained where they were, explained how he’d pulled her escape pod from the void of space, explained that she was safe now and he would help her with anything she needed. 

They’d just arrived on the bridge when suddenly the woman staggered, doubling over beside him. 

“Oh, I’m out of breath—”

She collapsed. 

Instinctively, he caught her head before it hit the ground, cradling her neck and shoulders in his arms before lowering her gently to the deck. Sudden panic clawed at his throat, stealing his breath— she was clearly ill, despite what she said. 

What to do, what to do? 

He flicked as much water as he was willing to spare on her face, waiting anxiously to see if she would wake. Just as he was about to call for his crewmates, her eyes fluttered open, those beautiful blue eyes framed by long dark lashes. 

“Are you okay?” he asked gently. 

Even as she smiled back at him she shivered still, and when she said she was fine, he knew she lied. 

He helped her up, guiding her to the impromptu table he’d just shared with Benoit and the crew. They’d pushed the rations to the side, having taken Schaunard’s advice to save them for the long journey still remaining, but the nearly empty bottle of wine remained, along with the dropcloth tablecloth and a smouldering pile of insulation they’d burned for warmth.

“Come and sit by our little fire,” he offered.

He spun the chair around and gestured for her to sit; the embers of the insulation threw golden light dancing across her pale face as she warmed her hands. He watched her smile, and found he could not look away from her. 

Finally dragging his gaze away, he inspected the nearly empty bottle of wine, and poured the remainder into two cups; it was barely a single gulp in either, but he passed some to the woman nonetheless. After a moment of consideration he reached for one of their remaining rations and ripped it open as well, sliding it in front of her unceremoniously. 

She gave that same frail smile as she took the cup. “Just a little— oh, thank you. Rodolfo,” she added, and he felt his cheeks grow warm at the sound of his name.

Her eyes fluttered shut as she brought the cup to her lips, and he watched as she did not drain the cup, but instead took tiny sips, savoring each, occasionally taking a bite in-between. The wine brought a slight color to her cheeks and lips once more. In the warm, dim light, Rodolfo had never seen anyone more lovely in his entire life. 

After a moment, she put her glass down. “You’ve been so kind to me. I’ll be on my way as soon as I can. I think I’m okay now.” 

“We’ll be at the Momus station in less than an hour,” replied Rodolfo. 

“Okay,” she said, her face growing thoughtful. “Thank you. I’ll wait by the pod. Thank you.”

“Goodbye,” he answered quietly as she left. 

Just as she reached the threshold of the door, she spun around, patting the pockets of her colorful dress intently, a sudden liveliness rising within her. 

“My chip! Oh, stupid me! Where did I leave it?”

“Your what?” he asked, rising. 

“A chip— an isolinear computer chip— it’s got my whole portfolio on it. A record of all of my art.” She held her fingers about two inches apart. “About this big, shaped rather like a key? I have to find it.” 

She returned to the bridge, scanning the floor for the device. Along the wall, she pushed aside a thick bundle of fallen wire. 

“Oh— don’t touch that!” warned Rodolfo. The power suddenly surged, lights illuminating to full brightness before crashing into darkness. 

“Oh,” she said despondently, “oh.” In the near-blackness, he watched the silhouette of her come near. “I’m sorry. Now we’ll never find it.”

“Pitch dark!” whispered Rodolfo to himself.

Beside him, the woman muttered, “Unlucky me!”

“Where could it be?” he asked.

“I hate to be a bother—” she sighed ruefully.

“Not at all!”

“—but will you help me look for it, do you mind?” 

They were approaching Momus now; the station reflected silvery light from its distant star, sparkling and dappled with shadows, passing through the ship’s windows like some sort of strange moonlight. 

He lowered himself to his hands and knees and she did the same; they crawled through the darkness, and he searched for the computer chip in the passing flashes of light. Under the table, her hand brushed his, and butterflies fluttered low in his stomach at the fleeting, precious contact. 

Now, somewhere across the room, he heard her mutter to herself, “Now where could it be?”

By the spot where she had fallen, he reached into the crack under a computer, feeling something— something— fingers straining to reach it— yes, this was it! A slender computer chip, indeed shaped like an Earthen house key, long, wide at one end and narrow at the other.

“Ah,” he whispered, daring a glance back at her, a dark silhouette in the silver glow. 

He pocketed the key just as she asked, “Oh, did you find it?”

“No,” he lied, hoping she would not see his smile in the dark. 

“I thought...”

“Really!” 

“So you're still looking?” she said, just a hint of teasing in her tone.

“Of course,” he said, listening for her voice. He slowly crawled in its direction, hands roving the ground as if he were still searching. It felt strange, talking to her, acting like a gentleman. After years at the helm, and months trapped on this ship with nobody but his similarly foul-mouthed friends and their nonstop banter for company, conversation with her was like returning to a native tongue after some long adventure abroad. He took a breath and tried to calm himself. God, he didn’t want to mess this up. 

Their hands brushed again, and he felt as though his chest might burst with happiness. He took her hand in his own. 

“Oh,” she whispered, and he was pleased that she did not draw away. He stood and offered his other hand to pull her up; when she stood, he continued to hold her small, calloused hands in his own.

“Your hands! They’re so cold… let me warm them for you,” he said sweetly. “What's the use of searching? We'll never find it in the dark. But luckily,” he gestured to the station, now looming large in their view, “there's a beautiful moon, and she's our neighbor here. Just wait, my dear, and meanwhile I'll tell you in a word who and what I am. May I?” 

She said nothing, her eyes wide, and he rubbed his hands over her own to warm them. A faint smile played at the corners of her lips.

“Who am I?” he started. “I'm a sailor. My sea? The stars themselves.” He gestured broadly at the stars spilling before them, and she leaned in and smiled. Encouraged, he continued. “I live a life of motion, never at rest, moving from ship to ship, system to system. Right now I’m stationed about the research vessel La Vie Bohème , an Earthen ship on a six month mission to chart the stars. We were attacked two months into the mission, the captain and some of the crew killed, the ship badly damaged. It’s a meager life, for sure, but that poverty has never been happier. Though I’m poor in money, I’m like a millionaire in spirit, for I’ve seen wonders many can’t begin to imagine. ” 

He watched her intently, searching her face for signs of disinterest, but her eyes were wide and curious, and she nodded sympathetically at his words; in his hands still he held her own.

“But I think everything I’ve seen on my travels pales in comparison to something new… Two pretty blue eyes.”

She looked away shyly, and he slowly drew her chin up with his fingertips until that pair of eyes met his own again. “They came onboard with you tonight, and now I think I’ve forgotten everything I knew. What’s the point of space travel when all the wonders of the universe are here, with me?”

Silver starlight danced across her face, and he traced the curve of her jaw gently. Were he a more daring man, he thought, he might have kissed her then, beautiful and serene and waiting in the moonlight for him. 

“Now that you know me, it's your turn,” he finished, slowly lowering his hand. She smiled at him. “Who are you? Will you tell me?”

She took a breath, and again he heard that faint wheeze, a quiet rattle in her lung. “Everyone calls me Mimì, but my real name's Lucia. There’s not much to say about me.” She shrugged. “I’m an artist; I embroider silk and satin. It’s simple, it’s a bit old-fashioned, but it makes me happy, embroidering those flowers, lilies and roses and jasmine—” 

Her lips twisted into a shy smile that spilled across her face, her eyes dancing away from his as those visions of flowers glowed in her eyes. 

“I love all things that have that gentle magic. You know, the stuff of poems, love and art and dreams and hope— I think life isn’t worth living without beauty. You always have to look for beauty…” She looked at him with a keen eye. “I think you know what I mean, you ‘sailor of the stars,’” she said with a playful laugh. 

He nodded warmly, moving to lean against the display next to her as he listened. “I do.” 

She bit her lip thoughtfully as she moved in closer to him. “I was aboard a transport ship headed to Primavera when we were attacked, and the ship destroyed,” she murmured. “There weren’t enough escape pods for everyone… I was lucky. Many others weren’t.”

“Oh, Mimi,” he replied. “I’m sorry.” She too was headed for Primavera, their final destination: an eden in the stars, a planet of beautiful gardens and heavenly pleasures, paradise incarnate. But the journey was dangerous, the route barely-patrolled and full of risk, both cosmic and mortal. Even if one could navigate the solar winds and asteroid fields, there was little to defend against marauding ships and pirates. Rodolfo had spent months cursing their misfortune, and yet here with him, nearly in his arms, was a chilling reminder that it might have been so much worse.

“They called me Mimì— I don't really know why,” she repeated quietly, a timid sadness creeping back into her voice. “I was all by myself in that pod for so long, just me and my half-remembered dreams. I don’t really go to church, but I learned to pray then, in the dark, waiting to be rescued.” 

She looked around the bridge before staring out at the stars, the bright station reflected in her eyes. “All alone in that tiny little pod, I dreamt of the stars and the night, and I waited, and I prayed. It’s made me long for spring even more. You don’t even know— oh, Rodolfo! When we get there— when I get to Primavera— oh, to stand in the sun!” she gushed. “Oh, to feel that eternal spring! I can’t wait to feel the sun’s kiss on my cheeks once more. 

She turned to him, her eyes bright as the springtime. “A rose blossoms in a vase,” she said, pinching her fingers delicately as if holding the stem of a flower. She inhaled, her dark lashes fluttering shut. “I breathe its perfume, petal by petal. It smells so sweet, so alive... but the flowers I make have no scent,” she said, her voice suddenly sad. Her hand opened, dropping that dream of a flower into nothingness. “And what else can I say?” 

Lucia— Mimì— grew quiet. “What else can I say?” she repeated. “I’m just a stranded traveller in need of a ride, disturbing you at this impossible hour.” She turned away. “I’m sorry, I talk too much sometimes—”

From deep within the bowels of the ship, Schaunard’s voice rang, distorted and metallic. “ Hey ! Rodolfo!” 

Mimì jumped, staring at Rodolfo. 

“Rodolfo!” Colline joined in the yelling. 

“Hey! Can't you hear us?” hollered Marcello. “You’re slow!”

“What are you doing up there, rewriting War and Peace?” teased Colline. Rodolfo rolled his eyes.

“We’re gonna leave without you!” shouted Marcello.

“I've just got a few more things to do!” Rodolfo yelled back. At his side, Mimì stood and stretched, listening quietly to the exchange.

“Who are they?” she asked. 

“Friends. My crewmates. The other survivors from the attack— there’s four of us, out of seven—” 

“You’re never going to hear the end of this, Rodolfo! I swear to God, this is our one chance!” shouted Schaunard. 

“What are you even doing up there? Having some alone time? Some special Rodolfo time—” 

“I'm not alone!” he interrupted, before Marcello could take that thought any further. “There's two of us. Go to Momus and wait for us. We'll be there soon.”

There was a beat of silence. “What the actual hell?” Schaunard cried. “We’re in space! We’re in space ! What the hell do you mean there’s two of you?” 

“I’ll be down in a minute! I’ll explain then! I’ll meet you on Momus, don’t ditch me!” he yelled, his voice growing hoarse from all of this ridiculous shouting back and forth. 

Momus loomed large in the front window of the ship, brilliant, spiky and silver, full of ports and modules and docked craft. Moonlight it was not, but the station’s glow was strangely alluring nonetheless. Mimì approached the window, her thin arms hugging her chest protectively as she watched the station advance. 

The silvery-white light was beautiful, wrapping around her like moonlight, bathing her in its glow, and he watched her with wonder and amazement. There was a sort of rustic beauty to her, Rodolfo though, as though she’d stepped not out of a lost escape pod, but out of some fantastic time capsule. With the cool, shifting shadows, wine lingering on his lips and silver light spilling through the room, he could almost convince himself that he was not stranded in space but instead somewhere else, in another place and time with her, some snowy Parisian garret in the cold of winter, just her and him and the big, beautiful moon he knew so well.

There was a stirring in his chest, something big and powerful and reckless, something terrible and beautiful and hopeful— something that might be called, by any name, love.

“Oh, Mimì! Beautiful Mimì!” he murmured, his heart beginning to pound. “The way you look right now, in the moonlight... You’re like everything I’ve ever dreamed of, I swear.” 

She gasped. “Rodolfo!” she said, turning to him.  “Oh, do you feel how I hope you feel?”

His head was light and his chest seemed about to burst as she looked at him with those beautiful eyes. Did his ears deceive him? Could he dare to dream that she might love him back?

“All I know is that from the moment you boarded my ship, I felt something special, something I’ve never felt before...” he said, taking her in his arms.

“I think I might be in love!” she whispered. 

He brought his fingers under her chin, gently tilting her head up to his.  “Can I kiss you?” 

“Please,” she said, and her voice was an angel’s song in his ears. “Yes, please, yes...” She closed her eyes slowly, relaxing into his touch. 

He tilted his head and brought his face to her own, kissing her ever-so-softly. She gasped slightly as their lips touched, hesitant at first before melting into the kiss, and he could feel those long months of isolation between them fading away, her hands on his arms warm and delicate. The kiss was slow, lingering, full of desperation and wanting, but also the gentle promise of something more, something bigger and greater than now. He could feel her smile, and he kissed that smile.  

He trailed breathless kisses down her jaw before she shifted, pressing their foreheads together, those blue, blue eyes locked with his own once more. 

“Rodolfo,” she said softly, and he stepped back a little, his hands still on her arms, her hands resting on his chest. 

“Oh, Mimì,” he murmured affectionately, tucking a loose curl of ink-black hair behind her ear.

“Your friends are waiting,” she said, gesturing vaguely to the back end of the ship. 

“You’d send me away already? You want to part ways this soon?” 

She giggled, a girlish, bubbly laugh, so sharply contrasted to her frail, ethereal form. “I daren't say what I'd like to do…” she hummed cheekily.

He leaned against the thick glass pane, turning so they were nearly nose-to-nose, and looked at her intently. “Tell me,” he asked, his voice deep and rich, and she smiled. 

“What if... I came with you?” She looked up at him hopefully, meeting his eyes once more.

“What? Mimì! Of course you can come with us,” he laughed. “You can’t exactly stay in the payload bay of our ship forever… and I’ve got to join the others eventually, I guess…” 

“Good,” she grinned. “I don’t think I’m quite ready to be alone again. I’d rather stay with you.”

He kissed her forehead tenderly and she giggled. They began walking towards the rear exit of the bridge. 

“And when we come back?” he asked. “Will you come with us, or stay on Momus? Will I have to say goodbye to you, just we’re getting to know each other?”

She stopped walking, turned to face him, and cocked her head, looking up at him coyly. “Who knows? Anything’s possible.” 

His smile was brighter than the glittering space station outside. 

“Give me your arm, my dear…” he said, offering her his arm gallantly. Instead, she bowed, escorting him out the door and into the labyrinthine corridors of the ship. 

“Oh, but I am your humble servant, sir,” she responded, and he laughed gaily as he passed through the door; she caught up shortly after, taking his arm. 

They walked hand-in-hand to the back of the ship. At the threshold, the precise joining between La Vie Bohème and the mighty station, he paused. 

“I think I might love you,” he said, turning to Mimì. His tone was deliberate, humor protecting delicate hope.  

Without a pause, she replied, “I love you.” She moved to kiss him, and he wrapped his hands around her torso, cradling her as he kissed her back. He slipped her chip into her pocket, and she laughed, nose wrinkling; he kissed her nose, kissed her cheeks, kissed her on her perfect mouth. 

Around them, the doors to his ship closed, and purified air ruffled their hair and clothes as they prepared to enter the station. 

Love, beloved, darling , they murmured, holding each other close. 

The doors opened with a hiss of escaping air, and together they entered into the warmth and light of the space station. 

Chapter Text

Momus was like nothing Rodolfo had seen before. The station was arranged like a wheel, with a massive central hub, full of shops, vendors and restaurants. Out from the central mall shot several passages, each also lined with stores, bars and lounges; the station had an outer ring full of docking ports, lodging, and hostels. 

“Oranges, dates!” 

“What a crowd! Such a rush! I’ve never heard such noise!”

“Flowers for the ladies, flowers for the men, flowers for our attractive gender-non-conforming friends! Exotic plants! Wholesale and cheap!” 

“Isolinear chips! Never used!”

“We'll take the Rue Mazarine. I can't breathe here… ugh, so many people!”

“Pies for sale! With whipped cream!” 

“Fresh Earthen goat meat! Fresh Martian goat meat! Fresh Antarian goat meat! Sold by the pound, the kilogram, the golog…” 

“See? The café's right here. Say it. I told you so!” 

“Bearings! Gears! Gently used optic wiring! Will accept trades!”

“Ponchos made with the fur of the Jovian Firesheep! Softest ponchos in the galaxy, right here!” 

After months of silence and near-isolation, with only the other three men to keep him company, the sudden roar of voices and the sudden blur of colors and movement and people were nearly overwhelming. Leading Mimì by the hand, he wove his way through the crowds, bumped and pushed to and fro. He spotted Marcello’s tall figure, a head above the rest of the people, waiting calmly by the entrance to a small bar. 

Mimì suddenly stopped, tugging on his hand, and he stopped, nearly getting bowled over by a man rushing by in the process. Her head was turned, her wide blue eyes fixated on something he could not see in a nearby shop window. 

His focus was torn away as he heard the passing voices of Schaunard and Colline, somewhere behind them, and he spun around, trying to find his friends in the crowd. 

“This is an E-pipe, but it’s a little bent… how much?” 

“The book is a little worn…” 

“Mimì,” said Rodolfo, “let’s go, we’ve got to join them before we lose them again.”

“Oh,” she sighed, “but Rodolfo, can’t we buy the bonnet?”

Colline was droning on, haggling with some toothless woman over prices, and Rodolfo took the opportunity to step into the fray again, following her towards the shop. “Hold tight to my hand, Mimì, I couldn’t bear to lose you in the crowd,” he said. 

“I’ll hold on tight,” she replied sweetly, squeezing his hand. 

~~~

Outside the small bar, the Café Momus, Marcello waited, watching the passing crowds with mild interest. From inside the bar, the muffled voices of patrons and waiters mixed with the chatter from the busy mall, a cacophony of languages and people, life passing before his very eyes. 

“Let's go. Here, waiter! Waiter!” 

“Ponchos for sale! Handmade artisan clothing! Traditional Jovian clothing!” 

“Come here!” 

“My turn!” 

“I need another beer...”

“Fresh produce straight from Proxima Centauri! Plums! Get your plums here!” 

Across the crowd, he caught a fleeting glance of Rodolfo before he was lost into the crowds again. He’d been accompanied by someone— the mysterious person from the ship perhaps— what had that been about? They’d all thought he’d lost it, or that he was just messing with them, but no, indeed there had been a flash of long, dark hair next to his friend and crewmate.

Colline and Schaunard had gone off again together, which surprised nobody, offering to search the vendors and merchants for supplies and food; he hadn’t seen them for several minutes, and was getting rather antsy waiting standing by himself outside the little bar. A group of twentysomething women passed by, sizing him up before giggling and entering another bar across the busy avenue. From the corner of his eye, he watched a barely-dressed woman slink into an alley, followed closely by a rather greasy looking man, and his eyes lingered on the tableau despite himself. 

“Well there's a solution,” he muttered to himself. “I could sell my miserable heart and make a pretty penny out of the deal...” He watched the retreating figures quietly until interrupted by the return of Colline and Schaunard. 

“The crowds here are really awful,” complained Schaunard cheerfully, his arms full of piping and wire. “People pushing and shoving and running, everyone rushing everywhere, and for what?”

Colline was beaming, nearly bouncing on his toes. “A rare find, truly unique,” he said in a rush. 

“A Runic grammar!” He displayed a battered book, its cover decorated with some strange script Marcello could not decode. 

Schaunard shook his head. “You’re something else,” he chuckled. 

“You’re such a nerd, Colline,” Marcello added, rolling his eyes. “Maybe that’s why you don’t have a girlfriend.”

Colline cocked his eyebrow. “Yeah, that’s definitely it.” He grabbed Schaunard’s hand. “Thanks Marcello, I finally know why I don’t have a girlfriend! It’s not that I’m, like, super gay or anything.”

Marcello rolled his eyes, smiling. “Alright, you two. Get a room. Let's go eat!” He gestured to the restaurant behind him. 

Schaunard and Colline shared a look and broke into laughter. They truly were insufferable together , thought Marcello affectionately.  

“Where the hell’s Rodolfo?” asked Colline. 

“He went into a shop with the girl. Seriously, where the hell did she come from?” 

“Wait, what girl? He actually— there was really someone up there with him?” sputtered Schaunard. 

Colline said nothing, his mouth agape with shock. His eyes darted from Marcello to Schaunard, hilarious disbelief written across all of his features, from his furrowed dark eyebrows to his still-bushy beard. 

Suddenly, Schaunard jabbed him sharply in the side and shook Colline’s shoulder before pointing. “There they are, there they are! Marcello, can you see? You’re the tallest of us.” 

Standing as tall as he could, Marcello looked out over the crowds; he spotted the pair as they made their way towards the group. There was Rodolfo, broad shouldered and handsome, though gaunt from their ordeal, and next to him there was the mystery girl. If Rodolfo was gaunt, the woman with him was practically a corpse— thin, waif-like, pale as moonlight. Yet despite her consumptive appearance, there was a strange, ethereal beauty about her. Her eyes were bright, large and blue, and made even more prominent by her thin face. Hair as black as the inky void of space curled down her shoulders and back; a colorful hand-sewn patchwork dress brightened her general look. 

As they approached, Marcello strained to hear their conversation. 

“Come, my friends are waiting,” Rodolfo was saying.

The woman was holding something rather small, made of pink cloth, a hat, or perhaps a scarf. Her hands clutched it as if it were something precious, something dear to her heart… 

Marcello watched her lips move, trying to divine meaning from the motions despite the cacophonous station. 

“..don’t you love it?” she asked Rodolfo, holding it up and beaming. 

A passing vendor obscured Marcello’s view, and he took a second to process the burly man selling turkey legs nearly the length of his forearm. Given all he had seen so far, he had to wonder whether they were even turkey. Turkey or not, his stomach rumbled. Why couldn’t everyone just move faster so they could sit down and eat ?

When the possibly-not-turkey vendor cleared his view, he watched the woman make a tracing motion across her delicate collarbones, gesturing as if referring to a necklace. She smiled as Rodolfo caught her hand and kissed it, murmuring something to her. Well, they’d certainly gotten to know each other in the hour since Marcello had seen Rodolfo last! 

A large group of people passed by, and they were lost to the crowds once more. Chatter filled his ears once more, ringing and cacophonous, filling in the months of icy silence that had preceded tonight.

“Such noise! What a crowd!”

“I'm tired, let's go!”

“Hot roasted chestnuts! Hot roasted oak nuts! Hot roasted Bougainvillean Tree Nuts!”

“See, the bar’s right there!”

“Terellian cream cakes! Get ‘em here!”

“Who are you looking at?” said Rodolfo, now at Marcello’s side once more, but he was speaking to the girl, not to Marcello. 

She smiled coyly, flashing her eyes. “Are you jealous?” she teased. “I was just looking at your friends here. It’s so nice to meet them finally.”

Rodolfo playfully raised his hands in surrender. “Hey, you know what they say: the greater the treasure, the higher the security,” he responded. “I’m just kidding. I’ll introduce you to everyone once we sit down…” 

Now that the group was finally together, Marcello led them into the cozy and cheerful little restaurant. Though Schaunard had hinted at Momus’s less-than-savory reputation, this place, at least, seemed clean, safe, and comfortable. Anything was better than being on that ship. 

“Table for four— five,” Marcello said to the host, who nodded and gestured for them to follow. 

“I can’t wait to stuff myself silly,” Schaunard was saying to Colline; behind them, Rodolfo and the girl were talking again, though he could only hear snippets of their conversation through the noisy café. 

“Aw, I’m your treasure? You’re happy?” she asked shyly. Marcello tilted his head, trying to hear better… 

“Yes, and yes, of course,” Rodolfo replied warmly. “I’m so happy you’re here…” and Marcello had to turn away because the host was looking at him expectantly. They’d stopped by a large table next to a window, looking out onto the street they’d just entered from. Soft music was playing; the chatter of voices from the street was muffled, becoming entirely pleasant, a hum, a heartbeat of life around them.

“We’ll have meals and drinks for five,” he instructed the waiter, who nodded. 

“And you? This is alright? You’re happy?” Rodolfo was asking the woman as they sat down. 

“Very,” she assured him, smiling as Rodolfo helped her to her seat. “You’re so sweet,” she murmured. They were totally, completely enamored with each other, Marcello thought, watching his friend with affectionate amusement . He and Rodolfo had met on a previous assignment, and had requested to serve together again. He was a researcher, and Rodolfo did nav and cartography; they had been thrilled to be posted together on La Vie Bohème. The irony of that ill-fated assignment had not been lost on either of them as they bemoaned their fates after the attack had left them disabled and damaged, limping towards Primavera at a snail’s pace. Well, he thought wryly, at least Rodolfo couldn’t complain anymore. He’d somehow gotten a girlfriend out of the ordeal, the lucky bastard. 

Out on the street a group of children raced by, cheering and waving colorful banners and ringing bells, adding to the hustle and bustle of the station.

He couldn’t help but see a younger version of himself in Rodolfo, though he was only a few years older. He too had once shared that unending enthusiasm for both work and life. He too had once had eyes for a pretty girl, had once fallen in love, had taken her out and courted her and hoped that she’d fallen in love too. Of course, that girl being Musetta, it was no wonder that he had to fight to keep a bitter taste out of his mouth, just thinking of Rodolfo and the woman and the way they looked at each other. But things would be different. Not every girl was Musetta, and Rodolfo was not him. Maybe things would work out for them. Maybe.

The group fell silent for a moment, getting comfortable. “At last!” Colline finally exclaimed, somehow proclaiming the collective feelings of the group. At last, they were off that ship. At last they would eat, would drink, would be warm and cheerful once more. At last there was hope for them. 

“Here we are at last!” Rodolfo repeated cheerfully. Three pairs of eyes suddenly watched him and his guest expectantly, and he cleared his throat. “This is Mimì, an artist of flowers. Her presence alone makes our company complete. If I am a poet, then she is poetry itself. Her ship was attacked, much like our own; I pulled in her escape pod just as we approached Momus. She will be joining us for dinner tonight as my guest.”

“Rodolfo, I’ve never seen you quite so… romantic.” Marcello joked, his wry tone belying the gentle affection in his words. “If only we could be so lucky as to have a pretty girl could fall out of the stars and into our arms.”

“Well, maybe not all of us,” Colline muttered, and Schaunard laughed before stopping himself. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Mimì,” he said instead. “You’ve got quite a spell on our friend here, alright.” 

“Keep it that way,” teased Colline. “He’s much less annoying when he’s in love.”

Marcello rolled his eyes. “ Less annoying? I can’t—”

“Mimì,” Rodolfo said grandly, interrupting Marcello, “may I introduce you to my friends, the illustrious crew of La Vie Bohème . This is Colline, the ship’s counselor and the biggest nerd in the galaxy—”

Colline smiled cordially. “Pleased to meet you, Mimì.” 

“Marcello, a scientist photographing… something with the stars; don’t ask him what, he’ll talk your ear off about it, he’s an even bigger nerd than Colline...”

Marcello gave a friendly nod. “Welcome aboard.” 

“And Schaunard, the ship’s mechanic and a general nuisance, especially when he’s with Colline—” 

Schaunard raised his eyebrows and smirked. “The one and only. Hi, Mimì,” he said cheerfully. 

A group of children rushed down the street, despite the odd hour, laughing and shrieking. “Here are the toys of Parpignol!”

“Who?” asked Marcello with confusion. “When I was a kid, we just called him Santa…”

“Who cares about him! Look! Food!” replied Colline, nearly rising from his seat with excitement as a parade of waiters made its way through the crowded restaurant.

Marcello continued to watch the scene in the square as a stout man appeared, the children clambering around him. He pushed a cart full of flowers, ribbons, and trinkets and toys, handing them out to the waiting children. Colline elbowed him, drawing his attention back inside as food began to arrive. “Oh, salami!” 

“Roast venison,” whispered Schaunard in almost comedic awe. 

“A turkey,” added Marcello, his mouth watering. 

“Wine!”

“Rhodesian lobster!”

Across the table, Rodolfo turned to Mimì. “What will you have, Mimì?”

“Some custard?” she offered, and Schaunard turned to the waiter. 

“The very best. We have a lady with us tonight!” 

Mimì beamed, her face lighting up. Just looking at her made him happy, somehow. As though her presence alone could help make up those lonely nights, those slow hours when he’d thought each precious breath might be his last, as though she was vitality and youth incarnate. She was new, alive, dynamic. A reminder that they were, at least for now, no longer imprisoned on a stranded, damaged starship, condemned to the slowest death there was. She was their hope and freedom, this strange, beautiful creature before them. Mimì. 

Musetta would be— 

He pushed the thought away. Musetta was not here, and she held his heart no longer. 

Pouring himself some wine, he asked, “Tell me, Mimì, what did Rodolfo get you for Christmas?”

She smiled, delighted someone had asked. “Oh, an embroidered pink bonnet!” She pulled it out and showed it to the table. “Look at the lace…” Her fingers traced the delicate fabric before she held it up to her face, the pink casting a cheerful glow on her pale skin. “It goes well with my dark hair. I've wanted one like this for so long.” She gave Rodolfo an affectionate look. “As soon as we met, I felt like he knew my heart. He’s so good at that… he’s so good at reading people.”

Rodolfo was bright red, looking both mortified and immensely pleased at her words. 

“Oooh, quite the reader, Rodolfo,” Schaunard teased. 

“He's a real professor in the subject,” added Colline, punctuating his words with his fork. “A gen-u-ine poet!” 

“That’s why he’s always right!” laughed Schaunard, and Rodolfo rolled his eyes. Mimì giggled at his side.

A sour pang of some intangible emotion ran through Marcello, in that moment, something he could not quite name. Seeing his friends so happy, so in love with life and the world around them, as though nothing could touch them, golden and glittering and laughing, wine-sodden and joyous. As though they would all live forever. But still there was that fear— that doubt— that this would not last, and that these moments were so fleeting— 

Rodolfo set down his fork and took a drink of wine. “The most sublime poem, my friends, is the one which teaches us to love!” he said grandly, apparently taking his title of poet to heart. 

“Love is sweet, sweeter than honey,” added Mimì as Rodolfo put his arm around her. She snuggled into his embrace. 

Marcello rolled his eyes. “That depends: it's honey or vinegar!”

The conversation screeched to a halt. Rodolfo shot him an exasperated look, Colline and Schaunard merely rolled their eyes, probably sick of his lovesick moaning after months of being stuck in the same ship with it, and Mimì looked positively startled. 

“Oh! I've offended him!” she murmured to Rodolfo. 

“He's mourning, Mimì!” he responded dryly, shooting Marcello a sharp look as though trying to tell him to shut up via telepathy. It worked. 

Schaunard and Colline seized their glasses once more. “Cheer up! A toast!” they declared. 

“Someone pour me some more wine,” requested Marcello meekly, feeling rather embarrassed. 

“Stop your brooding and raise your glass, Marcello! Let’s drink!” 

The door swung open as Marcello raised his glass to toast. It nearly came shattering down back on the table. 

Oh, hell no. There was no way— 

But he’d recognize her anywhere, on this world or any other. Burning, brilliant, magnetic, charming. Exquisite heartbreak incarnate. 

She was laughing, pulling someone he could not see along on her arm, and his blood boiled. He wanted to be near her— to touch her— and to run and hide and bury his face and never talk to her again— and to scream, scream, make her know just how much she’d hurt him. 

Like a splash of cold water, he sunk back into his seat. 

“I'll drink some poison,” he moaned. 

The others looked at him, clearly genuinely alarmed now, but he paid them no attention. He watched as she gushed to the hostess, smiling and laughing like old friends. 

“Oh! Musetta! Oh.” Slow, ugly realization spilled across his friends’ faces. Though they’d never met her, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who it might have been.

“Musetta.” Marcello agreed grimly. Just his luck. 

Towards the front of the restaurant, patrons were chatting, talking excitedly about the appearance of Musetta. 

“What? Her! Yes!”

“Musetta!”

“She's done well for herself! What a dress!”

The pair made their way through the restaurant. Every eye was on her, admiring her dress, admiring her voice, admiring her jewels and hair and shoes. On her arm was some awful old man, more of a wrinkle than a person, with buggy eyes and a face that said ‘I could buy every person in this room and still have money left for retirement’. 

Marcello watched them approach, watched as the man wrapped a possessive hand around her waist, watched as it slipped lower and lower. His stomach twisted at the thought of that pompous, silly old fool touching her. No, no, she chose this.  

Their relationship had collapsed just as suddenly and inevitably as falling in love had seemed, falling inward like a dying star, blowing up spectacularly, with blinding, burning fire and fury, and scarring his heart black and empty. They had parted ways; he’d accepted a position as a researcher, and she’d— she’d gone off to do whatever she was doing now, whatever she called it. Escorting, entertaining, wooing. He had no doubt that she did her job well: it was impossible not to fall hopelessly in love with Musetta. He had not been the first to, and certainly he was not the last. But he’d thought— hoped— that things might be different then, that she might have fallen for him as well. 

Indeed she had. And it had made the resulting fallout that much more nuclear. 

To see her now— oh, how cruel fate must be! Some great joke of cosmic coincidence, to draw them together once more onto this isolated little space station, he on his drifting, ruined ship, and she with her rich, elderly patron… 

Said rich, elderly patron was grumbling to himself, muttering under his breath as he followed the lively Musetta to a neighboring table. “Running like a waiter back and forth. No, it's not proper, not proper at all…” 

She sat, and the man crossed the little restaurant to a bar tucked along the corner. Marcello watched idly as he spoke to the bartender, before forcing himself to look away and turn back to his table. 

Behind them, Musetta started calling to her… companion. “Come here, boy, come here!” she said in a high, babyish voice, patting her lap like she was summoning a dog as the man returned to his seat, weaving through tables and plants and waiters. “Come here, Alci! Come here!” she giggled. 

The man sighed. “I can't take any more.”

“Come, boy!” she continued, nearly hysterical with laughter. 

Schaunard and Colline were watching the scene with intense interest. “That ugly old fool's all in a lather!” said Schaunard, as if he couldn’t believe it himself. 

“Are you really doing this right now?” the ugly old fool sighed, but to Marcello’s amazement, he trotted back to Musetta. 

“Good boy!” she said, bouncing on the soles of her stilettos. She gave him a peck on his wrinkled, prickly cheek. 

“ Please , save these little nicknames of yours for when we're alone.” 

“You’re such a baby,” Musetta said to him in a normal voice, pouting as she sat back down. Marcello could not help but notice how delicately she folded her legs as she sat, crossing them at the ankle, like an actress from the old-timey Earth movies his mother had watched when he was a child. Like a lady. 

“What a creepy old perv,” remarked Colline dryly. 

“She chose this. This life. You all know that,” Marcello said coldly. He looked away from the disgusting scene. 

Mimì was watching the drama unfold quietly, trying to follow along. 

“But she's beautifully dressed…” she said, more of a question than a statement. 

“True angels go naked,” Rodolfo replied, taking a sip of wine. Mimì shushed him gently.

“You know her? Who is she?” she pressed, addressing Marcello. He sighed miserably. 

“Thanks for asking,” he grumbled. “Her first name's Musetta. Last name? Temptation. And her job? Being like a goddamn leaf in the wind. We knew each other when I was a researcher back on earth.” An understatement, for sure. 

Mimì nodded politely, and he continued, finding old wounds suddenly torn open once more. 

“She's a bird of prey. Her favorite food is the heart… she devours them! A maneater, literally and figuratively. And so I have no heart,” he concluded dourly. 

Mimì looked at him sympathetically, and Colline patted his shoulder. 

Marcello made the mistake of looking over at the couple again. His blood froze as he caught Musetta’s eye; a million emotions seemed to flash across her face. He ducked his head away before anything else could pass between them, but he felt her dark eyes on his back, intense and angry. 

“Waiter!” she called sharply, and Marcello wished he were back on the ship; anywhere was better than here, with her and the pain of the past. 

“Someone pass me the sauteed spinach, please,” he said darkly. 

As Rodolfo obliged, Musetta’s voice rang through the room, clear, demanding, and petulant. “Hey! Waiter! This plate is not clean!” She set the plate down with a sharp clatter; silence, then a growing murmur of voices echoed through the restaurant. 

“Seriously, woman? Behave yourself! Lower your voice!” her companion hissed. Marcello’s blood boiled— this was so in-character for her, always the center of attention— but how dare that gross old man speak to her as he did— but she was looking for attention, and he would not give her any of his. He stabbed a spear of asparagus and continued to eat. Out of his periphery, he watched her form shift and twist in her seat, turning to face him before looking away. She fell silent. 

Blissfully unaware of the soap opera unfolding next to him, Colline continued to shovel food into his mouth. “This chicken is divine!” 

Nobody responded. Marcello looked around the table, suddenly uncomfortably aware of, well, everything. Each pair lived in their own world: Colline and Schaunard were seeing who could eat the most string beans in a single bite, Mimì and Rodolfo were doing... whatever the hell they were doing in the corner over there, probably exchanging vows of eternal love, and him. Marcello. What was he doing? Picking at a chicken bone and listening to the girl who’d not only stolen his heart, but rather stepped on it in stilettos, doused it in acid, and launched it into a black hole. Wonderful. 

“Turn around,” she hissed, and the man beside her asked suspiciously, “Who are you talking to?”

“To the waiter. Don't be such a fuss!”

“The wine is excellent,” said Schaunard obliviously, and Marcello shot him a sharp look. Schaunard, a real friend, obliged and shut the hell up. 

“I'll do as I please, Alcinodor!” Musetta was saying, sounding rather affronted, and Marcello couldn’t help but smile. Oh yes, she did as she pleased, and it was what he desperately loved and passionately hated about her. 

The man— Alcinodor— shushed her sharply. “Lower your voice!” he repeated. 

“Don't be such a bore!” she said coldly. 

On the other side of the table, a group of young people entered the restaurant. “Look, look who it is,” one said. “Musetta! Yeah— over there, with that gross old guy, it's totally her!”

On hearing the name, Marcello looked up, tearing away his concentration from the argument occurring behind him. 

“Do you think she’ll sing tonight?” another asked. 

“No, she’s with someone,” the first voice responded doubtfully, and the group moved out of earshot.

Behind him, Musetta scoffed at something her companion had said. 

“Decorum… my rank… my reputation!” the old fool babbled on.

Schaunard, perhaps having eaten himself silly, was now watching Marcello with amusement. When Marcello raised an eyebrow, he shrugged. “This play is stupendous! Such drama!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Marcello watched her shift again, turning towards him; he remained steadfast, facing forward and investigating a particularly interesting bite of potato. 

“You aren’t looking at me…” she purred. Her voice was temptuous in his ear; her lips must have been mere inches away from his head, and he shivered involuntarily as her breath brushed his cheek. She turned away before he could respond. 

“Can't you see I'm ordering?” Alcinodor huffed. 

“Colline,” said Schaunard, elbowing him to get his attention, “isn’t this play simply stupendous?” 

“Dinner and a show!” agreed Colline. 

“Let me tell you now: I don’t think I could be so forgiving,” Rodolfo said, rejoining the conversation and gesturing at the scene. What the hell were those two talking about? Heavy stuff for a first date, for sure. 

Mimì nudged him gently. “Hey, Rodolfo,” she said softly; when he turned to her, she shook her head. “What on earth are you talking about? Why are you talking about forgiveness already, silly?” She laughed lightly, but Marcello could tell her eyes watched his friend carefully. 

“She speaks to one for the other to hear,” observed Schaunard to Colline, looking over Marcello’s shoulder at Musetta’s head. 

“And the other,” mused Colline, “so cruel! In vain, he pretends he’s deaf, but he’s really enjoying every second of it.” 

Marcello rolled his eyes, belying his pounding heart, his fluttering nerves… 

“I’ve got your heart beating now, don’t I?” said Musetta behind him, loud enough for him to hear, and it was true, of course it was. He felt his face warming, for he knew she spoke only to him. He knew that tone in her voice, just as he’d known the sound of her laugh, the arch of her eyebrow, the devious look in her eye, the curve of her hips. 

“Musetta, be quiet!” snapped Alcinodor, the old bastard finally losing his patience, and a tight smile curled at the corner of Marcello’s lips despite himself. 

“I will not !” 

Her chair scraped against the floor roughly as she stood up; finally, Marcello turned around. He was not the only one; it seemed like all eyes in the crowded little restaurant were suddenly on Musetta. Just how she liked it. A passing waiter sighed, as if this were a common scene.

With cool, glittering confidence, she walked to the back of the restaurant. He watched her, watched that effortless walk, even in her towering heels, watched the smooth swing of her hips as she approached a small stage, set up for live music; a guitar and microphone sat waiting, tucked between the tables and chairs. Murmurs swirled through the room: the students’ excited voices, Alcinodor’s exasperated mutterings, patrons who were merely amused by what appeared to be a lover’s quarrel, and his own racing thoughts. To their credit, his friends suddenly did not have much to say; Colline and Schaunard had shut up, watching with comically shocked expressions as Musetta strode across the room. Mimì watched quietly, nestled up against Rodolfo, who had eyes for none but her. 

Musetta was clearly dressed and made up to her very best, no surprise to him. She wore a tight red dress that hugged her curves, and her loosely-curled auburn hair spilled across her shoulders. He watched her as she spoke with the staff, who seemed to know her, or at least were familiar with her little stunts; she stepped comfortably onto the raised platform and paused, maybe waiting for music or lights. The sudden stillness stole his breath with anticipation.

She tossed her head and smiled that irresistible smile out at the excited and curious diners, a smile that could make anyone fall head over heels for her. Lights flickered on above her, bathing her in a comfortable, yellow glow; the jewels on her neck sparkled indulgently with each breath, each movement. 

There was the gentle hiss of a record needle, and soft music began to play, a lilting, playful waltz melody, curiously familiar… 

She began to sing. 

“As I walk alone through the streets, the people stop to look at my beauty, examining me from head to toe…” she hummed, each word clear and melodic, her voice washing over him like a tidal wave of memory and desire.

“Oh, tie me to the chair!” he groaned, his voice low. He would not, could not be falling for her again. Not again. But his heart betrayed him, just as it had before, and he could not take his eyes off her… 

Beside them, Alcinodor hung his head in his hands. “What will people say?” he moaned. 

The melody quieted before swelling again, building in intensity, her voice soaring higher and higher. “And then I savor the subtle longing in their eyes when, from my visible charms, they guess at the beauty concealed. Their desire surrounds me. It delights me, it delights me.” 

The music dropped once more, and so did her voice, growing quiet; he sensed a building of tension. “It delights me,” she hummed. “Delights me…”

“This scandalous song infuriates me!” grumbled an outraged Alcinodor, and Marcello couldn’t help but smile wryly at the hopeless, crotchety old man. 

“And you who know, who remember and suffer, how can you escape?” sang Musetta, the melody rising with the playful question. “I know you won't admit that you're in torment, but it's killing you!” she exclaimed, blowing a kiss into the crowd. 

“I can tell that the poor girl is head over heels in love with Marcello,” murmured Mimì; the quiet remark caught Marcello off guard. Surely not. Surely Mimì was mistaken, surely she was seeing love where there was nothing but the bitter ghosts of the past, for in no way could he begin to hope that Musetta might— 

“What will people say?” Alcinodor continued to complain, and Marcello wanted nothing more than to slap a piece of duct tape over the old man’s mouth and send him spinning into the void of space. Annoyance crawled across his scalp. 

Yes, perhaps his cheeks burned with hot irritation. Perhaps it was annoyance that made his heart race, his pulse thunder, his breath quicken… 

The chatter of his friends mingled with the melody of the song; an orchestra echoed Musetta’s earlier words, and she took the chance to step off stage and walk slowly around. 

“She and Marcello used to be together… they were actually engaged, I think…” explained Rodolfo, a tone too loud, practically announcing Marcello’s tragic past to anyone who wasn’t paying attention to the sway of Musetta’s hips as she moved through the tables, smiling coyly. 

“Ah! And Marcello will give in again!” laughed Schaunard; knowing him and Colline, they were probably placing bets on how the night would end, the bastards.

“Who knows what'll happen?” responded Colline gleefully, to Marcello’s absolute lack of surprise. 

“...She ran off,” continued Rodolfo, “ended the engagement, and took the first ship off Earth that she could find. Lord knows how she ended up here… Found some rich old men to buy her the life she wanted, the life she knew she could never have with Marcello; he’s just a scientist, you know, they barely make enough to get on by to begin with...” 

Seriously? thought Marcello somewhere in the recesses of his mind, the only part of him not currently inflamed with infatuation. He’d have to have a little chat with Rodolfo about oversharing once they got back to the ship… 

“The snare is equally as sweet to hunter and hunted,” mused Colline, ever the philosopher. 

Musetta looked over at him again with sparkling eyes. As she turned away, Marcello could swear he saw her smirk. 

“I feel sorry for the poor girl, really,” Mimì said; Marcello turned, intrigued by her comment. Why on earth would she feel sorry for Musetta, of all people? Poor girl she most certainly was not, not by any definition of Marcello’s. 

“She's lovely— I'm not blind…” acknowledged Colline, contemplating Musetta. Across from him, Mimì spoke inaudibly to Rodolfo; Marcello watched her lips move, but could divine no words or meaning in the noisy restaurant. 

“If a girl like that ever stopped and talked to you, you'd gladly send to the devil all your bearish philosophies,” Schaunard said with a laugh. Marcello looked back at Musetta, and Schaunard followed his gaze before calling, “Oh, look— I called it— he’s gonna give in! He’s gonna go for it! Oh, the drama of it all!” 

“Well, I'm much happier with my pipe and a Greek text anyways.” Colline responded, winking at Schaunard. “She’s gorgeous, but maybe… not my type.” Marcello and Schaunard both rolled their eyes at that . 

“Mimì! You feel sorry for her? She dumped him ! You can’t go back on that,” Rodolfo remarked. “Love, once dead, can’t be revived. If it’s done, it’s done.” 

In the back of his fevered mind, Marcello was surprised by his friend’s coldness. Love unable to be revived? Then Rodolfo knew nothing of love, dead or otherwise, for surely Musetta had killed his heart before resurrecting it once more. 

“I feel so sorry for her,” Mimì repeated, still talking about Musetta. “Love is sad when it's unforgiving; it’s not a war, or a score to be settled. I think hope is such an important part of being in love.” He might have scoffed at her naive words and agreed with Rodolfo’s on any other night, but not now. Not tonight. Not here, with all his friends and Musetta nearly in his arms once more--

Musetta had made her way all the way to the front of the restaurant, now, and she approached his and Alcinodor’s tables. 

As soon as he thought she might hear, Alcinodor resumed his lectures. “Mind your manners! Be quiet!” he barked at her. 

She paid him no mind. “I know you won't admit your torment. Ah! but you feel like dying!” she sang. 

She looked Marcello right in the eye, and it felt as if something within him melted a little. Their eye contact snapped as she turned to Alcinodor, who was now trying to physically restrain his companion from stealing any more hearts.  

Frowning, she said, still half-singing, “I'll do as I please, I'll do what I like; don't be such a bore, a bore, a bore!” She emphasized each word with a smack on the shoulder; straining away from him as he tried to pull her into his lap. 

Her face shifted slightly, and fission of cold excitement ran down Marcello’s spine. The way her eyes darted, the curl at the corner of her smile: oh, he knew that look, he knew it well.

“Ow!” she cried suddenly, swooning—or rather, plopping herself into Alcinodor’s lap. 

He grunted. “What is it now?” 

“Oh, the pain! The pain!” 

The girl knew how to be dramatic, if nothing else. 

“Where?” 

“My foot!” she cried almost gleefully, and the music crashed and crescendoed around them. Something inside him, long sleeping, had awoken again—

It was too much, all too much, and he could not help but love her. 

“Loosen them! Untie them! Break them if you have to!” she cried, tugging on the straps, her cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling. “Please! There's a shoemaker nearby. Go on! I want another pair! Oh, they’re awful, these damn shoes!  I’ve gotta take them off...” 

His friends were standing now, everyone was standing, as the sparkling drama unfolded before them. Mimì pressed beside him, Rodolfo at her side, watching as Musetta yanked the shoes off one at a time, carrying on all the while. Marcello watched her, half listening as his friends’ gossip echoed like butterflies in his ears. 

“I can see,” laughed Mimì, “that she’s madly in love with him.” And Rodolfo laughed too and agreed, and Marcello could scarcely believe that it was not all just a dream

Musetta stood, now barefoot, and dumped the offending shoes unceremoniously in Alcinodor’s hands before darting out of his reach again. “Here you go. Now run, go on, run! Hurry, hurry! Go on , Alci!” 

“How absurd!” the old man sputtered as Musetta shooed him out of the restaurant. “What will people say? My reputation! Do you want to ruin it? Fine, fine , I'm going!” He turned away with a huff, and the tinkle of the door’s bell was final. They watched him shuffle away in sudden silence.

Musetta turned to him, her chest heaving, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted slightly. He suddenly could not breathe—

“Marcello!” she cried, and he could resist her no longer. 

“Oh, Musetta!” he replied ardently, opening his arms, and she rushed to him. They fit together just as they once had, like puzzle pieces, like they were meant to be, and the feeling of her in his arms once more was worth all the pain he’d been through. 

“Here's the finale!” joked Schaunard, somewhere behind him; Marcello paid him no attention. He kissed Musetta’s forehead, kissed down her temple, and she sighed slightly, melting into his touch.  

“Marcello, Marcello,” she murmured, her voice like a song in his ears. “God, I’ve missed you.” He kissed her again, and again, because it just felt so right to be kissing her. Why had they ever given this up?

“Your bill,” said a polite male voice next to him; Marcello disentangled himself from Musetta in time to see a black-clad waiter making his way back through the restaurant, melting into the chattering, amused crowd. 

Schaunard stared down at the neatly-folded slip of paper. “So soon?” he asked, not daring to open it. 

“Who asked for it?” added Colline with exasperation. 

Musetta slipped her hand into his own, and suddenly Marcello was having a hard time focusing on the crisis at hand. 

“Let's see the damage,” said Schaunard grimly, as if he were assessing a busted conduit somewhere down in the engine room. Marcello hung back as Rodolfo and Colline peered over Schaunard’s shoulder. 

“Oh, Christ,” muttered Rodolfo, shaking his head and stepping back. 

“It's so much!” Colline exclaimed.  

“We…. might have a problem,” concluded Schaunard. “Everyone give me everything you’ve got, and hopefully we’ll have enough to cover it. Colline, Rodolfo, Marcello?”

With a sigh, Marcello slipped his hand out of Musetta’s and dug around in his worn, holey pockets. “I've got nothing,” he said hopelessly. 

Schaunard groaned. “Shit, shit,” he whispered under his breath. 

“I've only got a handful of coins, change from that little shop,” offered Rodolfo. 

Colline shrugged and held up his stupid book as an answer. As smart as he was, Colline could be a real idiot sometimes. 

“What? Nothing ?” Schaunard sputtered. “What the hell did you guys do with all that stuff we had, the chips and wires and stuff? Did you all get screwed that badly?” His anger barely masked the panic running high through his voice. “I swear to God, you guys—” 

A flash of movement outside the windows caught Marcello’s eye— another group of children ran by, cheering and giggling, wearing festive colors and waving flags and ribbons. Christmas , he thought warmly, despite the growing panic in his friends’ voices. So maybe not all was that bad in the universe after all. 

At his side, Musetta flagged over another black-clad waiter. “Give me my bill, please.” He nodded politely and turned away; she turned back to Marcello and winked conspiratorially, and his heart skipped a beat. 

As his friends agonized over the bill, Marcello half-listened, paying closer attention to the growing parade of children, parents, and teens on the streets outside. Even on the isolated, decrepit station, people were celebrating the holidays. Momus wasn’t that bad after all, really, when you came to think about it. Just people, getting by, making do, finding ways to celebrate and have fun even when life looked dire and desolate. 

His attention was drawn away again as the waiter returned with Musetta’s bill; she smiled politely and thanked him, looking over the slip with a keen and appraising eye. 

“Please, add these two bills together. The gentleman with me will pay.” The waiter nodded obligingly and Marcello’s jaw dropped open. 

“Musetta!” he said, surprised and amazed and shocked all at once. 

She winked at him. “He can afford it, the old miser!” She grabbed his hand again. 

His friends echoed his surprise and delight. “The gentleman will pay, indeed!” laughed Colline and Schaunard. 

Outside, a massive crowd had grown; every inhabitant of the station, it seemed, had made their way to the promenade for whatever celebration awaited them. Even in the restaurant, Marcello could hear music playing, a rousing of blaring horns and drums, a heady marching tune that seemed to stir his senses and ignite a fire in his veins. 

“Here they come!” a child shouted, the innocent, excited voice carrying into the restaurant. 

More people outside cheered. “Yes, this way!”

The men gathered up their things. “The gentleman will pay!” they laughed. “When the parade comes by, we'll march with it!”

“And here, where he was sitting, he'll find my farewell!” chimed in Musetta; she folded the two receipts neatly in half and kissed them, leaving the scarlet stain of her lipstick. Looking satisfied, she left them next to Alcinodor’s drink. Marcello looked down at her with joy. 

“You’re coming with us?”

She smiled. “Would you have it any other way?”

They followed the others out into the busy main concourse of the station. 

“Make way, make way, here they come!” shouted the crowds. “Hey! Look out, here they are! Now the Guard is coming!”

Colline fell back, coming to Marcello’s side. “Don't let the old man catch us,” he said, jerking his head in the direction Alcinodor had gone. “We better get going.” 

“The Guard is coming!” shouted Rodolfo, pointing out to Mimì and the others another group of marching officers in uniforms similar to Benoit’s. 

Colline nodded with glee. “Stick together. We’ll hide in the crowds and make a getaway!” 

“Hurry! Let’s go!” his friends cried. One in front of the other, they fell into the parade of cheering people. 

Marcello could not help but eye the worn coats, the dirty nails, the shaggy hair not so dissimilar to his own. It was clear where Momus got its reputation. And yet he felt comfortable, perfectly at ease among these people, these vendors and artists and mechanics and workers, people of every walk of life imaginable. Even as he would eventually return to his beaten-down ship, sputtering its way through the stars, he knew that many of the people here were worse off than him in many ways. And yet still they celebrated, hanging onto one another and a hope for a better tomorrow, just as he did. 

“The drum corps! Hooray!” 

“Here's the drum-major! I heard he’s a general!”

Even as he was jostled side to side, Marcello could not help but smile. To be amongst people once more, to hear their vibrant shouts and squabbles and cheers— 

“There he is, the handsome drum major!”

“Oh, he looked at me as he went past! He’s such a babe!”

Over the crowds he could see the drum major, a tall officer wearing a cape of woven red-and-silver fabric. The crowds cheered wildly at the bugle fanfare and the beating snares drums as the band marched past them with rhythmic accuracy.

 He heard a familiar shout, and listened as his friends, too, raised their voices in cheer. 

“To Musetta!”

He joined them, not minding that anyone else in the crowd probably thought them mad. 

“Musetta!” he cried, catching her eye. Her cheeks were flushed red with pride and, he realized, uncharacteristic humility. He watched her fondly for a moment, even after she turned away, looking back to the spectacle before them. 

“All a-glitter!” they cheered. “The handsomest man in the galaxy, that drum major! Here he is! And look at the band! The best part of the holiday!” 

Marcello happened, just then, to glance around, just as old Alcinodor re-entered the bar. A waiter ever-so-politely handed him the bill. A moment passed— the man looked around wildly as the trick dawned on him— he sank into a chair and out of view. 

Musetta tugged on his hand, pulling Marcello into the crowd with the others, and he did not restrain the giddy, full laugh that rose to his lips.

Chapter Text

Does a comet know its fate, as it hurdles towards the sun? 

Does it know what awaits, in sunlight's blissful warmth? 

A strange world it must be, where the icy throes of space offer safety, and the mere promise of light signs certain death...

She watched the comet, shimmering, dancing, sparking in the sunlight, its beautiful tails sending crystalline snowflakes floating past the windows of the Momus Station. On the slowly-turning station, the sun was rising, creating a strange sort of alien dawn, the long, reaching rays of light arching, shining briefly against the darkness before being swallowed forevermore. She rested her head against the thick resin-glass, wishing she could share just some of that fleeting warmth, wishing she could numb the cold that seemed to have settled in permanently in her aching, weary bones. Wishing there were someone, anyone, who would look on her kindly in that moment, for softness and light were so rare in her drafty, lonesome corner of the universe. 

A group of maintenance workers was passing by, their chatter mixing with the blurry wash of voices from a bar across the street. They stamped their feet on the ground, metallic echoes ringing through the darkness, and called for an officer to open the airlock to the adjacent section of the station. 

Names , the man called, and she thought of her own. Mimì. Lucia. Mimì . Lucia, he’d called her, in the darkest of nights, Lucia, Lucia, but it was ultimately Mimì who fell to pieces under his touch, Mimì who sold her art in the streets with the other vendors, Mimì who was part of this little found family. 

There was Musetta, sweet Musetta, who had slipped a hand around Mimì's bony waist that first night here on Momus two months ago. She'd announced that they were sisters now, sisters from that moment forward, together on this strange voyage through the stars. Mimì supposed they were, though she could not help but think that they were less sisters but complimenting halves, two parts of a greater whole. Like bitter and sweet, day and night, spring and autumn. But who was who, and which was which? she'd wondered, her thoughts circling and pointing and naming, a fatigued mind trying vainly to find the answers to questions she didn’t even know. 

Perhaps she would talk with Colline, burly, bearded Colline, good humored and friendly, so easy to talk to; or Schaunard, muscular, wiry, full of constant energy and quick retorts; maybe soft-spoken Marcello, tall, lanky, geeky and romantic. And of course Rodolfo, the leader of the group, Rodolfo whom she loved so dearly, still loved so dearly, even as he grew strange and cold towards her... 

But she could not, for they were all gone now, and she was alone. 

In the bar, someone was singing a love song, and she looked up weakly from her spot slumped against the icy wall of the station’s outermost reaches. Passersby would think her a drunk, an addict, perhaps even a corpse. She was none of those things, not yet. Just a tired soul, listening to a love song not meant for her. 

The door to the bar opened as a couple stumbled out, spilling light and song into the corridor. “Some find pleasure in their cups, and on ardent lips find love,” a woman crooned. “Ah! Pleasure is in the glass! Love lies on—” The door shut, and it was quiet once more. 

A group of women passed through the airlock, chattering, gossiping, fragments of lives brushing her own—

“Butter and cheese! Chicken and eggs!”

“Which way are you going?”

“Did you hear the news?”

“—To Saint Michel!”

“Yes, at twelve-hundred hours—”

She watched them go. She turned her gaze back to the comet, brilliant and beautiful and achingly lonesome. 

Her eyes closed, and she dreamt she was back in her pod, dreaming of dreams themselves. Her hair like ink, like the liquid night, streaming down her shoulders until it swallowed her up entirely— but it was quiet and still and she rested easy, and the weight on her shoulders became a comfortable pressure that sunk her down, down, laying her to rest in the cradle of the night, like warm, strong arms embracing her, like Rodolfo holding her. 

She woke up longing for his touch, a chill creeping under her skin, and a moment later was wracked by a cough so thunderous she feared she would die, suffocating in her own weak body, gasping for air. 

Time was suspended, and she could only tremble, each jagged breath more painful than the last. But the pain passed, as it always had, and she wiped her mouth with a shaking hand, eyes still lingering on the comet. Against the lonely silence, she remembered the feel of his hands on her, holding her, his mouth tracing the curve of her lips, the angle of her neck, ghosting over the flowers on her ribs, tongue and fingers tracing the tattooed lilies and roses and jasmine, making her gasp under his playful, gentle touch. He’d smiled the first time he’d seen them, for of course she had flowers. Of course she carried that beauty with her for always. They’d laughed at the scattered collection of vaguely naval-inspired tattoos he’d gotten as a young man, laying together in a tangle of limbs and bedsheets, skin pressed against skin to ward off the chill of their little room.

With a shaky sigh, she rose and crossed the broad gallery, approaching the guard stationed at the airlock. Her shoes were thin, and each step was dully painful— 

“Excuse me,” she said; when the man did not look up, she took a wheezing, rattling breath and asked again, “Excuse me, sir, have you seen a man painting around here?”

He grunted, seemingly unsurprised by the random question. “Tall dude? Leggy? Dark hair?” 

She nodded, feeling faint, and gripped the counter in front of her. The man’s eyes flicked to her, to the fuzzy screens before him, and back to her. Tall, balding, he wore a coverall of dark sage green, plain except for an embroidered patch of a silvery-white crescent moon over the left breast; the symbol, she’d learned, of the station. 

The man gestured vaguely across the street. “He’s over at that one, or at least he was last time I was stuck out here.” He leaned back in his chair and tapped on a control panel with a heavy, bored sigh. She waited for him to say more, but he was silent and did not look up as she slowly backed away from the alcove. 

“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice swallowed into the cool air; the hum of machines, air circulators, and electricity echoed in her ears, never leaving, like a beating, buzzing heart of the station. 

She made her way to the building, approaching the entrance like a moth drawn to flame. The thought made her smile, though she was unsure why. Yes, yes, she was like a little moth, Mimì moth, little Lucia Mimì moth… grey, fluttering, a poor creature drawn to the light, subject to either scorn or pity, little more. A moth, like the brilliant comet, pulled to warmth and light. 

Outside, in the shadows, an older woman was smoking, a tiny orange-red flame glowing between her fingers; the black half-apron slung around her hips told Mimì she was a waitress, or maybe a bartender. Her bleached hair was cropped short, and she leaned against the wall tiredly. 

As Mimì approached her, she looked up, first watching with curiosity, then concern. She dropped her cigarette and stubbed it out with the heel of her shoe. “You okay, honey?” she asked, her voice gravelly but still pleasant, comforting and maternal. 

“I’m looking for a friend,” she said, and the woman nodded encouragingly, her dark-lined eyes meeting Mimì’s. “I think he works here… his name is Marcello. He’s a scientist, really, but I’ve heard he’s been hired to paint…” she babbled. At the mention of Marcello’s name, the woman smiled knowingly. 

“He’s here, honey, I’ll go get him for you. You just wait right here.” The woman turned and Mimì watched as she entered the building through a side door. She closed her eyes, her head spinning, and wished she could sit down and rest, if only for a moment...

“ Mimì ?” cried a familiar, dear voice, and her eyes opened slowly to find Marcello standing before her. 

Despite her fatigue, a smile slipped across her face, painful on her dry, cracked lips. “I hoped I'd find you here,” she said with unexpected warmth. The very sight of him seemed to have lessened the chill in her heart; he had never been anything but kind to her, like a brother, a friend. Oh, she could cry at seeing him! 

“That's right. We've been here about a month,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the bar. “Musetta sings and entertains every night, and I’m painting those constellations by the door there, that big mural… thing. We work, and they keep us. Whatever it takes,” he shrugged, “to make ends meet.” 

He opened his arms, and she stepped into his hug, warm and familiar. “You’re freezing!” he exclaimed. “Come inside. Musetta will want to see you.” He tucked her under his arm, guiding her to the entrance. 

But a thought struck her, and she stopped cold. “Is Rodolfo here?”

“Yeah,” responded Marcello nonchalantly, stopping beside her. She shrugged his arm off her and turned to face him.  

“Then I can't go in. No, no!” she cried, wringing her hands.

“Why not?” he asked with a sigh. “Come on, Mimì, it’s cold and drafty out here. You don’t have to talk to him. He’s probably still asleep anyways. Let me just get you some food, I’m sure Musetta will give you a sweater or something…”

It was too much, all too much. No soup or coat could heal what tore at her heart. She began to cry, hot tears slipping down her cheeks. “Oh! Help me, Marcello! I don’t know what to do,” she begged. 

He offered her his arm and brought her to the stoop where the waitress had entered, sitting next to her on the stairs. “Wait here,” he told her, “I’ll just be a second, I swear.” 

“No wait, Marcello— don’t go—” but he’d already slipped through the door, leaving her alone once more. She dried her cheeks even as more tears fell from her eyes. 

A minute later he reappeared, his arms full with a large plate, and she looked up at him from her spot on the steps, feeling like a child staring up at a giant. The smell of the food, hot and greasy, made her stomach rumble and her mouth water. He settled down next to her, folding his long legs awkwardly and passing a plate. 

“Quesadilla, here, careful, the plate’s hot…” 

She dug into the quesadilla, golden-brown and cheesy, the most she’d eaten in days, taking ravenous bites without a care for manners or neatness. Savory and salty and buttery, oh-so-good—

“Musetta’s working right now, but she promised to come out as soon as she can…”

Mimì nodded, her mouth full of cheese and sour cream, the plate nearly burning hot on her lap, scorching its way through her thin skirt, probably blistering her legs, but she didn’t care, couldn’t care, because it was warm and her stomach was full of food, and Musetta and Marcello were here, and perhaps things might be alright.

The thought made her tear up, and she sniffled, putting down the quesadilla to wipe her eyes. 

“Oh, Mimì,” he asked softly, “what happened?”

She sighed, trying to put words to the tangled mess of emotion in her heart. “God, Marcello, it’s such a mess. I don’t even know how to explain it. Rodolfo— he loves me, I know he does, but he’s pushing me away. He acts so cold, and then when I turn to others, he has the nerve to be jealous! What am I supposed to do? I loved him because he was so sensitive, so adoring, so loyal. But now it’s all wrong, it’s tense, it’s lonely. I miss him… It’s awful when we fight. We don’t fight often, but it’s often enough. It hurts so bad—”

Her voice broke off with pained emotion, that terrible ache in her chest intensifying. 

“It hurts so badly to fight with someone you love, Marcello.” She closed her eyes, recalling how that intense love had frayed, how his passionate words had turned into accusations, vindictive and paranoid. She’d caught him crying once, in their little box of a bedroom, and he would not tell her why, could not tell her why. There were so many good times, too, when the old Rodolfo would come back, the man she’d fallen for, almost as if he’d forgotten he didn’t want her anymore. He’d hold her, read while she embroidered, help cook and clean plates after dinner, kiss her silly. But then, like a brilliant candle obscured by a hand, someone much colder and more distant would suddenly appear in his place. They would be laughing and she would cough, and there went that light, her Rodolfo vanished. He would hold her close, listening to her breaths as she fell asleep— and suddenly he was like a stranger once more. 

Nothing made sense; it was why she was here, talking to Marcello. Hoping to have some guidance, some answers… at least just someone she could talk to.

Her face grew warm and her voice quiet as she continued. 

“I have nightmares,” she confessed, “nightmares where he leaves me and I’m alone again. I know I don’t need him, I’ve spent long enough alone to know that, but I still love him more than anything. I love how he makes me laugh, I love how gentle he is… I loved how he was still strong, even after all he’d been through, and I love how he made me strong. God!” she exclaimed. “He’s acting so stupid! What is he doing ? Why are guys like this? What’s going on in his big, empty head? I wish I could just speak to him, make him listen to me, to cut through his stupidity and talk to him like an adult!”

She turned to Marcello, who bit his lip thoughtfully, his brow creasing. He waited a moment before shaking his head. “Oh, Mimì, I’m sorry. Really. But when two people are like you two, they don’t stay together. You’re too— too attached. You both feel every slight as if it were a fatal wound. And Lord knows Rodolfo can’t be mature about anything, ever…” 

“God, I know,” she said miserably. “We’ve tried, again and again, but in vain. I love him, and he loves me, but it just never works out—” She gestured hopelessly before running her hands over her face. Marcello rubbed her back gently, and she sighed. 

“See, Musetta and I, we don’t take ourselves too seriously. You just have to be comfortable with each other, get out a little. Eat, drink and be merry, you know? That’s the secret of love, not taking each other too seriously.” He frowned. “I’m sorry, Mimì. I know that’s probably not what you wanted to hear. Maybe you and Rodolfo just aren’t right for one another.”

Even as she knew them to be true, the words were like a knife to the gut. Was love really not enough? 

She was silent for a moment. 

“Maybe you're right, Marcello,” she admitted finally, defeated. “Maybe we should break up. Go our own ways.” She looked at him. “Be honest. Do you think it would be for the best?” 

His gaze lingered somewhere in the distance before he slowly nodded. “I’ll go wake him up.” 

She tilted her head. “He’s sleeping?” 

“He stumbled in here about midnight and passed out on a bench; it was everything I could do to keep the owner from kicking him to the curb.” He chuckled darkly and gestured vaguely behind him. “Look at him…” 

Before she could, something tickled her throat, and a cough shook her, an unstoppable cough that seemed to claw its way out, aching in her lungs, burning and bruising its way up her throat. She coughed and hacked, hunching forward as her whole body seemed to shake. After an unending moment, she took an unsteady breath, wiping her mouth with a trembling hand. 

“What a cough!” Marcello remarked mildly, his words full of unspoken concern.

“I've been aching all over since yesterday. He stormed out last night, saying we were done.” Her voice hitched and she took another bite of the now-cold quesadilla. “I slept for a few more hours before coming here to find you, but Marcello, I’m so tired. I think something— I think something’s wrong,” she admitted meekly. 

Marcello leaned back, peering through the small port window in the door. Without turning away, he put his hand on her arm, gesturing for her silence. “He's waking up. He's looking

for me… Oh, he’s coming over—”

“I don’t want to see him,” she said, rising so quickly her head spun and stars and comets danced before her eyes.

“Go wait over there,” Marcello instructed, gesturing to another darkened doorway further down the building. “I’ll try and talk to him. It won’t help you to make a big scene about it.” 

She hastened to the door, supporting herself against the wall, and slipped into the alcove. In the darkened doorway, she sank down until her head nearly rested on her folded knees; from her position, she could hear, but not see, Rodolfo as he came through the door and down the back steps she’d just sat on with Marcello. 

“Marcello!” he exclaimed. “Finally we can talk in private. I think I’m— I have to break up with Mimì.”

He might as well have slapped her.

“What? Really?” said Marcello, sounding truly disbelieving. “Already? Why?”

Rodolfo sighed pensively. “I’d already thought my heart had died; when we were on that godforsaken ship, I had lost all hope of rescue, all hope for a future. When she came, those sparkling, beautiful blue eyes revived me. I felt hope, Marcello, I wanted to live, I wanted to be alive. But that’s all gone now, and I’m bored and miserable once more…” 

“So you’re giving up? Is that what this is?”

“Forever,” he said with scorn. “It was just infatuation, Marcello. I fell in love with the first person I saw after being on that goddamn ship for months. I don’t think there was ever any love at all.”

Pain stabbed her heart. To hear the man she loved say such a thing! But what had happened to his sparkling eyes, his cheerful, boyish smile, his radiant hope? What cruel shade had stolen his spirit? After months together, she could not believe him when he said it had been just infatuation: surely there had been something more, something infinite and tangible and real . She stared at the wall across from her, eyes tracing scrawled graffiti: hearts, names, initials, promises of forever. Traces of lives and loves, perhaps long gone, but preserved for eternity on the spinning, drifting Momus Station. Love slipped through her fingers, but the memories stayed—

Marcello was speaking again, and she shifted, trying to hear more clearly. “Rodolfo, you need to grow the hell up,” he said, his voice low but still audible. “I’m completely serious. I don’t know where all of this is coming from. Maybe you love her, or maybe you don’t. Only you can say that. But love only has strength if you’re there for the bad times, as well as the good.” 

There was a beat of silence as both of them mulled over his words. “Are you jealous? Is that what this is about?” he asked after a moment.

Rodolfo was quiet. “A little,” he muttered sullenly. 

Marcello scoffed. “No, Rodolfo, a lot, and it’s too much. I never pinned you as the jealous type, but from the first time I met Mimì you were... different . Weird. Like she was some precious statue you’d found, and not like, an actual person, your girlfriend... And now you’re acting like an absolute piece of shit. I’m amazed she didn’t dump your sorry ass already!” It was silent for a moment. “I could never believe that you would treat someone you love like that. I could kill you for it…” 

Her heart fluttered, unease gnawing at her gut. She had not wanted to create strife, especially between the two longtime friends; for a moment, she wondered if she had been wrong in going to Marcello for help, for dragging him into the tangled web of love and loss strung between her heart and Rodolfo’s… But Marcello’s earlier words echoed in her head, along with his calm disdain for Rodolfo’s cruel remarks, and she drew some small comfort from it. Perhaps he could set it straight, make it work out...

“She’s such a flirt! Any guy who shows her attention, and she’s all over him, teasing, flirting, leading him on…” Rodolfo explained defensively, and her jaw tensed. Liar, liar! she wanted to cry, for perhaps she had drawn attention, and perhaps she had even dared to enjoy it, after so long in the dark and quiet. But she had never been disloyal. He knew it as well as she that her heart was his and his alone, just as she’d hoped his heart belonged to her. There was something more, there had to be. She could not believe his heart would turn against her so easily. 

“No,” Marcello said, rather coldly. “No, I don’t think that’s it, Rodolfo. I know both of you better than that. Mimì is vivacious, lively, beautiful, but she loves you more than anything; and you, the same. You’re hiding something, there’s something more—”

Mimì steadied her breath, feeling her heart race. So her intuition had been right, and Marcello had picked up on it too: there was something more behind the change in Rodolfo, something lurking under the surface… 

“Fine. Fine,” he muttered; she could hear him scuff his boot against the ground as he thought. “I guess I can’t hide anything from you, not what’s really bothering me. You know I love Mimì more than the world. I do love her! But I'm afraid…” 

He sighed, and she swallowed, a lump forming in her throat— 

His voice dropped as he continued. “She’s sick, Marcello, she’s really sick. I don’t know what, or why, or how— and it’s not like we can pay to find out— but she’s been sick, ever since I first met her, ever since she got out of that escape pod, and she’s only getting worse. My poor Mimì— oh Marcello—” 

Simultaneously Mimì and Marcello had twin thoughts, Marcello asking the same question on Mimì’s lips, his voice becoming hers— “ What do you mean? ” 

Rodolfo gave an anguished moan.“This horrible coughing wracks her fragile chest. Her pale cheeks are flushed and feverish. I hear how out-of-breath she is, even after just coming up the stairs to our room, and I’m powerless, my hands bound, unable to help her, unable to stop it—” His voice choked off, pinched into an anguished sob. “She’s dying , Marcello!” 

“Oh, Rodolfo!” Marcello said softly, more to himself, but she barely heard him, her head spinning, feeling as if she had just been pulled back to sudden gravity— dying ? Surely not— surely she would get better. It was just a cough. Of course she would get better. 

It had never occurred to her that she might not get better. 

“Our room's like a cave, the heat has gone out, and we’re right next to the goddamn ventilation system, blowing freezing cold air in at every hour,” Rodolfo continued. “And still she laughs and sings, still she goes out every day to sell her art and bring in money so we can eat! It’s killing me, Marcello! I hate it! It’s all my fault, and it’s killing her, it’s literally killing her!” 

“Rodolfo, Rodolfo,” Marcello said comfortingly, “I’m sure there’s something we can do.”

“There’s nothing !” he shouted, true anger coloring his voice for the first time. “If only we had money, we could get her a doctor, we could stick her on a ship to anywhere else but here— we could do something— but we don’t. And so we can’t. And it’s my fault, because she loves me, and won’t leave my side! I’ve built this damn trap and led her right into it!” 

She pressed a hand to her mouth, and the floor beneath her feet seemed to pull harder at her, urging her to keel over, to cry out in sorrow. So this was it, then; this was the bitter truth behind all of the pain and anger. Grief and frustration over what they were powerless to control, over the wounds that no love could heal. 

“She’s a beautiful flower, my beautiful angel, and I’ve sickened her. It’s wrong for me to make my problems her own! And there’s nothing in this entire universe I can do to save her. All my love isn’t enough to save her.” He began to cry, openly and freely. “I can’t save her,” he repeated helplessly. “I knew if she left me… she might find someone else, someone who could take care of her. So I had to do it, because I can’t save her…”

“Poor thing. Poor Mimì!” murmured Marcello, and the pity in his voice was what finally sent her over the edge, bawling. Feeling like a small, lost, lonely child, hopeless, with nobody to help her, she sobbed, desperately trying to stay silent, and her breath caught in her throat.

She began to cough, a wet, barking, hoarse cough, shuddering as her back pressed into the hard wall behind her. Again and again and again and she couldn’t breathe— 

“Oh my God — Mimì? ” Rodolfo cried, and she could only cry harder, gasping, sputtering, coughing, pathetic and helpless. She gave up on trying to conceal herself from him, gave up on it all, and slumped forward, sliding down the steps and onto the dirty floor. 

“She must have overheard…” Marcello murmured, stepping back.

Rodolfo knelt beside her, taking him into his arms; she pushed him away halfheartedly before relenting and collapsed, sobbing, into his embrace. She prayed that this was it, that this was the rock bottom, that it could get no worse. Please , she begged silently, let it not get any worse.  

After a moment, she calmed slightly, taking a hesitant, shaky breath. Tenderly, Rodolfo brushed the strands of dark hair that clung wetly to her face, stroking her cheeks and hair. “I'm just easily frightened,” he murmured, “I’m getting all worked up over nothing. Everything’s going to be okay, you know that. Just come inside and everything will be fine, Mimì, please…” He stood up, his arms around her still, urging her forward. 

But she resisted. Pathetic as she felt, sobbing, dirty, weak, she would not relent, would not go with him, would not throw away what was left of her pride so easily. 

“I will not,” she said awkwardly, her throat still tight. She looked at him coldly. “It’s too close. I think I’d suffocate.” 

Uneasy silence hung over the trio; her, unmoving, still in Rodolfo’s arms, and Marcello off to the side, unsure what to do or say as truths, lies, and desires collided head-on. 

A woman’s laughter floated through the stale, recycled air, feminine and playful. Mimì almost smiled despite herself before Marcello caught her attention. He turned sharply at the noise, suddenly alert and in motion. 

“That's Musetta laughing. What is she doing? God, I can’t take my eyes off her for a minute!” he exclaimed with unexpected anger before rushing back in through the entrance. Mimì watched him with some concern; he and Musetta, she knew, had had their share of trials in the past, but she never suspected that the same miserable jealousy that had wounded her and Rodolfo drove its devious knife between them as well. 

With a sinking heart, she remembered her purpose. She remembered Marcello’s words— Maybe you and Rodolfo just aren’t right for one another— and Rodolfo’s own— I have to break up with Mimì —  and worse even— All my love isn’t enough to save her.

But you’ve taught me how to live! she thought. Isn’t that enough?  

She thought of the comet. She thought of the darkness she had felt in space, and the warmth of La Vie Bohème . She thought of waking up each morning to his embrace, and laughing with the others, and how desperate he had sounded when he had pleaded to Marcello for her life.

Gently enough that he might not notice what she was doing, she shrugged off his arms, stepping back. “Goodbye, Rodolfo,” she said, the simple and quiet words hanging in the cool air. 

He reached out and grabbed her thin wrist. “What? You're going? Don’t be stupid, Mimì— what do you mean, goodbye?” She bristled at his words. Stupid— it was he who was being stupid, with his childish, nonsense, with his grand, romantic plan to ‘save’ her, not knowing his wounds were a pain worse than death. She could take it no more.  

“You’re being the stupid one!” she cried, shaking him off. “What is this? You worry about me so much that you push me away for my own good?” She had never had a quick temper, and rarely raised her voice. But something inside her seemed to snap now, looking at Rodolfo. “What were you even thinking? Trying to protect me? To save me? You’ve only hurt me more!”

She felt a coldness slip over her, unfamiliar but powerful, and she raised her chin, looking at him sharply. “I’m done. I’m going home, Rodolfo.  Back to where I came from, before Momus, before La Vie Bohème , before the pod and the transport ship— home. I’ll hitchhike, I’ll barter, I’ll work, I’ll do whatever it takes. I'll probably never get to Primavera. Maybe I’ll die before I even get home. But I’ll burden you no more.”

He reached out to embrace her, to take her in his arms. She sidestepped his reach, telling herself she had to, no matter how much she longed for his touch. 

“I’ll come by tomorrow and pick up my things,” she continued, that sense of terrifying calm overtaking her. “You know it isn’t much; a dress or two, my art supplies, and whatever’s mine in the bathroom, it should be easy to tell. There’s the bracelet Musetta gave me that I’d like to keep, and that book of poems from Colline.” She sighed shakily, exhausted, all anger fading from her. It was done: she had broken it off, clean and efficiently. It was all over. 

“Mimì… don’t do this… stay. Stay with us. Stay with me, at least until Primavera. You’ll get better there, I know…” he begged her. “Please. Stay.”

She didn’t respond. He reached for her hand, and she pulled away. 

“Oh— Rodolfo—” she started, as another thought rose to mind, and he looked up expectantly. “Under my pillow, there’s my pink bonnet. The one you bought me on Christmas. If you want, you can keep it. Or sell it, if you want to. If you need the money.”

It felt cold, too cold and too unfeeling after all they had endured, after all the love they had shared. But there was little more to say. 

He stared at her, unbelieving. Slowly, he shook his head, but before he could speak, she added— “Goodbye, Rodolfo. No hard feelings. But it has to be this way. Goodbye.”

His dark eyes welled with tears. “So it's really over? You’re really leaving?”

She nodded, not trusting herself to say any more.

He covered his face, turning away from her and doubling over as if she had just struck him a blow. She watched him in tortured silence, her heart tearing in two as she pushed away the only man who had ever truly touched her soul. Yet at the same time, she felt a curious lightness, a feeling like pushing away from the grounded security of the station and drifting freely in space, untethered and weightless. An end to pain, she thought, for if she had nothing and no-one to love, perhaps leaving would hurt less. 

“Goodbye, then, to our beautiful love,” he said, meeting her eyes with the worn gaze of a tragic hero.

“Goodbye to every sweet good morning and goodnight,” she replied with a sigh, remembering fondly those moments, still so recent in her mind, yet already taking on the soft, precious qualities of days long gone. 

“Goodbye to the life of dreams!” He took her hands in hers, but even as he did she frowned slightly. A dream life it certainly had not been, for she remembered his cruelty, the lonely nights when she’d wondered where she had done wrong, even as he’d tried to save her for her own good. A life built on dreams, really… 

She looked at him curiously, still trying to piece together the workings of his mind that had tried so desperately, so recklessly, to save her. “Goodbye, doubts and jealousies…” she said, her voice growing a bit softer, a bit sadder. 

“...That one smile of yours could dispel,” he added, smiling, though the pain and guilt in his eyes were still clear. He touched her cheek tenderly, perhaps as a wordless apology...

“Goodbye to all those suspicions…”

“And kisses,” he said with a bittersweet twinkle in his eye. He moved to brush his lips against hers.

She shifted slightly out of his reach and placed a gentle finger on his lips, and he did not resist. Instead he took her hand in his own, warm and strong over hers, and kissed it delicately.

“...poignant bitterness…” she continued, wishing she could rest her head on his shoulder even as she remembered the pain that had worked its way deep into her heart. 

“...That I, like the poet I am, rhymed with caress,” he said lightly, a half-joking tone in his voice. He was still hopeful, she thought, he still hoped . He dared to laugh, and when there was laughter, there was light and hope— and there was the man she had fallen for, placed before her once more! The dreamer, the one who joked and laughed in the face of despair, who hoped only more strongly the more desperate the situation!

She could not give him up. Call it the last wish of a dying girl— but she could not leave him, not now. Not when she needed him most. Not when he had only been doing it for her all along. Not here, not yet, not now.

“Oh, Rodolfo!” she cried, falling into his arms. Even as she did, she looked around at the severe white lights of the station, the cold blue glow of space before them. The distant comet twinkled and winked at her like an old friend. She focused on him, the man in front of her, tangible and solid and here with her. 

“To be alone in the winter is worse than death!” he said, his voice soaring in the air and crashing around her like an ocean wave, and he was all around her, embracing her, holding her once more. 

“Alone…” she murmured as he brushed kisses down the side of her face, his hands over her hips, the curves of her spine, the delicate skin of her neck, and she gasped as his lips found the hollow between her collarbones— 

She turned away from the sparkling snows of the comet and looked at him, really looked at him. Looked at those boyish brown eyes, and those dark curls, and his strong arms around her, holding her down, keeping her from drifting away into the darkness around them. She would live for him, if only for him. 

“When the spring comes, I’ll be by your side still, with the sun as our companion!” she exclaimed, and he picked her up, really did, twirling her though the air with strong hands on her slender hips like a scene from a film. She laughed with girlish glee—

The door banged open and Musetta rushed out, Marcello at her heels. Mimì was momentarily elated to see Musetta; after a second, her heart dropped as she noticed Musetta’s stormy face, her fierce eyes, Marcello’s accusatory glare burning its way into the back of her skull. So maybe things were not as rosy and good as Marcello had made it seem, she thought distractedly. 

Rodolfo turned her face back towards him with a gentle touch, and all thoughts of the quarrelling couple vanished from her mind. His eyes were so sweet, so dark and romantic; he was as ruggedly handsome as the first time they’d met, on that dreary payload bay of La Vie Bohème ...

He kissed her tenderly, first on the forehead, then hesitantly on the lips. She tasted the springtime in his kiss. 

~~~

Her first thought as she burst out the door was how unbelievably pissed off she was with Marcello. They were in a tricky enough situation as it was, and he couldn’t shut his mouth for fifteen minutes while she cooed and looked pretty so they could maybe, one day, get out of this shithole?

Her second thought was Mimì. 

The last time she'd seen her, the girl had done no fewer than three shots before arm-wrestling Schaunard, and she probably would have won if Rodolfo and Colline hadn't interfered, tickling and teasing their respective partners until they were forced to concede a tie. Well damn , Musetta had though, if they weren't all already paired off, she might have fallen in love . Even if she was more of a champagne-and-oysters type herself. 

That had been the last night they'd spent together, all six of them, before going their separate ways. She had found quick work as a singer, and later, Marcello as a painter; need, if not fate, had pulled them all in different directions. Occasionally she'd see one of them in passing, Colline out buying groceries, Rodolfo walking through the main concourse of the station, but just as quickly as their family seemed to come together, it seemed to have spread apart. Marcello had once dryly compared it to entropy, the heat death of the universe, nature's rule to be cold, spread out, lonesome. It was fleeting interactions between atoms that created everything she knew, everything she could see and touch and feel, but it would not last; eventually, the whole world and time would turn to dust. 

She’d made a passing comment about how that made every moment only more precious, and well, Marcello had always been a bit of a sucker for sappy shit like that. It was practically a turn on for him; it certainly had been then, she remembered with a half-smile.

No such lofty ideas clouded her judgement now. She was cold, she was hungry, she was angry, and more than anything she was struck by how incredibly frail and worn Mimì looked. This stay on Momus had been hard on all of them, for sure, but the poor girl looked like she was barely more than a collection of bones held together by her dark, patched-up dress. She was nearly swallowed up by Rodolfo’s embrace; the radiant light in her blue eyes had dimmed, as though some dark cloud had obscured her very soul. 

Oh Mimì— what happened?

“Musetta! Musetta!” Marcello said loudly, startling her out of her decidedly impolite stare. “What were you doing and saying with that guy?”

So they were back on this again. She tossed her head haughtily and sniffed. “What do you mean?”

Marcello looked like he might explode; to the side, Mimì laughed, her soft voice like a knife in the tense air. “Nobody's lonely on Primavera…” she purred, and Rodolfo brushed a kiss against her jaw. There was a beat of silence before Marcello turned back to Musetta. 

“I saw you! You blushed when I came in— I saw it!” he said, raking his hands through his shaggy hair with agitation. Musetta rolled her eyes. 

“He asked me if I like to dance,” she said with a smirk, knowing it would drive him crazy. To the side, Mimì and Rodolfo were still talking, of roses and larks and beautiful dreams. She wished they would shut up so she could torture Marcello in peace, without bitter shame mixing with anger burning through her veins...

He shook his head incredulously. “You stupid— ”

“So of course, I told him the truth, that I could dance all day and all night!” she laughed, interrupting him, and Marcello looked furious, as she knew he would. “You’d know all about it, wouldn’t you, baby.” 

His face grew angrier, his chest heaving. For a moment she faltered. Why did she do this? Why did they do this to each other? Her eyes unconsciously darted to the other two. They never seemed to have these problems. From the day she’d met them, they’d been attached at the hip; he worshipped her, she adored him… Why could she not have that for her and Marcello? 

In front of her, Marcello laughed harshly. “Sure, sure. I’m sure that’s what this is all about, just a little dancing. Isn’t it always just a little thing? Just a little dancing, a little singing, a little flirting… Always a little, a little, a little.” He punctuated each blistering word with the jab of his hand in the air, and she felt herself growing angrier. “I won’t take it anymore! I can’t stand it!”

“Then don’t,” she said shortly. Oh, she could burn this whole thing to the ground, could do it without even flinching. She’d done it before, and she told herself she could do it again without a second thought. “You don’t own me, you can’t tell me what to do! You can’t tell me a goddamn thing!” 

“Oh, I’ll tell you a thing or two!” he shot back, nearly yelling. He was a tall man, but she was not short by any means; in her four-inch heels, she was almost taller than him. She stared him down, their faces close, and she teetered between wanting to kiss him and wanting to kill him with her bare hands. 

Mimì and Rodolfo were talking again, voices raising again with some emotion Musetta could not name— passion? urgency? desperation?— speaking of the dream of Primavera, the hopes of spring, of warmth, of life. If anything, it only made her angrier: a hard, cold, brittle sort of anger, a jealous anger that whittled her love into a sharp, jagged point. Primavera would not save them; nothing could save them from themselves.  

Her eyes flicked back to Marcello, sharp, deadly. “What are you even saying? It’s not like we’re married.” She remembered the ring he had placed on her finger all those years ago with glittering, perfect clarity. She felt nothing, nothing but cold, bitter rage. 

“...I hate when I catch you flirting! I know you’re doing it! I’m not stupid , I’m not blind , you’re not being sneaky!—” He broke off as her words registered, and she could see the shock and hurt in his eyes. She repressed a bitter smile. It had been a low blow, but it had hit exactly where she’d meant it to. 

“I just can't stand lovers who act like husbands,” she drawled, the fatal stab; she felt sick inside even as the words left her. But she could not take them back now. Her jaw tensed unexpectedly, and she had to repress the sudden urge to cry. 

He grew quiet, as did she. The heartbeat drumming in her ears slowly subsided; she felt the heat leave her face. She looked up, timidly meeting his eye. He stared back darkly, unflinching, and she knew she had pushed too far to turn back now.

Across from them, Mimì and Rodolfo still talked, their heads close together. “The fountains will whisper, and they say the evening breeze can heal the pains of being alive…” Rodolfo murmured, kissing her cheek. So they were still talking about Primavera, still dreaming of spring. She could not remember what it felt like to have that hope. 

“You won’t make a fool out of me anymore, Musetta,” said Marcello with contempt. He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. If she didn’t know him half as well she might have believed it, but no, she saw the tightness in his brow, the still-simmering anger in his eyes. “You vain, empty-headed flirt! You're leaving? Good! Makes my life easier,” he spat. He turned away, back towards the main entrance to the bar. 

“I'll flirt with whom I please, and I’ll do what I like! You don’t like it? Then you can go to hell!” she yelled at his retreating back. 

Without turning around, he retorted, “I’ll see you there!” 

She stamped her feet on the ground, seething mad once more. The sounds echoed through the quiet station like rapid gunfire, and a sob nearly escaped her mouth as a fleeting bolt of pain shot up one of her ankles. A sharp movement out of the corner of her eye snagged her attention, momentarily shattering her furious focus— Mimì, startled, jumping back from the violent gesture and into Rodolfo’s waiting arms. 

“Will we wait until spring comes again?” he asked, embracing her, and she twisted to face him, nose to nose. Musetta could only stare. 

Mimì hummed, echoing his words. “Until spring comes…” she agreed, and the bitter, angry irony of the situation was not lost on Musetta. Beginnings and endings, love and loss. It was like a shitty soap opera. 

As Marcello retreated into the glow of the bar, the faux-neon lights and dingy diode bulbs, fury flared up in her throat once more. She’d already lost him. She wouldn’t give up her dignity— or the last word. 

“Goodbye, Marcello!” she jeered. “I won’t miss you!” 

He stopped but didn’t turn around. “We’re done, Musetta! We’re done!”

She took an impulsive step towards him, with half the mind of throttling some sense into him, or just throttling him in general. But he was already too far gone—

“You— stupid house-painter!” she cried, her voice breaking with emotion.

“Snake!’ he retorted, nearing the door.

“Jackass!”

“Bitch!” 

She almost had to laugh at that one. Bitch was a title she could wear with pride. Bitches didn’t feel heartbreak. Bitches didn’t need anyone. Bitches could work their pretty asses off and get off the Momus Station by themselves. 

She told herself these all these things as her head spun and the sound of the door slamming shut echoed in her ears. She told herself all these things as she staggered to a quiet doorway and fell against the wall. She told herself all of these things as a scream of frustration, of rage, of pain, nearly forced itself from her lips. She was Musetta, and she did not need him; she did not need love. 

“Always yours, for all my life,” Mimì cooed somewhere nearby in her sweet, breathy voice. Discomfort and disgust filled Musetta’s heart suddenly. Why should she be cursed to listen? 

Rodolfo kissed her. “We'll part on the world where flowers bloom!” he added. A passing thought snagged in her mind— some sort of dissonance, between Mimì’s words and his— all her life, yet parting on Primavera— something not quite right still.

Mimì gasped as Rodolfo’s lips found hers once more, and Musetta nearly covered her ears. She’d worked herself into a pretty trap, alright— couldn’t leave without passing Mimì and Rodolfo, couldn’t go back in without seeing Marcello. She sank down against the wall and groaned softly. 

She hadn’t smoked in ages; she’d given it up years ago, after she’d first started dating Marcello. God help her, she could use a cigarette right now. A cigarette, a bottle, a pill: anything to numb the biting, aching pain in her stomach, in her head, in her heart. 

“Oh, Rodolfo! I wish that I could stay here with you forever!” Mimì murmured, and something seemed to snap inside of her, some final thread breaking. No, no, she wanted to cry. No, Mimì. Don’t settle for the winter. Keep dreaming of spring, keep dreaming of better, for the stars are full of infinite promise and a million new dawns—

How strange, that she could tell Mimì the same truth that she could not bring herself to believe.

“We'll part where the flowers bloom!” they promised, and she felt a single tear slide down her cheek.

Chapter Text

Personal log, April 23th, 2031.

We have been on Primavera for three weeks now.

It is just as beautiful and idyllic as the stories say, made even more rewarding by the long struggle it has been to get here. Our employer has secured housing for the four of us until we can get back on our feet; I continue to work on my log, and Marcello his reports. 

Schaunard’s still working as a mechanic; he had the easiest time finding work out of us, but for now Marcello and I are occupied with other duties. Lord knows what Colline does all day, probably sits in their room and waits for Schaunard to come home like a little dog. Ha! They’re out right now picking up food for dinner.

Marcello and I pass the long hours working just as we did on La Vie Bohème: annoying the hell out of each other. Oh, he’s rolling my eyes at me, oh, he’s flipping me off, you want all this going on the official report? Do you? No it’s not a personal log! Shut up!

As I was telling Marcello earlier, I saw Musetta the other day in a big souped up car, chauffeur and all, dressed like she was going to the red carpet—hey! Ha! I thought you didn’t care! 

Anyway, the weather is nice, the days are long, and we’re still technically broke because the money from Earth was just enough to cover food and housing for a while. But being poor on Primavera is a hell of a lot nicer than being poor in space. 

I have not seen Mimì since we parted. 

Save personal log. 

Next to him at the cramped kitchen table, Marcello tapped his foot impatiently. “Now that you’re done with your diary, seriously, tell me! You saw her?”

“She saw me, actually! Rolled down her window and everything, yelled hi. She wanted to make sure I saw her! ‘So, Musetta,’ I said to her, ‘is it true that under all the velvet and fur you’re wrapped up in, you don’t have a heart?’” 

That part was a lie and they both knew it, but the former was true. He had seen Musetta; she’d managed to make her way here on her own, it seemed, and was back doing what she loved and Marcello hated. 

“I'm glad, really glad,” Marcello said blandly, turning back to his battered old computer. 

“Oh, you’re so full of shit! I know you’re dying inside.”

“No heart? We love to hear it!” Marcello scoffed. “Oh— Rodolfo—” he added a moment later, and paused. “I also saw—”

“Musetta?”

“Mimì,” he responded hesitantly. 

Rodolfo whipped his head around to stare at him. “You saw her?” he yelped before collecting himself. 

Marcello raised an eyebrow. “I saw her downtown with someone last Saturday. She was all dressed up. She looked nice. I didn’t say anything; I don’t think she saw me…”

Now it was his turn to pretend. “That's fine. I'm delighted. She’s out there living her best life, who am I to stop her? Poor little old me,” he huffed. If Marcello could pretend not to care about Musetta, well, two could play at that game. Yet at the same time he was aware of the all-too-sincere bitterness that had crept into his words…

“Liar,” Marcello shot back good-naturedly, but Rodolfo suddenly shared none of his cheer. 

“Let's get back to work,” he said sourly.

With a sign, the other man turned back to his computer. “Yes, to work.”

Quiet work filled the apartment, the scratch of his stylus as he annotated his reports and the quiet clicking of Marcello’s old keyboard. But like a stopped clock, there was something lacking, something stolen from the scene. It took him only a moment to recall the quiet tempo of her needle and thread as she worked, fingers flying like magic over the fabric, patterns and colors spreading as colorful roots of art took the blank canvas in its arms. Those clever, fast fingers and her keen eye, always seeing what he longed to perceive in the world: a certain beauty everywhere, even in that dark, dreary little room they’d shared.

He pushed away his report, pushed away from the table, stepped away from it all. 

“This report sucks!” he exclaimed.

“So does this paper!” 

In a sudden flash of angry energy, Rodolfo stormed across the room, finding himself at the windows overlooking the streets below. Aircraft flew by, ships and cars, and windows of distant buildings sparkled like diamonds and dew. Lush green vines twisted themselves around this windowpane, framing the window in a halo of leaves. One of the planet’s moons was rising, a rusty, red crescent hanging low over the late afternoon horizon, beautiful against the golden sky. 

The springtime melted his heart once more. What anger had concealed was now borne into the sweet afternoon air: a bitter longing, a sadness for what no longer was, could never have been. 

“Oh, Mimì, you won't return!” he murmured, speaking to the great city before him as though she might hear. “Oh, all those happy times we shared! How I miss your hands, your hair, your neck, your smile! Mimì,when you left, you took everything from me, my heart and my spirit…”

Perhaps he was being dramatic. Perhaps that was the life he had chosen, on La Vie Bohème , a life of always leaving, always moving forward. Feelings came secondary to work, to research, to duty; the price of seeing the most breathtaking wonders in the universe could be, at times, a loneliness few on Earth knew. But to have those feelings in the open air was freeing somehow, and he knew Marcello would never judge. 

He thought of the last night they’d spent on Momus, the five of them sans Musetta, how bubbling excitement had been replaced with some quiet apprehension, an intangible sort of regret he couldn’t quite name. Schaunard had led the group up a twisting series of maintenance tubes to some high, closed-off observation deck. They’d watched the alien sun rise and fall over the swiftly turning station, dawn and dusk and dawn again, days passing before their sparkling eyes. 

A stranger might have mistaken their silence as awe. But he knew them better than that. 

His eyes had drifted over to the three men, his friends, his brothers. Schaunard’s head rested on Colline’s lap, with Marcello sitting nearby, stealing instant popcorn from the bag Colline had brought. At his side, Mimì put her head on his shoulder and watched the stars spin past them, and for a moment he could not breathe, each passing second a precious thing being stolen away from them. 

Silence had hung over them then, just as it had stolen Mimì’s words when he had asked her a final time to stay with him on Primavera. He had tried to change her mind, tried to take back his words, tried to make her promise. She had turned into him, pressing her face to his chest as wordless tears rolled down her cheeks, and in her silence was the answer he dreaded most.

That same silence filled the room now, shattered only when Marcello spoke in kind. “Some stars, alright,” he said, yet not addressing Rodolfo. “I look at the images, I look at the data, and instead of the cosmos, what do I see? Green eyes and perfect lips, and suddenly her face appears in the stars...” 

Still looking out the window, Rodolfo sighed. He brought his hand to his heart, feeling her bonnet tucked into his breast pocket. Without thinking he took it out, tracing the delicate, feminine lace with his fingertips, wishing more than anything that the scent of her still lingered on it. 

He contemplated it sadly, turning it over in his hands. “And you, little pink bonnet. She said to sell you, knowing that I never would… one day I’ll return you to the girl you belong with, the girl who left, taking my heart with her!” He returned it back into his pocket, tucked against his aching heart.

“In the stars, I see her face, so lovely and so false,” Marcello mused. “Meanwhile the real Musetta is happy out there on her own, while my stupid heart still waits for her to return…”

They stood in heavy, separate silence for some time, and Rodolfo was unwilling to break the spell that had fallen over the apartment. They mourned together, for love was so indiscriminate in its cruelty. 

Finally he sighed, a long, slow, deliberate sigh, willing the melancholy to leave him. “What time is it?” he asked, turning around.

Marcello grunted, shifting in his chair. “Time for dinner… yesterday's dinner.”

Rodolfo wrinkled his nose at the thought of instant noodles, again. “They’re not back yet.” Maybe there were some canned vegetables or something in the back of their dusty cabinets…

As though the universe had heard his prayers, the automatic lock on their door clicked with mechanical efficiency, and the door banged open. Schaunard bustled in, his arms full of paper bags; Colline followed him up the narrow stairs a moment later with a six-pack of beer in each hand. 

“Beans, bacon, bread, booze,” Colline announced as he set the beers down on the table. “That’s the food pyramid, right? Marcello? You’re the scientist here.” He laughed with giddy cheer.

“Here we are!” proclaimed Schaunard, unpacking the bags. He laid out a loaf of bread.

“Well?” Rodolfo asked. “How much did you get?”

“Just bread?” added Marcello.

“Ah, no,” Colline said sagely. “We have a dinner worthy of a king! A Demosthenes tuna—”

“—salted,” finished Schaunard. He tossed a pack of sausages onto the table, a laughable contrast to the notoriously expensive dish. “Heat these up, would you, Rodolfo? We also got eggs, bacon, some canned beans, and that bread; I think I grabbed bananas somewhere, you know what they say about scurvy…” 

Fifteen minutes later, there was warm food on the table and cheerful golden light pouring through the windows, dappled from the lush green leaves unique to the beautiful planet.

“Dinner's on the table!” Colline called, and the four men sat down at their little table, just as they had on many nights before. There was a pleasantly comfortable domesticity to the little scene, and Rodolfo was strongly reminded of their Christmas dinner on La Vie Bohème, when their circumstances had been so dissimilar, and yet strangely familiar…

“Payday is like a feast in wonderland,” Marcello said as they ate.

Schaunard grabbed a warm beer and passed one to the other men. “Now let's put the champagne on ice,” he said with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. 

“Which do you choose, Baron, salmon or trout?” asked Rodolfo, starting the same little game they’d played so many nights before. 

Marcello puffed his chest out, assuming the dignified bearing of some long-lost nobility. “Well, Duke, how about some Martian parrot-tongue?”

“Thanks, but it's too fattening. I must dance this evening!” exclaimed Schaunard.

Colline stood; Rodolfo decided to have a little fun with him. “Full already?” he asked with mock surprise.

Ever the actor, Colline regarded him coolly, squaring off his shoulders. “I'm in a hurry… The king is waiting for me!”

Marcello, too, stood, playfully blocking Colline’s path as the man tried to get to the bathroom. “Is there some plot?”

“Some mystery?” called Schaunard from the table. Colline shrugged cheekily and stepped out of sight as they laughed.

When he returned a moment later, he clapped for silence, and Rodolfo and the others looked up expectantly

“The King,” Colline proclaimed, “has asked me to join his Cabinet!” 

“How wonderful!” said Rodolfo, and the others nodded. 

“I’ll have to think about it… He’s a bit of an ass, really,” Colline continued with mock thoughtfulness. He shrugged before rejoining the others at the table.

“Pass me the goblet!” ordered Schaunard grandly. 

Marcello slid him another beer. “Here. Drink. I'll eat.”

Schaunard raised the unopened beer, standing as if to make a toast. “Now if you noble men will allow me, I’d like to make a speech…” 

Before he could say another word, Marcello booed him, and he made a face. 

“Enough of this guy!” laughed Colline. “Get the hook!”

Schaunard shrugged cheekily. “Well, now I'm irresistibly inspired by the Muse of poetry…”

“No!” everyone else groaned. Of Schaunard’s many talents, poetry was notoriously not one of them. 

He rolled his eyes. “Something more... choreographic, then?” he said with a flourish and a mock bow. 

Marcello and Colline both nodded, and Rodolfo raised his fist in cheer. “Aye!” 

“A dance with vocal accompaniment!” Schaunard declared, hopping down from the chair. 

Colline stood next to him. “Boys, you heard him. Clear the hall! A gavotte?” 

Rodolfo and Marcello both stood and assisted the others in pushing the table to the side, laughing and chattering to themselves as they did. 

“A minuet,” Marcello suggested.

“A waltz!” chimed in Rodolfo.

Schaunard wiggled his eyebrows. “Maybe a tango!” 

“I suggest the quadrille,” offered Colline primly, tugging on his beard. Schaunard winked at him and Rodolfo watched as the burly man blushed at the attention. 

“Alright, everyone,” Rodolfo said, “take your partners!” He offered his arm gallantly to Marcello. 

Colline stepped up on a wooden crate they’d been using as a side table. “I'll call the moves!”

“La lala la lala la!” Schaunard could not keep tune for his life, but he clapped a steady enough beat for Rodolfo to drag Marcello to the center of the little room for a dance.

Rodolfo bowed to his friend. “Lovely maiden…” he started. 

Unphased, Marcello tied a towel under his chin like a little old grandmother, fluttering his dark eyelashes. “Please, sir, respect my modesty,” he cooed in a cartoonishly high voice. 

Colline began calling out the steps to whatever dance they’d decided on. “ Balancez !” he ordered, enunciating in an overdramatic French accent. “Rodolfo, hold your lady like you mean it!”

Rodolfo moved to take Marcello’s arms; simultaneously, apparently forgetting he was not also leading, Marcello moved to grab Rodolfo, nearly smacking their heads together in the process. Rather clumsily, Rodolfo led the taller man in an awkward waltz as Colline and Schaunard laughed uproariously in the background

“I think there’s a kickline somewhere in this one. Can’t skip that,” Schaunard interjected between gasps of laughter.

“No, dammit! You’re messing me up!” Colline sputtered. “The kickline is after the lift, you fool!”

“Why, what awful manners!” Schaunard replied.

“How dare you! I take great offense!” Colline retorted haughtily. “Draw your sword, sir!” He hopped down from the crate and grabbed an umbrella from the stand near the door, tossing a second to his opponent. 

“Ready. Come at me! I'll drink your blood,” Schaunard laughed. He pressed a quick kiss to Colline’s bearded cheek before the two began smacking the umbrellas in a mock duel. 

From the side, Rodolfo and Marcello cheered. Marcello, still with the towel on his head, began calling out scores for each hit as the pair poked each other with the umbrellas. 

“One of us will be run through!” laughed Colline, nearly doubled over with laughter, and Schaunard took the opportunity to bop him on the head. 

“Have a stretcher ready!” he snickered as he did, and Colline redoubled his efforts, using both hands to swing the umbrella like a baseball bat, whacking Schaunard lightly over his muscular shoulders and upper arms. 

“Not just a stretcher—” Colline finished, slightly out of breath— “have a whole graveyard ready!”

They circled the room, Schaunard moving forward, steadily driving Colline back until he was nearly pinned against their kitchen table. 

Marcello cheered. “The battle rages on!”

“They circle and leap—” Rodolfo added, his voice rising in anticipation—

Finally, Schaunard knocked the umbrella out of Colline’s hands, and it clattered onto the wooden floor. Momentary silence fell across the room, and Rodolfo raised his hands, about to whoop in victory—

The doorbell rang, and they all froze. 

The bell rang again, quickly followed by loud, impatient knocking. Rodolfo lowered his arms, Marcello removed the towel from his head, Schaunard stepped away from the table and lowered the victorious umbrella, and Colline slid off the table and fixed his shirt. Their dinner fell to an anticlimax, its importance replaced by the unease unique to an unexpected visitor.

The knocking continued, louder and more ferocious than before. Finally, a voice, begging— “It’s me, please, let me in, it’s an emergency…”

It took a moment for Rodolfo to recognize the panicked, tearful voice, but by the time he paired it to its owner, Marcello had already crossed the room and opened the door. 

“Musetta!”

“Mimì's here— she's coming and she's sick—” she cried in a rush of teary, gasping words. 

Mimì. Before he could even think, Rodolfo sprang into motion, stumbling over his feet— “Where is she?”

Musetta lifted a shaking hand and pointed down the narrow stairs leading up to their apartment. “She couldn't make it up the stairs—”

“Oh my god—” he gasped, and darted out the door, flying down the stairs, and there she was. Doubled over, in clothes he did not recognize, shaking, pale, gaunt— she did not look up, but instead let herself be picked up, closing her eyes as he scooped her into his arms, and oh, god, she was light, she was tiny— she’d always been petite, but how bony she was now, wasted away. 

Each step thundered in his ear as he made his way back up, one two three twelve thirteen fourteen fifteen and into the apartment, turning so he wouldn’t hit her head on the heavy door frame. 

There were gasps as the others saw her state, but he barely heard them, the only thoughts in his mind of the girl in his arms, his Lucia, his Mimì. 

“Get the couch—” Schaunard ordered, and he and Colline moved the lumpy sofa to the center of the room.

With utmost tenderness he set her down, a husband carrying his wife to the bed on the night of their wedding, and she finally opened her eyes to look at him. 

He searched those blue eyes for any trace of recognition, any sign of lucidity. For a moment, her gaze was bright and unseeing, dazed and childlike. He stroked her cheek, waiting for any reaction. Slowly, she leaned into his touch, and he slipped a hand behind her head and brought her upright. 

A pair of hands handed him a glass of cool water, and he tipped it to her mouth. “Here. Drink,” he offered her. She drank messily but eagerly, drips escaping from the cracked, blistered corners of her ruined mouth. 

“Rodolfo,” she murmured finally, and he sighed with relief. She knew him, she recognized him. All hope was not lost. 

“Shh, shh,” he comforted her. “Rest now. Don't speak. It’s okay... you’re okay now... I’m here.”

“Rodolfo! You want me here with you?” she asked, her voice dazed but ecstatic, a smile spreading across her pale face for the first time. Even as her effusive joy warmed his heart, the depth of her words sent bitter guilt through his very core. Why should she not believe he would want her? The answer was all too plain: the wounds of their fight on Momus had not fully healed. 

“Oh, Mimì!” he rushed to assure her. “I always, always want you with me.”

Behind him, he heard Musetta talking in a low voice, and as Mimì snuggled in his arms, he tried covertly to listen. 

“...and I’d introduced her to someone, you know, like I do. Big plasma energy exec, totally loaded. And then a week went by, and then two, and I hadn’t heard from her, and I worried? I worried...”

It was strange to hear the vulnerability in her voice, the normally brash and proud Musetta suddenly quiet and affected.

“So I went out and talked to some people, some friends of mine… I heard she had left the guy, which like, whatever, but they said…” Her voice broke off. “Someone said they’d seen her downtown, on the streets, and that she was sick. And I know— I knew that she was sick, from the pod and the radiation or whatever we thought it was—”

Mimì coughed in his arms, and he kissed her forehead, willing her to breathe, willing her to be okay. 

“... and so I spent yesterday and all this afternoon looking for her, just trying to find her, make sure she was okay. I just found her— we came right here— found her in the gardens, in the city center, looking like hell, absolute hell, my god… She saw me, and I knew in her eyes something was wrong. She looked at me and said—” Musetta took a shuddering breath. "She said, ‘I won’t last long. I know I'm dying, Musetta, and I want to die with him… Maybe he's still waiting for me.’" 

A tremor ran through him. Surely Musetta could not have been telling the truth. Surely it was just another one of her stupid little stories. He wanted to believe more than anything that she would lie, rather than to believe that Mimì was—

"’...Please take me, Musetta?’ she begged, and I know, I know that you don’t want to see me, Marcello, and I don’t know what the fuck happened between her and Rodolfo when you all got here, but please, please, she asked for him. And I don’t know where else to go, what else to do—” 

Perhaps Mimì had been listening, for in the breathless moments between dialogues, she murmured just loud enough for the others to hear, “I feel much better now…” 

The others turned, and he did not like the look in the eyes that watched them: concern, fear, and hideous, sickly-sweet pity. 

She shifted, raising herself onto her elbows and surveying the room, and he smiled. Like a neglected flower, all she’d needed was a little care, a little tenderness. Already she was perking up, stretching and strengthening like a sprout in springtime.

“Let me look around,” she said. “I haven’t seen your new place yet. I like it a lot! I can see myself growing stronger here.” She met his eyes and smiled. “I’ll recover. I know I will. I feel life here, somehow, like the sanctuary of a greenhouse in wintertime. And I’ll have you by my side, for always and forever…” 

He kissed her, tracing the sharp contours of her face with featherlight touches. “Oh, Mimì, I thought I’d never see you again!”

He kissed her again before she settled in his arms. He took a moment to look over her, her pale face and deep blue eyes, her once-fine clothes dirtied from her nights on the streets. She wore no jewelry, not earrings or even the bracelet Musetta had given her: stolen, pawned, he didn’t want to know. And her art supplies— where had it all gone? What had gone so wrong? Her homemade dresses, her portfolio of all her work, the book she’d ‘borrowed’ from Colline on Momus? Full of doodled portraits of her friends in the margins, and receipts and takeout menus with his godawful love poems scribbled in messy handwriting pressed between the pages... He knew her. She would not have given all those things up so easily. How long had she been out there? How had it come to this?

His stomach churned at the thought of what might have happened to her. It had seemed only days since he had bid her a poignant farewell at the same stairs he’d found her at just now, when she had kissed him and softly reminded him of their promise, that she could follow him no further. He should never have let her leave his side. God, what had he been thinking?

So Musetta had said she’d left her rich, rich boyfriend. They would have to make do with what little they had once more. A kitchen cupboard shut with a bang, and Rodolfo looked over, startled, to see Musetta peering into the banged-up refrigerator. She turned around to the men, looking impatient. “What is there in the house?”

Marcello looked up at her. “Nothing,” he said dryly, and she whirled to face him. He flinched, perhaps afraid he’d incurred her temper once more.

“ Nothing ? No coffee? No booze? No medicine?”

“Nothing, Musetta…” he repeated, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to another. “Money is tight. We haven’t gotten much from Earth. I guess poverty followed us here to paradise.”

Across the room, Schaunard turned away, looking anguished. ”She'll be dead within half an hour!” he cried, a touch too loudly. Colline moved to elbow him, but seeing that Schaunard was already beginning to pace, his fears transformed like electricity into motion, he instead pulled him aside and into the kitchen. They talked quietly, conversations Rodolfo neither wanted nor needed to hear. 

In his arms, she was writhing and twisting, her bony body sharp against his, and her delicate hands ran over her arms in a futile attempt to warm herself. “I'm so cold,” she whispered, perhaps only to herself. “Won't I ever be warm?”

She was warm to the touch, her skin feverish but covered in goosebumps. He held her closer, warming her with his own body, just as they had twisted themselves together in that shabby little room on Momus. He took her hands, rubbing his over them. “Here. I’ll keep you warm.” Her body melted against his, and he pulled the thin blanket over her more. “Don't speak. You'll tire yourself…”

A brittle, sharp cough rattled through her, and she trembled in his arms. The others came over, gathering around the couch, and Rodolfo looked up at them, circling his arms around her protectively, tracing his fingers over her ribs and the outlines of those flowers he knew so well.

“Mimì…” 

“It's just a little cough. I'm used to it,” she said softly, brushing away his concerned gaze. “Hello, Marcello, Schaunard, Colline; it’s so good to see you all again.”

“Shh, shh,” he urged. “Save your strength. You’ll have all the time in the world to catch up once you’re feeling better..."

She squeezed his hand and smiled affectionately. "It’s okay, Rodolfo, it’s okay! Let me greet our friends.” She turned to Marcello. “Marcello, believe me— Musetta is such a sweetheart. She saved my life, I think, bringing me here, back to you all.” 

Musetta blushed, turning into the tall man, who embraced her. She snuggled into his chest and winked at Mimì as Marcello beamed and responded genially, “Oh, I know!” before kissing Musetta on the head.

Everyone laughed; finally, Rodolfo thought, a sense that everything would be alright. Her words warmed his heart. Let me greet our friends... she saved my life by bringing me back here… let me greet our friends. 

Our friends , he thought, our friends indeed . He remembered how Colline had taught her to play zero-G pool, his broad hand covering her small one on the cue, and how they'd both thrown their arms in the air when she'd floated one into the pocket. He remembered when she'd offered Schaunard a taste of her ice cream before shoving it onto his chin, and when she and Musetta had wrestled Schaunard into a chair, a giggling Mimì plopping into his lap to hold him down while Musetta insisted on gluing some of her crazy eyelashes to his face. He remembered how she had talked contently with Marcello at breakfast, the six of them at a big round table passing plates and chattering cheerfully, and how nobody had batted an eye, no suspicion or doubt to be found. Musetta had yelled to him across the table to ask for the little pitcher of syrup, and he’d passed it and she’d winked and said Thanks, love you, bitch! , and they had all laughed, laughed, laughed... 

He remembered how she had somehow convinced Musetta to let her pierce her ear with an ice cube and an apple slice and an embroidery needle, just like they were kids again, how she'd offered to do another on Colline. And Colline had run his finger over the black studs dotting the curve of his ear and said he politely declined, but agreed eagerly when Musetta had wryly suggested that she'd always thought that he, Rodolfo, would look irresistible with a big old barbell through his septum. Schaunard had laughed so hard at the very thought that he'd fallen off his perch on the couch and spilled the entire bag of tortilla chips he'd been eating all over the couch, really all over Marcello, who'd somehow managed to sleep through the whole affair and would wake up to corn chip crumbs in his hair, a tiny golden stud in the shell of his girlfriend's ear, and a very proud-looking Mimì.... All together once more, he knew that that laughter had not died; their spirits were untouched. With time Mimì would heal, and everything would be just as it was, just as it should have been—

It was Musetta, of all people, who broke the spell. Her face sobered and her arms fell from Marcello’s chest to limply at her side. 

Mimì was the first to notice, and when Rodolfo felt her stop laughing, he too saw Musetta standing quiet and pale, her face suddenly serious. He watched as her hands drifted up to her face, almost unconsciously. Her fingers lingered on a small silver hoop on the helix of her ear, and she looked softly down at Mimì. She brushed aside perfectly set curls to reveal a sparkling earring on her lobe, and fiddled with it for a moment before abruptly pulling it out, repeating the process on the other side. 

For a moment, she held the gems in her hand, looking at them as if seeing them for the very first time. She turned sharply to face Marcello. 

“Here. Sell them,” she told him. “Bring back some medicine, and get a doctor!”

The earrings were not real diamonds. It would never be enough. Marcello apparently shared the same concern, and even as he accepted the offering from her, he put his hand on her arm, pulling her gently to the side to talk in hushed conversation.

Rodolfo, in his own way, did the same, putting his hand on Mimì’s cheek to draw her attention away from their friends and to him once more. She pulled her gaze away and smiled sweetly at him.

“Mimì, you should rest,” he said, looking at her once more, the dark circles under her eyes, the sharpness of her cheekbones, the paleness in her lips. “Soon you’ll get better. You’ll get better soon… You have to. I know it.”

“You won't leave?” she murmured. 

“No, no, oh, no. No, I won’t ever leave you, my angel.” 

She smiled sleepily, stretching like a languid cat. She settled next to him and spoke no more.

Her eyes fluttered shut, and Rodolfo sighed deeply, finally looking up. The sky had colored a warm peach-orange, sending gauzy shadows shifting through the small apartment. He watched as distant incoming ships came and went, their silhouettes alien and beautiful against the setting sun, landing and launching like birds in a harbor. In the kitchen, Colline and Schaunard huddled together, their heads pressed close in quiet discussion; across the room, Musetta hung in the far corner with Marcello at her side, watching him and Mimì. 

Musetta turned to Marcello and laid a hand on his arm. "Marcello—” she said, her hushed voice still carrying through the apartment. “I’ll come with you when you go for the doctor. I want to get her something… Lord knows she’s been through enough, I say she’s earned a few small comforts, the poor thing...”

Marcello looked down at her tenderly before glancing back at Rodolfo as a silent farewell. He nodded in acknowledgement, and Marcello solemnly turned away. 

He slipped his hand around Musetta’s waist, and she grabbed her purse off the table, touching her ears absently where faux gems had once sparkled. Rodolfo met her eyes, only fleetingly, but an unspoken agreement seemed to pass between them. For all the mixed emotions he felt for the woman, the moment of quiet solidarity was a gift, a shining kindness in the sea of pain and fear. 

“How good you are, Musetta,” Marcello murmured as they descended down the stairs and out of sight. 

He watched them leave, and turned his attention back to the girl asleep in his arms, stroking her hair with eternal tenderness, watching the slow, deep breaths, feeling her heartbeat through his fingertips. Each moment was a tiny miracle, a gift: that she was here, that she was alive, that she did not hate him, and that she was his once more, just as he was hers. 

The apartment was hushed, save for the creaking pipes and dripping drain of the old building. A police car flew by, sirens on, and he listened to the mournful wails as they soured and receded into the horizon, blue and red lights glowing over silvery windows. 

In the bedroom they shared, Colline and Schaunard were talking quietly, low voices drifting through the small apartment.

“You don’t have to— I’m sure there are other ways—” said Schaunard’s muffled voice. 

“It’s the right thing to do,” interrupted Colline stoically. “I’ll do it for her.” A beat of silence followed. ““Listen, my favorite hoodie, it’s time for us to part. We’ve been through a lot together, I know. And you served me so well! Keeping my hands warm when we were gonna die, a big pocket for snacks… You never bowed your worn back to the rich and powerful, no! You were always here for us adventurers, wanderers, artistic souls… We had some good times. But now it’s time for choices to be made. So I’m gonna say goodbye, old friend. You were such a good hoodie.” What had started as a dry eulogy suddenly became strangely tragic, the man’s voice light but affected.

There was another pause; Rodolfo strained to listen now, but caught only the heavy rustle of fabric. Colline had, perhaps, always been a bit dramatic, but even so, Rodolfo had never seen him like this: so austere, so self-sacrificing.  

They came out of the bedroom, hand-in-hand. “Will you come with me?” Colline asked softly, looking away from the couch and instead at his boyfriend. “Maybe we should leave the two of them alone.”

Schaunard nodded gently, an indescribable sort of sadness crossing his face as his gaze lingered on the scene before them. “Philosopher, you're right!” he said, his voice trembling under bravado. “Of course I’ll come.”

Rodolfo watched them leave too, eyes lingering on the empty doorway. 

A moment passed before she spoke, nearly making him jump—

“Have they gone?” she asked. He nodded.

“I pretended to sleep because I wanted to be alone with you. I have so many things I want to tell you, or really just one big thing, as huge as the sea, as deep and infinite as the stars…” She took a deep, rattling breath. “I love you… you’re my whole life.”

Oh, Mimì. Even after all that had passed between them, the good times and the bad, still she loved him with her whole heart.

He kissed her softly. “Oh! My beautiful Mimì!”

She gave him a wry smile, and he tried not to notice the sadness in her eyes. “Am I beautiful still?”

“Beautiful as the dawn,” he assured her. 

Strangely, her smile faded. “You've got it wrong: you should have said as beautiful as a sunset.”

“Ah, I see,” he mused, looking out the far window at the setting orange sun. Beautiful indeed. Sunrises, sunsets, what was the difference? Each beautiful in their own way, he thought idly. 

She was quiet for a moment, taking his hand and interlacing her slender fingers with his, stroking his thumb. “‘They call me Mimì… I don't know why,’” she hummed, recalling their first meeting all those months ago. She looked back up at him.

He smiled warmly at her, squeezing her hand gently. “The swallow has finally come back to her nest.” She smiled and ducked her head away, laughing lightly as he placed a kiss on her cheek, and another. 

As they wrestled and kissed like teenagers, her hands fell to his chest, her right palm covering his breast pocket. She paused, feeling the slight lump of the folded bonnet. “What’s this?”

She pulled it out, the pink glowing electric in the orange sun. “My bonnet! My bonnet!” she cried. “Oh, Rodolfo, you kept it! You kept it!”

He chucked, placing it loosely over her dark hair. “Did you really think I could get rid of it? You know you mean more to me than that. I don’t know what I would do without you.” 

She watched him for a moment, a curious expression on her face as one hand twisted the ties; he had the most curious sensation that he was being judged, but could not tell for what… Suddenly she smiled, that beautiful, glowing, ecstatic smile. “Oh, Rodolfo! Do you remember the first time we met?”

He laughed, happiness spreading through him like sunshine. “How could I ever forget?”

“On La Vie Bohème … you took my pod in from space… and I knocked the power out on the entire ship!” She laughed, chapped lips against sharp teeth but a sparkle in her eyes nonetheless.

“Oh my god, and you fell over— you passed out — and lost your little chip!”

“And you,” she continued, “got on your hands and knees, determined to impress me, and started crawling around like a madman looking for it!” 

“I searched and searched—” he started, and she cut him off with a gentle tap to the chest.

“I can tell you now— you found it quick enough! I know you found it right away and didn’t say anything.”

So she’d known about his little trick all along. He felt his cheeks color, suddenly bashful at the little romantic gesture. “I was only helping fate along,” he demurred. 

She leaned in. “It was so dark…” she purred. “You didn’t see me blushing.” 

His heart might have exploded in that moment with all the love he felt for her. 

“It was dark. You couldn't see me blushing,” she continued. “‘How cold your hands are,’ you said, ‘Let me warm them for you.’ And you took my hand— Oh Rodolfo, I might have died that very moment! That was the most romantic experience in my whole life, aboard that broken, beaten-up little spaceship—”

She gasped suddenly, her words stolen, choked out by the sickness that ate her away from the inside out. She doubled over, her shoulders trembling. The blanket pooled around her waist as she jerked her hands up to cover her mouth, eyes watering, gasping for air. 

“Oh my God! Mimì!” Rodolfo cried. He patted her back helplessly as she coughed and coughed, and in his ears each was a sob, a call for help he could not answer. 

The door slid open with a metallic clunk and Schaunard dashed in, looking alarmed. “Is everything okay? Are you guys okay? I just got back and I heard you coughing—” 

Mimì took a deep, rasping breath, her chest heaving up and down as she struggled to regain her breath before speaking. 

“I'm fine,” she answered rather sharply before her voice softened. “Thank you, Schaunard. I’m okay. Thank you...” 

Schaunard nodded and slid off into the kitchen, giving them space once more.

“Mimì, please, rest. Just rest for now,” Rodolfo urged her as she finally relaxed, allowing a slight desperation to creep into his voice for the first time.

Perhaps she noticed the change, or perhaps fatigue had finally overtaken her. She sighed and settled back into the couch. “Alright, you’ve convinced me. I’ll be a good girl now.” She smirked and shut her eyes obediently, and he pulled the blanket over her shoulders once more. 

The door slid open once more, and Marcello entered, Musetta peering through the doorway just behind him.

“Is she sleeping?” she asked with a concerned eye, her normally gay and mischievous face now drawn and pale. 

Rodolfo glanced down, saw the quiet, secretive smile playing at Mimì’s lips, and shrugged. “She's resting.”

Marcello set a small bag down on the kitchen table. “We saw a doctor. She's coming. I also got medicine at the corner store, I wasn’t really sure what to get, they don’t sell anything for—” 

Musetta elbowed him and he sighed. “It’s not much, but it will help her sleep, and maybe help with the pain.”

She came over, procuring a pair of absurdly fuzzy socks, striped pink and green; at first, Rodolfo rolled his eyes, annoyance biting at his throat. The bill from the doctor would be incredibly expensive, and that was what Musetta chose to buy? And Marcello had let her?  

But Mimì squinted a blue eye, still half-pretending to sleep. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me,” Musetta responded softly, kneeling down and offering the socks to her. “Hey, gorgeous. How are you?”

“Oh, look how soft and pretty they are!” Mimì gasped, shifting slightly and taking the socks in both hands. “Oh! And my feet have been so cold lately, but not any more! The warmth will heal me.” She smiled and looked those blue, blue eyes up at Rodolfo. “Are these from you?”

Musetta leaned in, kneeling next to her friend, and brushed a stray curl of dark hair off her forehead. “Yes, they are,” she responded warmly, catching Rodolfo’s eye as she spoke. Thank you , he thought, a certain sadness suddenly coming over him. 

Mimì turned back to Rodolfo, and he looked down at her lovingly.

“Oh, Rodolfo, you shouldn’t have! Thank you… but the cost…” she trailed off. A single tear snuck down his cheek, its path traced delicately by her finger, the steady, confident hand of an artist. Cathartic chills ran through his body. “You're crying? I'm better. Why are you crying like that, silly? I’m here, my love, and now I’ll be with you forever!” 

She snuggled into the crook of his arm, and he tucked a blanket around her. She smiled contently, twisting the socks between her hands. “I’m gonna try to sleep a little now,” she murmured before finally falling silent.

“What did the doctor say?” Rodolfo asked in a low voice as her eyes fluttered shut and her breathing slowed. Even now he could hear a quiet rattle in her chest, each breath ragged—

“She's coming,” Marcello reported. “Soon.”

He prayed it would be soon enough.

~~~

She felt very warm now, swaddled in blankets and sweaters, very warm and very safe. No more nights on the streets anymore, just her and Rodolfo and everyone else, exactly how it was supposed to be.

He was at her side, holding her in his arms, holding her hand, his touch familiar and comforting. Musetta stood at the foot of the couch with Marcello beside her, and Mimì gave a soft smile at the pair. How happy she was that they were together again! How happy she was to be reunited with all of her friends once more! It made the pain of the past seem inconsequential, immaterial, already a forgotten dream. 

Her head was filled with fuzz, soft and muffled, like seeing the world through a gentle cloud. Musetta was singing to her now, had moved up by her and Rodolfo, singing in a voice she had never heard, as gentle as a lullaby. 

"Oh blessed Mother, be merciful to this poor child who doesn't deserve to die," she sang, a tenderness in her eyes like nothing Mimì had ever seen before. Rodolfo shifted, bringing his arms around her and reclining slightly, placing a kiss on the top of her head. She coughed, twisting those silly socks between her hands as they clenched with each gasping breath, and he stroked her hair, murmuring quiet comforts into her ear. 

Musetta stopped and turned to Marcello at her side. "Marcello," she whispered, "can you close that window? There's a draft..." 

He stepped away, and moments later she heard the window glide shut. 

"That's better," Musetta said lightly, shifting at her side. "Thank you." 

"Let her get well, oh Holy Mother. I know I'm unworthy of forgiveness, but Mimì is an angel come down from heaven." She kissed Mimì on the forehead, her auburn hair brushing against Mimì's cheeks, before rejoining Marcello at the foot of the bed. A small, pleased smile grew across her pretty, bright face as Marcello put his arm around her, and a golden glow seemed to spread through Mimì's chest, replacing the tight, burning pain with something light and bubbly. Rodolfo pressed gentle kisses onto her cheeks, her forehead, her temples, her lips, and she was so tired she could barely move to kiss him back, though she tried nonetheless. 

After a moment, Rodolfo pulled away. "I still have hope. You think it's serious?" he asked, speaking not to her but to the group at large.  

"No, no, I don't think so," Musetta replied softly... Mimì felt her eyes begin to close, her body defiant to her will. She was so tired. She could barely remember the last time she had not been tired, for sure, but surely she would sleep well tonight, for she had Rodolfo once more. She always slept better in his arms. 

Marcello knelt down on the floor next to her, tucking his long legs beneath him so he could be at eye level with her. "Medicine," he said simply, an offer, an order. 

Growing up, she had had neither siblings nor close friends, had never really had anyone besides herself. She had been a solitary child, content to sit alone and color, to create with anything she could get her hands on. Lucia had floated unattached through her school days, quiet, unseen; it was not until adolescence when she became Mimì, the artist, the girl who drew flowers, creatures, strange and fantastic worlds. But even then she had never had anyone close to her. She worked with others, she traveled with others, she lived with others, but she had still been unquestionably alone. Her time outside that little escape pod had been just as solitary as her time in it. 

All that had changed when he had pulled her from the depths of space and into La Vie Bohème . 

She'd never had siblings, but she figured this was what a family was meant to be. Musetta lingered at her side as Marcello dosed out the medicine, and Rodolfo gently supported her head and helped her tip the bitter, cherry-cordial colored syrup into her mouth. Across the small apartment, Schaunard worked in comfortable silence, preparing a kettle of tea for her. After a moment, he broke the stillness with words that she could not quite hear. She turned her head just in time to see Colline enter, looking strangely diminished; it took her a moment to notice that he was no longer wearing that big, warm hoodie she'd come to associate so dearly with his presence.

His back to Mimì, she could only half-watch as he handed Musetta something; she took it with a solemn, wide-eyed nod. He went and stood by Schaunard, who wrapped his arms around his boyfriend and rested his chin on Colline's shoulder.

"How is she?" Colline asked, addressing Rodolfo. She did her best to give him a weak smile to show she was alright, but she was so tired—

"She's resting," Rodolfo replied for her. He kissed the top of her head, and she looked up at him adoringly, looking at those deep brown eyes, eyes she could get lost in forever. She closed her eyes again, snuggling into his warmth. I love you, she thought. I love you I love you I love you.

It was quiet. 

She listened to her own ragged breaths, listened to Rodolfo's steady ones; listened to the beating of her heart, and the beating of his own. Rodolfo's heartbeat against her head was a steady clock, and she had the curious, fleeting sense that they were all waiting for something, time slipping through her fingers like thread. Perhaps the boys had been interrupted when she'd come in with Musetta earlier. She hoped she had not been rude. But they all seemed happy to see her, Rodolfo especially.

A floorboard creaked, and there was an odd little gasp somewhere in the room. Without looking she knew that it was Musetta, the only feminine voice besides her own. She almost opened her eyes, but it was so warm, so cozy, so comfortable, and she was right about to fall asleep— surely it was of no consequence. 

What does it mean? This going back and forth? Why are you guys all looking at us like that? Rodolfo asked, and she felt his voice vibrating in his strong chest, felt how he held her tighter as he spoke. She sighed, a deep, sleepy, content sigh, and for once she did not cough. 

Be brave, Marcello said, a funny thing to say. But Marcello was always saying funny, poetic things like that, he and Colline, Rodolfo too. She, Musetta and Schaunard would laugh at them forever, back then, back on Momus. Those were good times, with good friends. How happy she was that they were all together again!

The pain in her chest had faded, and she felt strangely free, strangely light, like stardust filled her heart. 

Distantly, she heard Rodolfo calling her name, Mimì, Mimì, Mimì , and she smiled. 

Spring had come at last.

Finito.

Chapter Text

WHAT I WOULD DO IF I GOT TO DIRECT LA BOHEME IN SPACE