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In some strange twist of fate, the city is quiet, save for the sound of the occasional passing car or the soft chorus of cicadas. The stars defy the pollution of skyscrapers and high-rise apartments, choosing instead to pepper the sky with light.
“Y’know, I’ve been thinking a lot about that guy who said Earth was the center of the universe,” Apollo says. He and Clay are half-sitting, half-lying out on the grassy field of a public park at a rather unreasonable hour. The latter had insisted on seeing the cosmos from afar for the last time before he went to see them up close. For comparison purposes, he’d said.
“Who, Ptolemy?” he replies, his tone just as soft and contemplative.
“Yeah, him. I think he might’ve been right, in a sense.”
Clay laughs, and it’s a hearty sound; the kind informed by years of friendship. “Don’t tell me you’re some crazy conspiracy theorist who thinks that the old dead guys were right. Next thing I know, you’ll be telling me the Earth is flat, too.”
“Look who’s talking. You believe in aliens.”
“Aliens are very much real,” Clay shoots back, crossing his arms like a petulant child. “I’m an astronaut with a PhD. I can confirm it.”
“Then as a barred lawyer, I get to tell you there’s no evidence, unless you count those stupid documentaries with the fake footage.”
“Alright, then, Mr. Lawyer,” Clay says, cool and composed. “Lay it on me. Make your case as to how the Earth could possibly be the center of the universe.”
Apollo rolls his eyes at the nickname but explains anyway. “I mean, maybe the guy was looking at it from a more human perspective. Earth may not be the center of the universe, but it’s the center of ours, figuratively speaking. It’s what we know, where we live, all that.”
Clay hums in thought for a moment. “Well, if we’re talking about which horribly wrong astronomer was the least horribly wrong, I’d say Copernicus was on the right track.” Upon tilting his neck to the sight of Apollo’s lost face, he adds, “The guy who said the sun was the center of the universe.”
“Why? You don’t live on the sun.”
“You’re right. But wouldn’t that be cool?”
“You’d be burned to a crisp.”
“That’s beside the point,” Clay says, scooting closer. “What I’m getting at is that if we’re basing the argument around which is more important to humans, the Earth is where we live, sure, but the sun makes it all possible. To make everything about our planet is just self-centered… pun intended.”
Apollo rolls his eyes again through Clay’s clever chuckle. “I should’ve never opened my mouth.”
“Aw, just admit that you’re gonna miss me when I leave.”
Apollo offers a small smile. “No need to ask me twice. You’re my best friend, and I’m gonna miss you. A lot.”
“Love you too, ‘Pollo,” Clay says with a languid smirk. Apparently, Apollo’s face has twisted up into some inkling of his usual stress because Clay drawls, “Relax. You’ll be fine without me. I’ll only be gone a few months.”
A long silence follows, Apollo allowing his best friend’s words to sink into his brain. There’s an itch at the back of his mind, one he doesn’t care to scratch at the risk of ruining one of the few good things life has gifted him, but the fact that Clay’s eyes are twinkling like the stars he speaks so highly of makes such a willful ignorance difficult at best and downright impossible at worst.
They sit, nearly touching but wordless. Apollo, along with his own heartbeat, can hear the gentle wisps of Clay’s deep, steady, solid breaths as they float into the night. He keeps his eyes to the sky, though, pleading with the more instinctual part of his brain to give way to reason just this once. Just this once.
“It’s kinda crazy,” Clay starts out of nowhere a few minutes later. “How the sun can exist without the Earth, but not the other way around. Like, if the sun just went poof, we’d all die a fiery death, but if the Earth vanished, the sun would be just fine.”
“Well, maybe the sun can exist without the Earth, but it’d probably be sad that it, uh, lost one of its orbiting planets,” Apollo argues lamely.
Raising an eyebrow, the corner of Clay’s mouth twitches with an unreadable pull. “Are you sure we’re still talking about space?”
Apollo sets his reverent gaze back to the stars as he says, “I don’t think I was ever talking about space, actually.”
“Well, forgive me for not catching on until you suggested that the sun would be sad.”
“I’m not good with metaphors, Clay.”
“Yeah, you’ve made that clear.”
“Shut up.”
“You’re gonna miss me,” Clay says in a singsong voice.
“Irrelevant. Shut up,” Apollo grumbles, his arms now crossed.
Clay’s face shifts into something softer. “I’m gonna miss you too. But you know what?”
Apollo offers a questioning hum as he turns his head to face Clay again.
“Ptolemy said something else… gimme a sec, the exact wording’s on the tip of my tongue… uh, ‘Be not careless in deeds, nor confused in words, nor rambling in thought.’ Yeah. That’s it.”
“Okay, and? What kind of sage wisdom is that, O Knowledgeable One?” Apollo asks.
Clay gives the barest trace of a smile and a waffling glance back and forth. “All I’m saying is if you want to tell me something, now’s the time to do it. Preferably without any confusing symbolism,” he adds pointedly.
Normally, his toothy grin would’ve diffused whatever odd tension was building, but his face is painted with a serious expectancy that leads Apollo to one conclusion— he’s been figured out. That’s the thing about Clay, Apollo thinks to himself. He’s insanely intelligent, but he manages to hide it behind a goofy smile and brown eyes that brim with enthusiasm for life itself, so when it all dissipates like fog and leaves only sincerity behind, Apollo’s at a loss for words.
He stammers and stutters for an answer, but for some reason, all he can mutter out is, “Asshole.”
“Eloquent, ‘Pollo. Real poetry. Well? I’m waiting,” Clay breathes out, finally breaking with a smug smile, crossing one leg over the other, and threading his fingers behind his head as he lays back on the ground. “C’mon, nothing?”
Apollo holds out with his bluff as long as he can, not saying a word but still stealing glances at the man next to him.
After what feels like an eternity and a half, Clay’s confidence gives way to something much more uncertain as he speaks again into the tense vacuum, “Well, if you won’t, I will.” He sits up halfway, dropping the teasing act once more. “I’m probably the world’s biggest coward for doing this right before I run off to space,” he starts, turning to face Apollo fully now, “but when I tell you I love you, I mean it. In every way possible. Damn it, Apollo, I love you so much.”
The gears in Apollo’s head jam on those three words again.
Apollo, barely thinking about the consequences, closes the distance between them, kissing the band-aid on Clay’s nose that, like its wearer, has always been there through thick and thin. That doesn’t last too long, though, as Clay tilts his chin up and grabs a fistful of Apollo’s shirt, pulling him just a little lower, down to his lips.
His best friend is kissing him like it’s the end of the world, but Apollo can’t help but feel like his whole world is right in front of him, as cliché as it is— but thankfully, in that moment, words and metaphors are wholly unnecessary. All he knows now is the nebulous fog in his head that fills most— no— the entirety of his thoughts with his best friend, the man brave enough to venture into the unknown, all for a chance at the view. Clay, the man who loves the stars and his family and apparently Apollo, through and through.
Apollo breaks away once he’s lost his breath. “We’re in public. Cool it,” he laughs out, but it’s more out of disbelief than anything else.
“My, my, Mr. Justice,” Clay teases, tracing a hand along Apollo’s jaw, “are you telling me you’d like to take this somewhere more private?”
“Oh my god, shut up.”
“You know, ‘Pollo, you keep saying that, but I think you actually mean something else. Three words, man, come on.”
“Please be quiet?”
“Try again,” Clay chuckles.
Apollo smiles this time around; it’s a dopey, lovestruck thing, and he loves it. “I love you, too, idiot.”
“That was five, but I’ll take it,” Clay quips, clearly pleased with himself as he pulls Apollo close. “The stars sure are beautiful tonight.”
“I already told you I loved you. I’m not doing your stupid pickup line.”
Clay drones, “Wow. You’re the worst.”
Apollo rests his head in the valley of Clay’s collarbone, only answering with a hum. Clay shifts a bit, deeper into the lush but scratchy grass underneath them, breathing out as he wraps a long arm around Apollo’s waist.
It’s quiet once more, but the tension has dissipated and given way to a calm contentment.
Clay starts humming steadily; he does this frequently, when he’s eating, lounging on the couch, or getting ready for work. Apollo’s only noticed relatively recently, but it’s a tune he vaguely recognizes— it’s a playful little conjunct melody, if a little out of tune, with small skips and jumps, repetition here and there. As if hearing an unspoken question, Clay’s voice lowers, then, he explains, “My mom used to sing to my dad. She wasn’t very good, honestly, but dad loved it.”
“Oh,” is all Apollo can say.
“Yikes. Tough crowd,” Clay chuckles. “You hear that, mom?” he asks the sky. “I got the tone-deaf gene. Thanks a lot.”
Apollo tenses a bit; whenever Clay talks about his mother, he’s sad, usually pulling his visor over his eyes or looking down at the ground like he is now. “Don’t sweat it,” he says. “She’s used to hearing from me nowadays. I… I like to think she’s still looking down on me and smiling, y’know?”
Apollo does know; he likes to imagine the same thing— his father, and quite probably his mother, proud of him from afar. “Yeah, I get it… maybe… maybe the real center of the universe was the people who shaped us along the way,” he quips, scoffing at his own horrible, horrible joke— but perhaps there’s a bit of truth to it. Apollo lets his thoughts wander to what his parents might’ve looked like. Does it really matter, though? Does any of the existential stuff really matter when he’s sitting next to his best friend talking and living in the tiny world that he’s cobbled together for himself, even through loss and grief and pain?
There’s a saying that there are always bigger problems to worry about, but perhaps the small ones are what make the human experience worthwhile.
“You’re probably right,” Clay chuckles. A pause, then a sigh, a bit wistfully. “God, I really wish I’d told you sooner.”
“Huh?”
Apollo can feel Clay’s chest rumble with a laugh that doesn’t make it out of his throat. “I could’ve had more time with you. Before I left.”
“You still have what, a week and a half?” Apollo asks.
“Yeah.” Clay’s gaze drops, and for only a split second, Apollo swears he feels a slight pinch on his wrist. “But I’ll be slammed with training. I know it’s selfish of me to ask, but… would you…?”
Apollo fills in the rest of the question, eyes pricking with tears just a bit. “I’ll be waiting for you when you come back. Promise.”
Clay’s face lights up. “Hey,” he says, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Hm?”
“Go on a real date with me before I go to space? I’ll make the time.”
Apollo’s smile spreads across his face, a bit incredulous. “Really?”
“’Pollo, I just confessed my undying love for you under the stars. Don’t put the dense in defense attorney, m’kay? Just say yes and kiss me again.”
Apollo is all too happy to oblige, and he finds that the center of the universe is a rather subjective thing.