Archive of Our Own

track 1: sorry for party rocking

you are cordially invited, the invitation slid under the door proclaims, to the nonagon’s first ever spaceship prom, presided over by the inimitable dj logi horseman. tomorrow night, the mess hall, byob if you’ve got it lmao! dress code PROM FORMAL.

combs duende reads the handwritten sheet of paper once, then again, then passes it mutely to nora before she has a chance to ask.

“well,” nora says hopefully, “at least it’s enrichment.”

combs hums low in their throat.

“it will - probably treat some of the cabin fever that’s been going around?” nora tries, mostly for her own benefit. there’s so many ways that an unrestricted party on the nonagon could go sideways that she has to only think of the positives, here. “especially with, ah. you know. the shannon situation.”

shannon chamberlain. the eighteenth proper crew member (nineteen, counting tillman) of the nonagon , as of roughly a week ago. no one quite knows where they came from or how they ended up on the ship, just that they appeared in the mess hall and immediately pitched a fit about finding their way back to kennedy loser. they’re sullen, rude, and the ship never seems to be traveling fast enough for them. but at least they do their chores, which is more than nora could say for certain other people on board.

“and,” nora adds, when combs stays silent, “logan should know a thing or two about parties. having been on the dale, and all. i’m sure it won’t get too out of control.”

“not what worries me,” combs says. their curtain of bangs makes their expression halfway impossible to see, but their nose is wrinkled in a way that nora recognizes as contemplative.

“what are you worried about?” she asks. it feels odd to be deferring to combs as captain again after decades of them lurking in her shadow. but they know more about commanding a proper crew than she ever will, and nora feels rudderless outside of the hall. taking the backseat for a while is probably what she needs. as long as she still has a chore rotation to run, of course.

“hm,” combs says, the word little more than a grunt. “i didn’t pack my formal suit.”

it startles a laugh out of nora that’s not very dignified at all, something like a shriek. she hides her face behind the invitation - and she could swear that combs’s lips quirk up into a smile just before she does it.

“you’re going to go?” she asks.

“are you?” combs turns the question back on her.

“well,” nora says, with a small sigh, “i suppose someone needs to chaperone.”

“not the whole night,” combs says. they’re still poking fun at her, nora realizes, peering over the top of the invitation. combs has always had a good sense of humor, but nora still has to feel out whether they’re joking, sometimes. it’s the lack of inflection that trips her up.

“are you releasing me from my duties, captain duende?” she asks.

“long enough to dance with me,” combs says, solemnly - and nora’s pretty sure they’re not joking about that .

she laughs again, even so. “oh, all right. if you insist.”

track 9: evacuate the dance floor

“hey, massey. you good?”

fitz looks up from the floor. she’s been standing in the corner behind logan’s makeshift dj booth for the hour or so since the prom started - logan knows, because he keeps glancing back over his shoulder and seeing her there. shaq and combs estes occasionally flit over to talk to her, but she hasn’t moved from that spot since she walked in the room.

“logan,” she says. fitz always sounds like she’s just woken up from a nap, or like she has to focus intensely to remember what she wants to say next. but she’s been talking a lot more since the hall opened, according to shaq. logan doesn’t know her well enough to tell.

“i’m good,” she adds, after a moment.

“you sure?” logan asks. “i mean, i’m not trying to get on you for how you party, but you’ve kinda been standing there all night, like, not doing anything. you were a friday, right? ‘cause i know the fridays know how to have a good time. like, this one time after a game, juice -”

“i forgot,” fitz says.

logan pauses. “forgot what?”

“parties,” she says by way of explanation, shifting in place. she’s wearing a black dress that’s distinctly unlike anything logan has seen her wear around the ship before - he suspects combs estes may have had a hand in picking it out. her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, flyaway strands curling around her face and into her eyes. “i forgot. what they’re like.”

“you never had parties in the trench?” logan asks. he’d always figured the dead players in the trench celebrated things, the same as everyone else did. they hung out together, certainly. played games together. had meals together, sometimes. hell, there had been a few dale there from pretty much the start - no reason not to have a party every now and again.

fitz shrugs, with just the barest motion of her shoulders. “other people did. i think. after jaylen left -”

“you weren’t really in the mood to get down,” logan concludes for her. he’s heard some of this. fitz was the first player killed on the field after jaylen opened the forbidden book. she handled it well, until jaylen was resurrected and fitz realized no one had remembered her. and something in fitz broke after that, something that’s just beginning to repair itself.

“no,” fitz agrees. logan could swear he sees a smile playing around her lips, just for a second.

“well, hey, it’s been - like, a minute since that happened, right? i think you’re clear to have a good time and shit. not that you need permission, but i’m just saying. statue of invitations or whatever is probably up on that one.” logan says. maybe he’s pushing it. but he’s pretty sure fitz wouldn’t be here if a part of her didn’t want to have a good time. “i mean, like i said, unless your idea of a good time is standing in the corner watching everybody else have a good time. ‘cause i guess i get that, but - yo, massey, do you dance?”

fitz looks at him like he just grew a second horn. “dance?”

“yeah,” logan says. the music is transitioning between songs - but it’s fine, this part of his set can run itself for a bit. “you wanna dance with me? i love this song."

(it’s not a lie - he loves every song on the prom playlist. they wouldn’t be on the playlist, otherwise.)

“i don’t remember how to dance,” fitz says. there’s something earnestly concerned in her expression, now, like she’s afraid to get this wrong. she shifts her weight again, tugging at the hem of her dress.

“oh, dude, it’s like riding a bike! no wrong way to do it!” logan holds out a hand to her, eyebrows raised. 

“i don’t know,” fitz says.

“no pressure, i promise.” logan grins at her as encouragingly as he knows how. “you get freaked, we can stop.”

fitz studies his hand like a puzzle, then gingerly places hers inside of it, as careful as a skittish cat stepping into the lap of a stranger. she offers logan a reciprocal smile that says she’s trusting him with something that might be bigger than just a dance. it’s not a shy expression, but it feels fragile, like something logan’s lucky to be seeing.

“thanks,” she says, as logan pulls her out to the dance floor with him. people are watching. fitz doesn’t seem to care.

“aw, thank you, massey,” logan says. “nobody ever wants to dance with the dj.”

fitz laughs. she’s already swaying to the beat, and the smile hasn’t faded from her face yet. logan twirls her - and laughs, too, when fitz shakes her head and sends her hair spilling free of its bun. this is, he thinks, officially the most fun he’s had all night.

track 5: time after time

bertie sways gently in place, brock’s head tucked into the nook between xer neck and shoulder. xer hands find the small of his back to hold him close, and he shifts until their chests are just barely touching. someone on the edge of the dance floor wolf whistles - maybe dreamy. bertie huffs out a laugh through their nose.

“i’m pretty sure they played this at our actual prom,” xe muses, ducking down to speak softly against brock’s scalp, xer lips just barely brushing the rock when they move.

“mm,” brock says. the vibration of it rumbles against bertie’s chest like a purring cat. “you remember it?”

“what, the song?”

brock gives xem a look. “our prom.”

“oh,” bertie says. screws up xer face a little, thinking. trying to remember parts of xer life before blaseball feels like trying to see through fog. hardly any of it feels real. hell, some of the blaseball stuff doesn’t feel real. “no, not really. i mean, it was, what, seventy-some years ago now?”

“mm,” brock says, again. bertie wonders if he remembers their prom, or if there’s some other version of brock who does. there must be. brock has always been the one who remembers things, the rock standing unyielding against the relentless flow of time. the prophet and the observer.

“we’re old,” bertie says, not for the first time. xe raises xer head to study the dance floor - no one else there but luis and tot, similarly drawn tight together and murmuring privately to each other. the rest of the crew is lingering around the edges of the room. apparently, no other pairs are willing to slow dance this early in the evening, or at all. bertie understands. most of them don’t have the distinct lack of shame that comes packaged with being in the same relationship for over half a century.

“really old,” bertie appends, when brock doesn’t reply. “old enough to be the old guys slow dancing at the prom.”

“you’re the one who asked me,” brock says. his voice lilts with amusement, subtle but still there.

“you’re the one who said yes,” bertie replies, with a laugh. xe knows brock would never say no to xem - that’s the joke.

“i don’t mind,” brock says, “being the old guys slow dancing.”

“good,” bertie says. xe shifts to clasp one of brock’s hands in xer own, tracing xer thumb over his wedding ring. “me neither. we’re dignified.”

“dignified,” brock repeats, in a low tone that says he’s holding back a laugh. always a small victory, to hear that tone in his voice. especially after he died. it feels new again, something special bertie can hold close to xer chest like a good luck charm.

“sure,” bertie says. “like tot and luis.”

brock glances over bertie’s shoulder. bertie looks, too, to find that luis is now standing on top of tot’s feet and making tot move for the both of them, leaning bonelessly against hir and giggling uproariously.

“like tot and luis,” brock says.

“exactly like that,” bertie replies, grinning.

“don’t get ideas.”

“oh, i already had them,” bertie says, steering brock into a turn as the music swells around them.

track 3: die young

“how come you didn’t head out with the fridays?” threeby asks, leaning against the wall and watching dreamy painstakingly assemble a pyramid of clear plastic cups next to the punch bowl. it feels unnecessary - but, then again, everything about this party feels unnecessary. threeby’s pretty sure that’s supposed to be the point. it’s a prom and a dale party, after all.

“do you want the honest answer?” dreamy asks, without looking up. “or the one that sounds good?”

threeby considers. “honest answer.”

“the fridays are...my friends,” dreamy says. she finishes one layer of the pyramid and starts to assemble the next, her hands constantly in slow, careful motion. “i love them. they’ve been my team for the whole expansion era. i died with them, as you know.”

“i’m sensing there’s a ‘but’,” threeby says, when she pauses.

“but -” dreamy starts, then stops short, blinks. “oh. you were right.”

“i’m always right,” threeby deadpans.

dreamy laughs. “surely not always.”

“probably not. okay, what’s the ‘but’?”

“the crabs are my people,” dreamy says, simply. she pauses with a cup in her hands, one finger worrying the rim of it. “we went through the reckoning together. i almost ascended with them. that’s - you don’t really lose something like that, no matter how long you’re apart.”

threeby bites their lip, recalls half-fuzzy memories of the millennials’ apartment in season one. when dom was alive. when chorby soul hadn’t been killed, eaten, replicated. before anyone there knew that blaseball would tear them apart, build them back up, tear them apart again.

they recall fuller memories, too, of the crabs’ dugout. of the camaraderie there. of being welcomed in even with the spectre of death looming over them, the instability that still chars the back of their neck. of being told that they belonged , with a fierceness that felt close to denial of how things were always going to end for them.

“i get it,” they say.

“i can tell,” dreamy says, in that knowing way of hers. threeby doesn’t know her well enough yet to ask if she can actually read peoples’ thoughts, or if she’s just remarkably perceptive. they haven’t asked anyone else, either. something about preserving the mystery.

“why didn’t you go with the millennials?” dreamy asks, curious. it’s a reversal of their own question, but threeby doesn’t really mind. “or the garages? they both came to the hall. and you played with them longer than you ever played with the crabs, didn’t you?”

“that wasn’t me,” threeby says. it was , technically, but they’re trying to think of themself more as a person and less as an extension of the original chorby soul, these days. they’ve had experiences that the original chorby hasn’t, made new friends among the nonagon ’s crew, and that must count for something.

“oh,” dreamy says. she purses her lips. “apologies.”

threeby peels themself off the wall and joins her at the table, reaches around dreamy’s arm to pick up a stray plastic cup. they study it, watching the light of the mess hall refract through it.

“it’s fine,” they say. “i’m used to it.”

“i’m not so sure you should be,” dreamy says. her attention is back on the pyramid of cups, though she’s still frowning thoughtfully. “i know how it feels to have to be what people expect of you. and to not want to be that person anymore. i should have thought before i -”

“dreamy, seriously. it’s fine.”

threeby reaches out to touch her arm, and dreamy freezes in place as their fingers brush a patch of chitin on her elbow. the pyramid wobbles with the unexpected weight of her hand against it, but doesn’t fall.

“apologies,” she says, again. “i’m - it’s new.”

“the shell?”

“i haven’t had it in a long time. it - went away. for a while.”

“sure,” threeby says. they pull away from dreamy, reach up to idly thumb at the rough patch on their neck, just behind their ear. “can i say something? to answer your question from before.”

dreamy gives them a sidelong look. “you don’t have to.”

“i want to,” threeby says, simply. and they do. because they know the answer, even if they didn’t say it right away.

“oh,” dreamy says. she starts to move again, rolling her shoulders, taking a step back to survey the pyramid so far. “by all means, then.”

threeby grins, and reaches out to stack a cup onto the pyramid. “i think the crabs are my people, too.”

track 8: raise your glass

case sports is spiking the punch, but at least they’re being slick about it. paul watches them feel surreptitiously around the edges of the bowl before reaching for an inner pocket of their jacket - and only when the flask is in their hand does he decide to say something.

“you might wanna taste it before you do that.”

case jumps. “jesus fuck, barnes -”

“i’m just saying.” paul scoops some punch into a plastic cup for them, presses it easily into their free hand. “here.”

case pockets their flask again. they hold the cup up, sniff it suspiciously, then take a sip and make a face like they’ve just bitten into a lemon.

“okay,” they say, putting the cup down on the table. “good looking out. what is in that?”

“well, logan spiked it while everyone else was setting up decorations, and then tosser came and put something else in, and i’m pretty sure luis and tot hit it with something about five minutes ago.” paul ticks the offenders off on his fingers as he counts them down. “so probably about three different kinds of alcohol already, plus whatever was in the punch to start with. pretty sure it’s just powdered kool-aid or something.”

“the kool-aid might be the worst offender,” case mutters.

paul chuckles. “i’m just surprised people thought to pack alcohol.”

“on a ship with logan horseman? pretty sure people knew there was going to be a party, sooner or later.”

“it wasn’t exactly the first thought on my mind while i was getting my shit together,” paul says. he takes a sip from his own cup of punch, grimacing at the thick, sweet taste of sugar and artificial fruit, underscored by the acrid tang of several different liquors. “guess i should’ve known, though.”

“odds are, the dale are throwing an even bigger party in the black hole right about now,” case says - then looks a little sheepish. 

paul knows why. people don’t tend to talk about the teams in the black hole around him, like they’re trying to be mindful of the fact that most of the people he knows won’t be there for him to find. the lovers are in the desert, or so he’s heard. even so, the team that he knew as the lovers barely exists anymore, its members dead or vaulted or otherwise scattered to the four winds.

knight had shown up to the hall with the steaks. paul had been glad to see them again, after all this time, but he’d known he couldn’t go wherever they were going next. he’s been dead for a whole lifetime, dead for longer than he ever played for the lovers. it’s time for him to find somewhere new that will have him - somewhere that isn’t the foggy memory of san francisco, or the oppressively labyrinthine passageways of the trench.

“what do you think the wings are up to?” he asks case.

case purses their lips in thought. “right now? i don’t know.”

“well, guess,” paul says. he likes it when case talks about the wings, mostly people he doesn’t know but who he knows he will someday meet. people he thinks he’ll like. “paint me a picture, sports.”

“i’m not the best painter.”

“get a couple drinks in you, i think you’ll do fine,” paul says, with a grin.

track 4: glad you came

“i didn’t know if i was gonna to be here,” augusta says, bouncing forward on the balls of her feet, then rocking back. “no offense to logan, i just mean - it sounded kind of goofy, you know? prom with a bunch of people we only know from being stuck in the hall together. feels like one of those weird summer camp icebreakers, or - oh, wow.”

the last couple of words leave her mouth in a sort of wheeze. she forgets, completely and utterly, about paul barnes standing at her elbow and listening politely to her. in fact, augusta forgets anything else that isn’t annie roland walking into the mess hall in a sharp pair of slacks and a collared dress shirt unbuttoned all the way to her sternum.

“hi, annie!” paul calls, and waves her over. augusta hisses, but he’s gone by the time she whirls around to smack him in the arm, and annie is already striding across the room, and augusta’s palms are so very, very sweaty.

“hey,” annie says. her boots are so shiny that augusta can see her own reflection in them. that’s something, all right.

“hi,” augusta says, without peeling her gaze away from the floor. “uh, you look. handsome? you look handsome.”

“i know,” annie says. augusta can hear the smirk in their voice.

augusta rocks on her feet again, shoves her hands deep into the pockets of her jumpsuit. it’s not exactly the dressiest thing she owns, but - well, she feels good in it. and that’s probably more important than looking fancy.

“i didn’t know you were gonna come,” she says, finally glancing up to meet annie’s eyes. they’re not wearing their sunglasses for once, but their dark irises are every bit as reflective.

annie smirks a little wider, showing teeth. “you thought i was gonna send roland?”

“no! no, of course not,” augusta says. she’s flushing. this really does feel like summer camp, all high stakes but low consequences. all emotions running high with people she’s not even likely to see hide or hair of again once the nonagon touches down in the event horizon, and they all scatter to the four winds.

“i thought you were - i thought you’d be too cool for all this, or something,” she explains, still ignoring the heat spreading its way across her face.

annie blinks. “really?”

“well, sure.”

“you’re the cool one,” annie says, as casually as they might tell her that the weather outside is looking awfully blooddrainy today. like it’s something they thought was obvious.

“i’m the cool one?” augusta’s voice cracks as it rises half an octave.

“yeah,” annie says. “you’re the one who knows how to pilot a damn spaceship, aren’t you?”

“oh,” augusta says, feeling faint. “i guess i am.”

“and you’re the one who’s half demon.”

“annie, you can turn into a bear,” augusta protests. the pair of nubby horns nestled in the curls of her mullet feel like nothing compared to roland. it’s not like she can be any larger than she is right now, or suddenly grow a pelt.

“you can do magic,” annie shoots back at her.

“you’re on the magic!”

“i think,” annie says, wryly, “we need to agree to disagree on this one.”

“fine.” augusta waves them off with a laugh. “okay, then. we’re both cool.”

“not what agreeing to disagree means.”

“it’s a compromise! i like compromise better.”

annie snorts, huffing out an amused exhale through her nose in a very roland-like way. augusta is going to be sad to lose their companionship, she thinks. both annie’s and roland’s. she hasn’t asked what they’ll do when the ship reaches the horizon, because a part of her is afraid she won’t like the answer. another part of her is afraid she’ll want to go with them, instead of staying with the worms. with enid.

“i like compromise better, too,” annie says.

“good,” augusta says, shoving her hands deeper into her pockets. “glad to hear it.”

track 2: cupid’s chokehold

combs estes finds him pacing around the upper deck observatory - which isn’t, shaq thinks, the worst possible place they could find him pacing. he’d been pacing the length of hallway between his bunk and theirs before augusta had shown up to gather bedsheets for laundry day, and shaq had made some excuse to run away. he doesn’t even remember what the excuse was. it probably wasn’t very good.

“what are you doing?” combs asks, without beating around the bush. shaq usually admires that about them. not today, though.

“uh,” he says, and stops in his tracks. he has the prom invitation clutched sweatily in one hand, frayed and limp from being folded and unfolded over and over again. “nothin’. what’s up with you, estes?”

combs huffs. they’re barefoot, ballet flats dangling from one hand, wearing both a crop top that shaq recognizes as one of his and an expression that says they just walked halfway across the nonagon to get here.

“augusta said you were looking for me,” they say.

shaq grimaces. “she did, huh.”

“that’s what she assumed you were doing, anyway,” combs says, flicking an errant strand of hair out of their face. “i take it she assumed wrong.”

“well,” shaq says, “uh, not really. kinda. i mean, i came by looking for you, but you weren’t there, so i figured i’d just see you later?”

“i was washing the dishes from breakfast,” combs says, with less distaste than shaq would have expected.

“oh, cool.” shaq clenches the invitation a little tighter in his hand. “that’s cool.”

combs folds their arms over their chest and gives him a raised-eyebrow look that shaq knows all too well. they’re quiet for a long moment, studying him, and shaq turns to stare pointedly out the window rather than meet their eyes. the stars blink at him. there are less and less of them every day, as the nonagon’ s crew draw closer to the black hole - or as the black hole draws closer to them. it’s expanding, according to nora, and nobody seems to quite know what to make of that.

“is this about the prom?” combs asks, finally.

“yeah, logan gave me the invite,” shaq says, exerting every ounce of willpower he has to sound as casual as possible. “are you gonna go?”

“i was under the impression that it was mandatory.”

“i mean, i don’t think logan is gonna force you to be there.”

combs makes a noncommittal noise. shaq can feel their gaze still on him.

“what are you going to wear?” they ask. presumably they already have their own outfit picked out. shaq would be shocked if they didn’t at least have a few options in mind.

“dunno,” shaq says. “s’not like i packed any formal shit. and, uh, i’ve never been to a prom before.”

he looks over his shoulder at combs just in time to catch their eyebrows arching even higher, then looks away again, ignoring the flush creeping up the back of his neck.

“you haven’t,” combs says, somewhat wonderingly.

“estes, do i look like the kind of guy who hung out with a crowd that went to school dances?”

“point taken,” combs concedes. “but you’re going to this one?”

“‘course i am.” shaq forces himself to turn. he crumples the invitation in his hand and pockets it, leaning back until his shoulders rest against the reinforced glass of the observation deck window. he still can’t meet combs’s eyes. “look, if we’re both going - i mean, no pressure, obviously, but if you want, we could -”

“torres,” combs says, impatient, though there’s a smile playing around the corners of their mouth. “my god, spit it out.”

shaq swallows. he doesn’t always know when he’s being teased, but at least combs usually makes it clear, and doesn’t make him feel like shit about it. still, though - this feels like a weird leap of faith, of speaking something that they’ve only barely acknowledged up until now into real possibility. of defining something about their relationship that they’ve been carefully sidestepping like a weak spot on a frozen lake. shaq and combs aren’t dating. but they are something. and that ill-defined something works for them. this might not.

“do you, uh. wanna go?” shaq asks, strained. “with me? to the ghost prom?”

“do i want to go with you to the ghost prom?” combs repeats, far too amused for their own good.

shaq runs a hand over his face and nods, helpless. “uh huh.”

“as your date?” combs asks, still obviously teasing.

“no, as my fuckin’ bodyguard - yes, as my date, estes!”

“we’ll have to coordinate outfits,” combs muses. it’s halfway to a warning, and it’s not a yes. but it’s probably as close to one as they’re going to give, and shaq can work with that.

shaq grins behind his hand, just a little. “well, yeah. i kinda figured.”

track 7: thnks fr th mmrs

the sound system’s bass reverberates through the hallway, even a whole floor above the mess hall. luis picks a spot and slides down with their back against the wall, dress pooling around them in puddles of pastel tulle as they splay their legs out.

“i feel like a high schooler,” they say brightly, kicking the heels of their ancient combat boots against the floor.

“you never went to high school,” tot deadpans, and sits down next to them, legs crossed.

“hm,” luis says. they take tot’s hand in theirs, worrying their fingers over the edges of hir bandages, careful not to brush skin on skin without permission. “principle of the thing, i think. we’re sneaking off from a prom, i get to feel like a high schooler. right?”

“sure,” tot says - in that gentle, amused tone of hirs that means ze doesn’t agree , exactly, but is too amused by the idea to start an argument over it.

“i’ve seen enough movies about high school to know what it’s like, anyway,” luis says. “that’s basically the same as going to high school.” they wiggle on the ground until they can rest their head in tot’s lap, looking up at hir. “do you think we’re going to have a prom queen? logan didn’t say.”

tot looks down at them. “do you want to be prom queen?”

“of course i want to be prom queen,” luis sighs. “all my life i’ve dreamed of someone dumping a bucket of pig’s blood on me.”

“you could have asked,” tot says. “i’d do that for free.”

“it’s not as fun if it’s not a surprise!”

tot hums. ze looks down at them - and luis looks up at hir, studying the visible aspects of hir face just as seriously as tot is studying them. they can tell ze’s thinking something, hir eyes narrowed in serious contemplation, but they also know better than to push it before tot’s ready to verbalize whatever the thought is.

“we should get married again,” tot says, finally.

“is it time for that already?” luis asks, stretching their arms over their head. they and tot renew their vows every couple of centuries. the last time they did it was just before the return of blaseball, but that’s hardly so long ago.

tot shifts to put a hand in luis’s hair. “the world is ending.”

“so?” luis asks. “we’ve been through the end of the world before. i didn’t think we ever got married about it.”

“i’d like to.”

it’s delivered with the same flat affect as always, but luis knows raw sincerity from tot when they hear it. they know an i love you when they hear it, even if it’s not said in those exact words. they sit up a little straighter, to rest their cheek against tot’s chest. there’s no heartbeat to feel there, but luis didn’t expect there to be.

“i’d like to, too,” they say, and reach over to thread their fingers with tot’s. “we’ve never had a spaceship wedding before!”

“hm,” tot says. “first time for everything.”

“and logan can dj!”

“hm,” tot says again, though hir eyes are creased in the way that means ze’s smiling under the bandages. luis laughs, and strains a little farther upwards to kiss hir on the jaw, contorted in hir lap like they’re trying to wrap all of themself around hir.

“i love you,” luis says. sometimes there’s no point in saying anything else. “i’m glad you’re here.”

they don’t often talk about the years they spent in the trench without tot - they’d spent years apart before, and always found their way back to each other when it counted. but luis is still glad they didn’t have to make this particular journey without tot.

“sap,” tot says.

“you know me!”

“i do,” ze says, and leans down to kiss the top of luis’s head. “i love you, too.”

track 6: locked out of heaven

an interesting side effect of leaving the hall is that the farther the nonagon gets from the trench, the more corporeal everyone aboard it becomes. being a hologram, raúl has only really been observing those changes in everyone else - it never needed to eat or sleep in the first place, and it’s still perfectly capable of passing through walls. it tries to be polite about the latter, though, which means that it ends up awkwardly hovering outside of shannon chamberlain’s bunk rather than barging in on them when they don’t show up to the prom.

“shannon -” it starts.

“go away,” shannon snaps, somewhere on the other side of the door.

raúl sighs. it’s not good at this - the consoling people who are upset. never has been. that’s always been logan’s thing, or even randy’s, but logan is busy managing a party and randy is somewhere raúl doesn’t want to dwell on right now.

“you’re sulking,” raúl says.

“what the hell else am i supposed to do?” shannon asks. “go out there and dance with a bunch of fucking strangers who don’t care that the fucking world is ending, and we’re all about to be trapped in space, or shot back to the hall, or -”

they cut themself off with a frustrated noise that lies somewhere between a groan and a muffled scream. raúl wishes it could see their face, or what their body language is doing right now. that would help, it thinks, when it comes to figuring out what to say. but shannon’s door is locked, and passing through it like it’s nothing but water would definitely not help.

“we’re going to the black hole,” raúl says, hesitantly. “i thought that was where you wanted to go?”

“we’re not going fast enough. i want to be back with kennedy before -” shannon falters. “before something happens.”

“what if nothing happens?”

shannon laughs, dry and bitter. “have you fucking looked around? something’s going to happen. the black hole’s getting bigger every day, people are running around like chickens with their damn heads cut off. it’s the fucking apocalypse.”

“we’re already dead,” raúl says. echoing shaq, echoing logan. it’s become a pretty common refrain on the ship, these days.

“i think i’m still entitled to be a little fucking distraught about it, thanks.”

“i didn’t say you fucking weren’t.”

“are you making fun of me?” shannon asks. the suspicion in their voice is plain, but raúl thinks they might also be holding back another laugh.

“no,” raúl says, honestly. it’s not sure how to explain to a stranger that it has a habit of copying the inflections and vocal tics of the people it talks to. it’s too used to being around the dale, who understood without being told - or people in the hall, who couldn’t judge anyone who spoke differently.

“i know you’re sulking,” raúl adds, “but you could come sulk at the party, instead.”

“i don’t get how you people can throw a fucking prom while the world’s ending.”

“isn’t it better than sitting around and doing nothing?” raúl asks. it’s the same reason it and logan got on the spaceship to begin with. no sense sitting on your hands and waiting for something to happen - better to find something to do, an adventure to have.

“i don’t know,” shannon says, exhausted. “is it?”

“i’d rather have fun than worry about what’s gonna happen tomorrow, or when we get to the black hole.” raúl shrugs. “no sense in moping about shit you can’t control, especially when you’re already dead. life of the party, death of the you, ‘n all.”

shannon does laugh, this time. “that’s not a real fucking saying.”

“‘course it is,” raúl says, deadpan. “dale.”

there’s a noise on the other side of the door. raúl doesn’t quite understand what it is until it hears the click of the lock, and the door opens to reveal shannon standing there in a threadbare t-shirt and flannel pants that must be pajamas borrowed from someone else.

“sure,” shannon says. “dale. you gonna be my date to the prom?”

“well, i’ll at least be your ride,” raúl says, and offers shannon its arm.

bonus track: (i’ve had) the time of my life

“holy shit. estes,” shaq says, and grips combs’s arm so hard it hurts. “have you seen dirty dancing ?”

“yes, but -” combs’s eyes go wide in recognition. “oh, no. no. no. no.”

“i could totally lift you!”

“you absolutely could not lift -”

there’s a delighted shriek on the other side of the dance floor as luis gets a running start and launches themself into tot’s grasp, skirts flying. tot hefts them over hir head by the waist apparently effortlessly, entirely expressionless as luis flings their arms out and cheers.

“see,” shaq hisses.

“luis is a hologram,” combs hisses back at him.

“oh, point,” shaq says, and lets go of their arm. “HEY, RAÚL -”

combs laughs. they’re giddy with the winding-down of the night, with some infectious energy that’s slowly leeched its way into the mess hall over the past several hours. everyone else seems the same, from brock and bertie dancing in their own corner of the floor with arms clasped tight around each others’ waists to annie and augusta talking animatedly over the snacks table. despite any reservations, logan horseman has turned this night into something magical - a small, perfect bubble of human normalcy where it’s easy to live. where it’s easy to forget to be dead, or to have the kinds of problems that only the dead do.

“combs,” a voice at their shoulder says, snapping combs back to themself. shaq has pulled away from them, but now fitz is there instead, studying them with her intense, pale eyes. combs is still surprised she’s here and not in her room, or wandering the ship. still surprised even more so that she’s peeled herself away from the corner she was standing in. another small miracle achieved by logan horseman, apparently. they’re happy for it.

“fitz,” they reply. “did you have a good time?”

“i did,” fitz says, simply. 

“good,” combs says. “me too.”

“will you dance with me?”

combs smiles, and takes the hand offered to them. “i would love nothing more.”