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It's strange, looking at the sky and seeing the earth surrounded in a pit of black. The stars wink cheerfully, unfathomably far apart and at the same time close enough to touch. Part of them still expects to see the moon alongside them, visible sometimes even in the daytime. Now, though, they can see the moon whenever they want. After all, they're living on it.
It's not quite what they'd expected, though truthfully Antarcticite isn't sure what they expected. At least, they don't know if they'd be able to put it into words. The cold hadn't surprised them—it sinks into their limbs like phantoms of claws each night, solidifying them more by the second. The moon is freezing when the sun is gone, far more frigid than even the coldest winter back home.
(... Home. The moon is home now, though, isn't it?)
They had, however, been surprised by the sweltering daytime. It never bothers anyone else—the Lunarians don't seem bothered by anything ever, barring maybe their own boredom, and Antarc is the only one who melts even on celestial bodies that have an atmosphere. Antarc's vigilant watch for sunspots is a thing of the past, but the sun itself remains Antarcicite's enemy.
From next to them comes the sound of rustling sheets, paired with a small noise of discontent. For a moment, then, things are still once more—at least until the cycle repeats. Soft sheets and Phos. How wonderful.
"Antarchin," Phos speaks up, finally.
Antarc turns their head to look at their partner. Partner is a familiar term. When they were young, when they were still new to the phenomenon of existence, it used to elicit a strange ache of loneliness. Other gems get partners, but Antarc only has Sensei. Will only ever have Sensei. Has only ever had Sensei. That was before they grew to appreciate what they had, of course, and far before they learned to appreciate the possibility of change.
Partner. Phosphophyllite is Antarcticite's partner. For some reason, the word doesn't feel significant enough.
With fervid blue eyes—and somehow this is the change that strikes Antarc the most—Phos continues. "I can't sleep."
"Mm," says Antarc. "Then I'll stay up with you until you can."
The way Phos smiles is different now. It's smaller, with an edge of cunning to match the flecks of gold that weren't always there. It's also true, however, that some things never change; Phos still sleeps the same way—spread eagle on their back, with their hands curled on their chin. Heavy fingers tap restlessly against the collar of their shirt, a steady rhythm set to the music of silence.
Even looking like they do now, it's still Phos. The realization is comforting.
"Antarchin is so kind," Phos whispers. (That's different, too; the Phos from before had no inside voice.) "It almost seems like a dream. How am I supposed to know this is real?"
Phos has recently taken to asking difficult questions. The amalgamated gem probably thinks this is one of those, but Antarc already has their answer.
Without words, Antarc reaches out with one gloved hand and gently cups Phos' cheek, touching just to hold.
The first time Phos had cried gold, Antarc had panicked. Now, as Phos's eyes well up, they know it's nothing to be alarmed about. One finger softly traces a line under their eye, gentle enough to leave their partner's powder undisturbed, offering the golden tear to Phos' hand. The defect sinks back in and diffuses, instantly indistinguishable from the rest of the gleaming alloy.
Antarc doesn't smile. A smile feels too bright. This moment is one of fragile softness, permeated with the heady gloom of the day. Soon, they'll want to get up and get moving, the usual sunset-fueled energy motivating their routine. For now, they press their face deeper into their pillow, content to watch Phosphophyllite as the seconds drip like water between their fingers.
"I see," Phos hums. Closes their eyes. "Thank you."