Chapter Text
There’s a thought that lives there
Grows there, in the beat of my human heart
That a love that can’t be found on earth
Is worth all of its despair.
When staring at the moon so high
A pain in my mortal neck
There isn’t an apple nearly as verdant
As the glow in my eye.
For every friend
Thousands of years away
Can still be seen
Their beauty does transcend.
And each space in between
Loving abyss of the dark
Is a chance to fill with yearning
A chance to hope and dream.
Never is it easier to feel so small
To forget the things tiny
Long for more, the ways it aches
And listen for the night’s every call.
It follows, near and far
A love we wish to touch
Its worth eclipses the known wonders
Once Upon a Star.
…
Is that what a diamond is supposed to be?
A tiny glimmer, suspended far beyond anyone’s reach. Untouchable, unbreakable, no more than a glint of light in someone’s eye. Only a tease of something more.
It’s the reflection in a nighttime kitchen window, faded amongst the yellows of human creation. It’s that sleep in your eye, the last remnants of a dream hurried away by the morning. It’s the backdrop against plumes of smoke, curling up into the boundless sky.
He sees it there, when he invites in the breeze. He gives back the scent of his dinner to the city, and with every exchange he spots it, in the glass. A neighbour, winking in hello. He feels it, crust swept by his fingertips as the warmth bleeds away. He rubs his eyelids, a touch too rough, and spots them return for just a waking moment.
He tastes it, ash cloying in the palate of his mouth. It’s smoky when he runs his tongue along the backs of his teeth, and its woodsy memory is only chased away by the sight of it- bright and crystalline as it hangs above the campfire.
He’s wondered that many a time. Is that what we look for in diamonds? Do we think of them as stars?
When we place them on fingers, cut to perfection, do we wish we were gifting a piece of the sky instead? Like promising a love from the moon and back, a souvenir we bought along the way.
When we mine them, do we see human possibility in their surfaces? Do we see reflections, see the way we plundered space? A stretch of the darkness, one most cannot reach, pictured in unpolished clarity. Diamonds will do, diamonds are our replicas.
When we use them, take their strength for granted, do we imagine conquering the night? Look at us, not so small now, are we? Every craft, made with the imagination of what we can one day accomplish.
Is that all a diamond is? A glimpse of the stars? Not so untouchable. Beautiful. A version we can love.
He thinks that might be the case. And he isn’t sure how he feels about it.
The night sky has always called for him. An ache in his neck was seldom cause to tear his eyes away.
He’d heed the call, through times where he can only reply through peeks of clouds. And on nights when the moon was at its weakest, a watchful guardian taking a moment to rest.
He’d chase after it. On foot or on motorbikes. Illumination of the night as constant as the wind through his outstretched fingers.
There must be honour in being compared to stars, it must be a compliment. But when he searches the sky for a reply, he finds that the night can never answer him back. He has to seek the answers within himself- which is unfortunate, it’s easier to run after an intangible brightness than to run through his head.
An honour. Indeed. A diamond, just as desirable. Perhaps more versatile than the sky.
He doesn’t feel like it, most days.
He’s rough cut, all sharp edges and weathered stone. Like a pebble lost amongst the crowd of a lake’s shore, kicked and scuffed and ready to be skipped over cool waters until he sinks. Never to be seen again.
It’d be nice to be a star. He bet he’d never feel lonely, up there. Always surrounded by friends, just as glittery and constant. Yet, he finds being compared to one almost a bitter taunt. A joke, mocking what he’ll never have. He’s not untouchable, barely even has the consistency of a diamond, really.
It’s nice to yearn though, isn’t it? Pining is bittersweet, for as much soreness as it brings, it also comes with a sweet relief. The respite of imagination.
And the stars are always lovely enough to be worth any hurt they bring.
Mondo sighs, and the gust of his breath is a wisp of smoke that curls around the jut of his parted lips. It is near instant to fade, one with the sky from his perspective.
He wishes he could follow it there.
It’s lonely, being in love with the night. He knows it’s stupid, cause the sky is just a bunch of stars and distant planets and the moon or whatever- but he can’t help but want more.
The human in him, whatever’s left after all these years, longs for a reply. A verbal good morning, sleepy soft and husk. Lips beckoning goodnight, pressed to the kiss-starved dip of his temple. A wave hello, accompanied by a skip in his heart. And a hug goodbye, colliding with all the parts of him that are perfectly made for arms and hands and chests.
And he can’t expect that from the sky, obviously, but would he be human if he could resist a bit of longing? He should take it as a sign that some part of him is still there. A younger him, who wanted the company of people over that of the night.
But, well, he lost most of that urge long ago.
Maybe at a time when the days were shorter, and the nights so long. His pillow could only muffle half of the voices gaining volume through the thinness of the walls. At least he could stare out, at the moon, knowing someone was watching over him.
Or perhaps on that fateful night, the one that changed the course of his life forever. And ended the one he’d treasured the most. He does remember how the sky looked then, as he skidded across asphalt. A tumble of dark tarmac and darker clouds.
His skin had been torn, shredded by a merciless fate. He’d been picking out gravel for weeks afterwards. Every shard he wriggled free from the scabby soreness of his skin a reminder of what he’d done. What he’d lost.
Most of that urge had probably been lost on the evening of his graduation. Hugs shared and cheers to warm his ears. He had thought, as the night crept up on their after-party, that he wouldn’t mind spending the rest of his life with these people.
Apparently, the sentiment wasn’t shared. The longer they went, the less they talked. Everything petered out, times spent together and conversations had and even the little things- ‘This reminded me of you,’ and ‘How is your new job?’ and even ‘Happy birthday!’
And every promise to get together soon was sour when leaving his mouth because he knew, deep down, it would never happen.
And it had definitely faded, leaving only the minuscule vestiges that remained, when he gave up everything else. He couldn’t be a Diamond anymore. He was old and worn down, everything that had once been shiny and new had weathered away. What was a diamond, if not a piece of the stars?
A stupid old rock, decidedly.
Not pretty enough to be fashioned into a lovely ring, or a necklace or even a nice set of earrings. No, he was covered in scars, now. Scuffed skin, with cuts and dents and sun damage he would never repair. Just the surface of all the desecration lying beneath.
He hadn’t been fit to lead, anymore. And it was nice, to pass it all down to someone he trusted. Like a family heirloom, except there was no more family left to keep it. They’d made it, they’d loved it, and now it was time to pass it on.
The last remnant of his past life.
Mondo shifts, tries to alleviate some of the pain residing between his shoulder blades. It’s not much help, the tiles up here are rough. He wouldn’t be surprised if there was a permanent ridge on his upper back from how often he’s up here.
It was a nice escape, just a quick walk from the sky. All it took was a little risk from the balcony and he can easily climb up to the tiled plains of his roof. He’d spent many an evening out there, staring out as the yellowed horizon cresting over rooftops settled into a sullied, peaceful blue. Then deeper still, as the moon awoke.
It was nicer when he had Daiya with him, though. The pair of them would always make it a competition to see who could spot the first star in the sky. Daiya would always win. Mondo would try and burst his bubble, letting him know that it was probably actually Venus he was seeing, and not an actual star.
But Daiya would always counter with ‘What makes a star, really?’
Mondo likes to think about that. If to them a star is just a glimmer, suspended far beyond anyone’s reach- if it has all the properties, untouchable, unbreakable, beautiful. How can he argue it’s not a star?
If Daiya was around to pull such a thing now, Mondo might offer him a more scientific explanation or some shit. It’s just like that bastard to somehow find a way to never lose.
Except…for when he had. At least he’d never lose again. And there wasn’t time to change the narrative, anymore. Mondo had left that all behind long ago.
His eyes trail through a cluster of stars, aimless and meandering. He goes from star to star, as if connecting constellations just by the pull of his gaze.
Mondo wonders if Daiya is up there now. Maybe he can let Mondo know what a star is, what a Diamond is supposed to be.
He sighs again, as if he can release the hurt through the fog of his exhale. It’s quite cold out, tonight. There are goosebumps littered all along the skin of his arms. He’d neglected to wear a coat and it left him in his regular, gaping singlet.
He found the chill refreshing, the wind was almost like a hug in a way.
He can’t expect anything more from the night, even if he longs for it.
This was life now. Just a lonely man and the sky.
Mondo shifts a little more and a tile digs into an awkward spot between vertebrae. He can’t suppress a wince. Well, he can always be old and weathered and lonely while in bed, can’t he?
He prepares to sit up, head off to a restless sleep.
The moon is lovely tonight, luminescent in its ripeness. Never has a person been so full, blessed with such bountiful curves and endless changes. Is it weird of him to think he’d make love to the moon if he could? Decidedly so.
He offers it a kiss goodnight anyway, bringing fingertips from his lips up into the abyss of night. He sweeps his palm over the stretch of darkness above, hoping that the gift of him can reach every individual star and planet and whatever else is hidden in that mysterious beauty.
But just as Mondo’s inching upwards, sky a blur of glittering entities, does something catch his eye.
A brightness, streaking through the night.
His mouth falls agape. A shooting star!
God, he hadn’t spotted one of those since he was just a kid. Daiya had gripped his shoulders tight and shook him with barely repressed excitement. ‘Make a wish!’ He’d cried, and then again and again when Mondo had taken a moment too long to stare in awe.
Knowing himself, he’d probably wished for something dumb. Like a new puppy or something. Maybe a magazine of the latest bike models. He doesn’t remember what it was now.
Well, shit, he can’t pass another opportunity like this! What to wish for? There’s so much he longs for, too much to put into words. Flashes of people, of old times, of diamonds proud and strong.
There’s almost something instinctive about closing your eyes when you make a wish, truly getting lost in that imagination. Bringing it to life when you purse your lips over birthday candles or give flight to a stray eyelash or offer your hand to a visiting ladybug.
But Mondo doesn’t want to lose sight of that star for a single second.
He keeps his eyes on it, as it blazes over the sky. A real beauty it is, as bright and fleeting as we think of human stars.
Mondo keeps his eyes on it, and he hopes. Prays. Wishes.
Then he reclines on his hands, watches its journey with a contentment he hasn’t felt in ages. It’s stupid, really, who believes in wishing on stars? But…it’s almost like the night is responding to him, now. Goodnight to you too, it says, sweet dreams until we meet again.
Maybe tonight he’d actually get a good rest. Lay his head down and sink into the deepest oblivion. He can only wish!
He had wanted to stay until the shooting star was gone…which should’ve only taken an instant, really, but it was still there. Still in view. In fact, where Mondo had thought it would have faded by now…it hasn’t.
Actually…Mondo squints, as if he could actually catch a glimpse of it from so far away. It almost looks like it’s getting brighter?
Ridiculous. Dumb. A trick of the night, he’s sure. Ah, that old prankster, forever pulling jokes on him. Like making him actually believe he could have his wish come true.
Except…no it’s definitely brighter now. As if it has doubled in size. What the fuck? Mondo glances around, as if he can confirm this anomaly with someone else. It’s just him around. Just him and the roof and the night and that weird as fuck shooting star.
He grips onto tile, holding tight as he begins to stagger to his feet. He feels unsteady as he ascends, head locked onto the sky. There’s no tearing his eyes away from this sight, a little issue of balance is no distraction.
There’s no uncertainty now, it has gotten brighter. Continues to grow infinitely brighter still. A bit more and Mondo might liken it to staring directly into the sun. What the actual fuck?!
His next breath is a stuttering little thing and he realises the cold that surrounds him has turned into fear. A panic that grips all of him in its unforgiving, icy fist.
Along with it is an unbeatable fascination. The sort of morbid curiosity that surrounds car wrecks and celebrity deaths and the promise of gory images.
The wind picks up, a rush in his ears that battles against the rapidly quickening race of his heart. It blows his hair across his face, wild strands he can’t even summon a hand to sweep away.
Never has he been so conflicted, it rages inside him- in the cavity of his chest where his heart cries out for him to listen. In every muscle and nerve and born and bred human instinct still left in this worn body. A fear, desperate for him to leave, to get away, to save himself. And an adoration, for the most captivating thing he has ever had the chance to lay eyes upon.
Because it is beautiful, in every sense of the word.
In fact, he thinks he might even die a happy man, if he can die staring into the face of true wonder. An ethereal, glorious wonder. One the earth is simply not capable of producing. Only space, only the night.
The brightness grows, bathes him from head to toe. It’s everywhere, a coat of shine on every tile, a whiteness that seeps into the gutter and crushes out any remaining darkness. It’s like being suspended within the sun on the morning horizon, dawn eclipses every rooftop and the trees and even the hills he’d once considered too far in the distance to even see.
And it’s all over him. In the hair whipping across his face, lost to the wind. On the hands he brings up to brush it away, like a floodlight trained on all the errors of him- the old scars and the creases he’d filled with his sorrow and the lines that are useless when he desperately tries to predict the future.
And it’s everywhere within him, flooding his mouth when he opens it to gasp. It’s awash on his tongue and it tastes like shock he has never had the misfortune of biting before. All of it, every pore, every little hair and dimple and the spaces he’d used to store his longing.
All of it, lost to that light. He can’t look away.
Mondo’s body is moving before he can comprehend it. There’s nowhere to go, but he’s backing up. A useless endeavour, there’s no putting difference between him and this phenomenon.
A foot lands awkwardly, on a spot angled and with little grip. It sends him tumbling, the world awash in white as his legs slip from under him. The breath leaves his lungs as he lands- whatever hadn’t been taken by the light in the first place. Truly breathless he can only gape up at the sky. Can only let it invade his senses, mould itself against his teeth. It might fill all the cavities he’d gained over the years. It oozes down the pipe of his throat, fills lungs and stomach like fresh cement.
He can only face it head on, mouth wide and desperate for air, only receiving that brightness. He feels like he’s lost in a storm, tongue stretched out for just a taste of rain. But he’s only given an endless drought of light, a mix of unwavering sun and sand and everything the desert offers to dehydrated men.
He swallows that light anyway, it’s his oasis- his only hope in a world that has fallen out of his control. It’s can spare him, save him, and he welcomes it for all it is. Terrifyingly beautiful.
It gets closer still, and now Mondo can glimpse that it has physical weight to it. Not really a light, growing and expanding, but an object that has been travelling infinitely closer. His shooting star. No, a falling star.
He is a mere speck of dust under the looming form of its colossal mass. He wonders if this is how it feels to be an insect, all the complexities of life washed away with his insignificant stature. All of him, all the ways he’d loved and lived are not even worth examining.
And not because this light, this star was malicious. If it had any sentience at all he was just too puny to even be considered life in its eyes. It was likely there wasn’t even motivation at all, no thoughts or feelings or intent.
Mondo’s chest rises with his next stuttering breath. Oh how scary is it, to be that pebble on the shore of a lake. To be kicked and thrown and ready to sink.
The fear is fascinating. To be so lost but outside of his own head for once. He can only watch as his front is eclipsed in light, from the swell of his clothed belly all the way down legs to his bare feet. And he can only breathe, pant like he’d just gone on the longest run of his life. Lifted weights 10 kilos too heavy. Rode his hog with sirens blaring behind him and adrenaline soaring in his veins.
He tips his head back, lets the terror coarse through him. It’s warm, like a newly lit fire. This is what he has been wanting, been craving. A kiss with heat to melt away all the weary aches and pains. Hugs worth more than a campfire in the winter, that smoke curling through the stars.
Can’t kiss the night without expecting it to outdo you, he supposes.
Following the encompassing light is a heat, a heat so intense he could liken it to sitting next to an open flame. He’s surprised he hasn’t yet melted entirely, the lonely candle not pretty enough to save for a special occasion.
Mondo can only lay there, immobilised by the crushing weight of light and heat as it bears onto him. His shirt has long since plastered itself to his skin, melded there by the quick-to-evaporate and quicker-to-form presence of his sweat.
And, lost to the way his world has changed, there’s a moment where Mondo realises that he might actually die. In fact, it’s more than likely. Almost a definite.
The shock of it is ice water poured down the line of his spine, finally a break from the heat. He’s going to die.
Here, on the rooftop he’d spent many a night. His final resting place. He’d always thought he would die someplace else.
On the road, mangled under the mass of an eighteen-wheeler. Blood in his mouth and headlights in his eyes as he fades under the thought of how fitting this was. Or perhaps wrapped around a pole, a collision with an instantaneous nature he really doesn’t deserve.
He’d even thought, on the darkest nights when the stars weren’t even visible, that he could take things into his own hands. There’s a cliff he knows of, a precipice facing the sea. He could wait until dusk, as the sun sinks below the surface. And he’d straddle his hog, look towards that first star in the sky. The engine would roar, the waning sun would be in his eyes. And he’d chase that star all the way down.
Yet, here he was. All expectations exceeded.
The star is descending rapidly, preparing to bring him his doom. The brightness surrounds him entirely, he cannot tell where it begins and where he ends. Even the closing of his eyes is no respite, the usual muted darkness awash with light.
There’s sound, roaring in his ears. Vibrating through the marrow of him. It chases away any of the thoughts he’d had, his attempts at making peace.
It only leaves flashes of the life he’d lived. Tyres and flashing lights and blurred tarmac. Tiny brushes held in trembling fingers and streaks of black on eyes. Laughter in his ears, his throat burning with an accidental hit of hairspray. Softness under his fingertips, a wet nose and pink tongue pressed to his cheek. Paper creased under his hand, a little scribble thrown his way in the form of an aeroplane.
The heat increases, somehow. He stretches out a hand to the light, open-palmed and shaking. A simple plea. Let him reminisce, just for a moment longer, please. Just another second to remember the good times. The times he’d forgotten about along the way, because he’d believed there wasn’t anything good in the world anymore.
It feels foolish, now. To have lost himself to such despair. He hadn’t even had a glimpse of it, had no idea what awaited him.
Maybe once this is all over, he’ll finally become a star. Daiya, I’m sorry. I’ll see you soon.
Mondo’s hands clutch onto tile, fingers gripping tight into all the tiny crevices he can find. It provides the support for him to writhe, for his spine to arch. He’s an ant under a magnifying glass, his insides must be scorching. He can only wriggle humiliatingly, losing his exoskeleton to the burn of the beauty he’d admired.
And he thinks there must be sound leaving him- a roar of mighty anguish. A sound containing all that’s left of him. The people he’d loved and the moments he’d lived. It rushes from him, starts in the heaving cavity of his chest, rips from his throat as he cries out to the universe. It’s all for nothing, whatever he produces is immediately lost to the surge of noise around him.
This is fitting, he realises. Mondo Owada, scalded by the one he dared to love.
A suitable revenge for all his love had done over the years. The things he’d done and the people he’d hurt because he had dared to love.
It reaches its climax- the heat, the light, the sound. Mondo cries like he hasn’t in years, he cries like he’ll never cry again.
He’d wanted this, to be a diamond forged under unbearable pressures. He’d wanted this, to be held by the night. He’d wanted this, becoming a star of his own.
And he’ll never want again.
It all peaks with a ferocious boom- an explosion of sound so mighty that it has transcended audibility. Instead, he knows it in the tremor of his bones, in the shake of his skull and messy collision of his aching teeth.
And he knows it when he goes flying, when his body leaves the roof with the sheer power of the impact. For a second he’s clawing at air, desperate for a hold, for something to latch onto. His fingers find nothing but empty space. Oh, he can see the sky again.
Then the next second he’s plummeting back to tile, where he lands and starts to slide.
Mondo watches the gutter rush to greet him, a view from between his kicking legs. He reaches behind him, scrambles for a grip. His sweaty fingers and blunt nails drag uselessly over tile. Every muscle strains, aids his twisting body as he searches for something anything to save him.
It’s a pointless endeavour, within a matter of seconds he reaches the edge of the roof and tumbles right off.
Falling is a surprisingly short journey, one that he has no time to process. He hits the expanse of his balcony with a thud and a pain that lances through every bone and nerve.
He can’t even think of suppressing his yell. Fuck, that hurt. He lies there, breathless with the fiery agony wreaking havoc on his body. It makes him wish he had died, honestly. Which…why hadn’t he? Oh god, he was alive and it fucking hurt. Jesus Christ, what is the night doing, stringing a man along like this?
The night…yes, it has returned to him. He can see it now, face-up on his balcony. Between every pained breath his eyes wander over to a new star.
Was it you who kept me alive? Mondo wonders. Daiya you fucking bastard. Always had to be the best at everything- and that extended to dying too, apparently.
Mondo groans, just to let some of the pain escape, but his throat has been screamed raw. The sound scratches, burns along the sides of his throat, sending him spiralling into a coughing fit that has him regret ever being born.
Now there’s no denying he’s done some shitty things in this pitiful excuse for a life, but does he really deserve all this? Maybe.
Which begs the question, what was all this? He hasn’t died, and now that the bite of fresh pain is beginning to fade he isn’t even sure his body is really that damaged at all.
His shoulders still hold a weary ache as he struggles to sit up, a soreness that runs along every vertebrae he owns. But when he gets there, he can see all of himself. His clothes are sweat-laden and his knees are shaking but he appears otherwise unscathed. In the moment he couldn’t imagine anything other than his flesh melted from the guide of his bones, liquified away by that unbearable heat.
He scans himself just to make sure, switching from knuckles to palms. Nope. Nothing. Not a blister or burn or even the slightest catchable whiff of cooked skin.
What a load of drama for…what? Nothing?
He turns his arm again, wiggles his fingers just to make sure he can. Perhaps if he’s so undamaged he really is dead. Through the part of his fingers he can make something out, a gleam that refocuses his vision.
No…not for nothing. Not dead either.
He stares for a moment, frozen with his shock. Then he clambers to his feet, slowly but surprisingly steady. He grips onto the balcony railing, using it to support his weight. It offers him the perfect vantage point to stare out, at the grass of the shared garden.
Well, was the shared garden of Mondo and his neighbours. Now it looked more like a construction site, in that it was covered in upturned dirt and settling dust.
Mondo isn’t sure his jaw can open any wider. He eyes the elevated soil, dark and mounded like ant hills. It surrounds what surely must be a crater, a ring of earth pushed out and up around an obtrusion Mondo cannot keep his eyes off of.
What- and pardon his language- the absolute fuck?!
He stares for a moment longer. The decision to investigate is made before he can even think it through.
…
Mondo spills out of his back door in a rush. He’d barely spared a moment to grab a coat, something he could pull over him to ward off the chill of the night. And to cover the goosebumps born of the thrill that had overtaken him.
He can’t blame himself, really, this is the most exhilarating thing that’s happened in a long time. He’s frightened, undoubtedly, but there’s a race to his heart that isn’t all bad.
He’s still struggling with one of his sleeves when he reaches the lawn, a finger gets caught in a hole he’d worn into the elbow. He curses, pushes and pulls uselessly against frayed strands for a moment before he gives up and just lets the coat hang from one shoulder.
There are more important things to focus on.
Like the giant fucking rock that has seemingly crash-landed into his garden. He’s surprised none of his neighbours have even tried to investigate. Their windows are all dark and the night is quiet.
The frown on his face twists, and his next sigh is visible again. It’s like they hadn’t even noticed anything wrong at all. Which didn’t seem possible, with all the sound and heat and the ginormous fucking rock from space!
But the night continues just as it had started, and probably just how it will end, with Mondo a lonely man.
He heads over to the obtrusion, still surrounded by a cloud of dust yet to settle. He wants to say he approaches with an appropriate amount of caution, but his pace is quick and his excitement grows quicker.
It’s huge. That’s all he can think, at first. This thing is giant! Like a boulder from the sky, almost perfectly round but still formed with that bumpy rock texture. Perhaps it had been eroded away, smoothed out by the atmosphere as it sped towards the ground.
Mondo inches closer, and as he nears, the rounded top of it blocks out the moon. It leaves him in the grasp of its shadow, suddenly aware of how small he is as he is bathed in a soft darkness.
Perhaps against his better judgment, he stretches out a hand. He can feel the heat emanating from its surface before he makes contact, like a fire that has recently been put out.
A fiery asteroid…or meteor? He really isn’t sure of the correct term, but he is sure of the burn he’ll acquire if he touches it.
Again, he looks around. There’s still nobody but him. Is there someone he should call? He isn’t too fond of getting the pigs down to look at it, but who else is there?
He probably has a friend or two from his high-school days that would miraculously know what to do. Odd bunch they were.
But, well, he’s certainly not going to be the first to contact them. ‘Hey, I know it’s been over a year now since we last talked and you’re probably super busy with higher education and all, but I need to interrupt your schedule in a panic because a rock from space nearly killed me.’ Yeah…not his finest idea.
Shit…what can he do then?
Mondo makes his way around the rock, trodding on disturbingly warm soil. He doesn’t touch, but he keeps his hand hovering over it, like he could trace all the individual bumps and grooves. It would be rough under his fingers, he decides, but so eroded his skin would glide over it like water on a duck’s back.
It really is unnervingly supernatural, nothing else is like it on earth. He could pace around the average boulder, and he’d never feel this same chill. A coldness that runs through him when he admires the height of it, its great mass.
This is more than him, more than he will ever be. And it intrigues him more than anything he’s ever known.
He wishes he had someone to share it with.
Before his very eyes, something starts to change. It’s subtle at first, so minimal and gradual it takes a long while to register what he’s seeing.
A redness, no more pigmented than the natural flush of his skin. It grows, hue darkening in a slow crawl. It seeps its way from the underside of his hand and through the gaps of his fingers.
It’s rosy, and the way it curves around the flesh of him enhances the fullness in the shapes of his hand. One moment he’s convinced his fingers are blushing, then the next he’s aware that they’re glowing.
Mondo steps back with a gasp. The ground has been made uneven and a rolling ankle nearly sends him into the soil below. He rights himself with flailing hands and a redness in his eyes.
The rock is glowing! Not the whole of it, no, this light bleeds out through splintering cracks. Spider-webbing its way across the surface of the rock, the redness makes it look like it is beginning to split. Mondo finds enough wisdom to back up a few more steps. The ground starts to rumble beneath him, a vibration he can feel in his knees.
It rolls up his aching body, from unsteady feet to the overworking clench of his jaw. A second wave. Maybe he should’ve stayed up on the balcony instead.
He goes to back up more, but the next events root him in place.
The redness grows further, and now it is brighter than ever. It gains physicality, almost, so thick Mondo can’t just liken it to a little bit of light. It runs along those thin cracks in rock, cracks that are spreading- widening, lengthening, connecting.
They splinter across the surface, rivulets of red that join at the top. Mondo watches with a gaping mouth as the upper half starts to split. Red rushes from the opening, flowing like a beacon into the night sky.
This crack, it starts to crawl its way downwards, slow and rumbling. Mondo can hear every little shift of rock, the way it all grates as everything slides and parts. The sound of it reverberates in his bones, along every rib. When it leaves it’s chased away by a marrow-ridden ache.
A feeling he knows all too well, a curiosity that must have been born with him. To get rid of it he’d have to rid himself of everything he is.
So he waits, mouth agape and eyes wide. And he aches.
And finally, finally, this rock parts enough to reveal a glimpse of its insides.
Glittery depths, awash in that red. Interior like a geode, Mondo has never before witnessed such sparkle. Nothing like the bland outside, this rock holds so much inside.
Against his better judgement, he goes to step forward. Just a little, just for another peek. It’s like looking into the sky itself, if all the stars had coalesced into one shimmery entity.
It steals his breath, holds it hostage from him. He can’t get it back, his eyes roaming from glowing peak to the next. It’s all sharp inside, and each jagged piece of stone is almost translucent, he realises.
As the rock continues to part, the redness starts to dim. As if the boulder had been the only thing containing it and now it has all rushed away.
The ground is still shaking beneath him, but lessened now, he has to concentrate to feel it.
All is still and quiet, just for a moment. Just Mondo and his rock from space. Though, his mind is racing, probably as much as his heart.
There’s too much to think about. Is this all over now? What’s he to do? Is his garden destined to become a science-fiction archeological site? Space…reality?
And -perhaps more pressingly, albeit more illogically- Has this rock opening released some sort of ancient space disease Mondo should be concerned about?
He hasn’t been sick in years and he’s not eager to ruin that streak.
Jesus, if his brain could shut up for a minute he might be able to construct a logical train of thought. Or at least, calm himself before he suffers a heart attack.
What happens next manages to shut off most of his coherent thoughts anyway.
Movement pulls his vision inward, to the crystalline depths that have enamoured him so. He’s never been that interested in all that sparkly shit, gemstones or whatever- but here, with a fading red glow and a shine like the stars- Mondo can’t help but compare it to diamonds. It leaves a lump in his throat.
Something starts to emerge from the split in the rock. The reflection of it warps and twists through the translucent crystals, mirrored a thousand times.
Then, finally, Mondo can make out the shape of it. The roundness of palm and the unfurling stretch of fingers. This hand winds its way to the entrance, losing the distortion offered by the jagged insides.
Fingers curl, dig into the sides of rock. Mondo watches for a moment, two, as the fingers grip tight. Then he realises what he’s starting at.
Staggering away, he bites back his gasp, slaps his own hand over the strangled sound that still tries to pass his lips.
The hand, as one would presume, has a matching partner. It grips the other side of the rock’s seam. And together, they grip until flesh is red and white with pressure. And the boulder starts to part even further.
Mondo’s heart is eroding the cage of his ribs, about ready to burst free. W-what is this…? A…a man?
What follows is something Mondo can only guess is a man. He has all the faculties one would assume of a man. The space is wide enough now, and a foot finds its way to upturned soil. There are no shoes and bare toes sink into the earth.
Mondo tears his eyes away from the sight, just for a second. He needs to…to what? Run away? Call for help? He doesn’t know anymore.
His frantic search around is enough time for this…man to surface from his boulder.
Mondo’s brain all but shuts off. He gapes, stares, admires, longs for.
His skin is a swathe of the night itself, a pale that gleams like stars over the swells and crevices of his body. Mondo chases the light of it, the way it shines on the rise and fall of chest- he follows it down, bathes in the way his skin stretches over the divot of hips and the definition of abdomen.
Mondo could liken such colour, such detail to that of a marble statue. The contours of him are like sculptures of old, the ones with all the worship of stomach and thighs and the magnetising way the body looks at rest.
Though there isn’t a fold of clothing in sight, nothing to drape over the natural rolls and dips.
Just a bodily fullness Mondo can see reflected in the moon- a mellow curvature of an ample hip, a soft roundness of leg and shoulder and distension of chest. And all the waning parts, too, where collarbones define a space that sinks with every breath, where waist gives way to the sculpt of muscles. A pattern of strength that Mondo follows back up from stomach to arms. Then, it’s only a meandering drag along a stretch of pale neck, up up to face.
The man appears somewhat dazed. His eyes are half-lidded, like quarter moons, but they’re much richer in colour. A vivid redness, as if Mondo was glimpsing directly into the surface of Mars.
Planet of war, of action and temper, Mondo believes it when he catches sight of that bewitching crimson. It pulls him into temptation, the allure of lively red where no man has ever been before.
Has there ever been a person in the reflection of those eyes? Is Mondo the first one to conquer the planet’s surface?
There is something about that striking colour that stokes the fires of human greed within him. The urge to be the first, to be the only. The nonsensical desire to be the lone victor of all that this man is- the star-born skin and full-moon physique and the attention awarded from bright, bright red.
The urge to be the first star seen from the planet of Mars.
His features remind Mondo that he himself is just a man. Nothing in comparison to this gift of the night. Where full lips part, a Cupid’s bow to stake Mondo through the heart with arrow. And when he instinctually claws at his chest, grapples with the intrusion until he can wrench it free- he is helpless to slow any bleeding.
It gushes from him, sudden and unstoppable, a red that has overtaken his life with so little effort at all.
Shit. Mondo tries to swallow down the thoughts and feelings rushing to the surface, a distant longing he recognises from many a night spent admiring the stars. This isn’t good.
And he knows it, knows how stupid this is of him. But he is just a man. How is he, full of blood and brains and a heart that pounds so yearningly, supposed to resist a little bit of admiring? A little bit of human worship, a trait so fundamental to the DNA of him he knows it’s useless to even try and repel it.
He was born into this world with the knowledge that he was made to revere the stars. And that’s simply what he’s doing now, following his life’s call. It sounds like how the night feels to him, a melodic break from the bustle of the day. A time to think and reflect and pine.
It sounds like those dinners with fresh summer breezes and those moments of warm waking and distant memories of campfire nights. Mondo will heed this call, whenever it comes for him. Especially when it sounds like dusk pink lips. Planetary eyes. And hair of night.
A blackness he could lose himself in, a glimpse of all the spaces in between. His hair is unapologetically thick, on head and face. It is a stretch of darkness above each eye.
It gives him shape, definition, the impression of sternness. Such character cannot be delivered by brows thin and wavering, plucked to a weakened perfection. No, Mondo thinks this is how he should be, whoever he is, gifted with the face to share every little thought.
Those brows rise, furrow, come together with only creases of skin in between. The sculptor who made him deserves all the praise, to mould such intensity with just the medium of flesh and hair.
Then those eyes widen, shocked white around that radiant red. They flicker about, though somehow glazing right over the gaping man in front of them- Mondo doesn’t blame him, he must be used to much prettier sights wherever he’s from. Nothing this mundane.
The man spins, turns to the mess he had emerged from. Mondo traces along the length of his spine as he pulls himself into a sinuous stretch. A serpentine line bracketed by the crescent of waist and gibbous of hips. Almost more distracting is the sight of ribcage, filling with the fresh Earthly air.
Oh creature of night, being of the galaxies, is it to your liking? Is the Earth’s soil soft between your toes? Does every breeze cool the sweat on your skin? Is the air the best you’ve ever had?
Is it all enough to want to stay? Mondo wants him to stay. Especially with his arms raised high, fingers stretching to the sky. All the sinewy flesh highlighted by the stretch of his body, tendons and muscles just for his viewing.
He’d take it all, every dimple and hair and dip of cellulite. What was a moon without any craters? A boring moon, Mondo decides, not at all like the beauty in front of him.
Who starts to kneel, disturbing the upheaved soil as he settles on the ground. He leans forward, braces himself with a hand on the rock he had emerged from, while the other disappears into the glittery depths. Rummaging around for something.
His shoulders are quite broad, Mondo notices. It’s a wonder he had fit inside such a cramped space in the first place. The blades flex with his increasingly frantic search, and Mondo can only marvel at such power.
The man must find what he’s looking for, retreating to sit on the natural rest of his heels. In his hand is what appears to be a book, thickly bound and with a spine that glimmers in gold. Whatever is printed there, Mondo cannot decipher. He’s more focused on other things anyway.
The invigorated flush that is new to skin. A pink that dusts the glimpse of chest and the swell of his belly. And down, down where Mondo is blessed to remember that it’s a full moon tonight.
Mondo’s face is hotter than the surface of the sun. Which…is where he should go rot, for all the staring he’s done. Mondo hurriedly tears his eyes away, though when he looks up to the sky he finds it pales in comparison now.
One star dims for a split second, perhaps a trick of his tired eyes. He doesn’t appreciate the wink, what are you trying to pull?
God, what would Daiya say to him, if he saw Mondo acting like an absolute creep? He’d give him a well-deserved scuff around the ears, he reckons.
But it’s not like Daiya ever had naked men strolling around in his garden in the dead of night, who was he to judge!?
Or…perhaps Mondo shouldn’t be so quick on that assessment, his brother had been an odd one- who knows what he got up to when nobody was watching?
Still, Mondo really shouldn’t let this go on any longer. He clears his throat, swallows down all the longing that he’s sure had been blatant on his face and about to erupt from his throat. He risks a glance when the man doesn’t respond. He’s busy flipping through the book, quickly scanning each page before he goes onto the next. It’s like he hasn’t heard Mondo at all.
Mondo tries again, but still, no response. He looks like he has ears, but maybe space ears like…function different, or something? Or perhaps they’re still ringing from that impact, Mondo’s certainly are.
Okay, that’s fine. This is his chance to think of something better to say, something that isn’t ‘what the fuck are you doing in my garden?’ Or ‘when we get married is one of us still supposed to wear white?’
He can do this. Something smooth, something memorable. He reaches inside of himself, gathers every speck of charisma he’d earned over the years.
“Uh…hi?” Is what he ends up with.
Ah…shit. Well, at least it hadn’t come out a strangled yell. With how his heart is racing and his track record of interacting with pretty people, it could’ve gone a lot worse.
The man jumps, tumbles off the balance of his heels and falls onto the fleshy cushion of one thigh. He twists, book clutched tight to his chest. The pages flutter, crumpled against the rapid rise and fall of a quickened heart and lungs.
Could’ve gone a lot better, too…
He eyes Mondo with startled red, reminiscent of rabbits with white fur and twitching noses. As if he’s frightened a wild animal, Mondo raises a palm to encourage calm.
“Hey there,” Mondo continues, swallowing down nerves, “Are you all good?”
The man continues to stare, and if his eyes get any wider Mondo might need to check if he’s grown a second head. Or…maybe two heads are the norm wherever he’s from.
“I mean- it’s just that you had quite the crash there. Uh. You hurt or anything?” Oh shit. He’s started talking. It froths from him, all the useless words. Mondo is helpless to stop it. There’s no chance while those eyes are on him the way they are.
“Like, I thought I was gonna die and I was all the way up there-“ he points to his rooftop, the man follows the direction of his finger almost curiously. “Can’t imagine being in the heat of it, or whatever.”
The man removes the book from his chest, smooths out a few pages between the press of his fingers. He takes a moment, looks over Mondo from head to toe. Mondo steels himself, tries to shush the pound of his jackrabbiting heart.
“Scared the absolute shit out of me, I can’t lie. Really thought I’d meet my maker.” He pauses. “Good thing, maybe. Have a few words for ‘im. A fist or two, really.”
Still, he receives no answer. Though, the man’s wide eyes have changed somehow. They’ve softened, and the arc of them- the crest of lashes, angles them into something almost awed. Mondo straightens himself in a way he hopes is subtle, tries to pull himself together just a little bit.
“Okay, you’re lookin’ at me real blankly and I need to know if you even understand me or if I’m just making a fuckin’ fool of myself, ‘cause if you don’t reply I’m just gonna keep talking and talking and we could be here forev-“ The man stands. “Okay. Yep. Shutting up.”
With two quick swipes, the man rids himself of all the dirt stuck to his knees. It rolls his body together, flesh of stomach curling into the muscles of abdomen. Mondo gulps. He really does look like an ancient statue.
He wanders over to Mondo with sure, steady footsteps. There’s a part inside him that urges him to back up, to put distance between himself and this alluring mystery.
Some of the most beautiful parts of nature are the most deadly, after all. Frogs with all the colours of the rainbow. Plants, lush and verdant. Volcanoes, with magma brighter than the sun.
But even more of him feels at ease, somehow at peace even with his pulse thundering in his ears.
He’s been captured by that red, lulled into staying put. He just has to hope it’s not reflective of something more- the venom of a black widow, or a sickly poison, magnetising in its subtly.
The man sweeps closer. He’s smaller than Mondo, so when he tilts his head up to examine him closer, Mondo feels as if he is an artwork under display. Maybe he’s been the statue all along. He hopes the width of him, the sculpted muscles and broadness and fat is enough to satisfy this creature.
He’d hate to know what’ll happen if he isn’t up to standard.
The man inches closer, until the ghost of an exhale drifts over Mondo’s collarbone. It’s the chill of it, the shock of cold that reminds Mondo he’s not being scrutinised by a man, but some sort of supernatural being. An extra-terrestrial creature of unknown origins, with unknown intent. The thrill of it is almost enough to make Mondo stay put on its own.
The…man…steps to his side, and with silent footsteps begins to circle around Mondo. He resists the urge to twist with him, to keep track of those hypnotic eyes. The hair on his neck stands to attention, accompanied by the ripple of goosebumps on each arm.
He pads back almost to Mondo’s front, just a canvas of pale skin and dark hair in the corner of his vision. Something bumps into his side and Mondo stifles a gasp. He turns his head, just enough to make out rounded flesh in the edge of his peripheral. A hip. It’s followed by more flesh, laid along the edge of his back.
Mondo’s heart is ready to leap from his chest. More skin connects them, front to back, just enough for him to feel the unnatural chill of this man seep through the thinness of his clothes. He’s cold like space is- is space cold? It seems like it should be. But…it’s like a vacuum, isn’t it?
Perhaps that’s a good description for the way this man is cold, for the way this man is everything. Drawing Mondo into him with the suctioning pull of his body and eyes, with the puzzles he’s made up of. So many mysteries to piece together, and Mondo will gravitate to them like the tide to the moon.
Which is stupid of him, really. To already be so enthralled.
Mondo doesn’t know a name, or purpose. Not anything about this man- not the way his hair looks in the early morning, ruffled by cotton and golden in the sun. Or the way he keeps himself warm on cold, rainy nights, feet tucked beneath him and a mug between pink-tinged fingers.
He doesn’t know what he looks like when he’s happy, or when he’s sad. The little ways his face changes to let others know he’s upset. He wants to know these things. Oh, what Mondo would give for a smile from this creature. He’d take him however he is, sharp-toothed or green-gummed or whatever other alien monstrosity possible.
Because he doesn’t know those things, but he’d like to. Because he knows the beauty that lies in stomachs, soft and revealed. He knows that he likes seeing muscle, flexing in broad backs and balanced legs.
He knows that this sudden crash-landing into his life has been the most interesting to happen in a long time. If anything, he needs to see where this goes.
A blur as something is thrust in front of him. Then, his vision clears to open pages- yellowed with time, or perhaps they had been made yellow by design with how pigmented they are.
A finger follows, pressing down on paper. It takes a lot of effort for Mondo to concentrate on the page’s contents instead of following that finger upwards. Has he always liked the bones of wrists this much?
In the book, it’s…a map? Yeah, a map of the world. The lines of continents and countries are thin, and the ink has bled to create a gradient fuzz between land and water- but it’s unmistakably the world.
“Uh,” Mondo says, very intelligently. “Yes…Earth.”
The creature seems to grow impatient with his ineptitude. He nuzzles his head into the space beside Mondo’s shoulder, just enough so that Mondo can catch a glimpse of those planetary eyes and their accompanying frown.
He swallows down his heart back into his chest. With the effort it’s putting into trying to escape, Mondo wouldn’t be surprised if it actually manages to leap from his throat. Fair enough, too, it has plenty of reasons to leave him. It has been put through enough, and dangerously alluring crimson seems to be the final straw.
“U-uh,” Mondo falters. Never has being inarticulate been so potentially deadly.
The man makes his first sound, a sigh of sorts, short and sharp with its annoyance. Mondo flushes under the irritation. A responsive anger coils inside him, born more of embarrassment than anything.
How does this creature expect Mondo to be able to form any coherent thought when he’s here looking like that? Touching him! Fucking ridiculous.
Another sigh, then the man is rearranging the pair of them. Somehow Mondo finds his hands full of open book and his vision filled with red.
To exchange the contents of his hands, the man connects their skin, a quick brush of palm and fingers.
Has anyone’s skin ever been this soft? A silken glide over the roughness of him, where he is beaten and battered and scarred. What stars have aligned that allow him to handle such delicacy?
Surely he isn’t deserving of a soft hand, of a touch so casual.
Whatever he’d been feeling -angry or confused or embarrassed, whatever it had been- it all starts to melt away. It’s mortifying how quickly the fight fizzles out of him, and even more so how hot his face becomes.
Perhaps it’s been heated under that gaze of red- a vividness to stoke the fires kindling within him. Or that touch, oozing with a lazy confidence and all the warmth of something molten, brewed deep beneath the earth.
It’s all so…casual. So easy. It gives him exactly what he’d been needing, makes him feel like a diamond. Handled preciously, with fear of leaving fingerprints behind.
A finger presses back down onto open pages, jabbing with a renewed force. Mondo refocuses. Right, yes, figuring out what this pretty alien wants from him. Yep, he can do that.
The finger moves, pointing to a different spot on the paper. It’s held for a few seconds, then moves location again.
Mondo had been right about the eyebrows. They deliver a perfect performance into exactly what this man this thinking, or, well, what Mondo can assume he’s thinking based on human facial cues.
The thick hair furrows above those intense eyes, twisting strongly with every little shift in mood.
He’s so concentrated on this book, on trying to communicate with Mondo. Is it weird to find such dedication cute? Oh, Mondo’s a goner.
Speaking of those eyebrows, they’ve managed to furrow so ferociously that shadows are cast over that red. Shit. He got distracted again. He doesn’t want this creature to get upset with him.
“I-I’m not sure what-“ The man cuts him with another pointed huff. One hand remains hovering over book but the other finds its way to hip.
Hm. That poses a new problem. It’s a little harder to concentrate when a demonstration of how flesh squishes is right in front of him.
This poor creature, what had he done to deserve such incompetence? He grows increasingly exasperated, peering around them like he’s searching for another individual that can possibly help him.
Mondo swallows the lump in his throat. Well, now they’re both aware of just how incapable he is. Not that he’d hidden it well upon first introductions, but…y’know…no reason for him to try be anything otherwise, now.
Maybe if he can scrounge up a brain cell or two, he can send this lost little alien on his way and head back to bed so he can be cold and lonely before sunrise.
This man must have the patience of a saint, he shifts on his feet and leans forward so he can start flicking through the book, with nothing on his face other than a renewed determination. Somehow, he’s stuck with Mondo, and it seems he wants to make the most of it.
The pages of the book, as he flips through them, reveal a number of abstract shapes. Beside them is lettering of some sort, not anything Mondo would ever recognise. The creature gives him a few seconds to examine each page before he continues to flip it.
“Um…” He hasn’t been able to find anything to say for minutes now. The words have all run away from him- it’s just flashes of starry skin and crimson eyes in their place.
Except…oh! He knows this shape, that’s a country! Oh…oh. They’re flipping through individual places now. Shit, he’s so dumb. Not that one…or that one…there!
Mondo means to form a word, but whatever garbled yell that leaves him isn’t even close.
The man flinches back, eyes wide and brows raised. Mondo is a second from apologising when he notices that the creature starts to…light up.
Not actually! Though, he’s probably capable of it- no, just metaphorically. There’s a sparkle in those eyes, wide enough to capture the reflection of nighttime lights.
He points to the page he’d stopped at, but there’s a bounce to his movement. An excitement that only grows as Mondo nods. The man practically preens, chest swelling with a satisfied breath. He reaches out, cups the book in his hands and brings it back to himself.
Mondo is left with empty palms, but a full heart. A heart that stumbles, skips twice as fast in order to catch up.
For those lips, pink like the dawn, glide into a smile of the morning East. It’s all plump flesh, flattened into a soft curve. Mondo traces the shape of it, wonders how it might feel if he only had the medium of touch at his disposal. Would they feel the same, be the same sweetness, pressed to cheek?
His teeth are pearly, though some of them are bumpy- like they’d been grinded down over time. The lines of them would be interesting to trace, with lip or tongue or finger. Mondo would have to be thorough, mapping it to memory, but with every dip and groove he might find the treasure of becoming a new man.
All of him, where has this beauty been throughout Mondo’s life? It’s more than just his eyebrows, apparently this creature also smiles with everything he has. His face, composed of lines and dimples. his gums, arches of space to hold his emotion. When he smiles, it’s like there has never been a frown to grace his face.
Oh, to be greeted with such warmth. Is this why Romeo craned his head to the sky, only to ignore the moon? For his smile was the sun, and what’s in a name if it doesn’t sound like the afternoon through kissable lips?
Mondo could spend eternity here, all shadows chased away and far behind him. He knows now, why men get down on one knee. It’s to look up at that sun, to hope that you’re blinded by such radiance- for wounded eyes are worth more than a life without even a glimpse of the light.
It can only be reflected in diamonds, they could never capture the true beauty. But they’re a reminder, a filter over the raw power of sunlight. Mondo wasn’t much of a diamond anymore, but he wants that smile reflected on him. He wants it pressed to his skin, over his fingers, or on the canvas of an earlobe. And he wants to make someone feel like he does, now.
No, not someone. This creature, this man. His smile makes Mondo want to keep him smiling forever.
His own smile is getting increasingly goofy, he can feel it. It rounds his cheeks and squints his eyes. It feels good. Really good. He hasn’t smiled in a long time. It kinda aches.
The man doesn’t cease his smile for a second, now examining the page in close detail. Then his eyes meet Mondo’s, and there’s a moment where Mondo thinks he might actually pass away.
He doesn’t, he’d survived a meteor crash and he’d be damned if he didn’t survive this! Heh, damned sure is right. Focus, Mondo, focus!
One of those hands is climbing its way to chest. The man keeps eye contact as his fingers spider their way up to the jut of his collarbones. It’s all a slide of pale skin, then, something unexpected as a fingertip reaches the dip of his sternum.
A flash of colour? No, just the pink of his fingernail as it’s…warped. There’s something there, lying flush with his chest. Mondo can only make it out once the man takes it between his fingertips.
A gem. Looks like a marble, smooth and perfectly rounded. It’s practically translucent somehow, clearer than any glass Mondo has ever seen. And it’s hung around his neck, with fibres like spiderwebs they’re so thin and invisible.
Mondo hadn’t noticed it before. To be fair, there had been plenty more interesting sights to admire.
The man rolls it between his finger and thumb, and his smile finally departs as his lips start to twist and morph. They’re making shapes, nothing Mondo can decipher.
He goes to take a few steps back. He’d rather not suffer some sort of alien curse. Red eyes dart up from book and flash warningly. Mondo wisely stays in place.
There’s a moment of tense silence, with this man muttering something under his breath. Then, the marble between his fingers starts to glow. A red, like the rock he’d emerged from. A red, like the allure of his eyes.
The gem completely fills with the colour, a quick process under the gentle rocking motion of the man’s fingers. Then, he lifts his book to the stone, pressing the two together.
Mondo doesn’t know what happens, but he can see the redness start to bleed away again. It had reflected on the man’s neck, bouncing from paper to skin. It doesn’t take long for that vivid glow to recede, leaving just the normal pale flesh.
The man sighs, a content little huff. His book lowers, back to a natural rest over his stomach. Mondo looks him over, from hands to neck. He’s not sure what he’s searching for, but something must have changed.
It’s hard to pinpoint, everything looks just the same. Same empty, quiet night. Same heart thundering in his chest. Same naked alien man. Yep, all perfectly normal.
Until, the man opens his mouth. And speaks.
“Hello!” He chirps. His voice is frighteningly loud, for such a quiet moment. He enunciates the syllables until they’re drawn out through unpractised lips, almost a comical sight.
It would be, if Mondo wasn’t admittedly a small, tiny teensy bit scared shitless.
The man doesn’t seem to notice his wide eyes or what must be his sudden ghostly complexion. Instead, he steps closer and frees a hand so he can wave. Wave!
“Ha! That’s better, now I can introduce myself in the proper manner!” His laugh is short and loud, punched directly from the lung. Sounded more like a bark than any normal human laugh.
“My name is-“ and then the most incomprehensible garble of sounds Mondo has ever heard. It sure sounded nice, but in terms of understanding or pronouncing it? Mondo doesn’t have a clue.
“Is it still acceptable to shake hands?” The man’s smile is back and all thoughts have fled Mondo’s brain. He can’t even process the words before a hand is thrust into his vision.
The fingers all stretched obscenely wide, like they’re bursting at the seams waiting to shake his hand. Mondo swallows around a dry mouth and grips it with his own.
The shake is rough, his grip is strong and each pull is excessively drawn out. Mondo’s shoulder feels ready to pop from its socket by the time he’s done.
Mondo can’t repress a hiss as his hand is finally let go. He instantly goes to massage the soreness of his undoubtedly bruised flesh.
“Sorry,” He croaks, “Uh. Um. Didn’t catch the name?”
The man blinks at him for a moment, all doe eyes and sunny smile.
“Oh, ha! Pardon me! It’s-“ The inhuman mess of sweetened noise has Mondo’s brain about to bleed from his ears. He coughs, blinking stars from his vision. The man is staring at him, brows furrowed low and a pout on his lips.
“It’s only polite to give your name in return, you know?“ He nudges, staring as he waits for a response.
Give…should Mondo be concerned about that? Like passing his name on, that's fairy rules or something, isn’t it? Aliens are kinda like fairies, aren’t they? For one, they’re both supposed to be not real.
Waiting expectantly, both of the man’s hands have wandered to hips. He taps a foot impatiently, like something straight from a cartoon.
And Mondo knows for sure now, that he’s doomed. Positively absolutely fucked. That meteor had killed him, just not in the way he expected. Because he still finds this man cute!
”Shit. Yeah, sorry. ‘Ts Mondo.”
“Oh! Mondo! How nice it is to meet you!”
Mondo had been right, his name sounds like pure sunshine from that mouth. He needs to move on, quickly.
“You got uh, a nickname or somethin’?" It comes out a bit gruffer than expected, but the man doesn’t seem to take note.
“A nickname…?” He trails off. He appears almost lost, for a moment, but before Mondo can guide him back on track he starts to smile. No, grin. His face lights up and his eyes sparkle brighter than any star.
“A genuine, earthly nickname!? Oh! What a day!” His face tilts to the sky, “You told me my antecubital fossa would never be higher than my cranium!”
He raises both arms to the sky, hands spread wide like he intends to cup the universe in his palms. He shakes his wrists, wiggles his fingers. Mondo avoids looking at the way it pulls his chest.
“But look at me now! Free and higher than ever!” His mouth parts in a silent gasp. “And my name is…Taka.”
“Taka?” Mondo questions. It sounds good, nice and sharp. With just enough vowels to soften the blow. The man -Taka’s- smile grows ever wider.
“Taka.” He confirms. Nods. End of story. His eyes glimmer with something that may have been joy, or perhaps the first appearance of tears.
“Nice to fuckin' meet you, too.” Mondo lets himself smile in return. It is nice. Also the weirdest moment of his fucking life, but, y’know, nice as well.
Taka lowers his arms, slow and steady. It’s like he can’t bear to part with the night. Mondo knows the feeling too well.
“I apologise,” He says, calm for the first time, “I haven’t been here in so long, my knowledge on customs is a little rusty.”
Mondo pushes, he needs more information. He needs to know what’s going on, at least, he can’t go to bed without a little bit of understanding.
“How long is that, exactly?”
Taka hums for a moment. His eyes roll skyward, then to the left. He rocks on his feet.
“Hmm. Thirty tidal cycles?” Is his answer.
“Huh?”
“No, no. Silly me, it was thirty-two! The shore was the bluest before I left last. Ugh, such a stupid mistake.” And suddenly his face absolutely crumples. Mondo is given insane whiplash from just how instantly his eyes water and then burst into floodgates of tears.
Taka collapses to his knees, folds like paper under ruthless hands. The line of his body arches upwards, ending in chin pointed into the night.
“Please, punish me for such forgetfulness!” He cries to the sky. Tears glisten on the white of his cheeks, soften his lips until they are soggy and shaking.
Fear races through Mondo’s body, shocks him into lunging forward. He stumbles onto the ground, clutching a hand full of dirt and one pale shoulder.
“Woah, woah, what?! Shit, um, it’s okay, no need for all that-“ He rushes to soothe, though his words are just a panicked mess of nonsense.
“I’ll take the cave, stalagmites for a thousand tidal cycles!” Taka shouts. His voice has become a gargle, burdened by phlegm and tears and whatever else he’s managed to mush together. The line of his spine curves unnaturally, pressing the planes of his chest up to the sky. The moon shines down on him, lighting up every ragged breath in its luminescence.
Mondo squeezes his shoulder, a reassuring press of fingers. Taka’s throat bobs, the column of his neck obvious when stretched under the stars.
A man should be more careful, leaving his throat bare like that. Mondo preys upon his own vulnerabilities with practised ease, who knows how he’d feast on the ones of others. All that skin, ripened fruit to bite.
“I don’t know ‘bout any o’ that-“ Mondo says, “But. Sounds harsh. You don’t need to wish that upon yourself, yeah?”
It’s clumsy, Mondo’s never been one for comfort. His greatest friends were the stars, and his only teacher of late had been the moon. Somehow, as if his words were just the right ones, they manage to quell Taka’s panic.
Nearly as fast as it had arrived, all traces of despair vanish from his face. He leaks no more tears, and his lips are back in their smiling state. Just as they should be.
“Yeah,” He agrees, “It’ll come for me without any wishing at all.”
His smile is soft and peaceful and Mondo cannot hide his confusion. So instead, he just sits on his lawn and rubs the shoulder of some naked little alien.
Which, yeah, jeez…was something he’d sort of gotten used to all too quickly.
“Why are you starkers?”
“Hmm?” Taka hums, tilting his head curiously.
“In the birthday suit. Going au naturel?”
Taka continues to stare. Mondo resists the urge to gesture up and down his body.
“This doesn’t bother you?” He only receives a few slow blinks. “No? Nothin’? Alright.”
Guess he’d have to deal with weird, naked alien for a little while longer. Not that it was much of a hardship. Ugh. Probably a bad choice of words.
His face must twist into some sort of grimace, for Taka is studying him closer than before. His eyes rake down Mondo’s features, a very obvious slow, drag.
“There’s no need to worry!” He chirps “I’m here and I won’t stop until I complete my duty!”
That pulls Mondo’s attention. “Which is…?”
“Oh, yes, of course!” Taka shuffles on his knees, shifts until he is facing Mondo. He’s practically bouncing with energy, and Mondo suspects that if he didn’t have his hands full of his book, he’d be clapping.
“Mondo, I’m here to grant your wish!”
“My…wish?”
“Yes, just yours!” Taka laughs, “Nobody else’s!”
And Mondo thinks back to a time just earlier, when all he’d had to worry about was picking the right thought and then getting to bed.
He peers around his garden, still in a state of ruin and featuring giant rock from space. Oh, how the times have changed. His gaze drags over to Taka, who is practically thrumming underneath his hand. His eyes are wide and his smile is bright and it’s Mondo who’d accidentally called him here.
How entirely absurd. And definitely not the strangest event of the night. Well, shit.
“Oh…Jesus Christ.”
“Where?”
“Wha- he’s not- it’s just a- never mind.” Mondo gives up. His body is weary and his mind is frazzled and somehow his heart still isn’t relenting. He wants to get in bed and deal with…whatever mess he’s created in the morning.
“Your concept is sort of abstract,” Taka begins, “So I was thinking we start by outlining some defining features-“
“And I think,” Mondo interrupts, “That it can wait for morning.”
There’s a moment where Taka looks appalled at the interruption, lips thin and brows furrowed and eyes owlish. He opens his mouth as if to protest but it snaps shut with an audible click and a following grumble.
“I-I suppose-“
“Yep. C’mon.” Mondo clambers to his feet, ignoring the ache in his knees. He holds out a hand.
Taka peers up, at the open stretch of palm. Somehow his eyes burn, and Mondo has to force himself to keep his hand there. Hopefully, he’ll excuse the mess his skin has become, the parts that are old and scarred.
Taka glances down at his own hand, a row of dark lashes fanning over his cheeks. Then he lets go of book, uncurls his fingers, and slots his palm over Mondo’s.
There’s a moment when neither of them move. Or breathe. Or blink. It’s just eyes, intense and unwavering. And their hands, soft and rough and cold and warm, everything hands should be.
Mondo ignores the way his stomach has twisted into knots. He holds tight and pulls, yanking Taka to his feet. The alien stumbles, surprised by the show of strength, but quickly settles into a stand. It takes another moment for them to part hands.
“Guess you’re stayin’ with me, huh?” Mondo grumbles. The back of his neck has become a comforting place to hold, but he can feel the heat from the skin there. All red like his face undoubtedly is.
Taka peers over his shoulder to point to the open meteor.
“Oh, actually, the interior of my craft is a perfectly capable-“ Mondo cuts him off.
“Fuck off.”
And he hadn't meant it rudely, just a firm dismissal- but Taka physically gasps, his now free hand clutching at his chest like a damsel would a string of pearls. Oh yes, life is going to be very interesting with this prickly little alien around.
Mondo takes a risk. Tonight has been full of them, some conscious and others not so much. What’s another one? He wraps an arm around Taka’s shoulders, surprised to find he fits there near perfectly.
All the muscles of them line up, the ideal support for his arm. And Taka nestles into his side, just the right size and shape. Mondo lets out a shaky breath, and begins to guide them to the house.
He tries to focus on the path they’re taking, but he can’t help watching Taka from his peripherals. Taka rolls his head, drawing his gaze down shoulder and along arm. Ending at hand, he stares for a moment, then his lips quirk into a smile. His face is red like Mars.
Yes, very interesting indeed.
And if Mondo nearly trips over a piece of meteor on his way to the backdoor, that’s nobody’s business but his own.
And, he supposes, his new alien friend’s.