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The first time you fall ill in front of Caelus, he stops whatever he was doing — the briefest glimpse of his phone through your blurry vision shows yet another game on pause — and is quick to rush to your side, hands gripping onto your shoulders.
Distress is etched onto his visage, his eyes blown wide and his eyebrows furrowed. Your mouth twitches at the sight, even as you weakly scramble to get up on your feet, trembling hands reaching out to support your own body's weight for stability—
And before your world fades to black, you realize: in spite of the countless sights you’ve seen and the seconds you’ve spent by each other's side, you’ve never witnessed this much fear in Caelus’ eyes.
You’re not given a chance to question it by the time that slumber has weakened its grasp on you, because as soon as you’re brought back into the waking world, your body, feeling ten times heavier than the usual, is glued to a soft mattress— and he’s hovering over you, lips pursed and eyes glossy, as if he’s at an exhibit and not your bedside.
No, it’s not that Caelus’ worries are diminished... but it’s almost as if seeing you sick fascinates him.
Tentatively, you open your mouth to say something, but your lips are abruptly sewn shut when you feel a thin tube prodding at the flat of your tongue.
“Bwuh—!"
His gaze shifts towards the protrusion in question, then back to yours, his own mouth forming a thin line. Your fever-addled mind belatedly registers that it’s a thermometer when three, short beeps resonate from the device, before Caelus gently tips your chin upwards with one hand and deliberately extracts it with another, uncaring of the sudden proximity. You hope he’s not noticing the heat on your cheeks. But if he does see it, he’s likely not heeding any mind out of respect— even someone as cheeky as the Trailblazer still has tact, after all.
38.8 degrees, it reads.
“Sorry, I should’ve asked first,” Caelus begins, scratching the back of his neck, “But you were starting to wake up and I kinda... jumped the gun there. Did I end up poking your tongue too hard?”
With what little strength you have, you slowly lift your head up, shaking no— and when your hand slaps upwards to feel your forehead, the feeling of thin, cold cloth unceremoniously greets your palm.
He took out one of the fever patches.
Turning to the man in front of you for an explanation, he simply emits a nervous chuckle. “Oh, that?” His gloved hand makes a show of gesturing towards the patch resting on your skin, “Himeko taught me to use one of those. I was actually gonna make an emergency run for the space station after I tucked you in, but as soon as I texted her, she told me to check the fridges.”
Slowly, you begin to blink. Never, in your time on the Express, did you anticipate to hear Caelus rambling.
And if the mild shock on your face isn’t already obvious enough, your companion’s ears turn a light shade of pink, his head violently whipping away after he’s decided that staring at your closet and not you was a better way to spend his time.
“It’s fine,” you breathe out. Keep talking.
(“I don’t mind it at all” almost stumbles out.)
For a moment, he seems to consider your offer, amber slowly beginning to track you in your weakened state before he goes back to eyeing your closet. But Caelus is quick to bounce back.
“It’s my first time caring for someone like this,” the man mumbles off, and you swear his ears turned redder at that, “At least, after the whole deal with my memories. Maybe I used to be some world-renowned doctor before you took me in.”
When your gaze lingers far too long on the assortment of fare and supplies neatly arranged on your desk — a bowl of soup, some Cosmic Fried Rice, a cup of tea, hell, even a spare change of clothes and all the medication you can hardly recall — you start to wonder if Caelus was simply making yet another joke.
His lighthearted laugh muddles the waters.
“Maybe you were.”
For a while, the two of you spend your time together in relative silence, the Trailblazer having made a dramatic vow to keep your recuperation electronics-free on his end. While you are quick to shut that idea down, knowing that his vividly-colored mind deserves some sort of entertainment even as he’s keeping watch of you, Caelus insists on keeping a close eye as you’re blatantly reminded of his innate stubbornness.
A little annoying, but you should’ve expected it.
“But weren’t you playing something?” You chime in, watching as he sets his phone aside. “Earlier. You’re gonna miss out on that event, you know.”
He flashes up a peace sign, even as his other hand holds onto a spoonful of vegetable soup. “Grinding for your event is more important. I could use the extra relationship points, you know?”
“Wha...?”
“What?”
Grinding? Event? Relationship points?!
This man’s the reigning champion when it comes to making things even more confusing for you, it appears.
“Oh, sorry. Don’t worry about it too much,” Caelus smiles, observing as your mouth closes over the spoon between his fingers. He holds it there for a few more moments, ensuring that you don’t waste a single drop. “What I meant to say is, I care about your health more than I care about some dumb game. I can’t handle the idea of playing when you’re bedridden and I could be spending my time on better things, you know?"
You graciously gulp the soup down, and he pries the spoon out of your mouth again. He feeds you whenever your lips pucker open, and slowly weaves little chatter in as you both ease into the motions. Rinse and repeat. You remain receptive to his efforts, and he takes caring after you seriously.
Caelus’ eyes are far too gentle, warm gold brimming with unbridled tenderness and a pint of intrigue, and your breath doesn't even register the bedsheets crumpling beneath your fingertips until his hand ghosts over yours, the faintest of touches leaving you sheepish enough to have most of the tension fade away in a flash.
“I care about you.”
Does he, now?
... Well, then.
Maybe he can be a bit of a gentleman, when push comes to shove. No, that analogy just won’t cut it... it’s not that Caelus ever has to force himself to act more cautiously than you’re used to, but there’s something about this side of him that makes you want to carve into his heart and figure out if crimson or molten gold would spill onto your palms.
(Or maybe studying him under a microscope works, too. That’s considerably less morbid, but it doesn't feel right to dehumanize him like this, anyway.)
Inhumane...
Less than human.
What does he see in himself?
Your gaze lingers far too long on him, watching as he shuffles about and makes porridge on the spot out of your half-finished bowl of veggie soup and the cup of fried rice, resting on your desk tantalizingly. This is the Caelus you’re used to: eager to learn, eager to take things apart and put them back together, eager to catch a falling star and dig his fingers into it, even if the heat sears his skin off. Against all odds, you find yourself growing fond of the Caelus who dives into dumpsters and polishes off what he finds, the Caelus who somehow juggles more than 5 games on his phone, even with the Nameless’ hardly-relaxing lifestyle...
The Caelus who’s far too absorbed in greed to leave the cosmos some room to breathe.
The Caelus with an inflated ego, boasting of his achievements and wearing his self-imposed appellation (“Galactic Baseballer? Really?”) on his sleeve, as one would with a heart to call their own.
You swallow thickly.
And then, your mind begins to wander:
If you ever pressed the pads of your fingers to his chest and closed your eyes then, would you feel a light thrumming, the handiwork of what one could only call a “human"— or naught but a god’s pitiless ministrations?
Caelus. How fitting is he, to be blessed with a constant reminder of the boundless skies. To you, he embodies the spirit of trailblazing, almost as if the very role was weaved from spools of gold thread purely for his own pleasures. And yet, even as your nauseated mind tries and tries to dig, to pry, to peer and make sense of it all...
... You realize, all too well, that you know everything and nothing about him.
How pathetic, for someone who claims to always be by his side.
(A constant reminder of the boundless skies, you unhelpfully echo. An open book and an enigma.)
His nightmares. His habits. His sweet tooth.
His surprising mastery of advanced arithmetic.
His aspirations for when the crux of his journey inevitably comes to an end.
(What exactly is Caelus’ dream? You never bothered to ask, not even once.)
But even so...
You can't quite shake that feeling of unease away. Someone like him was born only to fulfill a purpose, only to fulfill his role in the script, only to be betrayed and treated as a tool and forsaken over and over by the world he has slowly come to love—
“Caelus” might as well be a character.
"Caelus" might as well be not exist.
Does he even love the world?
Does he even love—
“Hey.”
A low voice with a tender lilt to it calls your name, and you’re snapped out of your stupor by a finger prodding your cheek. Multiple times.
Once more, the sight of Caelus floods your vision as soon as your head turns to face him: a small, close-mouthed smile, sparkling eyes, and fluffy, gray hair curtaining his visage. Sometimes, you wonder if his otherworldly nature stems from the care with which the Aeons carved him, and the mere thought of it is quite the juxtaposition compared to the haste with which he was thrown away. (Handed over, you correct yourself. But really, what difference does it make if it’s him you choose to speak of?)
“Hey,” Caelus calls again, minus the poking. And this time, you’re even quicker to come to your senses. “Porridge. You want some?”
Languidly, you find yourself blinking dumbly again.
“Oh. Sorry.”
He chuckles, waving it off with another offering.
You accept another mouthful, making sure that you're savoring every last bite, even if your congested nose prevents you from tasting anything. To be fair, it has been that way for a while, what with you fending off a fever and all... and you do remember making an offhanded, disappointed remark over your unfortunate inability to taste your first serving of soup.
But to have Caelus immediately adapt to your preferences, after picking up on just one comment? And without kicking up too much of a fuss about it?
Who is this man, exactly?
Once more, he feeds you whenever your lips pucker open, and frequently weaves little chatter in as you return to the motions. Rinse and repeat.
Around the halfway mark, you speak again.
“Cae.”
The nickname makes him flinch, but understanding swiftly floods in. Whether it's the work of your bedridden mind or otherwise, that’s the very first time that you’ve called Caelus something new: and unlike most other instances, something about this specific one visibly puts him at ease.
(It makes you feel sorry for him.)
“Yeah?”
Your finger drums up a rhythm heard and felt only by yourself, absentmindedly tracing shapes onto your comforter. “What’s it like?”
“What’s what like?”
“You know,” your eyes shut tightly, “Not having to worry about getting sick, and all.”
A low hum emits from Caelus’ throat, and you can't quite tell if it’s a thoughtful one or one of those absentminded sorts: a testament to how much you actually know of his character. When he remains quiet after a few moments, you press further:
“Does it make you happy?”
“Why wouldn't it?” The man shrugs. “I mean, I can already go days without eating or sleeping. First time someone outside of the Express asked about it, her jaw was practically on the floor.”
Another, short laugh.
“The nice doctor lady?”
“Oh, not Natasha,” he carefully feeds you another mouthful, even as he’s smiling ear-to-ear, “Pitch-Dark Hook the Great.”
... The way Caelus says it so casually, wearing an endearing smile you hardly get to see, almost makes you choke on its contents. Almost. Thankfully, you manage to swallow down your porridge without much fanfare or embarrassment.
“Y-Yeah... sometimes, I forget we Nameless can do that,” you sheepishly mumble, hoping that he wouldn't catch on— but deep down inside, you’re all too aware that he knows you're mulling over two things: his soft spot for children, and his excellence at deflecting whenever deeper feelings are involved. There's no way someone like you wouldn't be bothered to recall the Express’ fortitude when physical exertion is involved, anyway. Why else would Caelus be nursing you like this?
But then again—
“Funny of you to say,” a smirk graces his lips.
“O-Oh, shut up..."
(He’s quite handsome, even when he’s obviously trying to rile you up.)
Another few spoonfuls, and silence permeates once more after some light banter. This time, it doesn't take a considerable amount of effort on your ailing self for the Trailblazer to speak again.
“I mean, I never really thought much about it,” Caelus admits. You figured as much. “As long as this thing inside me—" he pats his chest twice, over where his heart should be, “—isn’t trying to actively kill me, I’m okay with my current arrangement. I mean, I get to see lots of beautiful sights..."
He looks into your eyes,
“I get to travel, I get to eat lots of good food..."
Another spoonful pries your lips open,
“And trust me: trailblazing wouldn’t be as fun if I fell ill every now and then. Even you’d agree, right?”
Heat slowly creeps onto your cheeks, yet all you can do is to absentmindedly nod in his presence. Suddenly, you’re not too sure if you're still suffering from a fever, or if you simply feel feverish with him.
Nonetheless, you’re all too aware that it's the furthest thing from a deliberate jab at your current situation. Caelus wouldn’t do that.
You continue to chew slowly.
“I wonder: who’s more jealous, you or me?”
He’s stunned into silence. Jackpot.
Gnawing on his lip as he searches for an answer, you’re quick to bite back again. As languid as you may be, your wit sharpens as much as it lowers your inhibitions when it comes to prying into him.
(If you began to carve into his heart—)
“Hm.”
(Would he bleed crimson,)
“Mm?”
(Or molten gold?)
“H-Hey, Caelus—"
“Me.”
“Oh. ... Wait, huh?”
“Huh?”
Your mouth hangs open. “Well. I didn’t expect that.”
A sardonic chuckle, and Caelus’ gaze is somewhere else. “No point in hiding it,” he sighs, “I wouldn’t be wandering off and taking all those odd jobs if I wasn’t so curious.”
He wants to get sick, after all.
“... Eh?”
“That man who keeps drugging my tea, all those experiments I’d participate in, those errands, those fucked-up things I’d chuck into the Synthesizer..."
Hazy memories of Caelus hunched over the sink, faint traces of purple liquid and spit and puke rolling out of his mouth, flash into the forefront of your mind— Vomit-Inducing Agent, the name of the recipe reads, in bold marker.
Even back then, he was smiling—
He wants to get sick, after all.
“No wonder,” you carefully reply.
“No wonder,” Caelus sticks his tongue out. “So yes, I’d say I’m happy, but satisfaction is an entirely different subject on its own. It’s fun running around, but it gets a little boring when I don’t break a bone or two. That tram couldn't even try to kill me..."
Then, he’s silent again.
The Antimatter Legion.
Carved ice impaling into warm flesh.
The Order.
Aeons.
The Trailblazer. Mr. Stellaron. A perfect test subject. A vessel. Receptacle, Receptacle, Receptacle.
His hand trembles. His smile stiffens. He’s not looking at you. He’s not looking at you anymore.
Injury-free bodies. Intact limbs. Smooth hands. Flesh and muscle, flesh and muscle and bone, flesh and muscle and bone and Stellaron.
His heart beats. Or does it?
(Does it?)
It does. It doesn’t. Neither of you know.
Caelus. How fitting is he, to be blessed with a constant reminder of the boundless skies. Yet it dawns in on you as it has with him: above and below the skies is where he truly wants to be.
But what of what he deserves?
He wants to get sick, after all.
He wants to be cared for, after all.
He wants to be painfully human, after all.
He deserves to be painfully human, after all.
“I understand,” you finally breathe out.
Caelus simply looks at you with mild surprise. Amber finally glimmers, having been discovered. Having been pried into. You set your gaze into the skies above—
—And before you know it, it begins to clear up.
(Your fever doesn’t, but selfishly, you hold onto it for as long as your body can. Anything, to make him feel as if his efforts are worth it. To make him feel human through you, and caring for you firsthand.)
At least, until Caelus just so happens to open his mouth:
"Shit, I forgot! Wait here for a moment..."
"Huh? What is it?" Mild panic tints your voice, but...
“I forgot I had that up my sleeve. Shit. Okay, lemme go grab my nurse’s uniform—"
But before you can protest, he’s already setting your porridge aside and rushing out the door.
... Unpredictable as always.
(But you don’t mind, not at all. A constant reminder of the boundless skies, your gaze on the door lingers. An open book and an enigma.)
And this time, you're pleased to entertain even his more questionable ideas.
He's simply human, after all.