Chapter Text
It was a little bit like getting stalked.
“You know you can’t keep showing up here, North,” Night tells the being that shows up at the door of his quarters, but all North does is beam at him.
“But I’m a valuable species to your crew,” the being that calls himself North says, helping himself into Night’s room, throwing himself on his bed.
“If you keep teleporting into the ship, you won’t be for long.”
Night sighs, removing his gloves and setting them in a nearby compartment where they’ll be sterilized for tomorrow’s expedition.
“Your captain thinks I’m cute,” he says, and Night’s jaw drops as he looks at him, sprawled on his bed.
“How did you– North, we have an agreement that you can’t–”
North is in his space in a second, reveling in Night’s surprised gasp. His arms snake around Night’s waist and his eyes, a prism of blue hues, blink slowly when Night looks up at him.
“But how would I know about you if I didn’t read your mind? About your favorite things, about your dreams? Hmm? Do you want to take a trip west tomorrow, so I can show you what you would classify as… butterflies?” North tilts his head, his fingers caressing Night’s back. He’s as excited as a child when he says, “What time is it on Earth right now? Do you have any rituals you miss? I can take you–”
“North, I’m tired,” Night says, detangling himself from North’s embrace and heading towards the showers.
Although North’s species aren’t known for shape-shifting, Night is still unsure how much of North is himself and how much he has plucked from the depths of Night’s mind. Even the name he’s adopted for the ship’s crew he took from Night’s memories of looking at the sky and wishing upon a star to bring his sister home.
Now, years and light-years away from that child, in a far corner of the universe, Night isn’t any closer to finding his sister, all the documentation about her ship just an amount of forgotten data in someone’s archive, but there is someone trying to guide him – to show all the beauty there is on to see on the silver-colored surface of SYLPHID.
The air in SYLPHID is light, a little cold but not uncomfortable to the crew’s upper airways. North’s presence isn’t unlike it – he was the first to greet the crew, and instantly took a liking to Night. Unfortunately for Night, Captain Tiwson found it very amusing how awkwardly Night dealt with North’s undivided attention, and paired them up for the entirety of their research.
The days are long in SYLPHID; the night skies barely take on a gray hue. And all throughout, he catalogs the soil, the plants, collects samples, and holds North’s hand as he brings him about, talking non-stop, sharing stories and all that he knows about his home planet.
In the safety of the warm spray of the shower, Night allows himself to be truthful – that he likes the days spent on SYLPHID with North, that he likes holding his hand, the color of his eyes and the silver strands mixed in the black of his hair. He allows himself to dream what it would be like to show Earth around to North and talk about his childhood, read him his favorite books and share with him sights that neither of them had ever seen before.
Night is crazy. It’s only been a few weeks. The mission will come to an end, and he’ll go back to where he belongs, and North will stay.
The water turns cold. Night turns it off, shivering, and dries off.
When he returns to his quarters, North is on his bed.
“Are those my clothes?”
Night himself is wearing the same standard pajamas the rest of his crew got, but what North is wearing are well-worn clothes Night brought all the way from home. There must still be fur from his cat on it, if one looked for it. Just a simple oversized tee, with…
“What does it mean?”
North looks down at it, trying to decipher the message. Night walks over and sits before him, fingers trailing over the drawing and the lettering.
“It’s a quote from a book.”
“What is essential is invisible to the eye,” North says, and at Night’s expression, chuckles. “You’re the one who told me,” he says, poking Night on his forehead. Night bats his hand away.
“Don’t read my mind,” Night says, and North’s gem-like eyes soften.
“I don’t anymore,” he says. He reaches out and cups Night’s cheek with his hand, his thumb touching Night in the corner of his mouth. It’s only then that Night realizes he had been pouting. He presses his lips together instead. “But sometimes you’re really loud.”
“You’re very irritating,” Night says, pulling at the covers, ready to turn his back to North and rest, but the being doesn’t let him go. With both hands on Night’s face this time, he brings Night’s attention right back to him.
“What it means,” North continues, as if Night had said and done nothing at all, “is to trust the heart.”
“That’s not quite what it means,” Night says, his voice small.
“But that’s what you believe, isn’t it?”
Night doesn’t have to answer, and it annoys him. When North smiles, his eyes quite literally glitter with mirth. There is a patch of iridescent scales under his eyes that are usually silver but grow pinker whenever he’s with Night like this. His eyelashes, too, are silver and long, and Night wants to draw them in his sketchbook the next time he can, the next time he can’t stop thinking about North and the unexplored galaxy he represents–
“Good night, North,” Night says, pushing North away from how close he had gotten, his breath fanning against Night’s face. In seconds, Night is lying down, the duvet pulled up to his shoulders, and the sound of North’s giggles are like little fairies ringing bells as they fly.
“Good night, little Night,” North says, and because he’s insufferable, he doesn’t leave. Night can feel him lie down, the warmth of his presence pulling Night closer. Night closes his eyes, and thinks of a song in order to lull himself to sleep.
It is North humming the song that gets him to eventually drift off.
And if he wakes up before it’s time, still between a dream and reality, and pulls North to himself, and says, Stay, that is something only the two of them have to know. North will do everything in his power to shield those thoughts from all the other sylphs, just like the kisses, and the tears that fall from Night’s eyes when he thinks too much.
Night doesn’t know if North is a mirror of his desires, not quite reciprocating but giving out what North thinks Night wants, but still he holds Night’s hands.
The sky of SYLPHID glitters, and Night finds it beautiful. He feels less like crying these days.
And never once does North stop calling his name.