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Curly has known Jimmy for a very, very long time.
Ten years, give or take: recruitment days. Pilot school. Curly had known ever since he was a kid that the air was where he wanted to be. Wanted to do show piloting, mostly. Air tricks. That's what he grew up watching, perched on his mama's lap with the sky spread out before him, watching these men do loops and twirls hundreds of feet in the air. Could've been hundreds of miles, for all he cared–he just wanted to be with them. Feel the air rush past, see the sun, so close, so bright. He wanted to soar .
Jimmy just wanted to get as far away from his family as he could. A hundred miles in the air seemed a safe bet.
Contrary to what the younger crew about the Tulpar might've assumed, Jimmy was the older of the two by a good four, five years. He was on his second try at the academy the day that he met Curly, fresh-faced, bright eyed, stupid fucking Curly, who never showed up to a lecture without a smile, who never so much as had a bad day, who sat down across from Jimmy in the cafeteria and handed over his extra food without complaint just to stop Jimmy from having something to bellyache about.
Curly, whose whole fucking family showed up to his graduation. Curly, whose mom brought flowers and a bag of candies for Jimmy, too. Curly, who brought Jimmy home with him to the family dinners, the family vacations. All those nights sitting up late in their dorm room, pajama shorts, knees to their chests, whispered promises of a future to come. Brothers. That's what they were, maybe. Are, he tells himself, bracing Curly’s weight against his own as he hoists him into his arms.
Not anymore, Jimmy’s head whispers, whatever pathetic, squirming part of him still holds to rationality in this mess of delusion. But they are. They'll always be brothers.
“I'm going to fix it.” He whispers, close to Curly’s face because he isn't sure Curly can hear him well otherwise. He doesn't know that medical shit. Burns and damage and nerves. Skin that crackles and bleeds at the smallest prodding. Jimmy starts to walk, his brother cradled in his arms. “I can still fix it, Curly. Don't worry. Don't worry.”
Curly’s making noise. Whimpering. Maybe he'd cry if he had tear ducts. Jimmy just smiles down at him, this wide, manic thing. Sparks fall from something in the ceiling. This ship really is going to pieces, isn't it? Curly whimpers again, and Jimmy looks down at him as he stumbles through the dimly lit halls.
Curly used to make noises like that in his sleep. They were roommates back at the academy. Jimmy was so much older than the others back then–not so much older, really, in the grand scheme of it all, but back then four years had felt like an eternity–no one else wanted to room with him. His attitude didn't help. But Curly saw him and smiled that fucking brighter-than-the-sun smile and said, I've got a spare bed, let me help you move your stuff in, and that was that. And sometimes, when it was dark and quiet, Jimmy would lay awake and stare at the ceiling and think, because he never slept easy, not since he was real little, and sometimes he'd roll over and watch Curly and wonder what it would be like to take all that fucking talent and potential and draw it right out of his chest and into his own and have it himself. He'd stare so long his eyes would go dry, sometimes, and he'd ball his fists in the fabric of his sheets and he'd think, you don't deserve this.
Curly makes another noise. Jimmy holds him closer to his chest, skin cracking, feeling that gross sensation under his fingertips. “We're almost there, Curly.” He whispers. “Shh.”
Noise. Yes. Curly used to make noises. Nightmares, he said. Night terrors. Whatever. His father was–had–yes, he told Jimmy once, confided in him late at night when the world was sleeping, when they sat shoulder to shoulder on Curly’s bed, Curly told him. And Jimmy was quiet, and all he could think was, no one else knows this, no one but me, and wasn't that something to be proud of? Perfect, straight-A fucking Curly trusted him enough to tell him this. Jimmy was special. One of a kind here, wasn't he? To have Curly look at him that way? And from then on, every time Curly made noises and woke up, he'd sit with Jimmy and tell him whatever shit he dreamt about, and Jimmy would sit and watch his eyes in the dark and then Curly wouldn't make those noises anymore.
He holds him now. Looks at him. “Why aren't you stopping?” He whispers. “You stopped back then. Ain't nothing to be afraid of. I'm fixing it. I'm fixing it, Curly, I am.”
When Jimmy got in trouble, sneaking shit into the dormitories that he wasn't supposed to, and he blamed it on Curly. Jimmy, well, Jimmy would've gotten suspended or worse if the dean thought he had it. Curly, perfect fucking Curly, Curly got off with a warning. And even then, they still looked Jimmy's way, like he was still guilty.
But Curly never blamed him. Never hated him. Sighed, exasperated, and punched him in the shoulder lightly, maybe, but always took it. Knew he could shoulder it. Knew the consequences Jimmy faced if he didn't.
Jimmy’s not so bad, he'd say to others when he thought Jimmy wasn't listening, he's not so bad. Once you get to know him, he's…
Take responsibility .
He was. Is. He knew Curly wouldn't get in trouble back then, Curly never got in trouble, he smiled and he laughed and he aced every test and he made stupid fucking noises in his sleep and everybody worshipped the ground he walked on. It's no different now. Never any different. Jimmy's grip on him tightens as he crosses the threshold into the maintenance room, the single functioning cryo pod like a beam of light in the middle of a gaping maw of darkness. No different now. Curly will be fine. They'll find him. They'll find him and forgive him, and he'll be their fucking golden boy, and Jimmy will be forgiven. He'll be here, and they'll forgive him, his crew, they'll have to.
He holds Curly close to his chest. Looks down at that bright blue eye, rolling in his head like a marble.
“Will you stop bitching?” He whispers, squeezing him, and Curly moans, that fucking sound. “Don't you get it? You win. You win, Curly, and I'm fixing it. Everything's going to be okay, just like always.”
Just like always.
He takes Curly, lowers him into the pod. He's so light these days. The leg, probably, that's why. Jimmy could never pick him up before. Curly could always pick him up, though. Well, back in school he could, anyway. That time Jimmy got so drunk he couldn't make it back to the dorm. Curly was there then. Carried him home. Just like Jimmy carries him home now.
This is better. This is the way it has to be. Otherwise, if–if they never crashed, Jimmy would’ve been fired. He would’ve–it would’ve been worse, if she opened her mouth, and–and it would’ve dragged Curly down, too. Would’ve ruined him. Perfect captain dragged from his pedestal because his second-in-command couldn’t control himself, that’s what they’d say. Bunch of fucking animals in the sky. Curly would thank him if he could open his mouth, he’s sure of it.
The door of the cryo pod swings open. Jimmy sets him inside. It's not quite right. Meant for a full-bodied adult. It would've been a tight fit for Curly as he was, but now, he's far too small. Jimmy has to prop him against the side.
Curly groans, and Jimmy shakes his head. “Shh. Shh. It's okay.”
Curly used to smile so wide. Bright as the sun. His eyes always crinkled around the corners. The kind of smile that made you think it was just for you. Like he'd never smile at someone else that way. That was never true, though. No matter what, they were–friends, brothers –it was never just for Jimmy. It was never his.
Jimmy smiles at him now, as the pressure inside starts to hiss, the pod preparing to initiate freezing. He smiles so wide it hurts.
“I'm fixing it.” He whispers, and the door seals shut.