Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Caelus stared as his moons disappeared into the distance, a steady weight growing and growing in his chest, wrapping around his core until it felt like every part of his body was pure lead. He should leave. He should leave, leave these dimwits behind and go after Planet X, go after the one person who’d been a true friend to him. The one person who hadn’t dismissed him out of hand, dismissed everything he’d ever—

He’d never find him. What was he thinking?

Space was bloody nigh-infinite. Planet X could have gone in any direction, at any speed, gone anywhere. He could have a million chances and never find him in one of them. But if he couldn’t leave to go find Planet X, what could he do? Stay? And do what? What was there here for him? An existence forgotten? Treated as the butt of the joke?

Existence as a disappointment?

Cae— No. He didn’t deserve that name, did he? Uranus slumped forward and closed his eyes, staring into the darkness beyond his eyelids. At least it never left him.

I give up, he thought. I give up.

On what?

On everything.

He wasn’t sure how much time passed before he heard a sudden voice he didn’t expect at all.

What were his moons doing back?

He paused, fingers twitching at his side. Maybe they wanted to—

“I can’t believe they wouldn’t just let us find a new planet,” Titania said, voice strained with obvious anger, low and bitter. “He obviously doesn’t care about us. Only about himself.”

Oh.

“Titania, he’s right there,” another one hissed—Miranda, he thought.

“I know,” she said, not lowering her voice at all. If anything, she made herself louder. “Maybe he needs to hear it. I’m surprised he’s even still here.”

They wanted to leave him. Of course they did. Everyone always did.

They should have.

Uranus deserved to be alone. Caelus deserved to be alone.

The weight on his chest only grew stronger, every breath taking more and more effort—and he made no motion to move, staring at the Kuiper Belt asteroids far in the distance and letting his thoughts drift away with them. It was easier to stop thinking than it was to consider the crushing ache of misery building in his core.

Uranus’s entire being ached, his thoughts drifting, unreachable.

But the moment he felt Jupiter’s gravity, he zeroed into it, reaching for any semblance of the anger he’d felt before… and getting nothing but numbness.

“Uranus?” he asked, voice quiet.

Uranus said nothing, just stared at the asteroids in the distance and desperately hoped he would leave—and at the same time wishing he wouldn’t. “I wanted to speak with you. I’m sorry for taking so long, but there were… several incidents that needed my attention.” He didn’t move. “Saturn told me you were angry with me. About everything with Planet X.” His voice was prompting, like Jupiter wanted him to step in, to continue the conversation.

Uranus didn’t.

He just stared at a single asteroid, tracing the indistinct curves in the rock with his eyes.

“I’m sorry about his departure. Saturn told me…” His voice trailed off. “That you decided to help him. That you seemed friendly with him. I just want you to know that he left of his own volition. It was his choice. And he seemed… happy to make it.”

Happy to leave me.

Everyone is.

Jupiter reached out and squeezed his shoulder, the warmth of his hand leeching right through his jacket. “I can see you probably don’t want to talk to me,” he said, quietly. “But I need you to know that I’m always willing to talk to you, Uranus.” He felt Jupiter’s gravity strengthen around him, in something that was almost a hug, in something that he craved for—

But couldn’t reach for. Couldn’t move even if he’d wanted to.

“Come find me if you need me, Uranus. I’ll be in my orbit.”

He squeezed out a tear the moment Jupiter’s gravity crept away from him, and then they didn’t stop, dripping down his cheeks and into empty space as he tried in vain to stop.

He kept his eyes closed but felt his thoughts suddenly slide into place at the sound of a familiar voice.

“Uranus? Are you awake?”

Oberon.

“Oh. Of course you’re not awake,” he said, voice hurt. “I’m sorry.” It was silent for so long that he wondered if Oberon had left despite the still-present tiny tug of gravity. “Uranus,” Oberon abruptly whispered. “You’re scaring us.”

Of course he was scaring them. That was all he did.

“Please come back. We’ll be better moons. I promise,” he said, quietly; and Uranus felt the cold swipe of a hand against his cheek once, the sensation only bringing more guilt, sharp and dragging through his veins. “We’ll be better. I won’t let Titania say anything else mean. Just come back. Please.”

I’m the bad one. Not you, he tried to say—but like always, his voice failed him, and instead he just kept his eyes closed and let himself sink into the familiar darkness. It was always easier to deal with.

“Uranus?”

Neptune’s voice was quiet and hesitant, but it still broke through the haze of his thoughts as easily as if he’d screamed it into his face—simply for the wrongness of hearing him like that.

Why did he sound like that?

And then Uranus remembered.

Oh. Right. Him.

And just as quickly, the writhing guilt burrowed into him, morphing right into anger.

Bloody hell. Why couldn’t they leave him alone?

Why did the attention he’d wanted only to come to him when he didn’t want it anymore?

They should all just leave him alone. Let him rot in his orbit. It seemed easy enough for them all to do before.

“Uranus, I’m sorry,” Neptune abruptly said, voice so strained it didn’t even sound like him.

The guilt returned as quickly as it'd left, blooming in his core, saturating every part of his being until he felt suffocated, until he felt the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes and let them fall, his eyes still half-open and seeing nothing but Neptune’s tear-blurred visage. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, full-on crying, practically babbling the words. “I messed up, Uranus. I always mess up. I never say the right thing. With you, with my moons, with myself, with—” His voice dropped into a near-whimper. “I’m sorry. I should’ve known better. I should’ve known what to say.”

This is all my fault, anyway, he thought, distantly.

“I’ll call you Caelus,” Neptune said, reaching out to grab his hand, the movement so sudden that Uranus’s thoughts screeched to a stop. “I promise. If that’s what you want, cousin, I’ll call you Caelus. I’ll call you whatever you want.” His voice went even quieter, near in-audible. “Just move. Do something. Please.”

He tried. He really tried.

But nothing happened, and instead the guilt rolled into the crushing weight in his core and made it only stronger.

But—

Neptune didn’t move away. He just squeezed his hand tighter and whispered something he couldn’t hear, his mind already dropping back into the ever-present comforting darkness.

His eyes were open, but Uranus wasn’t even sure when he’d opened them.

He wasn’t sure when he’d woken up. He wasn’t even sure how much time had passed.

All he was sure of was that it still hurt.

He was tired of feeling. He was tired of not feeling.

“Look! Look, Uranus!”

A voice broke through his trance—it could have been hours, minutes, or days, he wasn’t sure—and suddenly a moon he recognized as Miranda skipped in front of him, proudly carrying something he recognized as a… paintbrush?

Where had she gotten that?

“I figured out how to make a paintbrush,” she said, proudly, her cheeks flushed with excitement. “Now I can paint, too!”

Several seconds of absolute silence passed before her smile fell away, and Uranus swallowed against the weight on his chest. “I can paint with you…. But you’ve got to come back first, right?” She clutched the paintbrush closer, holding it against her chest like she half-expected something to snatch it away from her. “You’ve got to come back. So you can keep painting.” She hesitated. “They’re all so pretty. But… you know that, right?”

Her voice was hopeful but nervous, her eyes equally so. “I like seeing your paintings,” she continued. “I should’ve told you before! But I do. I really do. So you need to come back, alright?”

She tried to smile again. It didn’t reach her eyes.

“I know you will! I should make some paintings for you. To wake up to.”

I am awake.

But he said nothing as she scampered off again, smile falling away the moment she ducked her head.

He suddenly came to not to the sound of a voice, but to the brush of warm hand against his cheek.

“Oh,” Saturn whispered. “It never feels right to see you like this, Uranus.”

He didn’t open his eyes—just like always, the presence of someone else around him made his limbs feel weighed down by lead, his core squeezed tight by misery. “I know I've said it before, but I really am sorry. Maybe I was too… I should have been nicer.”

About what?

His thoughts were so fragmented it took several seconds for him to dredge up what Saturn likely meant.

“You went against every planet in the Solar System for your own selfish reasons! I am very disappointed in you!”

Oh. Well that was… par for the course.

“You made a mistake. I won’t lie to you about that. An on-purpose mistake.”

If he could have laughed, Uranus would have. His mouth felt dry, every swallow a measure of strength.

“But you don’t deserve this. You never could.” Another warm brush of hand against his cheek that he almost wanted to lean into, Saturn’s voice strained with sadness. “And I know if I try to say anything else I’m likely to mess up again… but I can help you with this.” He couldn’t even find the strength to tense as Saturn undid his braid, carding his fingers through his hair until he’d worked out of the tangles.

The touch was so gentle it made more tears spring to his closed eyes.

“I suppose I should talk to you at least a little, shouldn’t I? It’s been… a while. One of your orbits, certainly.” Saturn started re-braiding his hair, the end result certain to be just slightly off due to the angle. “And plenty has happened. The rocky planets went through an i…” He paused, tugging just slightly at his hair. “Several issues. But they’ve worked it out now, haven’t they? And Earth seems happier with his life. It’s nice to see.”

He let out a shaky breath.

“I’m not sure why you’re not responding to anything, but it really is horrible to see, Uranus. I wish you’d come back to us. I promise… I promise I’ll listen this time.”

He let his braid go, and Uranus felt it settle against his neck.

“I promise,” he repeated, voice still shaky.

Uranus really wanted to believe him.

Ariel and Umbriel had been sitting together in his line of sight for long enough that he had no idea when they’d gotten there; and the entire time, Ariel had been chattering on aimlessly, hands waving in the air. She sounded happier than anyone had sounded around him in a long time.

Umbriel sat behind her, quietly braiding her hair, nodding occasionally when Ariel asked her a question.

The style of Ariel’s braid was nearly identical to his.

His core ached.

When Umbriel tied off the braid, Ariel twisted to admire it, fingers brushing through the strands. But then she turned and looked at him, and the faint smile on her face collapsed into something much sadder.

“Umbriel…?” she said, slowly, her voice a bare whisper in contrast to how she’d chattered on. “Is he okay?”

Umbriel’s eyes locked with his, and for a moment everything felt clear; and then she looked away, towards Ariel at her side… and shook her head, slowly and carefully. Ariel looked down, hands falling into her lap before she suddenly began to sob, quiet and aching.

“It’s been—it’s been so long,” she gasped, immediately falling into Umbriel when she reached out towards her.

How long had it been?

Hadn’t someone told him something similar?

Look at what you’re doing to them, his thoughts repeated, over and over again. Look at what you’re doing to them. Look at what you’re doing to them. Look at what you’re doing to them. Look at what you’re doing to them. Look at—

JUST MOVE! DO SOMETHING!

But the crushing weight around his core remained, and Uranus couldn’t even muster up the strength to close his eyes, instead swallowing around a lump in his throat as Ariel’s sobs petered off, her face buried into Umbriel’s chest.

Umbriel’s eyes locked with his once more.

His core squeezed.

She dropped her head, resting her cheek against Ariel’s hair.

But he could still see the single tear that dripped down her cheek.

Uranus was abruptly aware of a much stronger heat, the feeling uncomfortably strong and inescapable—and when he opened his eyes, he realized he was in the Inner Solar System, sprawled on his front and staring at the distant stars. He could hear some of the other planets around him, but the actual words didn’t reach him.

When had he gotten here? Was this how Neptune felt? Lost in his own mind to a degree that nothing felt right?

His fingers twitched, but Uranus didn’t otherwise move a muscle, listening to the murky, distant words seeping into the air around him. Had he moved himself without realizing it? Had he finally moved? Why couldn’t he remember it? And should he be listening?

He thought he should, but the effort it took to actually tune in seemed like too much… until he heard his name.

“Look at URANUS! He’s doing so well staying in his orbit that I had to DRAG him here, and he’s still not moved at ALL,” the Sun crowed, the heat intensifying on him so much he thought he might melt.

Oh. That was how he was here. He hadn’t moved after all.

“You should all be like Uranus!”

Ha. Ha. Ha.

“He wants to be called Caelus!”

That was Neptune’s voice, wasn’t it?

If Uranus had the control to look up, he would’ve. “That’s his name, now!” Neptune’s voice cracked a little, breaking on the final word, and Uranus blinked, distantly feeling the now-familiar burn in his eyes.

“Oh! RIGHT!” The Sun’s voice was suddenly too loud, bearing right down on him—but Uranus gave no reaction other than to blink, staring at the distant stars. “That was one of the things Planet X was going to win!” He laughed, a bark of laughter loud and strained. “And he WON!”

But he left. And I obviously don’t matter without him.

The words felt drenched in wrongness even in his own head, but his entire essence felt wrong these days, so Uranus paid no attention to them. What did it matter, anyway? Gravity intensified around him, pressing in not like the aching weight on his chest but an all encompassing hug. “So your name is Caelus now!”

Oh. Good.

He was Caelus now. What he’d wanted.

Shouldn’t he be happy?

Uranus’s head was tipped upwards, gravity pulling at him, and he stared blankly up at the Sun, unable to muster up even a simple change in expression. His entire face felt heavy as the weight on his chest, even his eyelids heavy enough that they half-lidded, obscuring the Sun’s face in darkness.

“Aren’t you HAPPY?!”

Why wasn’t he?

He blinked, half-falling as another aching wave tore through his core; but the Sun seemed to take it as a nod, releasing him completely so that he fell into the hold of nothing but his own gravity. He stared down at the stars littering the cosmos and felt his core constrict tighter, tight enough that he thought it might crack with the force.

Crack and destroy everything that made him him.

He half-wished it would.

It felt like that’d be easier to deal with than what he had now.

When he was next aware, Uranus thought he was back in his orbit—at least, everything around him was a far more comfortable temperature, and he couldn’t feel the Sun’s heat like before, neither could he hear any of the other planet’s voices.

But there was someone else’s gravity there, small enough that it took a second to notice.

He still didn’t move, but Uranus did let himself focus on the gravity, barely registering that it was Titania.

Had she been talking to him?

Uranus tried to force himself to listen and found nothing but dead air.

So if she hadn’t been speaking to him… why was she here?

Plenty more silence and time passed him by. Uranus had no idea how much—for all he knew, he’d already completed another orbit. Or maybe several? Did it matter anyway?

—And then a shuddering breath tore his attention away from himself.

“I thought we’d be better off without you.”

His core twisted. Oh.

“So why aren’t we?”

Uranus expected her to say more… but instead, everything lapsed back into complete silence, and before long even his sense of Titania’s gravity slipped away from him.

“Wow. You’ve really fallen into it, haven’t you?”

The familiar voice roused him so abruptly he slammed straight back down in his haste to stand up. “X?!” His eyes hurt when he forced them open, but finally it didn’t feel like a million tons weighed over his core, and the deep breath he took in was so good it almost hurt. “X, you came back?”

“What?” X arched an eyebrow. “Of course not.” He stepped forward, eyes visibly tracing over his face. “This is a dream.” His smile turned crooked, his teeth bared. “You didn’t realize that?”

The weight returned, and with it the crushing numbness.

“Oh.”

His shoulders slumped.

“Why would I be back there? Jupiter told you I was happy with my decision to leave, didn’t he? Now you have to make your decision.”

Uranus struggled to remember for several seconds, eyes locking onto X’s—and abruptly his thoughts were brimming full of memories, flashing through almost quicker than he could recognize them; most of them he didn’t recall at all, couldn’t even remember when they could have occurred. Most all of them involving someone talking to him while he didn’t move at all. While he barely registered the words.

“What?” he gasped, voice strained as he dropped to his knees, nails digging into his scalp.

He forced his eyes up only to be met with himself—and he looked a bloody mess.

His eyes were blood-shot, half-lidded and completely empty (they almost looked dead, a fact that made his core twist), his posture slumped and equally tired, and he had tear tracks running down his cheeks, almost permanent looking. The only thing that looked normal was his braid, pristine and perfect, nary a strand out of place.

Was this how he looked to everyone else?

Uranus shuddered. Did he want to... did he want to stay like that?

He let all of his memories wrap around his core, forced himself to remember everything they'd all said to him.

No. No. He didn't.

He lifted one hand, fingers curling in as he hesitated—and then he touched his own cheek and everything dissolved around him. He sucked in a desperate breath, shooting up even as his muscles protested the motion, aching so sharply he was forced to freeze again. “Bloody hell,” he tried to say—but his voice was so hoarse, his mouth so dry that the words just turned into a low groan.

“URANUS!”

He was almost bowled over as several moons practically slammed into him; and it took a couple of moments for his thoughts to get in line enough for him to actually think, but he swallowed hard around his dry mouth and stared down at them.

“…What?” he said, hoarsely.

“You’re awake!” Miranda clapped her hands together, the smile on her face so large it almost looked like it hurt. Even Umbriel was smiling, but Uranus couldn’t look at her without remembering the scene from… however long ago.

“I’m… awake?” He blinked. And blinked again—and then lifted his hands, moving just for the sake of it. “I’m awake.”

What the hell?

He still felt like there was a weight on his chest, curled tight around his core—but it wasn’t all encompassing, nor did it make him feel like it was impossible to move, impossible to do anything.

“I’m awake,” he repeated.

He hadn’t really been asleep—but that was almost the best word to describe what it felt like, the memories all murky and hazy, like dreams he was already forgetting.

Not that it mattered.

He stared at his moons gathered in front of him, happier to see him than they’d been in ages—and felt an aching smile tug at his lips.

“I’m awake.”

Chapter Text

Annoyance held an icy grasp around her core as Titania stared into the distance, determined to not throw a single glance at Uranus behind them. She hadn’t been lying earlier—she’d expected to find him gone by the time they returned, off to the Kuiper Belt, further along in his orbit, or wherever the hell he deigned to go. But instead, they’d been met with the sight of him slumped over on his side, completely silent and eerily still.

He hadn’t even looked at them once.

It only made the grip of annoyance tighter around her core; of course he was acting like this. It was all about him, wasn’t it? He’d just give them the silent treatment until they crumbled. Well, she wasn’t.

Titania was determined to ignore him as easily as he was ignoring them.

She barely kept enough of an eye in his direction to stop the few moons that tried to approach him.

It was mostly the younger moons—Cupid and Portia had both already tried multiple times, and she was half a second from getting Miranda to distract them—but she’d seen Oberon looking towards him hesitantly once or twice, like he was thinking about it.

At some point, Ariel and Umbriel (well, mostly Ariel) drew the rest of the moons into a game of some sort, but Titania had no interest in joining in.

“Titania?”

She turned at the sound of Miranda’s voice, forcing herself to relax.

“Yes?”

Miranda shifted her weight from side to side, worrying at her bottom lip. “Do you think something’s wrong? He hasn’t—”

“He’s just giving us the silent treatment,” Titania interrupted, restraining a scowl back. “We’re not going to give in, alright? Just stay over here. He’ll give up eventually.” Uranus didn’t have the nerve to keep up the charade for long. She knew that for certain. Titania had spent billions of years orbiting around him, she thought she knew at least some things about him.

Some things.

“Why don’t you help Ariel and Umbriel with their game? Get Oberon to help, too,” she asked, making her voice a little softer. “Try to get the rest of the moons to join in. Distract them. It’s not their fault Uranus has decided to throw a fit,” she added, making her voice just slightly louder. Miranda looked no more certain than before, but she still gave a hesitant nod and an equally hesitant smile before turning around and running for the throng of moons a short distance away.

Titania watched her go and did her best to ignore the tiny worry that woke up in her core.

After another moment she turned around, focusing her attention on the Inner Solar System; at least it’d be more interesting to stare at than the Kuiper Belt. Far as she could tell, none of the rocky planets were within their orbits, and neither were Jupiter and Saturn (who she still wished could be their planets. At least they wouldn’t give them the silent treatment the moment she told them a truth they needed to hear), all of them clustered around a segment of the Asteroid Belt.

She frowned and tilted her head slightly, but Titania couldn’t find it in herself to care about whatever they were doing—instead, she turned her attention to the moons, who were seemingly entranced by a new game Oberon had introduced, gathered in a small circle.

At least he looked happy.

Before she realized what she was doing, Titania pushed to her feet and headed up to him.

“Hey,” she said, quietly. Oberon gave her a hesitant smile. “What are you playing?”

“Oh,” he said, brightening up. “It’s an Earthling game, apparently. For Earthling children! I asked Luna about it, because you know, we played hide and seek that one time, and he told me about a few more, and I really wanted to try them out with the other moons, so here we are!” He clasped his hands together, beaming much happier than she’d seen him in days. “It’s called Duck Duck Goose!”

Titania offered him a genuine smile, the first one she’d managed to muster up in ages. “Sounds fun,” she said, letting her eyes drift over the rest of the moons.

They really did look happy.

Happier than she’d ever managed to make them. Even without trying, Oberon still managed to be the example she’d always tried her best to be. And failed at.

She was torn out of her thoughts by Portia’s shriek, and for a single second she stiffened, frozen—and then she recognized the joy in the sound and forced herself to relax, sighing through her nose. Portia was running around the outside of the circle as Puck chased her, and she slid into the single open spot in the circle with another happy shriek while Puck panted, pouting behind her. “No fair,” he complained. “You’re faster.”

“By a little more than a kilometer per second,” Portia replied, rolling her eyes. “That’s nothing.”

“A whole kilometer!”

Titania finally stepped in when they kept arguing for another minute. “Alright, you two, just get on with the game. We all orbit at different speeds. You’ll just have to…”

“Put your best in it!” Oberon chirped.

“Yes.” She blinked. “Put your best in it.”

Puck gave an exaggerated sigh but begin to walk around the outside of the circle, patting their heads while saying Duck—and when she looked at Oberon, confused, he just smiled. “Part of the game!”

Weird game.

Eventually the younger moons had all tired themselves out; even Ariel and Miranda had joined in, both of them sleeping soundly besides Umbriel, who’d also fallen asleep despite the fact that she’d elected to do nothing but watch the game. Oberon had remained at her side the entire time, saying nothing but I’m good! when she told him to join in.

And Uranus…

Still hadn’t moved an inch. Hadn’t reacted at all despite how much the moons had screeched and shrieked the entirety of their game.

What was going on with him?

Titania elected to ignore it—to ignore him—for now.

She had more to worry about, and she didn’t need to add a planet that should be able to take care of himself to the list.

She had no idea how much time passed before the first planet visited.

All Titania knew was that Uranus still hadn’t moved at all, nor did he react when any of the smaller moons had managed to approach him. It’d left them confused, and then she’d had to deal with it, and—

She wasn’t very happy at the moment.

Anyway.

Jupiter came by at some point, offering them all (at least the moons that were awake) a sort of half-wave before he focused completely on Uranus, stooping down to his side, saying everything quietly enough that Titania didn’t manage to catch the words. He looked—

Not happy, though.

Was Uranus ignoring him, too? Did his silent treatment extend even to the other planets? Titania frowned. He’d sided with Planet X against the rest of them as well. Perhaps that was why. Not that she cared enough to consider it for long. She turned her attention away from Jupiter after another moment, but she couldn’t help but catch Oberon staring in that direction, expression uncertain and concerned.

“Oberon,” she hissed, quietly. “Stop looking at them.”

He jerked his head in the opposite direction, an embarrassed flush visible in his cheeks.

Several more minutes passed before she felt a much stronger gravity—even stronger than Uranus’s gravitational pull on them—and she turned only to find that Jupiter had stopped behind them and was peering downwards.

Stars, he really was a giant.

“Titania, correct?”

She managed a jerky nod after several seconds. Jupiter gave a single glance backward. “Has Uranus been like that for a while?” His voice was quiet enough that she barely heard it.

Titania looked away, towards the slumped form of Uranus in the distance. “Yes,” she finally admitted. “Ever since we got back from our last Moon Club meeting. He hasn’t responded to anything.”

Jupiter frowned. “Are you sure?”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Of course I’m sure.” Titania hadn’t been watching Uranus every hour, but there were twenty eight moons here, and none of them had seen him so much as twitch. “Why?”

“I… no matter,” Jupiter finally said, the look in his eyes contemplative. “Thank you, Titania.”

He drifted away from them, presumably back to his orbit, and Titania frowned after him, narrowing her eyes.

Something was going on. She wasn’t dumb.

The question was what?

When she turned her attention back to the moons, she fixed her expression into something flatter, eyeing Miranda and Oberon as they whispered together. “What did Jupiter say?” Oberon abruptly asked, eyes practically drilling into her. “We couldn’t hear.”

Huh. Jupiter must be adept at controlling his volume level.

Titania shrugged that thought off. “He only wanted to know if Uranus has been like that for a while.”

“Was he worried?” Miranda’s brows knitted, her lips turning down into something distressed.

“Probably.” Titania continued to eye them. “Why?”

Oberon and Miranda exchanged a glance—and Titania narrowed her eyes at them, suddenly suspicious. “I think we should talk to Uranus,” Oberon blurted out. “Just in case. I think something’s wrong.”

“Of course something’s wrong,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “He’s given us the silent treatment for… a long while.” She had no idea how long it’d been, only that they’d had to fill plenty of time and crossed a good distance in their own orbits. “But that’s on him.”

“Please?” Miranda leaned forward, clasping her hands together. “Just to see if he’s okay?”

“I’m sure he’s fine.” But deep in her core, the familiar worry was returning. Jupiter had looked worried. He’d sounded worried. And Uranus hadn’t even reacted to him… She finally turned towards Umbriel, the only other moon awake. “What do you think?”

At least she could rely on Umbriel to tell her truth of the matter. In her own way.

Umbriel stared at her, straight-faced, for several seconds.

And then she lifted her hand, pointing straight towards Miranda and Oberon.

Oberon immediately brightened. “Look,” he said, jumping to his feet. “Umbriel agrees with us! We should check on him!” He was off before she even managed to stand up herself, followed by Miranda—the only one who stayed was Umbriel, who nodded at her when their eyes met. Titania recognized the movement for what it was. She followed Oberon and Miranda as they skirted around Uranus; and then they both froze, stepping slightly closer to each other, and she knitted her brow, following the direction they were looking in only to freeze herself.

Uranus’s eyes were wide open, his expression otherwise slack and emotionless.

And almost—

Empty?

He almost looked dead. The only sign of life was the tear tracks visible on his cheeks, the glitter of frozen tears collected on his jawline.

It made her core constrict.

“Uranus?” Oberon’s expression crumpled with concern. “Uranus? Are you okay?” He almost reached out towards him, stopped only as Titania stepped in front of him. Nevertheless, she felt it as both Oberon and Miranda peered around her, hands wrapping around her arms. She swallowed hard, opening her mouth only for all of her words to escape her.

Why did he look so… gone?

Despite her annoyance towards him, concern overloaded her thoughts for a moment. “…Uranus?” she tried.

No response.

“Caelus?” Oberon’s voice was quieter than she’d ever heard before, seeping with anxiety. Even that name merited no response, and finally Titania grasped Oberon and Miranda’s hands within hers, tugging them straight back to the rest of the moons even as they protested.

“Titania! What are you—?”

She turned around, ignoring Uranus’s still form. “We need one of the planets for this. It’s not something that we can handle,” she hissed, willing the anxiety in her core away.

Both Oberon and Miranda exchanged a glance, pulling their hands away from her.

“What about… what about Neptune?” Oberon finally asked, voice uncertain.

Titania shook her head, her mind shoving the memory of Uranus’s last interaction with Neptune at her. “You heard him before, Oberon. I don’t think he’s friends with Neptune anymore.”

Oberon shook his head. “He may not be friends with Neptune, but Neptune still cares about him!” His voice practically squeaked at the end, high and loud. “I think we should get him. He can go get Jupiter after!”

“But we know where Jupiter is,” Miranda pointed out. She looked stressed as Titania felt. “We don’t know where Neptune went.”

“I-I guess,” Oberon said, shoulders slumping.

“And he can get Neptune just as much as Neptune can get him.” Titania added, nodding. “Go get Jupiter, Miranda. He seemed concerned about Uranus before. He shouldn’t be too far away, but you’ll have to go as fast as possible.”

Miranda nodded, the movement jerky and quick. “I will!”

She was off without another word, leaving Titania to practically collapse in place as everything seemed to close in on her at once. She clasped her hands over her face, nails digging into her forehead. “Is this my fault?” She separated her fingers just enough to find Oberon’s face, anxiety swirling toxic in her core. “Is this my fault? Did I do this?”

“No!” Oberon said, immediately, shaking his head violently. “Of course not, Titania!”

He leaned over and grabbed her hands, squeezing them tight within his. “I don’t think this is anyone’s fault,” he added, brows creased. “It just… happened.” When did he start sounding more mature than her? She tried to let the words mollify her, but as she locked eyes with him, she could see the blame within clear as day. Titania found she couldn’t look away, couldn’t say anything even as his brow creased more in clear, abject worry. Was it Oberon blaming her without the courage to say it?

Or was it her own regret, reflected right back at her?

None of the planets that came by had any answers for them.

Oberon felt crushed.

Neptune had already returned several times, looking sadder and sadder every time he left, and Oberon could only watch, too distressed to even start of one of the many games he’d learned from Luna. And that made him feel bad, because now the rest of the moons looked just as sad, and he had to set an example, didn’t he? Not a bad example like he had.

But still, Oberon pillowed his face within his arms as he stared at Uranus in the distance, still eerily still.

There wasn’t even the movement that you could normally expect with sleep. The only reason they knew he was still… alive (Oberon pressed his lips together, the lump in his throat growing) was because he was always breathing, the motion just slightly too slow to catch unless you really focused on him. And… sometimes his eyes were open, sometimes they were closed.

Oberon preferred when they were closed, even though he’d never say that out loud.

The look in his eyes when they were open—or the lack of anything—was almost terrifyingly empty. Oberon remembered the first time he’d seen them and had to restrain a quiet distressed sound, closing his eyes as he buried his face more within his arms. He almost looked dead.

It made him want to cry.

But he hadn’t let himself, because he needed to stay strong for the rest of the moons. For Titania. Because she didn’t deserve to handle it all on her own shoulders, especially when some of the smaller moons had already taken to blaming her. He’d seen the look in her eyes afterward.

He knew it hurt her.

Oberon sighed into his arms and then unfolded, stretching his arms behind his back; he looked backward once only to see the rest of the moons sleeping, curled up together, and for a moment he wanted to join them, his core aching for it—but instead, he took several stumbling steps towards Uranus, feeling the lump in his throat grow the closer he got.

He ignored it as best he could.

Once he was settled in front of Uranus’s face, Oberon swallowed back his fear, one hand twitching at his side. “Uranus? Are you awake?” There was no answer, and he pressed his lips together, blinking away the tears that wanted to fall. No crying, he reminded himself. No crying. Not even when you’re alone.

“Oh. Of course you’re not awake,” he said, voice low. “I’m sorry.”

He couldn’t speak after that, instead rubbing one hand underneath his eye, his breath catching as he looked away, towards the Kuiper Belt in the distance instead.

He wished Uranus would wake up. He wished—

He wished so much, and none of it came true.

“Uranus,” he finally whispered. “You’re scaring us.” Maybe he would wake up if Oberon promised to be better. To be a better family. Maybe if he’d been strong enough to stand up against Titania, if he’d been strong enough to not let them leave— “Please come back. We’ll be better moons. I promise,” he said, quietly. His hand twitched at his side, and he reached out once, swiping away a bit of frost glittering on Uranus’s cheek. “We’ll be better. I won’t let Titania say anything else mean.”

A single tear slipped down his cheek. “Just come back. Please.”

He missed his planet.

His voice choked up, and finally he couldn’t stem the flow of tears, and he squeezed his eyes shut and covered his eyes instead, before finally giving up and gliding towards Uranus, dropping within the fluff of his hood jacket, burying his face within the soft material as he cried—and cried—and cried.

“Hey! That’s my side!”

“No, this is my side. That’s your side.”

“You’re upside down!”

Oberon blinked his aching eyes open and looked up only to find Cordelia and Ophelia floating above him. Cordelia had her hands on her hips, pouting as she stared at Ophelia, who actually was upside down and…

Messing with the rocks in the rings?

She squeezed a single rock into place and then flipped herself right-side up. “There! Now it’s perfect.”

“I think that was most of my work,” Cordelia pointed out, sulking.

Oberon rubbed at his eyes and finally sat up. “What are you two doing?” he asked, quietly.

Both of them shrieked and jumped towards each other, staring at him with obvious terror. Oberon flushed in embarrassment and ducked his head down, apologizing—though neither of them seemed to care that much after a second, since he watched as Ophelia immediately pushed Cordelia away, sticking her tongue out.

“Ha! You got scared of Oberon.”

“So did you!”

“I did not. You’re the one who jumped towards me.”

“You jumped towards me!”

Oberon quietly floated closer to them. “I’ll say neither of you got scared,” he finally offered, watching as they both jumped, clearly startled. “What were you doing?”

Cordelia set her hands against her hips and beamed at him. “We’re making the ring look perfect! So it looks good when Uranus wakes up!” She turned towards it, the dimmed glow of the ring nevertheless making him blink. It was hard to see the individual rocks within unless you were really looking, but that apparently wasn’t a problem for either of them, because Cordelia reached out and plucked a rock from the edge, setting it back in the middle with a bright smile. “See?”

Beneath them, Uranus was still as ever, the only movement that of the slow-orbiting ring in front of them.

His eyes stung.

“That’s so nice of you,” he said, rubbing at his eye again.

“It’s our job!” Ophelia beamed. “We’re shepherd moons, aren’t we?”

“At least of one of the rings,” Cordelia said, pouting. “Not the entire thing.”

“And Uranus never lets us do this usually.” Ophelia crossed her arms over her chest and mirrored Cordelia’s pout. “Maybe if we do it well enough now, he’ll let us!”

“Maybe,” Oberon agreed, unable to help a smile as he listened to the two of them. He let himself stare back at the rest of the moons and then turned back to Ophelia and Cordelia. “Do you want to play a game? I know some more,” he offered, excited.

“Yes!” Ophelia streaked forward, grabbing his hand. Cordelia barely managed to catch his other hand, pulled along with him as Ophelia tugged them both forward, laughing. “Guys!” she called out. “Oberon’s going to tell us another game!” He glanced back at Uranus once and felt the familiar constriction in his core; and then he focused back on Ophelia as she pulled him along.

Uranus would wake up eventually; but for now, Oberon would just help take care of the rest of the moons.

He was going to do what Titania wanted him to do, and he was going to set a good example.

“Saturn?”

He turned towards Jupiter with a faint smile. “Yes?”

Jupiter stared at him with prying eyes, wearing a slight frown that made his own smile falter.

“Why haven’t you gone to see Uranus?”

Saturn opened and then closed his mouth, his brow furrowing. “I-oh, I—” But the words escaped him, and so he pressed his lips together and let his distress show through. “I don’t want to…”

“You don’t want to?” Disapproval shone clear in Jupiter’s expression, though he didn’t verbalize it.

“No!” Saturn gave a violent shake of his head. “I only meant— I-If I visit him, I’ll have to see—” His breath rushed out of him in a shaky sigh. “It’ll be real.” Jupiter’s brow softened.

Saturn could see the new understanding in his eyes.

“It is real, Saturn,” he said, finally. “And ignoring it won’t make him wake up.” He reached out and ran the back of his finger back and forth along his cheekbone, the touch warm and comforting enough that Saturn leaned into it, burying his face in his chest a moment later. It was much easier to ignore things from here.

“Just go visit him. You never know what’ll happen.”

Saturn hesitated for another second, his eyes shut tight, and then he leaned back and gave Jupiter a short nod. “I-I will,” he made himself say. “I promise.” Jupiter met him with a small smile, wrapping his arms tight around him in a hug that Saturn made no move to pull away from.

When he finally worked up the nerve to visit him, Saturn had to glance around for several moments before he found Uranus in his peripheral view—he was within his orbit, obviously—and started towards him, hands clasped tight behind his back.

He twisted the rings on his fingers, the back and forth motion soothing his nerves.

He’ll wake up, he told himself. And if he wakes up and knows you never even attempted to visit him, he’ll rightfully hate you. The words didn’t make him feel better. It only made the guilt in his core rear its ugly head, twisting tighter around him like a coiling—what was that Earthling animal they associated with him—snake.

If you’d simply said the right thing before, would it still be like this?

If only he’d found the words to tell Uranus—

(Saturn knew he preferred Caelus now, but the name only reminded him of the last conversation they’d had, of the accusing anger in Uranus’s expression, only reminded him of how much he’d messed up by remaining so—

So complacent during everything with X.

He’d failed everyone; himself, Jupiter, Uranus, Neptune, the rocky planets, his own moons…)

—what he meant, to tell him that he mattered as far more than the joke he seemed to think everyone took him as…

His thoughts swirled like the maelstroms on his surface, and Saturn couldn’t help a frown as he finally approached Uranus’s prone form, his moons gathered near him like they tended to be.

“Saturn?”

His biggest moon was the first to speak, her own frown painted on her face. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m only here to speak to Uranus,” he offered, keeping his voice quiet so as not to startle the younger moons, most of them seemingly deep asleep. “I know he’s…” He couldn’t find the words. Yet again.

The moon—stars, he needed to learn her name—nodded, expression shuttering. “Yes,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Feel free. I guess.” She made quick work of the single moon still buried within the material of his hood, and Saturn had to restrain a smile as he watched her dart off even as the smaller moon protested.

At least Uranus’s moons had each other, he supposed.

Saturn reined his own gravity in as he settled down at Uranus’s side; a frown flitted over his expression for a single moment before he restrained it back, staring down at his closed eyes, his unnaturally still features. His head was tilted to the side, the rest of his body laid out straight like he was only sleeping, like he’d wake up any moment.

Saturn still wasn’t entirely sure what had happened, and neither was Jupiter.

The best he could offer was that Uranus had just… shut down. Given up.

But why?

He reached out and brushed a light dusting of frost from atop his hair; it normally wouldn’t have settled there, but thanks to Uranus’s lack of movement it had, the same dusted over his cheeks, glittering within his ghostly white eyelashes. It gave him an almost unnatural hue, made him look rather… well, ghostly.

Saturn wasn’t sure he appreciated it.

He swiped the rest away with equally gentle motions, wondering all the while if Uranus was even aware.

“Uranus?” he tried. “Or…” His gut twisted. “Caelus, I suppose. I’m sorry. I can’t—I want to call you Uranus. May I?”

There was no answer. Of course. What had he expected?

Saturn tucked his hair behind his ear. “I’m sorry about what I said before. You did disappoint me, but I hope you didn’t take it as my saying you were a disappointment. You were—you are,” he corrected himself. “You are far from a disappointment. You simply made a—a mistake.”

A drawn-out mistake. A mistake he knew Neptune had warned him from, even light-heartedly. A mistake he should have seen the consequences of. Hadn’t he seen the way X had treated him? Even if he’d deserved it.

A mistake—

A mistake he hadn’t made himself because he’d been a part of the problem.

He couldn’t help a heavy sigh, and for a moment he just sat there staring at Uranus. What use was he? The last time he’d talked to Uranus had been an argument; who knew if he’d even want him there? But still, Saturn couldn’t pull himself away, and finally his gaze landed on Uranus’s braid, laid out on his back, strands of his hair sticking out of it. He must’ve not redone it since this all started…

His fingers gave a tiny twitch in his lap, and Saturn only resisted for a second before reaching out to undo his braid.

“Let me help you with this,” he said aloud. “I’m sure you’d like it to be neat when you wake up.”

Saturn let himself forget his own distress as he focused entirely on fixing Uranus’s braid, combing his fingers through the pastel strands until it felt entirely smooth and silky between them—and then he re-plaited it, the motions familiar and easy. “There you go!” he said, brightly, laying the braid gently over his back; but his smile faltered when there was still no response from Uranus, and he gave another heavy sigh. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, laying a single touch against Uranus’s shoulder before standing, re-clasping his hands behind his back and hurrying off.

He couldn’t bear to stay another second longer.

Neptune wasn’t sure what to do.

Nothing he’d tried had done anything. He’d tried to stay happy for U—for Caelus, but he’d still been angry at him no matter what he said. Should he have been serious? Did Caelus want him to be serious? Maybe he’d wake up if he… He tried to rearrange his expression into something more serious and only managed a distressed frown, staring off in the direction of Caelus’s orbit.

“Neptune? Are you okay?”

He forced a smile as he turned to Proteus, his vision darkening at the edges as his eyes almost closed with the force of it. “I’m amazing! A-okay.” He reached out to pat Proteus on the head, tapping lightly until he squirmed to get away, laughing the entire time. “Just thinking, Proteus!”

Proteus stopped trying to get away and opened his mouth before closing it, looking uncertain.

Neptune tipped his head to the side. “Is something wrong?”

“There’s a moon in the Kuiper Belt,” he said, tapping his fingers together. “And I think she’s crying.”

His eyes widened, and Neptune turned around, carefully counting each of his moons until he knew each of them were there. O-kay. He turned back to Proteus, slightly more relieved.

“I think it’s one of Uranus’s,” Proteus said, eyes wide as he stared up. “In there.” He turned and pointed off towards one section of the Kuiper Belt. “I could barely hear her, but I know I did.”

“Caelus’s?” Neptune tapped one finger at his mouth. “What’s one of Caelus’s moons doing in the Kuiper Belt?” He beamed down at Proteus, tapping at his head once more as he protested. “Go stay with Triton,” he said brightly, waiting until Proteus had joined the rest of his moons around Triton before he jetted off in the direction he’d pointed at, smile falling only once he knew they couldn't see him anymore. He heard the sound of crying barely a second later and gave a sad frown, searching until he recognized the tiny gravitational pull of a moon—and when he tilted his head to the side and glanced around for a second, he recognized Caelus’s moon Miranda, standing in front of a…

Hmm. A painted asteroid?

Neptune hummed and leaned forward. “Hello,” he said, drawing the word out long.

Miranda jumped, sending a tiny paintbrush flying out of her hands. Neptune reached out and caught it, handing it back to her with a beaming smile as he blinked one eye at a time.

She sniffled and rubbed her arm over her eyes. “H-hi, Neptune.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked, leaning forward and drawing the words out—and then a bolt of worry lodged in his core. “Did something happen to Caelus?”

Miranda sniffed a second time. “N-no,” she said, voice wobbly. “I just—I told him I’d paint something for him when he woke up, but I-“ She gave a gasp. “I-I- can’t do it! They’re all h-horrible. Nothing like his.”

Neptune reached out and patted Miranda on the head, fixing his best smile back onto his face. “I don’t think it looks horrible!” He tilted his head to the side as he stared at the painted asteroid—and then he pointed to a blob in the middle that wore the familiar color of Uranus’s atmosphere. “That’s supposed to be Ur-Caelus, right?”

Caelus, he told himself angrily. Caelus! You already messed it up once.

She nodded, leaning up into his hand as she rubbed messily underneath her eyes—and despite the fact that U-Caelus’s moons were all older, for a moment all Neptune could think of was his own moons, and his core ached worse than he’d ever felt before. It was outshone only by the ache whenever he thought of Caelus’s current state.

“It’s supposed to be him,” she said, bottom lip still trembling. “But I can’t get it right.” She pointed off in one direction, and Neptune blinked at the several more painted asteroids in the distance before turning his attention back to the one in front of her.

“I think it looks amazing!” he said, giving an exaggerated gasp. “Caelus will love it.”

She blinked up at him with watery eyes. “Really?”

“Really,” he promised, nodding so rapidly his head hurt—and then an idea popped into his head, and he gave another exaggerated gasp. “Why don’t I make one with you?” He still had no idea where Guillermo had gotten off to, the rascally asteroid; but he knew how much comfort Guillermo gave him, so maybe if he gave Uran—Caelus one of his own Guillermo, he’d realize how much he cared about him!

Miranda frowned. “I don’t have a paintbrush for you.” She looked to her side. “Or paint.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” Neptune said, brightly—he materialized a can of bright blue paint and dipped his finger into it, finding the nearest asteroid to serve as a Guillermo before plopping down beside Miranda, coloring a smiling face onto the asteroid. “I can make my own. Do you need more?”

She offered him the first genuine smile he’d seen from her since he arrived, rubbing underneath her eyes once more before dipping her paintbrush into the tiny container at her side. “No, thank you,” she said, sounding much happier than before—and then she returned to her painting, and Neptune let his smile falter only slightly before reinforcing it.

He had a Guillermo to make!

Jupiter wasn’t sure why the Sun had deigned to call a Solar System meeting—simply to make them all squirm?

He hadn’t said anything of substance since he’d quite literally dragged Uranus from his orbit and through the Asteroid Belt. He’d had to catch Uranus just to ensure he wouldn’t accidentally glide into one of the other planets, and he still wasn't sure if he'd been hit by any wayward asteroids when he'd been pulled through the Asteroid Belt (still disturbingly limp). At the time, he’d half-expected Uranus to react, but he’d stayed still as always, eyes half-open and still eerily empty. The Sun had forced him to put Uranus down, and he’d been careful to set him on his side in a… hopefully not too uncomfortable position.

Jupiter still didn’t know if Uranus was aware of everything, but whether he was or not, in his state he did not need to be dragged into a meeting.

It was only when the meeting actually started to wind down that the Sun finally deigned to recognize Uranus, aptly with a… dig at the rest of them. They’d been talking amongst themselves for a few seconds while the Sun watched silently, hopefully about to end the meeting and let them all go—and then he spoke.

“You all need to do better at staying in your orbits,” he said, tilting his head to the side. “Just look at URANUS! He’s doing so well staying in his orbit that I had to DRAG him here, and he’s still not moved at ALL,” he crowed. “You should all be like Uranus!”

Jupiter dropped his head into one hand, barely restraining a sigh.

And then—

“He wants to be called Caelus!” Jupiter turned towards Neptune. He wanted to what? He hadn’t been aware of this. “That’s his name, now!” Neptune’s voice cracked slightly, and he rubbed one hand underneath his eye, the motion rough.

Jupiter tried to catch his eyes and failed.

“Oh! RIGHT!” The Sun leaned closer to Uranus, making Jupiter barely restrain a frown. “That was one of the things Planet X was going to win!” He laughed, teeth bared. “And he WON!” He tried to catch Saturn’s eyes and immediately knew he’d already known this—the way he was avoiding his gaze told him nothing but. “So your name is Caelus now!”

His hand twitched at his side when the Sun’s gravity intensified, maneuvering Uranus—or… Caelus?—easily.

“Aren’t you HAPPY?!”

Caelus slumped within his grasp, dropping forward, and the Sun immediately let him go, watching as he fell limp with nothing but a tilted head, a slight narrowing in his eyes. “Well!” he shouted after another moment, clapping his hands together. “Go back to your orbits!” And he turned his back on them completely, making it only more obvious the meeting was over.

Jupiter immediately stepped towards Caelus, beat only by Neptune, who leaned over him, expression tight with concern. “Are you okay? Caelus? I got you—I got you what you wanted,” he said, the words quiet and strained enough that he could barely hear them. “Can you come back?” It was so out-of-the-norm for Neptune that he stepped forward after a moment, squeezing Neptune’s shoulder.

“He’ll be alright,” he said, meaning the words to be reassuring.

He could see all four rocky planets staring at them, Luna peering over Earth’s shoulder. He knew they were confused about Caelus’s state, but he didn’t have it in him to explain it to them. Nor did he know as much as he wanted to.

Neptune sent him a look that was likely meant to be a smile but ended up as more of a pained grimace. “You’re right!” he said, his voice seeping with forced levity. “He just needs more time! More time, more time, more time!” His voice dropped into a mumble as he dropped his face into his hands.

Jupiter turned towards Saturn, motioning him over.

“Let the rocky planets know what’s happened,” he said. “I’m done with leaving anyone in the dark about things in the Solar System.” He should have told them before. Saturn knitted his brow, but gave a single nod, peering around him at Caelus—which reminded Jupiter what he’d noticed. “Did you know he wanted to be called Caelus?”

“I—oh, that’s-that is…” Saturn’s shoulders slumped. “Yes,” he admitted. “It was one of the terms Planet X offered, and he tried to get us to call him Caelus afterwards, but…” His eyes averted completely, guilt spreading over his features. “None of us would,” he said, quietly. “I think—I know it hurt him.”

“And you still did it?”

Saturn didn’t answer him. “I’ll go tell the rocky planets,” he said instead, gliding away before Jupiter could say anything else. He followed his progress for several seconds, mouth thinned as disappointment curled tight around his core. And then he turned back to Caelus and Neptune with a sigh, dipping down to pick Caelus up in his arms even as Neptune reacted, pushing to his feet.

“I’ll take him as far as my orbit, and you can bring him to his.”

Neptune nodded, the smile that returned just a tad more genuine than the last.

Caelus was barely a weight within his arms, for all that it mattered. Nor did he react, though the wide-open, empty set of his eyes made his core constrict with sadness.

He shifted his weight just enough to close Caelus’s eyes.

He fixed his grip on him before continuing on, aware of Neptune just behind him; and then he realized he could ask Neptune about the name as well—he’d been the one to bring it up, after all. “So, Neptune,” he said, swinging his head around to catch Neptune’s eyes. He’d been staring at Caelus, guilt clear within them. “Caelus?”

He jerked his head towards him, nodding rapidly. “Yep! It was—he wanted us to call him that because he didn’t—didn’t like Ur-anus anymore, and Planet W was the one who gave him the idea, and I tried—I messed up,” he said, stumbling over his words. Jupiter gave a single raised eyebrow to the name Planet W before deciding it wasn’t worth the question. “And I know he doesn’t want to be my friend anymore, but I thought I’d… bring it up to the Sun for him!” He twisted his hands together, smile faltering. “Because I didn’t listen to him before, but I will now! Because he’s my friend—my family. Even if he doesn’t… see it that way.”

Jupiter wondered if Caelus could hear this all, if he was still there beneath the lost facade that’d settled over him.

“I’m sure he’d thank you for that.”

Neptune blinked—not like he usually did, one eye at a time, but normally—and gave a sad frown. “I should have done it before,” he said, his tone of voice downtrodden in a way Jupiter wasn’t quite used to hearing from him.

They passed through the Asteroid Belt quietly.

On the other side, they were met with several of Caelus’s moons—they’d obviously pushed to their limits to get this far, because Jupiter could see several of them panting, collapsing against each other the moment they saw him. “Uranus!” One of them—Oberon, he thought—called out, one hand reaching out.

“Caelus,” Jupiter corrected. “His name is Caelus, now.”

Titania’s expression made a curious spasm. “Caelus,” she muttered, almost too quiet to hear.

Jupiter chose to turn to Neptune and ignore the moons for the moment. “Take Caelus back to his orbit,” he said. “Bring his moons with you. They might need a break from moving on their own.” Neptune nodded, sliding Caelus’s arm around his shoulders, allowing the moons to collapse into the fluff of his jacket hood. “And… keep an eye on him. Tell me if anything changes. I’m still not sure what’s happened, and I don’t want…”

He didn’t want Caelus to be irrevocably hurt.

This entire situation was partly his fault, after all. If he hadn’t lied for so long…

Jupiter shook off the thought, waving Neptune off as he glided away, humming something quietly. “Stay safe,” he called after them, rewarded with an actual smile from Neptune, his eyes closing with the force of it.

“A-okay, Young Peter!”

He gave a single laugh before settling within his orbit, determined to wait for Saturn and get to the bottom of this. They’d tried not to lie to each other before, and he’d rather not start the trend now.

Titania felt tired.

She could see the rest of the moons gathered a short distance away, playing one of their games again, the ones she never joined in.

“I thought we’d be better off without you,” she managed to whisper after several moments, far too aware of Caelus’s still form behind her. She couldn’t look away from the rest of the moons. Several of them still wouldn’t look her in the eyes, and she could see the blame in theirs’ clear as day whenever they looked at her. How could she miss it? It was the same blame reflected in her own thoughts. She was the one who’d made them all leave. She was the one who’d ignored Oberon’s objections.

“So why aren’t we?”

Titania almost wanted to say something else, but the words escaped her, disappearing into the black hole that’d taken up home in her core. Instead, she squeezed her eyes shut and buried her face into her shoulder, covering the rest of her face with one hand as the tears began to fall silently, dripping down her cheeks without mercy.

She just wanted to make everything right.

Why could she never manage it?

Titania was just as much of a failure as she’d decried her planet to be.