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Sunlight is often associated with beauty.
They talk of how yellow rays envelop them in a cocoon, how their skin registers the warmth with such familiarity. They write of how light dances on an inphernal’s figure, how it softens their visage. How, under sunlight, everything comes to life. It has become only natural to associate colors with vitality—and only by bathing under that golden glare can one truly appreciate such radiance.
Subspace, naturally, disregards such notions. They are everything that disgusted him: sentiment, emotion, vulnerability. Useless concepts, unworthy of his attention, for his focus is directed towards advancing on the pathway to achievement. They are all below him.
Yet, some things are better understood by experiencing them firsthand.
It begins with an alarm blaring at 8 a.m. sharp.
The incessant ringing grates against Subspace’s right ear like a particularly annoying drill bit. Gradually, the signs multiply—a light weight of the blanket on his lower half of the body, his head limp against the pillow, arms closing around air, fingers twitching in response to the loss of a warmth that had already slipped away. He opens his eyes, blearily, glazed with languor. There is a dent beside him. Just minutes—perhaps hours ago—there existed a grounding presence right in that spot.
Of course he’s awake.
Subspace lets out a small groan, drawing back his arms. His cheek sinks further into the pillow, eyes unfocused, gazing at a particular rumple in the bedsheets. He contemplates falling back into sleep. Setting an alarm and waking at this specific time of the morning, punctual, daily, is nothing more than a result of his days in Blackrock, ingrained into his bones. Old habits die hard.
Away from Blackrock, there is little to do. The reality of the situation has slowly settled within him in an almost laughable way—the Great Subspace T. Mine, now reduced to a quiet, no-good existence, taking up space within these four walls that are not his own. Jarring was the change. Stripped away were his achievements. What is left after the transformation is an unsettling emptiness where ambition once gnawed against his ribs—a hole temporarily filled with placid moments. The image of a chaotic, dimly lit laboratory; the expectations masked as praise; the ceaseless drive to create; all seem peculiarly distant to him now. The rush is gone; everything waits for him.
There is, clearly enough, nothing to do.
He closes his eyes. Not to submit to slumber, but to simply rest.
(He will get up, eventually—either Medkit wakes him up, or he voluntarily does.)
The door creaks, the sound echoing within the confined space, momentarily breaking the fragile quietude. It halts when the gap is enough to take a peek of the room within. Subspace’s fingers tighten around the sheets, his body going rigid. He can feel Medkit's gaze boring into him, still against the doorway. Seconds pass by. Footsteps draw closer to Subspace, eventually ending near his side of the bed. Subspace dares not to open his eyes.
A pause. A hand goes down to gently rest on his head, almost hesitant in how stock-still it is. Fingers clench, barely, digging further into the soft locks, the moment Subspace accidentally lets out a small hitch of breath. Medkit stands there for seconds, dragging into minutes, until he draws back his hand. A small huff of breath, mostly exasperated, escapes his lips—he knows. Subspace holds his breath. Yet Medkit never calls him out. Instead, he walks away from the bed, to the door, his steps slower than usual—a deliberate drag of feet, making sure his footsteps are audible within the four walls. He lingers at his destination.
An invitation.
The door shuts with a soft click.
It takes a few moments for Subspace to rise from the comfort of the bed. Sheets pool around his waist; the mattress dips under his weight. He blinks away the last remnants of sleep. The cool air grazes his skin as he fully gets down from the bed, sending a small shiver through him. His steps are rigid as he moves—a delay; a slight dissonance between his muscles and his instincts as they get used to the sudden motion.
The apartment is average: beige walls surrounding his peripheral vision; furniture in monochrome shades; belongings neatly categorized and positioned with an almost robotic precision. Small streaks of individualism are carefully hidden, blending into the normalcy of it all unless one looks closer—a picture of Medkit and his old coworkers, a few pots of plants here and there—the only proof of life in this apartment. Subspace navigates through the space with unsettling familiarity.
The door to the balcony is closed, but the glass does little to hide Medkit.
Subspace opens the door, eyes wincing at the sudden harsh light. Instinct drives him to take a step back and bring up a hand to shield his eyes. Sunlight was one of the many things that Subspace has a hard time getting used to—notably because of how the rays burn on his skin, how it pierces through the thin layers of his eyelids, and how intense it is. It is unlike the soft, dim lights of Blackrock laboratories. This is bright. Too bright, in fact.
He makes out the figure of Medkit through half-lidded eyes. Medkit is leaning on the railing, eyes fixed elsewhere below, on the streets. He barely reacts when Subspace walks in, but Subspace can’t help but catch the slight tensing of his muscles. Almost like expecting. Waiting.
“Ugh, it’s so sunny! Meddy, can’t we go inside?” Subspace complains, a scowl forming on his face.
Medkit slowly turns back, features betraying none of his emotions. A flicker of something, however, passes his eye—acknowledgement, realization, perhaps? He doesn’t reply immediately. But he lets out a breath—not entirely a sigh, a bit closer to a laugh, but not quite there yet. An expression laced with mostly resignation, and something undeniably soft.
“Subspace,” Medkit begins, his voice in that low, monotone level that Subspace is too familiar with already, “You’re not a vampire. The sun won’t hurt you.”
“Clearly, it is hurting my eyes!” Subspace groans. He clicks his tongue in an attempt at protest, the reaction failing to get a reaction out of the other party. Begrudgingly, he takes one step forward, then another. Until he is beside Medkit, still cursing about the sunlight under his breath.
It is at that moment Subspace makes the grave mistake of glancing at Medkit.
Sunlight has softened his sharp features, smoothened the faint traces of exhaustion often visible on his visage. Light dances on his horns, exposing the vivid teal color, making the shade seem less grey than it usually is. Yet the light never reaches his eye, as always. It is empty, unfocused, watching the bustle and hustle of Crossroads with barely masked disinterest. Whatever runs through that mind of his is carefully shielded behind that soulless look. Despite this, there are cracks at times—invisible to the naked eye. A sharper edge to his usually detached voice, sometimes laced with dry sarcasm. A slight narrowing of his eye. An eyebrow raised. Such signs of annoyance and irritation are carefully noted and catalogued in Subspace’s mind—who, after years of feeding off Medkit’s sour mood, is too well-versed in. He can detect Medkit’s frustration like second nature.
But being soft, guard down—even just scarcely—especially with and around Subspace, never fits Medkit. Especially now.
An unfamiliar feeling runs through Subspace’s spine, making him shiver. A sensation that, ironically enough, feels horrifyingly like… warmth?
“What?” Medkit faces him, an eyebrow raised, noticing the prolonged stare.
As if dragged out of a trance, Subspace’s eyes go wide, legs staggering back. He blinks, taking a sharp breath in, the weight of what he had just done crashing down on him.
He had just admired Medkit.
Medkit tilts his head, an almost questioning gaze in his eye.
“Subspace?” He calls again.
Subspace flinches before immediately putting on a scowl. With arms raised, he steps back, putting even more distance between them.
“Shut up!” Subspace yells. “Don’t say a word about that! Ever!”
Medkit narrows his eye. “About the stare—”
“No!” Subspace cuts him off as he turns his head away. “Just— shut up! Why would you even look like—stupid, pathetic—”
Between the incomprehensible curses being spit out, Medkit stands still, realization dawning upon him. There is a small tug of his lips, a flicker of amusement passing his usually blank face. He lets the cursing continue for a few more moments. Enough for Subspace to calm down.
When silence is restored between them, Medkit turns back to the streets below. As if nothing had happened, and Subspace’s panic was nothing more than static noise. Subspace exhales a ragged breath. He squeezes his eyes shut, letting the quiet settle into his skin, numbing away the humiliation of being caught in such a vulnerable state. An echo of the past Subspace returns, when he opens his eyes again—loud, obnoxious, and indisputably annoying. It is not as effective as the real thing, but a defense is a defense, regardless.
Never again.
That is what he often reminds himself of, whenever he does something he regrets—until he inevitably does it again.
Subspace leans against the railing, mimicking Medkit. His eyes zeros in on the view below, following Medkit’s gaze: traffic on his right, buildings on his left, strangers below, the blue sky above. Ordinary, mundane, uneventful. And boringly repetitive.
“So boring,” Subspace sighs dramatically, the motion jarringly alien to him. The words ring out, biting, an obvious jab, yet it brings little to no satisfaction. A practiced action. Hollow, rehearsed, repeated. “Are you seriously standing here just to watch these peasants moving around?”
Medkit closes his eye for a pause. When he opens it again, it locks gaze with Subspace, almost immediately. A hint of exhaustion, not from work, is visible between the small wrinkles where his eye narrow.
“Aren’t you tired of being so noisy?”
The next biting remark dies in Subspace’s throat. The reply is expected, as always. Were it in the past, it would barely deter him—instead, it would serve as a drive to continue annoying Medkit, feeding off the little scraps of reluctant attention.
And yet.
Subspace’s lips tighten into a thin line, twisting into a small scowl. He breaks eye contact with Medkit, refusing to face him again, eyes decidedly fixed on a random building like it holds the secrets of the universe. But he stands closer to Medkit.
A breeze glides through Subspace’s hair, tousling it slightly. He lets out a small yelp, fingers coming up to brush the bangs away from his eyes.
A cold touch lands on his face first. Subspace freezes.
Medkit brushes a longer strand of hair away from Subspace’s forehead, tucking it behind his ears. Fingers, hesitant, brush against Subspace’s, as his hand falls to his side. The touch is light, barely a graze, enough for one to disregard it as merely an accident. But not for Medkit—never. Medkit, the one whose eye had once held such burning contempt against him. Medkit, the one who would flinch away upon noticing just a faint hint of Subspace’s presence. Medkit, his enemy. His ex-colleague. The opposite of the same coin, everything Subspace lacks to be. Their eyes meet for a moment—Subspace’s wide ones against Medkit’s equally shocked one, as if he didn’t expect himself either.
Before Subspace can stop himself, his hand shoots out, clamping around Medkit’s in an almost painful hold. Medkit’s hand tenses against his. He freezes, fingers awkwardly rigid. A second passes by in contemplation, and his muscles relax, palm resting more comfortably in Subspace’s grasp.
A beat of silence. Subspace is the one to break it, again.
“Your hand is too stiff,” Subspace complains, but the words lack their usual bite, “Too cold. Like a glacier. Disgusting.”
“You’re literally having a death grip on me.” Medkit replies, his voice a fraction softer. He makes an attempt to pull away, but Subspace, despite his earlier words, tightens his grip. A sigh escapes him.
They stand there, bathing in the soft glow of the morning, quiet breaths momentarily filling the air. Subspace slightly tilts his head down, letting his messy hair fall over his face—a makeshift curtain veiling the growing heat spreading from his nape. Shame bubbles in his stomach. He doesn’t mean to go soft. He looks down to their intertwined fingers, his thumb mindlessly rubbing circles on the smooth span of Medkit’s skin. No one asked him to dart his hand out, and keep a firm grip on Medkit’s palm, just like that—
His thoughts come to a stop, as Medkit slowly removes his hand. The cool air settles back in Subspace’s palm, the loss of contact rendering him stunned. He raises his head, barely, expecting anything, but never to see Medkit looming over him. Medkit’s eye widens slightly as Subspace faces him, a rare glint of surprise flickering in them as he is taken off guard.
A retort is prepared on Subspace’s tongue, “Meddy, what—”
Medkit leans in closer. He stops himself for a second, reluctant in his movements. Uncertainty flashes through his features, until lips press on Subspace’s forehead, lingering for a moment longer than necessary. The world takes a pause.
A jolt runs through Subspace’s spine. The initial shock leaves behind an echo of fluster and embarrassment, vibrating within his ribs, rooting his feet to the ground with how overwhelming the sensation is. His head stays low, daring not to ruin the moment, to make this delicate, odd truce between them more awkward than it already is. His mouth is pressed shut into a thin line. It is an odd thought, but just mere noise, any type, felt too explosive for such fragility.
Medkit draws back, lips hovering above Subspace’s skin for a split second. He refuses to directly face Subspace, gaze landing on a specific strand of the other party’s hair instead. A choked gasp manages out of Subspace. A delayed reaction.
“Meddy,” Subspace says breathlessly, shocked eyes zero in on Medkit, “What was that?”
Medkit bites his lips. A frown gradually forms on his face, clashing harshly with the blush visible on the tips of his ears.
“That was—” Medkit pauses, contemplating his next words. He takes in a deep breath, the words seemingly painful to tumble out of his throat, “That was… nothing. An impulsive action. Ignore it.”
“I can’t just do that!” Subspace’s eyes narrow, before an astounded expression makes its way onto his face as Medkit walks back into the house. His steps are slow, yet the motion is done with unfitting impatience that leaves one questioning the true intention of the sudden leave.
“Stop right there! Where do you think you’re going?!”
“I’m going back in.” Medkit responds curtly, as if that wasn’t obvious enough. Beyond the nonchalant image, however, Subspace catches the small cracks, imperceptible to the normal eye—tense steps, heavy with the lingering implications of his actions; the stiff posture; the way his head hangs down slightly; and the faint edge of fluster accompanying his voice.
Subspace stands speechless, frozen by the audacity. When Medkit reaches the doorway, he turns back. The blush is more apparent on his face now, the pinkish hue dusting his cheeks with uncharacteristic tenderness. Eyes narrow as a response to the glare from Subspace, a feeble attempt at rebuilding the once-presenting animosity between them. An introduction of something familiar in this uncharted territory, a respite amidst the mess they found themselves tangled in.
Medkit turns away. He wordlessly leaves the door open.
Subspace keeps the glare directed at Medkit’s retreating figure, the gaze weakening as footsteps draw further from him. He lowers his head, raises his hand, fingertips brushing against the spot Medkit has just kissed him. A faint heat creeps on his cheeks. He takes one last glance at the sun, scowls, and clicks his tongue. The door shuts behind him as he follows Medkit back inside.
The sun’s glare seems softer since then.