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The sky is dark outside the small oval window next to the seat he’s cramped on, but organised runway lights and blinding beams seeping from the nearby airport buildings keep things bright enough to hide the stars. Such was the era of man, of science, to have beaten back something unsuited to themselves, carving unto it their elegant will and all that, in the words of a certain someone else. Not that it mattered particularly to him at this time. Because—still, underneath the glinting light, it is definitely still night; day gone by and Stanley had watched it go: from the moment he woke at an ungodly hour before dawn, reporting for duty to the usual rough training and strict patrols, sun rising, stalling, falling with every passing hour to have made it to its current dormancy. Despite it all, he has yet to sleep.
Shuffling in the limited space, fortunately free of any carry-ons, he resists a groan; he is used to it—it, and far worse conditions—but he is still in for a long haul. A light buzz draws his attention. In his hand is his phone, warm from having been held against his palm for too long and soon to be disabled to ensure no interference with finicky navigation systems, and he stares at blue chat logs against a wall of white. 12:01 AM, it reads, demurely at the top right of the screen. The time is about right. It is night.
“goodnight,” he types out, careful to make sure the reply sends before he cuts the connection and turns off the device, stashing it deep in his pocket.
Inside the small pouch, his hand moves to finger the cardboard next to his phone, tracing along its worn edges before pulling out that box of chewing tobacco. Shaped into cigarettes, they could almost pass as the real thing. The last stick slides around gently in the pack when he shakes it. An announcement rings through the plane; they are to depart soon. He closes his eyes, does not take it out, and does not sleep.
—
Flipping open his wallet, Stanely pays the driver for the ride, stepping out onto the pavement. When he pushes the door shut, the car speeds off in the next second, exhaust curling under the midday sun, and, for a moment with the prop in his mouth, it’s like he’s smoking.
In the distance, a research institute stands. Stanley blinks slowly and inhales, starting the long walk, savoring the taste all the while. Bitter and rich, the trek there feels both long and short. When he reaches the glass doors, he spits it out, tossing it into the bin next to him before walking inside. The box had been discarded the instant he had taken out the last stick after landing.
Familiar clean walls and high ceilings greet him, and he nods hello at the receptionist, who smiles warmly.
“Here to visit again, Mr. Snyder?” she asks, cheerfully clacking away at her keyboard, already starting on the logging.
“Yeah,” he states, blandly, staring at the clock behind her. It is 11:50 AM. A little late.
Unbothered by his monosyllabic response, she enters something into the system with a flourish and pulls out forms from behind her for registration.
“Here you are!” She slides the papers to him and hands him a pen, pointing, “Just sign here and here.” Stanley looks at her, and she blinks a few times before lighting up in understanding.
“Even though it’s not actually that often, you’ve been here enough times for me to figure the rest out,” she explains. A mischievous twinkle is in her eyes when she winks at him. “Wouldn’t want paperwork to hold up your time with the busy doctor!” Pen already moving, he discreetly glances at her nametag.
“Thank you, Ms. Connie.” He puts the pen down after signing and turns without ado into a hallway, throwing a backward hand in farewell when she shouts goodbye.
Footsteps don’t echo as he makes his way through the facility, passing discussion rooms and labs still teeming with people, both neck deep in work and filtering out for lunch. Smoothly avoiding those milling about, he continues on his pre-determined path forward. His heart rate is as steady as his pace, and he isn’t in a hurry.
“Dr. Xeno looks happy today,” he hears someone say from a room up ahead. “Did one of his projects get approved?”
“Impossible,” another refutes, the scientist coming into view as she exits a lab, talking to the person behind her. “Those at the top would never agree to fund his proposals. He probably slept well or something.”
“Really? But some of them are—” Their voices fade to incoherent murmurs as Stanley walks past them, and he struggles to keep his face blank. So he knew.
Stanley does not knock when he pushes open the door at his destination. A cup of coffee, mouthpiece stained, sits on the table next to him, smirk on his face, and something inside him loosens.
“What an elegant surprise, Stan,” he says in that self-assured way of his, and Stanley has never wanted more than to seal his little mouth. But Stanley is nothing if not a disciplined soldier, a patient man, so he only takes a step forward and places a hand under the man’s chin, still shorter than him despite being atop the table, tilting it upwards slightly to inspect his face. The features are just as he remembers. Skin as pale as moonlight, round eyes darker than the night—home to the stars absent in the sky. His thumb caresses his cheek, a faint skim he’s sure he can barely feel.
“Xeno,” he says, coolly, phantom touch on his fingertips and persistent itch in his heart. He grits his teeth in a smile, and Xeno’s eyes curve evilly. Stanley lets go abruptly and turns to the side. He needs a real smoke.
“I’m going for a smoke,” he announces, dully. “Come with me.”
Xeno chuckles, a low sound that marches up his heart rate, the sides of his lips curving upwards faster than he can stop. Catching the lighter and the cigarette thrown at him, he takes a deep breath. Xeno hops off the table, coffee in hand, and closes the distance between them again with a lifted eyebrow.
“You know you shouldn’t smoke so much. But, lead the way.”
—
Grass sways in the wind in the open area around them as they walk along the perimeter of the fence. Xeno’s voice, pleasant timbres wrapping around words he doesn’t register, filters in, a sweet melody lodging deep into the recesses of his skull. He knows it will ring in harmony with his laugh for the coming weeks. Stanley takes a deep drag from his cigarette, blowing out smoke, sending a haze into the surrounding air. Hands gesticulate under its dissipating veil, and he brings the coffee, now in his possession, to his lips, inhaling the too-warm liquid, bitter and rich—exactly how he likes it. He watches, intently, the grin on his face. The sky, curling with smoke; warmth, surging in his stomach; heart, itching once again. Sure enough, it is different.
“Xeno,” Stanley calls, holding out the cup. Xeno smiles despite being interrupted mid-sentence.
“It was for you, anyway.”
—
“Goodnight.” Stanley presses his lips to Xeno’s closed eyelid in the early morning. Xeno, snuggled in blankets, does not stir, as he has not for the entire night. Navigating the dim room, he moves to the window and closes the curtain. The sun has yet to rise. Still, he has yet to sleep.
He silently walks out of the room, shutting the door behind him. On the table in the middle of the room, the silhouette of a newly made cardboard box lay conspicuously. It’s deep in his pocket as he walks out of the house and deep in his pocket on the taxi ride to the airport.
When he’s finally in a cramped seat again, the sky is light outside the small oval window. He pulls out his phone, reading the text from more than a day ago. “Goodnight, Stan.”
Putting it in his pocket next to his new box of addiction, he closes his eyes to his night and a promise of stars.