Chapter Text
I think something’s wrong with me.
It’s more of a feeling than a tangible thing. A kind of ache in my chest, a buzz under my skin. It just sits there—it’s been sitting there—and I don’t know what to do with it.
I should be happy. And I am, I really am. I’m reunited with my best friend, we figured out a way for me to not die (even if it doesn’t taste so good), and the Beetles are on their way home to save Earth. And yet.
My eyes come back into focus and I realize how dim the lights have gotten. I rub my hands up and down my arms subconsciously—new habit, I guess—before rising from the pilot’s seat and hurrying down the ladder to the dormitory.
In the weeks since we’ve begun our trip to Erid, we’ve implemented a few new changes. The first being the lights; at Rocky’s request, I programmed the ship to brighten and dim the lights on a 24-hour cycle, so I won’t forget to sleep. He’s pretty sick of pestering me about it. Which is fair.
Second, we have movie nights now; we’ll curl up as close as we can through the xenonite divider and find something to watch on my computer. So far, we’ve gotten through the full Alien franchise and all of the Star Wars movies. I might show him all the spinoff series sometime, but tonight I’m in the mood for something else. I need a good distraction from… whatever’s been going on with me lately.
…
“What is Fellowship of the Ring, question?”
I flash Rocky a sly smile as I adjust my pillows along the xenonite wall. “Well, you asked for it.” I clear my throat for dramatic effect and begin rattling off all my nerd knowledge.
“Fellowship of the Ring is the first in the Lord of the Rings trilogy, which was originally a book trilogy published all the way back in the 1950s. And It’s been one of my favorite stories for basically my whole life. Basically, it’s about this world called Middle-Earth, and there’s these things called the Rings of Power, and the power is seemingly distributed equally among all the races—that’s humanity, elves, and dwarves, the hobbits don’t get any rings—but then it turns out that an additional super evil ring was secretly made by a super evil guy, and it causes all sorts of problems for Middle-Earth, so they have to—” I cut myself off. I’m rambling now, and the prologue is just gonna reiterate everything I’m saying anyways. I gotta say, though, info-dumping about nerdy stuff is a great distraction from—
“Actually!” I continue, burying the thought. “I’ll just let Galadriel explain it to you.” With that, I press play.
Rocky tilts his carapace in confusion at the new word, but says nothing.
I pull my blanket around my shoulders and lean back against the xenonite wall. Rocky folds four of his legs under his carapace, leaving the fifth one out to point his gun—I mean texturizer thing—at the movie screen so he can “watch” along with me. Well, I say movie screen, but it’s really just my computer propped up on a lab stool. Oh well.
As the opening notes of the main title play, I notice that the feeling is back. It’s an incessant buzz under my skin now. I pull the blanket tighter around myself, rubbing my hands up and down my arms. It helps, a little. My right arm wraps around my waist and squeezes tight. My left hand settles on the right side of my jaw. I’ve been doing that a lot lately.
Focus on the movie.
We’re on the scene where Frodo reads in the field. I turn to Rocky and point at the screen. “Look, there’s the trees I was telling you about!”
“Good good good!” Rocky trills. “What is medium-rough texture thing on floor, question?”
I’m confused for a moment before I realize what he’s talking about.
“Oh! That’s called grass. It’s a really small type of plant that grows in a lot of places. The individual plants are very small, but they grow in large quantities. So a blade of grass is the singular plant, but a field is a whole bunch of it!”
“Amaze. Earth life fascinating.”
I smile, rubbing my arm a little. “Yeah, it is.”
On my computer screen, Frodo launches himself onto Gandalf’s cart and throws his arms around him, grinning into his shoulder as their bodies press together.
I flinch like I’ve been struck as a frisson of longing yanks at my chest. My skin is ablaze with sudden, all-consuming need—a need need need. My heart physically hurts. I need someone to wring the ache out of it. I wrap my arms tighter around myself and squeeze. It’s not enough. Not by a long shot.
Everything is harsh and sterile and unforgiving. It’s all made of metal or plastic or xenonite. I want something soft and warm and safe. I need pressure on my skin. I need—
Oh.
Oh.
The word that’s eluded me for weeks finally hits me: I'm touch-starved. Like, colossally so.
Not much I can really do about that, seeing as the only other life form on this ship can never come into contact with my atmosphere, and the nearest human beings are moving further and further away with each passing second.
Back on Earth, I was never the most touchy-feely person. I realize now just how much I took all those little touches for granted, and I mentally kick myself. I was literally constantly surrounded by other humans, a whole planet full of them, and did nothing about it.
And now I'm stuck in this stupid, sterile ship, forever kept from my best friend by a stupid divider wall because of our stupid evolutionary differences.
“Grace, question?" comes Rocky's voice from behind me. “You are okay, question?”
I realize that the room has grown very blurry. I sniffle loudly and wipe my face before turning to him, even though I know it makes no difference to him. “Yeah,” I try to say, but my voice is all garbled by the tears. I clear my throat and try again. “I’m fine.” I smile with a reassurance I don’t feel. I know it’s not convincing. “What do you think of the movie so far?”
Rocky is quiet for a moment. Then he says, “Rocky like movie.”
I smile weakly. “Good. I’m glad.”
“…But Rocky enjoy movie more if Grace also enjoy.”
I clear my throat again, a little on edge now. “I am enjoying the movie. I told you, this is one of my favorites.”
“But you are leaking.”
I heave a frustrated sigh and hit the pause button a little harder than I need to. “Yeah, that’s just a thing that happens sometimes. Can we just watch the movie, please?”
That came out a bit harsher than I intended. Rocky is silent. I open my mouth to apologize and then stop myself. I gingerly hit play again.
Get it together, Ryland.
But the universe has other plans because it hates me.
Onscreen, Bilbo’s door swings open. The hobbit in question lights up as he recognizes his old friend, and he runs to him with open arms. Gandalf kneels to his level and they meet in the middle, cheek to cheek and chest to chest, happy in the familiar wrap of each other’s arms.
Don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t think about it—
But it’s grown past conscious thought; it’s a physical craving, a need. I’ve been miles deep in water for so long and only just now realized how much my lungs have been screaming for air. And it hurts.
I shiver involuntarily and my hands have started shaking and everything is wrong. The room grows blurry again and I blink back the tears forcefully, clearing my throat a little too loudly. I clench my jaw to try to stop my lip from trembling. Maybe if I’m really quiet and stay really still, Rocky won’t notice and I can keep pretending that this isn’t agony.
But the tears keep coming and I can’t blink them back fast enough, and my chest spasms despite me holding my breath, and it’s all spilling over all at once and I can’t let it do that so I dart my hand up to my face to swipe the tears away but I’m not fast enough and before I can even register what’s happening a pathetic whine escapes me and I—I can’t—
“Grace…” comes Rocky’s voice.
“Can you just drop it?” I snap, voice raw. “I don’t wanna talk about it!”
I regret the words as soon as they’re out. Rocky's carapace sags, and my chest aches. I hit pause again, and Gandalf and Bilbo freeze in place at the kitchen table. I swallow hard.
“I'm sorry.” I keep my voice low and quiet. “I didn’t mean to snap at you like that.”
“Is okay,” says Rocky softly. “I just worried about you, friend Grace. Want to help, if I can. If you let me.”
I don’t know what to do about that. A sob escapes, and I don’t know what to do about that, either. I scrub my face tiredly and tense up my body to control the shaking. I pointedly ignore the fact that it’s not helping at all. I am not going to break down.
“Sorry.”
Rocky tilts his carapace toward me and rests a hand on the divider, saying nothing. I lean my forehead against it, sniffling. The wall is a little warmer where he’s touching it.
Stop thinking about it.
But now I'm thinking about thinking about it, which means I'm thinking about it, and I can feel my heart hammering out of my chest and the tears pressing at my eyes, and the way my whole body feels like it’s moments away from coming completely undone, and Rocky will see and feel guilty about it which is gonna make me feel guilty about it and then we’ll spend the next four years avoiding talking about it and he’ll probably resent my nondisclosure and—
There’s a very simple solution here, Ryland. I take a deep breath.
“Do you remember what I was telling you,” I begin with a wobbly voice. “…About how humans express affection through touch?”
Rocky tilts his carapace. “Remember.”
“Well, there’s more to it than just that. Humans… we need physical touch to survive. Skin to skin contact releases oxytocin, a hormone that tells our whole body to relax, because it means we’re safe.” My voice cracks and I force it back into submission. “New parents have to touch their babies constantly because it's important to their development. And if we go too long without any physical contact… we get a little depressed. Or… a lot depressed.”
Rocky is quiet for a moment. “Oh,” is all he says.
“Yeah.”
We sit in silence for a while. “Thank you for telling me,” he finally says.
“Yeah.” I don’t lift my eyes from the floor. The floor is safe. As long as I stare at the floor, I am in control.
“…Why you no tell me sooner, question?”
My chest squeezes tighter with shame. I look up. “I didn’t want to make you feel guilty.”
“Why I feel guilty, question?”
I sigh. “‘Cause there’s nothing you can do about it. It’s not like we can ever safely touch each other, we learned that the hard way.” I run my fingers over the scar and chuckle wistfully. “And I won’t be going home for a long, long time, or maybe ever. Which means… no physical contact for me.” My voice pitches up against my will, dangerously close to breaking. I clear my throat forcefully.
“But that was my choice, and I don’t have any regrets, I promise. This is just a…” I flounder for the right word. Consequence? Side effect? Symptom?
“…Result of that choice,” I finish. “And I'll get over it eventually. I have to.”
We’re quiet for a moment.
“Understand,” Rocky says at length. “Rocky need time to think.”
My throat grows impossibly tighter. “Okay,” I choke out.
Then Rocky stands and scuttles into the lab in silence. Anxiety squeezes my chest.
I did it wrong. I said too much and now he feels guilty for keeping me from Earth and he probably resents me for not telling him sooner, and it’s not like he can do anything to help, so I just overshared for no reason at all. Bad bad bad.
The room tilts. I thrust out a hand to catch myself, swaying into the xenonite divider. Is there something wrong with the engines? Did the Taumoeba get loose again somehow? Is all the fuel gone? Are we—
Hang on. No power systems seem to be offline, and there would be alarms going off if something was wrong with the ship. Mary’s fine. As for me… well.
I force myself to turn away from the hatch where Rocky disappeared a few minutes ago. I slowly hug the spare pillow to my chest and burrow into my bedding, taking deep, hitching breaths to steady myself.
I’m never going to be touched again.
There’s something so brutal about the sheer simplicity of the fact. There’s nothing complicated about it. I’m not going home, and Rocky and I have incompatible atmospheres. Simple as that. Nothing to be done.
A quiet sob leaks out between the cracks. I try to suppress it, but I’m too tired to fight it anymore.
I come undone.
I just want to be held.
I want to be pulled into the wrap of someone’s arms, warm and soft and safe. I want to be cradled to someone’s chest and fall asleep to the sound of their heartbeat. I want slow and gentle fingers to trail down my arms and back and through my hair.
I want, I want, I want.
I gasp for air as my chest convulses, my whole body going limp. Tears crowd my vision and pour down my face, unhindered. I cough and sniffle and pull the pillow tighter to my chest, to my rapidly beating heart. A low whimper escapes my lips and I quickly bury my face in the pillow in shame.
Shut up! I scream at myself. Rocky can hear you and you’ve already burdened him enough! This thought, of course, only serves to make my cry harder, each strangled, broken noise an apology for the one before.
I really am just a useless leaky space blob. A pathetic excuse for a human.
As if choosing to give up any chance of human contact weren’t bad enough, I just had to go and make a mess of my relationship with Rocky, too. I really do ruin everything.
I push my face deeper into the pillow. It has no arms to return my embrace.
It’s not enough.