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I’ve been thinking about horses lately.
Which is weird because a week ago, I arrived at an alien planet where I will presumably live out the remainder of my life. Also — and this is less pressing in the big scheme of things — I’m not actually a horse guy.
But here I am, upright thanks to preliminary medicine created by Eridians, wrapped in a beautiful quilt created by Earthlings, thinking, instead, about horses. Or, more specifically, horses’ mouths.
I know the turn of phrase don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, but I’ve never really thought too hard about it until now. Seriously, why would you tell someone not to look a horse in the mouth? Is it because horses’ legs tend to be more useful than their mouths? Do horses tend to be very bitey creatures? Maybe it’s a “my eyes are up here” kind of situation?
“Hey, Rock,” I call out from my bed. “Why do you think we shouldn’t look at horse mouths?”
No response.
“Hey, Rocky!” I repeat, louder this time, relishing in the fact I can even add that oomph to my voice again. Thanks to round-the-clock work by Eridian scientists, they’ve managed to synthesize a stop-gap for my general starvation, so no more active deterioration for this guy. But I’m still mostly bedridden while I regain my strength.
Heaven help me when I finally touch down to Eridian gravity and—oh my gosh I just remembered that Rocky’s down on Erid right now. I know I have a stupid human brain (Rocky’s words, not mine) but that particular lapse is a special level of embarrassing. I’m blaming it on the fact that we’ve just spent several years as inseparable roommates.
Anyway, duh. Rock’s gone planetside. The past several days have been a whirlwind for the guy. He finally returned to his home, the sole survivor of a mission his people feared had failed, only to immediately put the greatest minds to work to build a life for little old me. Increasing my nutrients, building an ecosystem to match my biological needs, creating protective suits so the Eridians could do those and other tasks successfully.
Oh, and lest I forget: resuming intimacy with his wonderful spouse, Adrian, which Rocky has regaled to me in excruciating specificity. Look, I’m happy for the guy. If the romance films we binged together on Mary taught me anything, it’s that if a star-crossed lover was separated from their beloved for half a century, they’re entitled to all the freaky rock sex they want.
Just…maybe don’t explain it to me in such graphic detail. I can never unhear those sounds. Between Shapiro with DuBois and Rocky with Adrian, I’m starting to suspect I am the only sensible scientist in the universe. Thank goodness I’ve run out of chances to become a starcrossed lover because that nonsense sounds exhausting.
Point is, Rocky’s back home with his people, while I’m settled into Erid’s orbit for the foreseeable future.
Which is totally fine by me. After four years with an inescapable roommate, it's a dream come true to have the ship to myself again. To be alone most hours of most days, punctuated only occasionally by a few Eridians who have bravely made the trip up their space elevator to visit my ship, usually to discuss some aspect of the project they’re researching on my behalf. Adrian is not among them, though Rocky assures me it’s just because his mate is extremely busy.
Rocky also swings by daily. It’s very kind of him to check in on me, given I always feel like he’s wishing he was back on Erid when he’s here. He’s never said anything of the sort, so I could be reading into it, maybe because a part of me wishes I was back — no, this is a stupid line of reasoning to go down. I'm having a great time up here with only Mary for company.
“Hey, Mary! Why don’t you think we should look at horse mouths?”
Invalid command
Real conversationalist, my ship. Though, speaking of gift horses and mouths, I guess I shouldn’t bemoan Mary’s lack of chat, what with her getting me and Rocky all the way to Erid safely and all. Heck, I think I might actually miss her when I’m planetside. The hum of the engines is a downright calming presence, the familiarity of the space is pleasant, and, well, I guess she’s the last bit of home I have left.
Anyway, safe to say that conversation is dead on arrival. It's up to me to entertain myself. I push to my feet, testing my weak leg muscles, and am proud to discover I can remain upright. Eesh, that’s a low bar. I’m forced to walk at a pace that would make a nursing home resident look downright speedy, but at least my ambulation is steady. Good. That’s progress.
The real test of strength is the ladder across the room. My arms are noodles at this point, entirely devoid of any strength I once had, machine-induced or otherwise. I grip the rung closest to my head and try to lift myself.
Christmas Eve, it hurts. My arms and legs tremble something fierce as I slowly lift myself up one rung, then down, then back up again. By the time I’ve finished ten reps, my whole body feels like it’s on fire. But I can do it.
That fact is good enough for me to put my mission plan in motion.
Is it a plan I’ve thought through? No. But hey, neither was my spacewalk retrieval of Blip-C all those years ago, and look how well that turned out. Anyway, compared to facing the dangers of space, this plan is practically a (space)walk in the park: go to the don’t-go-crazy room.
That’s it. Just: go to a room. Seems like a small task, but a while back, I’d hit a point on my taumoeba diet where I couldn’t really manage ladders anymore, so. Involuntary semi-lockdown it was. I needed to save my strength for an emergency, and I want to see a tree didn’t count. At this point, it’s been months since I got to enjoy anything on a screen bigger than my laptop.
Am I mission-ready? Probably not. My twig arms are still shaking from the test exertion. But right now I’m stir-crazy, lonely, and yeah, maybe a little homesick, so I think it’s worth the risk.
The walk down the hallway is bearable. The climb down the ladder? Uh. Let’s just say it might be a while before I head back up. I lay splayed on the floor, my breathing coming in shallow, awful wheezes that would have anyone who heard it doubting that I’m the same guy who saved two solar systems.
Still. A win’s a win. I’m gonna take it.
Catching my breath, I pretend to consider what scene I’m going to conjure up first, even though it’s no contest. The ocean. It’s always going to be the ocean. I sit up just long enough to tap in the request, laying back as the LCD panels flicker to life.
I taste salt water as the sound of waves rumbles across the room.
It’s amazing that Rocky is home. Each time he comes back to visit me, he’s managed to find something else he’s missed: foods, friends, places, songs. If we could figure out how to bottle the joy radiating off him, I think it could power space travel. I’d call it happy happy happy.
Seriously, even just hearing about his reunion with Adrian is enough for me to never regret my decision to turn around. According to multiple sources, Rocky was so excited to see his mate that he flung himself with such force it injured them both. The adoring couple might even share matching scars. Rocky was so eager to show me his injury that he was trembling with pride.
Heartache rushes in with the waves.
I’m fooling myself, of course. I didn’t have a partner, or a family, or even close friends, there was never going to be anyone waiting for me back on Earth. Besides, I left Earth a coward. As much as Stratt promises otherwise, I know how hard it can be for an institution to keep a secret: chances are everyone already knows I nearly sacrificed the planet out of my own fearful self-interest.
But the more I try to rationalize it away, the more the ache rolls in.
I miss the ocean. I miss the fog. I miss the way the autumn breeze ruffles my hair. I miss hot, spicy ramen on a chilly afternoon. I miss Melissa stealing fries off my plate at the bar. I miss my students chanting lava in our classroom. I miss snow, and Skittles, and, heck, even Stratt.
I miss it all.
I miss Earth.
I miss home.
Which is so stupidly selfish that I don’t know if I’m crying from nostalgia or narcissism. I’m glad Rocky’s gone right now, because how could I possibly explain this to him?
Yeah, buddy, I know you and your people are working tirelessly to build an entire environment on your planet to support one single human, but instead of being endlessly grateful on your behalves, I’m leaking tears because I won’t get to eat another ice cream sundae.
Bleh. Am I a hero or a lame kid at science camp begging to go home on the first night away? That’s no way for the co-savior of the solar system to act. I can be in my feels when I’m alone, but there’s no way on Earth — though I guess now it would be no way on Erid — Rocky can see anything beyond my undying, unyielding, unwavering love and gratitude.
I sit up, wiping away the simulated sea along with the salt on my cheeks. Easier to queue up a movie. It’s scientifically proven that you can’t be sad when Mamma Mia! is on. After all, Meryl Streep really can do anything.
— — —
I stare at a xenonite model of the pitched biodome, scrawling a note on its potential interior when a clunk behind me wrenches away my focus.
Grace messy! Rocky cries, his limbs splayed out beneath him. He’s up here today to test his new environmental suit, which looks like a slightly more articulated version of the suit he built me to visit his ship after our taumoeba celebration. While easier to use than the ball, there seems to be something of a learning curve that Rocky hasn’t yet summited. And I can safely say that because the only thing he tripped over is the lip of the hallway.
“Sure. Keep telling yourself that, buddy,” I laugh, trying not to think about how much easier it is to smile when he’s in the ship with me. Selfish, selfish, selfish.
Say in Erid!
“Aw, c’mon! Even though it’s just the two of us?”
Over the journey to Erid, Rocky and I have developed a reasonable method for me to ‘speak’ in Eridianese. It’s mostly just a piano app modified to include a little bit of whale-song in the piano tones. I’ll tap out notes on the computer and, voila, simulated Eridianese that Rocky describes as passable. Of course, Rocky’s always had a reasonable grasp of my language, and I haven’t needed a translator for him for years, but now that I’m going to be interfacing with other Eridians, it seems prudent.
Still, my translations are simplified at best. And I’m not really feeling it right now.
If Grace doesn’t practice, Grace forget. Rocky clacks around the lab in his new suit. The sound is so obnoxious I think I might just miss the ball. If Grace forget, Grace get dumb.
Grace not dumb, I tap out, then wave my finger in a circle in lieu of an eye roll. Since Rocky can’t always pick up on the intricacies of human faces, I’ve started including little hand motions instead, like a sort of sign language. Honestly, at this point I think we’ve both amended our languages in such strangely specific ways that it’s almost a shame that linguists from Earth and Erid can’t study the rare Hail Mary dialect.
Stop rolling eyes, Rocky chides. He reaches out toward my laundry, where a couple of shirts hang to dry. With this new suit, his hand is covered by a more intricate mesh, similar to the exchange panel on his ball, allowing him to more easily grasp the edge of the fabric.
Rocky usually plans his visits for earlier in Mary’s programmed circadian light cycles, so he’d already visited today. But he was so excited to show off his suit that he’s back. Gosh, does that make my stomach do all sorts of flips. I feel like a middle school girl, which is a real problem because, to state the obvious: I am not a middle school girl. I cannot be missing my best friend just because we don’t have third period together anymore.
I school my gut as I watch Rocky take hold of the shirt. It’s actually a pretty impressive range of motion, all things considered, except — wait. I just hung that shirt up to dry, I don’t want him messing with it!
“C’mon, Rock. I just—”
In Erid! Rocky chirps cheerfully. Little rascal.
I don’t even have time to bother remembering how to say the word laundry in Eridianese before Rocky yanks the shirt from its line. There is a squawk of triumph, followed immediately by a groan of disappointment as the shirt slips from the slick surface of the suit.
Sorry, sorry. Rocky will fix.
I stifle a laugh as I watch Rocky try to lift the shirt with one hand, only for his progress to be stymied because he’s standing on the hem.
“Rocky, no, it’s—”
Rocky fix.
“Yeah, but you’re—”
In Erid!
I scramble back to my laptop, pointing with one hand while using the other to type, Foot! Foot! Foot!
By now, Rocky’s flailing, arm moving up and down as the shirt keeps slipping from his grasp, presumably in part because he’s weighing it down with all of his several hundred pounds. The room is a terrible chorus of foot and fix as two of the brightest minds in space struggle to lift a shirt from the ground.
Finally, I give up on oral communication, opting instead to make my way to Rocky’s side and tap his xenonite-clad limb. My great plan only serves to startle Rocky. A third limb flies out, whacking me right in the shins and I crumple to the ground in defeat.
Good news: this is enough to get Rocky off my shirt.
Bad news: I’ve spent so much of the final portion of our journey undergoing similar starvation-based collapses that Rocky’s shifted gears into a panic, prodding me with the unfortunately pointy suit as he babbles.
Grace okay, question. Grace starving, question. Grace awake, question.
Grace okay, I sing this in Eridianese, waving until Rocky stops his panic-poking. Grace— but I’m cut off by my own laughter. If anyone saw us now, I think they’d be plenty justified in doubting if we were the ones to save our solar systems.
Help up, question, I finally hiccup, and Rocky obliges, reaching out a hand to help pull me upright.
I didn’t realize how much I missed casual touch until my fingers curl around his hand.
Sure, the xenonite webbing is hard and angular and we have an obvious finger mismatch, but in this moment, Rocky almost feels more real to me than he has this entire voyage. Without the soft give of muscle and skin to signal an excess of force, I find myself gripping his hand tightly. I also find I can’t bring myself to let go.
After a moment, Rocky pipes up. Grace…okay…question.
At this point, we’ve seen the worst of each other. All my biological functions, all my bad habits and worse moods, all my pathetic, snot-filled sobbing when overwhelmed by the void of space and the possible end to my journey. And yet, somehow this, the fact I can’t stop holding Rock’s hand, feels more shameful. I’ve gone almost my entire adult life without any sort of close connection, what’s gone so wrong with me that I’m faltering now?
I’m trying to work up an apology that won’t come with a side of cries when Rocky adds: Grace…want…hug, question.
And yes. Yes, I really do.
I can’t even trust myself to speak, so I just uncurl my fingers from his and open my arms. Rocky presses his body against my chest. Wrapping his arms around me takes a second, suit points digging into me while he wiggles around, testing arms and positions until finally — finally, I am in the closest thing to a reciprocated hug for the first time I can remember in a very, very long time.
Seriously, who was the last person on Earth to hug me? Was it Marissa, giving me one of our quick side-hugs in greeting? A kid from my class, crashing into me with misplaced parental affection? Surely it couldn’t have been my ex, right?
The tears come hot and fast as I cling to Rocky. He’s different from hugging a human — straight where there’s usually curves, hard where it’s usually soft — but he’s solid. He’s here. I think about how Rocky’s gotten the Eridian equivalent of this from his partner and his family and his friends and I choke back a sob that’s half gratitude, half envy.
Rocky pat. Like in movies, Rocky must not know what to do with himself as I make no move to release him. His “pats” knock the wind out of me, but I don’t let go, somewhat afraid now that if I do, it will be the last hug I ever receive. Logically, do I know this is complete bull crap? Yes. Emotionally? Well, it wouldn’t hurt to keep hugging Rocky.
Except, okay, technically it does hurt. Quite a bit. The multitude of small edges on the xenonite suit dig into me like a full-body torture device and every time Rocky wiggles, these crafty little spikes find new areas of my body to torment.
When I finally call defeat and pull away, my eyes and nostrils are streaming. Leaky space blob is an understatement right now. Worse, that sob I kept a lid on is threatening a forcible exodus. I barely keep it at bay with measured, shaky breaths.
Grace…okay…question, Rocky asks, voice so soft and gentle that my ramshackle defenses crumble like sandcastles.
The sound that escapes my lips is so embarrassingly pathetic that I almost want to throw myself out the airlock rather than have Rocky hear even a second more. Seriously, space will at least give me a quick death to spare the humiliation of a breakdown of this magnitude. The worst part is, I don’t even know why I’m crying, only that I am – wet and loud and awful.
Rocky must be experiencing a serious case of second-hand embarrassment because he scuttles out of the room. Can’t blame the guy. If I’d given up some of my precious Earth time to check in on my pet alien, only for said alien to wail incoherently, I would also be rethinking my decisions.
I’ll give Rocky this: it’s a lot easier to pull myself together without an audience. The cringe-worthy whimpering stops first, thank god, then the tears slow to a trickle. I retrieve my shirt from the floor to blow my nose: a gross but necessary move, since all paper products have been funnelled into managing other bodily functions.
Once calmed, I’m able to better listen for the beeps and hisses that signal Rocky’s entrance and exodus. Although he acts like the Hail Mary is mine and mine alone, the truth is it became as much Rocky’s home as mine, so he’s free to come and go as he pleases.
Right now, though, there’s no sound of anything. Dang, he must have scuttled quick to escape. That’s fine. That’s alright. Rocky’s a solid dude, I think we might be able to get away with never talking about this incident again when he comes back tomorrow.
I’m trying to decide whether or not there’s enough snot on the hem of my shirt to require I wash it again — being the only human on this crew has really lowered my standards of cleanliness — when I hear an odd clack, clack, clack, accompanied by what I can only describe as dragging.
I turn to find Rocky in the entryway, edge my quilt in his hand, the half draped haphazardly across his body, half dragging behind him. Oh. I guess he didn’t hightail it out of here after all. Another chaotic swarm of emotions I don’t want to poke through wells up in my throat, but I’m a little better at keeping it down.
For comfort, Rocky holds it up to me, and I’m only reminded a little of a child who needs a security blanket.
“Thanks, buddy,” my voice is hoarse from my unwarranted emotional display. I wrap the blanket around my bony shoulders anyway, if for nothing else than because I get cold a lot easier now. And Rocky’s right. The quilt does help.
Rocky taps his hands together, which makes an odd clinking sound in the suit. As his fingers twitch, I realize the motion is incredibly familiar: he seems to be instinctively xenonite sculpting, just sans his tools. This was often how we’d manage hard conversations during the voyage. Me with my back pressed against his habitat, Rocky with his fingers flying. Easier to talk about difficult things when the whole thing feels tangential to another project, I guess.
Grace want Rocky to stay, question. Rocky can watch Grace sleep.
This is the worst outcome. One where Rocky — despite pouring so much time and effort into building me a life on Erid — feels compelled to babysit me up in space instead of enjoy his home. I flush, glad that Eridians can’t perceive color the way we do.
“Nah, buddy. I don’t need that. I’m okay,” I wave a hand. Cool. Collected. A little dismissive. I push myself to standing, hoping to obfuscate my hammering heart in the process. Helps that I’m still weak enough that this approach isn’t entirely off base.
But–
I settle back down at my desk, waking the laptop again. Unlike my traitorous mouth, my Eridianese piano won’t betray emotion. Grace sleep good alone, my fingers lie. Grace sleep alone many year.
But Rocky—
Rocky watch Adrian, I wave another cool, collected, dismissive hand. Adrian watch Rocky.
I know our sleep cycles don’t line up so neatly. I know the measure of eight hours means something different to an Eridian. But I also know that after half a century away from home, surely every additional second counts.
This isn’t the first time Rocky’s asked if I need him to watch me sleep. He was hesitant to leave me here alone at all, just one reason I really need to be better at keeping my emotions bottled, though I do suspect some of the early attempts to stay were motivated by his own nerves about returning home. After all, he was the only survivor.
He hasn’t talked much about that, but it couldn’t have been easy. I know I would have dreaded meeting with Yao and Ilyukhina’s families if I’d gone back to Earth.
Beyond the survivor’s guilt, I think there might have been a question as to Adrian’s availability, but I still haven’t grasped all the intricacies of Eridian culture and I didn’t feel like hey, what are the odds your partner moved on while you were in space was good conversation material.
Once it became clear that Adrian had waited, well. Much easier to convince Rocky to leave the ship if he has people waiting for him planetside.
Besides, I sleep fine. I mean, I sleep. Sure, it’s harder to fall asleep, and yeah, it’s harder to stay asleep, but I can’t prove it’s because I’m sleeping alone. There are other variables to consider: my new taumoeba supplements, the ship’s lack of motion, and an overarching lack of something to do. All plenty of non-Rocky reasons for a reduction in sleep.
Promise Grace sleep well, question. Rocky, now by my side, pokes the question into my leg.
Ow. We really will need to talk about that suit design at some point.
I reach a hand down to pat the top of his carapace. Back on Earth, I don’t think I was ever this touchy. I guess several years in space with zero contact has shifted my baseline, at least for the time being. Sorry, not sorry, Rock.
Grace sleep good, I tap out, once again grateful for the mild and neutral whale-piano, Promise.
Maybe it’s the lie hanging over my head, or maybe it’s the fallout of a major emotional breakdown, but tonight, I don’t sleep a wink.
— — —
I am finally having the best sleep of my life.
See, I didn’t sleep much two nights ago, or the night before last, or last night, for that matter, which in aggregate has made me what Rocky would call stupid and what I would more kindly call forgetful. As in, I forgot to eat two of my three allotted meals and their corresponding supplements today. And then I decided to pass out somewhere that was not my bedroom.
I want it on the record that I think the general plan was a good one: if I could not comfort myself to sleep, why not bring sleep to comfort? Okay that came out stupid. Don’t let Rocky hear that explanation. Basically, I brought my quilt into the “don’t go crazy” room, turned ocean scenes on a loop, and allowed myself to be lulled to sleep by the familiar crash of the waves.
To refute Rocky’s stupid claim, I need to stress that this plan worked like a charm. When I closed my eyes, I could almost convince myself I smelled the sea breeze. And maybe it was just because it was white noise, or maybe because, for just a little while, I got to let myself pretend I was back on Earth, but I fell into the best sleep I’ve had since arriving at Erid.
Seriously, I slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep, the kind so good it’s hard to wake up from. And okay, fine, maybe some of that was also brought on by my weakened body, but at this point I’m not complaining. In fact, I don’t wanna wake up yet, Rock. Wanna go back to that sleep, don’t wanna—
—Rock, stop poking me. It’s not funny anymore, Rocky, I—
Ambient waves and whale-song coalesces into words I understand: Wake up! Wake up, Grace! Grace wake up!
My eyelids feel like they weigh a million pounds and the abyss of sleep beckons like a warm blanket after a rainy walk, but I manage to flutter my eyes open. Rocky is, well, there’s no good way to say it: he’s straddling me. It feels a bit like passing out during a house party and waking up under a table, which I would be more freaked out by if I wasn’t…so…sleepy…
Grace, do not close eyes, Rocky demands, and his tone is so uncharacteristically strained that I comply.
“What’r…you…here?” I slur, “t’s night.”
It is afternoon cycle, Rocky steps over me and attempts to shove a foot under me, which mostly just feels terribly prickly. As he tries to leverage me up, the edges dig into my back, which hurts and sucks and…okay, yeah, also wakes me up a bit more.
“Christmas Eve!” I curse, shooting upright so fast that I get dizzy. Rookie mistake. I should know better by now. I slump, but before my head can make swift acquaintance with the floor, Rocky is by my side. I bonk my head on his carapace, which does hurt, but a lot less than the alternative.
Why is Grace still asleep?
No foot tap indicator? That catches my attention. Why is this of all things so dire?
I consider the scene from Rocky’s perspective. For the last several days, I’ve grown increasingly distant and restless. Then he arrives and I’m nowhere to be found, not waiting at the door, or working at the lab, or even in the bedroom. Instead, I’m face-down in the don’t-go-crazy room, wrapped in my last comfort from home and surrounded by my favorite Earth scenery.
And I’m not waking up.
Oh.
Oh.
Rocky, I sing his name. It’s easier to say hard things when they feel foreign on my tongue, Grace is—
I almost say Grace is just a little hungry, but the lie catches in my throat. Because the truth is I’m ravenous: for food that isn’t taumoeba, for touch that doesn’t hurt, for a home that belongs to me. I’m staring down that gift horse’s mouth and hoping it’ll just swallow me whole instead.
All I can manage now is: Grace is sorry.
Rocky is quiet for a long time, letting the waves fill the silence as I lean against him. As I adjust myself to avoid the spikiest bits of Rocky’s suit, I realize he doesn’t even have his screen translator. He doesn’t see the sea birds circling, or the clouds drifting, or the surf bubbling below our feet. The only thing visible to Rocky in this room right now is me.
Finally, Rocky murmurs, Why is Grace sorry, question.
Grace is… I pause, shifting so my back is against him. I don’t even know where to begin. Sorry you thought I was dead? Sorry I didn’t take care of myself? Sorry I’m acting like a spoiled teenager instead of a grateful diplomat of Earth?
Grace sad, I admit, my eyes tracing the curve of ocean I’ll never feel against my skin again. Grace— I don’t know how to best convey intention in Eridianese, don’t know how to explain how I should be — not only thanks.
Grace is not at Earth, Rocky hums back, fingers tapping in that familiar approximation of sculpting, Obviously Grace is not only happy.
No, but— again, I fumble for intention, finally swapping to English as I admit, “I should be. Your people have done so much for me already. Rocky has done so much for me already. Grace needs to be grateful. Grace is grateful! But Grace is sad too anyway.”
The admission is met with the whoosh of seawater and the tap tap tap of Rocky’s considerations, which makes me feel less like I’ve fallen from something high and more like I’ve stepped off a boardwalk into sand. A soft landing.
I feel something sharp on the top of my hand and turn to find Rocky has set his gloved hand on mine.
Grace saw Rocky can’t go home. Grace fixed, Rocky explains gently. Rocky see Grace can’t go home. Rocky want to fix.
“Like…send me back to Earth?”
Yes. But also make Erid home for Grace while Grace waits.
Traitorous tears spring to the corners of my eyes. “Why?”
Do you know what Rocky calls Grace on Erid, question.
The non-sequitur is enough to dash the tears. “Leaky space blob, question.”
Rocky laughs, which makes me smile too. No, stupid. I call you full name.
“Ryland Grace?”
No, stupid!
Now I do laugh. “What do you mean, stupid, question. Ryland is part of my full name!”
I call you ‘Grace-friend of Earth, Savior of Stars.’ Rocky huffs, That is better name than Ryland.
First: rude. But second: okay, fine, he’s right. As far as full names go, “Savior of Stars” is gonna beat out “Ryland” any day of the week. Heck, as far as full names go, I might just be more honored to have Grace-friend.
“Does that mean I get to call you Rocky-friend?” I grin.
Rocky taps my hand, chirping, Yes!
“Okay, Rocky-friend,” I sing the name in Eridianese to the best of my ability, “So what does my fancy new name have to do with anything, question.”
Grace stupid. Means Rocky wants Grace to be happy.
“I…” I clear the lump from my throat, “I want you to be happy too, buddy.”
Easy for Rocky to be happy. Rocky knocks his shoulder against mine. Rocky has everything. Home and food and Adrian and best friend.
“Best friend?”
Grace, stupid!
I laugh again, and gosh if it isn’t easier to feel hopeful when Rocky’s by my side. I wiggle around, wrapping an arm over Rocky so I can see him a little better.
Rocky make Grace happy, question.
Yes, obviously. Yes, sort of. Yes…and no. Unable to articulate, I nod, shake my head, and nod again.
Grace doing complicated human emotion.
“That’s about right,” I admit.
Rocky resumes his fidgeting with one hand, the other still firmly on mine. Almost instinctively, I tap my index finger against his hand. Tap. Tap. Tap. The familiar motion is even more comforting this close.
Our moment is broken only by a beeping of a device on Rocky’s forearm. We both know what this means: Rocky’s been gone too long, he’s needed back home. I glance at Rocky, and though he doesn’t have a face, his body language speaks volumes: I will stay, if you need me.
I wrap my arms around Rocky in a quick, tight hug, then push to standing. “Go. I’ll be alright.”
Rocky stands too. I will watch you sleep tonight, statement.
This time, I don’t tell him no.
— — —
On Earth, they’d say Ryland Grace is looking a gift horse in the mouth right now. I’ve stared into the best deal of my life: many of the greatest scientists on this planet working tirelessly to make me food and shelter and connections, and still told my best friend I wasn’t happy with the arrangement.
But we’re not on Earth. There are no horses here. And I still don’t know what the deal is with their mouths, anyway.
I tug the quilt off my face, gazing up at the occupied habitat above me with a smile.
“Hey, Rock. Why do you think we shouldn’t look at horse mouths?”