Chapter Text
There’s a groan. Then a sudden shift in the weight on my lap.
And just like that, I snap awake from whatever drifting state of sleep I had miraculously found myself in. If I’m being completely honest, I don’t remember the last night I actually slept a full eight hours. I’ve been sleeping in short increments where I can fit it, somewhere in those few and far between moments where my focus accidentally (never intentionally) drifts away from him.
For the umpteenth time this week, I have found myself situated next to Ryland on the floor of the ship's tiny bathroom, his face already halfway into the toilet bowl.
This was the third time today alone.
I rub his back in neat circles, brushing the hair out of his eyes as his body works to empty what few contents remain- that is if there’s anything left to empty in the first place. At this point, he’s essentially purging straight bile.
“It’s okay,” I say, as he dries heaves into the toilet, his body jerking in response to the contracting muscles. A steady stream of saliva drips down from the corners of the mouth. He retches. Stops. Retches again.
I watch this go on for several minutes, incapable of doing anything but sitting by and offering what little comfort I can.
This has been my life for nearly five days now, and I’m not sure how much more of it I can take. I’m not sure how much more of it he can take.
I run my hands through his wrangled hair, which is damp with sweat. Another bout of heaving. I can’t help but notice a thin streak of red in the toilet bowl.
“It’ll be over soon. I promise.”
By the time he finishes, he can hardly hold himself upright. He groans, his breaths ragged and uneven as he clutches his stomach. I guide him carefully onto my lap, and he practically collapses into me. I adjust him into a comfortable position the best I can, pulling the embroidered quilt up and over his chest. I can’t help but notice his trembling body.
“Better?” I ask gently, reaching for a towel with which I dab at the corners of his mouth.
The slightest of laughs escapes his lips.
“Give me 15 minutes and we’ll find out.”
It’s nice to hear him joke- try to joke, anyways, but even I’ve begun to notice it in his voice. The exhaustion.
He won’t admit it, but he’s miserable.
I wouldn’t dare to say it out loud, but I’m growing increasingly concerned with each and every passing day. Every passing hour, for that matter. While my body made the adjustment to the microbes quicker than I could have possibly expected, the Taumoeba simply won’t cooperate with Grace's stomach.
The problem? It’s the only supply of nourishment we have left.
While he manages to keep tiny amounts down occasionally, for the most part his body refuses to accept it, and he’s paying the price for it.
I can see it in the shadows of his sunken face, his tired eyes and gaunt frame. I see it in the way he moves his body, like he’s made of glass and scared of breaking. He spends most of his time here swaddled in blankets next to me, eyes pressed shut.
He’s an entirely different Grace from the energetic, quick-witted, charismatic Grace I’d grown accustomed to.
“Water?” I ask.
“Couldn’t hurt,” is his strained reply.
I press the bottle to his lips and tilt the bottle back until a steady stream of liquid meets his cracked lips. I pour gently, afraid of giving him too much at once and igniting another bout of heaving. He manages to drink a few sips before he pushes the bottle away.
I frown.
“Ry, you need to drink more than that.”
He coughs. Grimaces.
“We’re gonna have to see how this settles first.” He pulls the quilt tighter around his body, sinking deeper into my side. “I don’t want to force it down just for it to come back up.”
He has a point, but concern darkens my face nonetheless.
Twelve days. It’s not long enough to kill him, but I’m not stupid. If this keeps up, I know exactly what direction we’re headed in.
It started out slow, just as any condition does. We- me and Rocky- had begun noticing it in his frame, not long after we consumed the last of the coma slurry. Ryland had always been a fairly muscular guy (not that I was looking), so it didn’t take long to notice the diminished tones of his forearms, his biceps. Even his jawline had become more prominent, and that was something I didn’t know was possible.
It took nearly a week before I’d been able to gauge that anything was wrong at all. I’d found him one night in this very position, crouched over the toilet all but spewing his insides out. “Sick,” was how he had put it. He was sick. Human beings get sick. It was normal. What he failed to mention is that this had been going on daily, ever since we’d made the switch to consuming Taumoeba as a last-ditch energy source.
We’d been working in the lab late one evening- I remember it clearly. It hadn’t been a substantially different day- he’d scolded me for a few minor mishaps involving inaccurate calculations, but I hadn’t thought much of it at the moment. Even Rocky shook off Grace’s remarks about his “lousy” models. Ryland himself had made numerous mathematical errors that day, more so than usual, but we had credited it to the same exhaustion we were all facing.
He’d informed us both that night that he wasn’t feeling well (yet again) and was going to retire early. Both Rocky and I, sick of his nagging rebukes, had very much agreed that was for the best.
I found him that night, collapsed on the floor just out of reach of his sleeping pod unconscious, a trail of red seeping down his forehead.
Tears brim in my eyes, blurring the edges of my vision. How had I not noticed it sooner? His shrinking frame, his irritation, the lack of mental sharpness- the Grace I know would never, and I mean never mess up a calculation as simple as Planck’s constant. It was out of character. How did I let it slip past me?
He was starving. He is starving- or headed well in the direction towards it. And the worst part?
There’s nothing we can do about it.
At this moment I want to curl up in a ball, I want to go to sleep, and I want to wake up and realize that this was all just one big nightmare I made up in my head.
But that’s just the problem. This isn’t a dream I’m going to wake up from; it’s a nightmare I’m actively living in, a reality I cannot escape. And when it comes to reality, I have two options.
I can play pretend, or I can face it head on.
And playing pretend isn’t going to keep him alive.
I wipe the tears quickly from my face before Grace can notice them. I have to stay strong. I have no other choice. For him.
For Ryland I will hold it together.
“We need to get something into your system, Ry. I don’t care how we do it, but we’ve got to make it happen. Do you think you can hold something down if we mix it in the water? Dilute it just enough to make it unnoticeable?”
I swear his face turns two shades greener just thinking about it. “It’s no use. It’s just gonna come right back up like it always does.” His voice is strained.
I run a tired hand down my face.
Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry-
“What if you eat then we knock you out? Armando can administer a dose of dexmedetomidine. As long as you can keep it down initially, we can keep you under just long enough to give your body time to digest, then we’ll-”
He shakes his head. “Don’t put me to sleep. Please. Not like that. Never again.”
My heart deflates.
I’ve never felt so defeated in my life.
I sigh, exasperated.
A careful, steady silence envelopes us. A silence so fragile, I fear if I touch it, it’s all going to collapse. I fear I’m going to lose everything.
The silence trails behind us for a long time. Seconds. Then minutes. Hours pass, and Ryland has long since fallen asleep, the gentle rise and fall of his chest visual evidence, when I finally bring myself to speak up.
“I can’t keep sitting here watching you like this, Ry.” I whisper it to empty ears. Laugh to nobody but myself there in the darkness. It’s a sad, forced laugh that all but reaches my eyes.
“You know,” I say, running my hands through his hair. “If you get better- when you get better, I’m not going to let you forget this.” I’m speaking to myself at this point. “When we make it to Erid, I’m going to let them all know how you were nothing but a staggering waste of carbon the entire journey.” I brush his hair back and away from his forehead, pressing my lips against his flushed skin. A tear rolls down my cheek.
“An absolute waste,” I lean my head back against the wall. I laugh.
“A staggering waste of carbon-” His groggy voice breaks through the darkness. “Really? Are you laughing?”
His words are strained, stretched thin. Hardly that of a whisper.
But oh how nice it is to hear his voice.
“Ryland! Shoot-” I throw my head into my hands. “I’m so sorry- I didn’t mean to wake you up. Are you comfortable?” I ask, fighting to hide the quivering in my voice. “Can I do anything else? Another blanket, maybe? A damp rag, you feel kind of warm. Are you too hot? Maybe I can…”
“Y/N,” he cuts me off abruptly, his more of an edge to it than it’s had in weeks. I glance down, and a tired pair of blue eyes burn into my own. “I’m okay, Y/N. Breathe. You can breathe.”
I shake my head, tears welling in my eyes.
“How am I supposed to do that when I’ve allied you to end up like this?” My eyes sting. The world blurs.
“I mean look at you, Ry. Just look at you.” Shame washes over me.
“I don’t know what to do, Ry. Hell, I’m not doing anything. I’m supposed to be there for you. Supposed to protect you. I’m supposed to keep you safe.” I shake my head and look away. I can’t stand to look into those eyes right now.
“You’re all I’ve got left, Ry. Do you even realize that? The last human face I'm going to see ever again is you and your- your stupid lopsided glasses.” My voice breaks. “Somehow I can’t even keep the one person who’s ever cared for me safe and I-”
“Y/N-”
“I can’t protect you anymore, and I don’t know how to fix you-”
“Y/N-”
“And I don’t know how to help you, and it’s my fault that-”
“Y/N!”
He grabs my chin and forces my eyes to meet his. I sense nothing but love and understanding hidden beneath the exhaustion of those blue irises. “I’m supposed to be protecting you, Y/N. How do you think I feel, sitting here on the floor, watching helpless as you take care of everything but yourself?”
The tears keep coming, and Ryland reaches weakly to wipe them away, his hand noticeably hot against my cheek.
“Stop blaming yourself. I can see it in your eyes.” There’s an urgency, a sense of desperation to his tone. “You think this is your fault.” A sob hitches in his throat. “Stop saying it. Stop believing it. I beg, Y/N. Don’t do that to yourself. Don’t make me watch that.”
A waterfall of tears cascade down his cheeks.
“It’s gonna destroy me.”
And in that moment, I swear I try so hard to hold the tears back. I try so hard to stay strong- to be strong for him.
But at the end of the day, I’m only human.
So instead, I do what any strong, brave, and noble human would do-
I let the tears come, and I don’t try to stop them.
Before I can process what's going on, Ryland is straining to pull himself out of my arms, the movement slow and clearly painful. I protest. Plead that he conserves his energy, but he ignores me. By the time he’s got himself situated, sweat beads on his forehead. He makes a motion with his arm, inviting me to join him.
I shake my head and let out a sob. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Y/N,” he strains to laugh, chest heaving from the effort. “Don’t tell me I did all that for nothing,” he says through labored breaths.
I almost laugh.
I don’t.
I lean into his side, digging my face into the crook of my neck.
“We’re going to figure something out,” I promise. “You’re going to be alright.”
His voice is weak, but firm. “I’m not going anywhere, Y/N. I’m right here.”
“Me either,” I respond.
“Good.”
But I can't ignore it. The fear in my heart that screams it's too good to be true.