Archive of Our Own

I have a big problem. 

Well, that’s a lie. It’s technically a I+∀ mm problem, one that’s been weighing on my mind for the last ∀ℓ days — an impressive feat because it can’t weigh more than five or six grams.

Fine, I’m beating around the bush here. It’s a ring. My big, ominous problem is a mineral circle, carefully carved and polished for me. All in all, a beautiful piece of jewelry, gifted to me by my best friend in the universe, not a terrible knot to untangle.

But despite being the man who managed to breed world-saving nitrogen-resistant taumoeba, I still can’t puzzle out an answer to one simple question: 

On what finger do I wear this ring?

FIVE WEEKS AGO:

I’ve come to the conclusion that Rocky calls me to the door in the same way a middle-schooler will try to get a teacher’s attention: with a single-minded persistence that threatens to annoy the recipient. 

Right now, he’s knocking a three-limbed rhythm — thump-thu-thump, thump-thu-thump — which provides a steady beat for his calls:

Grace ready, question.

Grace coming, question.

Grace forget, question.

He’s always been impatient, a trait I find funny for a being with a lifespan significantly longer than my own, but lately Rocky’s managed to lose whatever little patience he had stockpiled. It’s not that he’s upset at me, more like these days there’s been the slightest hint of panic to his trills when he calls for me. The same sort of tone I might take when directing students through an active shooter situation I suspect isn’t a drill. 

Like he’s scared, but he’s trying not to scare me too.

“One sec, Rock! Gotta tie my shoe,” I respond, though I’m sure he can see me through the wall, bent over my beat up Converse, fumbling with the repurposed cord from Mary that feels just a bit too thick to be shoe lace. It’s not the end of the world, but it does mean my shoes oscillate between being too loose and too tight.

I give the cord a sharp yank. Too tight today it is.

Rocky told me there’s an Eridian scientist attempting to create a substitute for my laces, which is both incredible and incredibly embarrassing. Since I came to Erid several years ago, there’s been so much work from so many brilliant individuals for a guy who only has a few more decades left at best. I hope other humans make it out here at some point, if for no other reason than to make all this effort worthwhile. 

“Woah, where’s the fire, buddy?” I ask as I swing open the door.

There’s no fire. For a guy who doesn’t have eyes, Rocky has certainly managed to learn how to to convey an audible eye roll. Grace is just too slow. 

“Armando?” I call back into the house, “What time is it, question.”

“11:53,” my roommate/robot companion chirps back.

“And when is the scheduled thrum with Adrian and their biodome crew?” 

“Twelve o’clock.”

I glance back at Rocky, spreading my arms in a see? I’ve won this round sort of gesture. I can’t help but be a little smug as I add, “Pretty sure that means I’m actually early.” 

Rocky makes a noise that I’ve come to learn isn’t so much a word as it is a rude sound. The immaturity of it makes me chuckle, my earring jangling against my glasses chain in an echo of laughter. 

While the Eridians haven’t sorted out xenonite shoelaces yet, they sure have made it a point to make me the fanciest looking human on Erid. The earring — a dangling piece of three thin, flat stones — was a gift from Adrian to mark my first Eridian year on their home planet. I hadn’t really been an earring guy before, but it’s mildly impossible to say no to a piece of jewelry that represents the enduring bond between me, Rocky, and Adrian. It didn’t take long to adjust to the weight and now, years later, I can’t imagine going too long without it on.

Meanwhile, the glasses chain comes courtesy of a class of pebbles, who apparently saw my precariously perched glasses and feared for my ability to maintain sight. The artisan who created it, one of the parents, strung the chain with several polished stones to mark Earth, Erid, and the planet Adrian. While the chain itself isn’t red, I like to imagine the tiny links are the Petrova line. If nothing else, they resemble the fishing chain Rocky and I (okay, mainly Rocky) built on our mission all those years ago.

Along with a wrist-guard I use to augment my Eridianese, these are what I’ll wear daily, but I also have plenty of jewelry to pull out for important moments. Most of it tends to be fairly small after an early incident with some spiky shoulder straps ended with me slicing a nasty gash into my own cheek. 

Turns out, nothing brings down the vibe of a party quite like an alien leaking their internal fluids.

Fine, Rocky came early, Rocky admits with the tone of a guy who would prefer to admit nothing of the sort. I need to talk to you about something.

Oh? I close the door and follow Rocky down to the beach. It’s easier to talk down here, with the water I’ve dubbed the Stratt Sea dancing in the background. When we have harder conversations, Rocky can fidget with the stony sand and I can keep my eyes fixed on the waves. 

Not that I think this is going to be a hard conversation. At least, I hope it isn’t. 

Once we’ve reached the sand, I speak up. “What’d you need to talk to me about, Rock?”

To my horror, Rocky stiffens. This is the same guy who splashes in the sea spray and builds little sculptures in the sand and has a harder time sitting still than half of my pebbles. My heart catches in my throat at the sight. “What is it, question.”

Grace told Rocky about how humans recognize specific rotations around the sun with celebration, he begins, running a furtive claw into the sand like he’s drawing a picture.

I relax slightly at the realization that it probably isn’t bad news. Still, I have no idea where he’s going with this, so I stay quiet, waiting for Rocky to expound upon his baffling introduction. He scrabbles more vague lines into the sand before continuing. 

Humans give gifts to mark the accomplishment, Rocky adds with an artificial nonchalance.

Shoot. Did I forget his birthday?? Now it’s my turn to freeze, my stupid human brain churning like Mary’s spin drive as I consider how I can possibly salvage this. A bit of light groveling, perhaps? Some mild humiliation on his behalf? 

It will soon be ten Earth years since we first met, Rocky cuts off my panic, burbling in a tone I’ve barely heard before. It’s tentative, almost shy, similar to when he introduced Adrian and I for the first time. I thought we could exchange gifts.

“Oh! Like an anniversary!” I blurt out before my brain can process the implication. When my mind finally catches up, it sends all other thoughts screeching to a complete halt. 

An anniversary? 

What am I thinking, question. 

Next to Rocky, I’m a literal alien. An alien who is quite content to live out the remainder of his days uncoupled and unbothered, no less. Sure, Rocky is my friend. My best friend, even. The person who I adore and trust more than anyone else in the universe, if I’m getting mushy about it. But he’s not—

I’m not—

We’re not—

“I mean…” I start, but that train of thought stalls in the station as Rocky sings something that must mean anniversary! 

Yes, anniversary. We can mark anniversary in ∀ℓ Earth days with gifts! Rocky’s limbs sag in relief. With his big ask seemingly agreed upon, Rocky abandons his aimless doodle to pick up a walk that I can only describe as jaunty. I should be equally relieved, but this news seems to hit me square in the chest.

“Well—” I can only wheeze weakly.

We can exchange jewelry, question. Rocky sings, splashing the surf like he’s a princess in an animated movie. I don’t know how long he’s been planning this, but it’s long enough that I know he must feel like the pinnacle of restraint for waiting until now to tell me. Like many human cultures.

Like a wedding, my traitorous mind can’t help but supply. An overabundance of emotions explode at once. I feel the whole world tip like I’m caught in a centrifuge; I can practically hear Mary’s tinny warning ringing in my ears.

Does Grace want to exchange jewelry, question. Rocky sounds far away. Under water. In space. I don’t know.

“Yes,” my mouth says the word independent of any thought. Can’t blame it, since conscious thought seems to have vacated the biodome and launched itself into the sun. “I’d love that, Rock.”

Jewelry can be anything. Earrings and bracelets and crazy shoulder-straps and, sure, rings. Yes, ten years is a notable human milestone, but Rocky’s a thoughtful guy so of course he would think to celebrate it. He’ll probably just craft me an earring to match his spouse’s. In exchange, I’ll ask Adrian to help me make him a nice arm-band. 

Point is, I’ll be fine.

FOUR WEEKS AGO:

I’m not fine. 

Rocky is definitely making me a ring. 

Adrian, to their credit, is trying to be coy about this fact as they inspect my splayed hand. 

“I am just making Grace-friend measurements for Rocky-love,” they explain, their rumbling voice semi-obscured by the dulcet tones of Meryl Streep. 

Adrian is an incredible scientist and artist with an uncanny knack for internally making perfect measurements, but they’ve struggled to fully pick up English. Our current solution is that I use my portable keyboard to tap out Eridianese to them, and they attempt to listen and learn with the translator parroting their Eridianese into English.

Unlike Rocky, who selected the James voice and stuck with it, Adrian prefers to mix it up. By now, we’ve worked our way through every pre-programmed voice in the database. Turns out, there are some weird ones, including a voice that screams every other word, and another that I can only describe as “horny cartoon squirrel.” Lucky for both of us, Adrian has a soft spot for Meryl Streep’s voice (she really can do anything!) so that one makes it into the running more than some of the others. 

Measuring my fingers, I tap out, half statement, half accusation.

“Measuring all Grace-friend’s limbs,” Adrian steps around me, poking my leg gently with one of their claws, as though convincing me that will add anything to their measurement process.

Do you have all of Rocky’s measurements for me, question. I knock my bracer twice to mark the question.

“Rocky-love wants something for claw.”

Rocky wants a ring. This time, I play the sentence on my keyboard while saying it aloud so Adrian can hear the don’t bull-pucky me in my voice. 

“Rocky-love wants ring,” Adrian confirms a little sheepishly.

I rub a hand over my eyes, knocking my glasses askew in the process as I consider this request. I’d love to say that I think it’s coincidence that Rocky wants a ring, but I was there when that inscrutable rock watched way too many rom-coms in the don’t go crazy room. There is no way he doesn’t know the implication.

Which means…what, exactly? Is Rocky proposing? Surely Rocky isn’t in love with me. We just have a special bond that only forms from a couple near-death experiences and a years-long solitary voyage home. 

Besides, I’m not in love with him. I haven’t been in love with anyone! Just ask my ex. Heck, just ask Eva Stratt, who said about as much before she blasted me off into space. I’d made peace with that facet of myself, which admittedly was pretty easy to do when the possibility of ever seeing another human being again was more or less taken off the table. Except—

Is it possible someone could—

I feel another gentle nudge against my calf and turn to face Adrian.

“Grace-friend is thinking too much again.” Adrian might not have a perfect grasp on English, but their ability to read my body-language is nearly unparalleled, rivaled only by their mate. “About what, question.”

Grace thinking too much, I echo, because that’s easier to tap out than “I think your mate wants us to do a ring ceremony and it’s making me feel so many things I might spontaneously combust.”

Adrian tilts their carapace, inspecting me for a moment before sitting down in the sand. Even with most of their limbs curled in, Adrian is still at least double Rocky’s height. They tap the sand with one free limb and I oblige out of habit. As much as I hate to admit it, I do feel better when I lean against Adrian. They have a steadying presence.

While I owe everything to Rocky, I might owe almost as much as Adrian. When we arrived at Erid, I was half-dead from starvation and Rocky was, to put it nicely, a great big mess. I can’t imagine waiting half a century on Erid for my mate, who abandoned me on a space mission, only for said mate to return and immediately refuse to leave the side of a freaky, leaky alien. 

Adrian took it all in stride, doting on me at the same time they gave their neurotic mate the space he needed to get his head straight. It was Adrian who spearheaded my biodome and Adrian who gave me my first piece of Eridian jewelry. 

They were the first person on Erid to make me feel like I might actually belong here one day.

“Grace-friend want to talk, question,” Adrian rumbles, voice so deep it makes their suit rattle. 

Not sure if I can, I reply, lifting the portable Eridianese keyboard. I can do a passable job with it in general conversation, but I’m not even sure I can express what I’m thinking in English, much less Eridianese. 

“Grace-friend can talk,” Adrian hums, “I can listen, even if I cannot understand.”

I definitely do not deserve this friendship.

“I like to listen,” Adrian adds, “Grace-friend’s voice sounds funny. Like horny squirrel.”

Okay, maybe I do deserve this friendship. I snort, knocking Adrian with my shoulder. Adrian’s laughs are so powerful I feel like I’m sitting in a massage chair. 

When our laughter finally trails off, we sit with only the waves to fill the silence as I scrabble for any sort of entrance into my swirling thoughts. All I can settle on is: “I think Rocky watched too many rom-coms.”

Earth shows, Adrian affirms.

“Yep,” I sigh, “And those movies tend to have weddings, which are these big, fancy parties where two humans show off how in love they are.”

Like ♬♩♪♩♬♬

While I recognize the word, we still have not come up with an adequate translation for that event. As far as I can tell from the single time I attended one, it’s something between a study session and an orgy, and I don’t know how anyone accomplishes either at a ♬♩♪♩♬♬. I mostly experienced a uniquely abject horror that I have not felt before or since.

“A little more personal than that,” I say with a laugh that catches in my chest as I imagine how that would even play out. Me, standing at the front of the room, watching Adrian guide Rocky down the aisle. Rock, jingling in his fanciest celebration-wear. I should want to laugh at the image, but instead I feel like I’m caught on a roller-coaster: scared, sick, and…exhilarated?

When people describe their spouse as their ‘best friend,’ is this what they feel? Is that why they throw weddings? To tell everyone they know that they will love this person forever? Because I don’t know much, but I do know that I will love Rocky forever. 

But not like…not like that, right? 

Grace-friend, Adrian prompts gently.

I try to brush away the mental image of Rocky and I holding hands on some stage. Try to pretend like I wouldn’t want to hear some rambling speech from him about how we’d be together in this life and any potential next one. 

“Right. So, Rocky’s whole thing feels a bit like a wedding. With the ten year mark and the uh,” I clear my throat, shifting against Adrian, “The rings.”

Rocky-love shouldn’t do human celebration, question.

“No, he’s fine,” I wave a hand. After saving humanity, pretty sure Rocky can do whatever Earth traditions he wants. “But weddings are usually for, uh…y’know…” I’m gesticulating aimlessly now, “…people in love.”

Grace-friend loves Rocky-love, Adrian chides.

There’s that roller coaster sensation again. I jerk to my feet, as though that will stop my stomach from swooping and soaring. “I don’t know how I feel about Rocky,” I admit, pacing in a loop around Adrian because I can’t bring myself to look at them head-on. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt what I’m feeling about him before.”

I feel sick. I feel wonderful. I feel terrible. I feel like I’m flying. God, am I a middle school girl? I am entirely too old to experience a new, dizzying array of emotions. With no other course of action available to me, I opt to just pace faster around Adrian, my footprints bleeding together into one unbroken ring—

Adrian just laughs. Grace-friend feels ♪♩♪♬♬♩

The word is on the tip of my tongue. Something without perfect translation that sits close to a concept I already know, but cannot remember for the life of me. All I know is it makes me feel burning hot and ice cold simultaneously. 

All I know is I want to apologize to Adrian for feeling it at all.

THREE WEEKS AGO:

I have determined that I don’t want to sleep with Rocky.

Well, that’s not true. I’ve known that since the moment I met him. I’m sure Rocky is very attractive by Eridian standards, but quite frankly, even ignoring our many, many, biological hurdles, I can safely say I don’t swing that way.

If it’s any consolation, I don’t really want to have sex with any humans either, even though I know from experience that the act doesn’t incur nearly as many biological hurdles. And I do mean any human. 

Some of my students, upon discovering my lack of girlfriend or wife, used to decide I must be gay. On the one hand, I’m very proud of these kids for having open minds and being supportive of people different from them. This is an important skill to have in life and a good sign for the future of Earth. On the other, it’s incredibly embarrassing to have a child rebuff a parental pass with the well-meaning, but deeply incorrect: “Mom! Mr. Grace is gay!” 

Sure, I’ve had human sex (why am I phrasing it like that?) before, but it was always more of a chore. Stratt may have had legitimate worries about some of my other skills in space, but I doubt my fraternizing with the crew would have been one of them.

Don’t get me wrong, Rocky and I have absolutely discussed the logistics of human and Eridian sex. Being trapped together in a metal tube for four years gave way to all sorts of conversations I would have never had with anyone otherwise, interspecies sex included. So I have some inkling of how we would try it if we were to try.

Except, again, I need to be very clear: I do not want to try. No way, no how. 

My last partner told me I feared intimacy, but the way I see it, that’s like telling someone who doesn’t like BLT’s that they fear bacon. Nope. Just don’t want it in my mouth.

I have a point to all this sexual rumination, which is: I can’t actually be in love with Rocky, because if I did, I’d obviously want to have sex with him. (I ignore the fizz in my gut as I think about the being in love with Rocky part.)

This unknown feeling has been following me ever since my conversation with Adrian. A fluttering in my chest, or a tremor that runs from my heart to my hands, or a stammering mouth that won’t calm when I’m in Rocky’s presence. He’s like the sun: I can’t seem to stare directly at him without shielding my eyes. 

I’d like to say this all came out of nowhere. Like I’ve just caught some mysterious sickness and I just need plenty of rest and fluids to recover. But if I’m being honest with myself, I suspect whatever this is has been building for some time.

Luckily, thanks to Stratt, I have the entirety of human media up through my exodus from Earth. Unfortunately, so far all my research has been…inconclusive. And I have combed through a variety of potentially reputable sources: psychology textbooks, sexuality manifestos, heck, even Cosmo magazine articles with quiz titles like “A Crush or Something More?” 

Most of them land on the same wildly incorrect conclusion: Ryland Grace, you have a serious case of the love-sickness. 

I don’t blame the academics. They didn’t have to account for a race of non-carbon-based rock people whose very touch would seriously damage both parties. Sure, I’ve spent the last week discovering new and unexpected terms like monster-fucker, so I know someone somewhere would probably be into it. But that someone is definitely not me.

No, like any good buddy, I just want Rocky to be a significant part of my life for as long as he’ll have me.

Adrian is probably right: I’m overthinking this whole thing. I have a good life going here and there’s no reason to change that because I’ve caught…something. Of course I’m going to feel fond of my best friend. This is the person who risked his life to save mine and vice versa. I only feel odd because Rocky is the only person in the universe I’d always choose to die for.

With a lifetime of practice compartmentalizing strange and uncomfortable feelings, I ignore the warm hum in my heart as I focus on the design for Rocky’s ring. A carving would be fine, but I think physical bumps would be easier for Rocky to see and feel. And I have just the pattern for it: — — . . — . . — — . — . .

My heart pounds at the thought of this ring on Rocky’s claw.

(I push it aside)

My throat catches at the thought of Rocky —

(I push it aside)

My —

(I push it aside)

TWO WEEKS AGO:

Grace is late. Grace is getting old.

Rocky’s started to default to this explanation for any of my potential shortcomings. I didn’t eat the correctly allotted amount of me-burger? I’m getting old. I didn't answer the door before he knocked? I’m getting old. I lose at chess — something I’ve been doing since Rocky and I first started playing — you guessed it: I’m getting old. 

While Rocky attributes everything to my body’s potential deterioration, I tend to swing in the opposite direction since it’s hard for me to imagine what getting old would be like. I was supposed to die twice, so anything past that has felt more like an impossible dream than a predictable reality. Combine that with the effects of a limited diet and the stronger gravity on Erid and I don’t entirely know what symptoms to attribute to aging. 

Anyway, we have bigger things to worry about than my bones crumbling to dust. Today, Rocky and I are going to figure out what this ten Earth year anniversary celebration is going to look like.

“Not that old yet, buddy,” I tug on a shoe (too loose today) and start a somewhat precarious jog down the stairs, “I’ve got several more decades in me, easy.”

Decades. Rocky’s warble is nearly unrecognizable, Not centuries. 

The last time Rocky sounded this despondent, we were nearing Erid and he was considering a future where his mate had found someone else. But that’s different. Rocky and Adrian had already shared more than a hundred years together, they had a type of bond I can literally only imagine. I’m just…me.

Even ignoring the me-ness of it all, Rocky and I are about to mark a measly ten years since our first meeting. I know that’s a pretty big number for humans, but for Rock that’s got to be the blink of an eye. The equivalent of my middle-school tweens celebrating their month-a-versary. 

At the end of the day, I’m as much a silly blip in Rocky’s existence as the doomed romance between twelve year olds. 

“Hey, for a little while there it was looking like I had months left!” I pump my fist like I’m amping up a kid who failed a test and not comforting an alien on my inevitable passing, “Decades is a massive improvement.”

When Rocky doesn’t respond, I turn to find he’s still up the hill, plunked down on the steps like my ‘imminent’ demise carried additional gravity. At the sight of him up there, my heart squeezes, then flutters, then shudders, because that maybe-love-sick nonsense is just my life now.

“Making me do more exercise?” I try to crack a joke, “Guess it’s probably good for my knees.”

Exercise is good. Rocky calls back, though it’s with the serious concern of a family member begging a loved one with high cholesterol to give up bacon. Helps Grace since he is old now.

My joints are protesting by the time I make it up the hill (don’t want to dig into that right now either)  but I try not to show it. Instead, I settle down onto the step nearest to Rocky, only wincing a little in the process. “Alright, what’s going on, Rock?”

When Rocky doesn’t reply, I lean against him. “You know, on Earth it’s rude to call someone old.”

On Erid, if someone has only decades to live, they are old, Rocky retorts.

“Sure, but you also told me if an Eridian only a few decades old, they’re considered very young.” I grin. “Does that make me an old baby, question.”

This finally gets a laugh out of Rocky. His laughter is guttural and squeaky and, as I discovered when I arrived on Erid, fairly distinct even among Eridians. God, I love his laugh.

God, I love him.

Nope. Not the time to dig into what that could mean. Lately, I’ve decided the answer to the question am I in love with my best friend is one best addressed on my death bed. Or, preferably, never.

I don’t know when Rocky grows quiet, but when he speaks next, it’s tentative. Wobbly. I don’t want Grace to be old. 

Oh, buddy. I wrap an arm around Rocky, heart singing traitorously as he shifts into me. Beneath the touch, I can feel the hum of a few false starts from Rocky, but whatever he wants to say, he’s not ready yet. That’s fine; I rub a hand absently along his carapace. I don’t want to sleep with my best friend, I don’t want to sleep with my best friend, but…I could stay like this for a very long time.

“Hey, why do you just call me Grace, question.” I can’t help but fill the silence. “I’ve heard people call me Grace-teacher and Grace-savior, and Adrian calls me Grace-friend, so what gives? I’d assume you’d at least call me Grace-stupid.”

Stupid is not a relationship, Rocky perks up at a conversation that isn’t about our feels, adding an affectionate, Idiot.

“Okay, so…I’d be Grace-crew? Grace-neighbor? Grace-colleague, question.”

Grace-colleague, Rocky rocks with laughter, like the thought of introducing me as his colleague is the most ridiculous pitch in the world. Okay, yeah, I hear it, he’s not wrong. Maybe I should make exception for Grace-stupid.

Rude. I knock Rocky with my elbow, even though that always hurts me more than it hurts him, and put on the most serious, scandalized voice I can manage. “I don’t see what the problem is, Rocky-colleague.”

This sends him into another fit of squeaky giggles.

“Grace-space-souvenir?” I can’t help but egg him on, my own chuckles wheezing out in between terrible pitches, “Grace-pet-alien?” 

No. No! Rocky’s giddy from a proper laugh as he sings, It would be Grace-love.

My voice catches in my throat.

Rocky freezes.

“Hah!” I force the laugh out of my mouth like a hairball, wet and tangled, “That’s—you’re—”

Rocky is still as a grave as I fumble for an explanation. Does he notice my pounding heart? Feel my fingers scrabbling across his suit as though I can snatch an answer off the edge? I’ve always know Rocky can essentially see right through me, but never before has it felt so much like I’m naked. 

In the end, all I can manage is a weak, “Would you really, question.”

If you want, Rocky trills. I can barely hear him over the waves.

The bloom of emotions that might be love explodes in my chest, equal parts comfort and confusion, all while my heart beats out a simple answer: yes, yes, yes.

ONE WEEK AGO:

We’ve decided that the ring ceremony itself will be private — just Rocky, Adrian and I on the shore of the Stratt’s Sea — but the following celebration of this significant milestone will be outside the dome with any Eridians who care to attend. A reception, so to speak.

Usually, when I make excursions outside my biodome, I’ll wear the articulated xenonite suit that Rocky designed me. It’s about as easy to move in as my space suits up in Mary and, inspired by those designs, even has lights built into the helmet so I can see my way around the rest of Erid.

However, for this party, Rocky and I agree that I should stick to my orb. That way I have more room to show off all of my Eridian party-wear and can better join in with the Eridian version of dancing, though I suspect Rocky wants to ensure the latter because he finds my attempts equal parts cringe and hilarious. 

Joke’s on him: I used to chaperone middle school dances. I can’t be shamed out of my bad dance moves.

Still, I’d like to avoid falling flat on my face if possible. None of my Eridian jewelry is too sharp these days, but the last thing I want is to somehow manage to slice myself open, bleed out, and ruin another party. Which is why today, I’m orbed up and ready to practice. 

Ideally, it would have been just me and Adrian here today, since Adrian is easily the better dancer of the two, but because Rocky is a grade-A scamp, he’s come to heckle. 

“It will not be the same,” Adrian explains to me, this time half-obscured by the low-growl of a voice only called Scary. “Because Grace-friend just has four limbs. But we can try.”

Adrian demonstrates a move, a strange sort of shuddering that results in three of the five limbs lifting off the ground at a time. It looks a bit like they’re trying to stamp out a fire, limbs churning with graceful precision.

I echo the motion, hopping from foot to foot. 

“Good, good,” Adrian’s encouragement rises above the chittering that is Rocky’s laughter, “Now do like this.”

As they lift and stamp their limbs, Adrian begins to open and close their claws, moving each with a synchronicity I can’t even dream of matching. Best I can manage is a clumsy finger wiggle. I glance Rocky’s way, making a point to shake my fingers so chaotically that he thumps to the ground in hysterics.

Ever the calm one between the three of us, Adrian simply sways, adding horizontal motion to the dance. 

I attempt to do the same, tilting dangerously right…overcompensating dangerously left…

To steady myself, I step backwards, brilliantly forgetting my rounded prison in the process. The move sends the whole ball into juuuuuust enough of a rotation to pull the ground out from under my feet. Like a Looney Tunes character, I have just enough time to mutter an oh fudge, before I topple to the ground.

Grace-love! Rocky cries, scuttling to my ball with a speed I often forget he’s capable of reaching. Are you okay, question.

The name zings through me. Grace-love, Grace-love, Grace-love.

I press a hand to the xenonite barrier, tapping twice in reassurance. “I’m alright Rock—uh, Rocky-love.” The name comes out in a strangled sort of squeak. Using the name seems to be harder for me, snagging in my throat like a sweater with a loose thread. I love Rocky, I do. But the whole thing feels unfamiliar, unclear. 

Still, I’ve survived enough to stop allowing fear of the unknown from smothering possible joy. Whatever this new love is, my time at Tau Ceti and Adrian has taught me to meet it with curiosity. I look at Rocky-love now and feel the same as I did collecting astrophage samples. 

A thump interrupts our moment and I turn to find Adrian pressed against my orb. I freeze, mind scrambling for how I will explain this development to Adrian. I don’t want to sleep with Rocky? I don’t know how I love Rocky? I won’t be around long anyway?

I’ve settled on the much more reasonable I’m sorry when Adrian beats me to the punch.

Finally! they cry, so loudly that the joy in their voice nearly drowns out the scary-themed translation, I was wondering when Rocky-love would start calling you Grace-love.

Then they turn to Rocky, and add, Rocky-love lost the bet. You owe me a new tool.

MINUTES AGO:

If this is a wedding, it’s unlike any I’ve ever seen, caught somewhere between the traditions of Earth and Erid. 

Along with my favorite shirt and Ilyukhina’s silk skirt, I wear a vast assortment of Eridian celebration-wear. A spiky ear-bangle gleams alongside my earring, a necklace shimmers on my chest. Bracelets ring my wrists and — my favorite fancy piece — a string of crystals tinkles behind me with every move, connected by bracelets on both biceps. 

In moments like these, I feel just as much an Eridian as I am a human. 

I kneel across from Rocky, who is so decked out that he makes his taumoeba celebration outfit seem like he wasn’t even trying. Today, he’s opted for more colorful stones and crystals, taking great care to accommodate my color perception. One limb is entirely ringed by a glittering chain marked with reddish stones. For your moment, he’d explained.

Adrian stands to the side, half officiant, half companion. They aren’t typically one to dress up, but they wear three glittering arm-bands to mark each of us: one goldish, one silverish, and one a dusty red. In their claw, they clutch a xenonite box emblazoned with two ships connected by a fateful tunnel. 

I think of that moment, ten years ago, when the sight of Rocky’s claw first sent me tumbling into a brighter future than I ever could have imagined. Tears spring to my eyes at the memory and oh god, I can’t believe I’m already crying. 

Adrian lifts the lid of the box, revealing the rings. Rocky’s is a silvery woven xenonite studded with the blue-grey dots and dashes that form my name. Trembling, I lift it from the box and hand it to Rocky. He cradles it in his gloved hands with a reverence that only serves to make the tears leak from my eyes faster. 

“Rocky-love,” I say. The name is starting to come easier now, though I suspect it will be some time before it slips naturally from my lips. “When we were at Tau Ceti, I told you that I owed you everything. I, uh,” I wipe my traitorously leaky eyes, continuing with a wobble in my voice, “I think I underestimated that statement at the time. Since then, you’ve given me home—”

I lift a handful of sand and let it spill from my fingers.

“Family—”

I reach out, briefly pressing one hand to Adrian’s limb, the other to Rocky’s. 

“And—” 

I hesitate. I don’t know if I know what love is supposed to be. Of all my partners I’ve dated, all my research I’ve done, all the rom-coms I’ve watched, nothing has given a clear answer. But I don’t need any of that to know that whatever form it may be, what I’m feeling for Rocky is—

“Love.” 

I lean forward, pressing my forehead to the top of Rocky’s carapace, feeling as terrified and weightless as my first spacewalk as I whisper in Eridianese, I will always love you, Rocky. I will always feel ♪♩♪♬♬♩

The Eridian word comes readily to me. I still don’t have a proper translation for it. All I know is that this phrase, like what I feel for Rocky, curls warmly in my heart.

Grace-love is leaky! Rocky wails the deflection as my tears drip onto his suit. 

I laugh as I pull away, tears shining on my cheeks like Eridian jewels. “Fine! It’s your turn to try to not get emotional!”

Rocky-love will fail, Adrian rumbles cheekily as they open the box for Rocky to retrieve my ring. I stifle a grin as Rocky makes a rude gesture at their spouse before nuzzling them. 

Grace-love, Rocky holds my ring aloft in another claw. I am so lucky we found each other. You saved my home and you saved me and now, every day, you make me happy happy happy. I love you now and—

He presses the ring into my palm. When I put my other hand on Rocky’s, I can feel him trembling.

—I want to love you a very long time, Grace-love, Rocky squeaks, his warbling voice cracking, I want to love you more than decades. Is not enough.

Some affection may not come naturally to me, but I pull Rocky-love into a hug without hesitation. Adrian joins, enveloping us both in their limbs so we are a tangled knot of joy, and mourning, and love. 

NOW:

I don’t actually have a problem. 

Well, that’s a lie, too. I did have a problem, one that weighed on my mind for the last ∀ℓ days. But now, with the two people I love most in the universe pressed against me, I feel like the day I leapt from my ship to rescue the only person I’ve ever willingly sacrificed my life for: utterly weightless. 

I hold the ring in the palm of my hand, marveling at how lucky I am to be gifted something so beautiful by someone who cares for me so much that his love will last for several lifetimes. Someone I will love for the rest of mine.

On what finger do I wear this? It no longer feels like a question.

I slide it on my ring finger and feel at home.