Work Text:
Grace’s body sings when he moves. I don’t think he realises. And even if he did, I don’t think he would understand the language it speaks. Not like I can. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat, the clacking percussion of his bones, the gentle, humming ambience of his lungs. If played alone none of these components would be able to tell me much, but piece all of that intricate machinery together and their tones fuse to create a melody the likes of which I’ve never heard before. It’s the song I see him by, and it tells me when he is happy, afraid, tired, focused. Most of all, it tells me that he is alive.
I miss it. I miss him. I think I might be dying.
I’m asleep, as far as I can tell, which is odd because I usually can’t. Sleep is, generally speaking, rather uneventful for an Eridian. We don’t toss and turn like a human might, we don’t wake up to odd sounds, we don’t dream. We just sort of...stop. It’s pretty grim, honestly. Still, I’d take it over whatever the fuck this is.
My thoughts are foggy, but I wrangle them as best I can and take stock of what I know. I find myself trapped, floating in an empty void with nothing to hold me down and no surfaces to gauge my surroundings with. I’m not used to being weightless. My claws itch to grab onto something, anything; a string to pluck, a project to tinker with, a wall to tap on. I methodically shift my awareness through each section of my body and find I cannot move.
Distantly, I can feel the sharp stinging of my scarred carapace, desperate to repair itself in the aftermath of an injury it was never designed to withstand. I remember now; Grace unresponsive in the pilot’s seat, Mary’s alarms blaring wildly and making him all the more visible to me as his body went limp and his face dripped with something far more viscous than tears.
His atmosphere burned in a way I’ve never experienced, almost acidic as it slowly ate its way through me. It was excruciating, and I remember screaming, though somehow little else of how I managed to last so long—concerning, as throughout the entire duration of my life I have never forgotten a single thing, up until now. However, what I do thankfully recall with clarity, and what matters more than anything else, is that I had taken Grace to the med bay. He was alive when I left him. He was safe.
And now I’m here, wherever here is. Circumstantial evidence would suggest I’ve entered a healing coma; a survival mechanism, a type of forced deep sleep the body uses in order to repair itself should it undergo extreme stress or injury. Survival in this state is never guaranteed, but I choose to ignore that fact because I have better things to do than working myself up over a situation I can’t control. I’ve never heard of an Eridian retaining any element of consciousness throughout this process. It should be impossible, but then again, I stopped believing in the impossible the day I sent a message to an alien and got one back in return.
I think, while I’m here. Not like I have much else to do. I think about the mission, about Erid and Earth, and every other world out there that might be filled with lifeforms wondering why their stars are dying out. I think about Adrian, and their boundless curiosity, and all the questions they’ll ask when I get home—if I get home, if they’re still waiting for me. I think about Grace.
I’d touched him when I’d pulled him down that corridor to safety. I hadn’t even considered what that meant at the time, but now it’s like I can’t stop. It hurt when I touched him, for both of us. There’s a small part of me that feels guilty for wanting to touch him again, despite this. Grace has spoken before about the sensitivity of human skin, the way it feels when making contact with another, the warmth of it. He’s told me that it’s important in Earth cultures, that there are taboos that come with it, that it somehow triggers the release of all these chemicals in the brain that make people feel happy, and calm, and safe. Eridians do not value touch in the same way, typically. But then I suppose I am no longer a typical Eridian.
Just for a moment, I felt I could almost understand it. When I had touched him, it had just been one more impossible thing between the two of us. Save the stars, save the universe, save each other by breaking through the barrier keeping our atmospheres separate, without which...well, I’m still trying to ignore present circumstances. But now the seal has been broken. It’s been done, I did it, and I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to do it again. I wonder if trial and error is a viable option here and if I can find a way to test this sort of thing safely. I should ask Grace, when I can. He's the scientist.
I think I want to know what that warmth feels like, the way he describes it. I want to know why humans seem to love it so much. Although, it’s possible the very foundation of this curiosity is flawed. Perhaps it’s not all humans who crave this peculiar sort of intimacy. Perhaps it’s simply Grace, with his uncanny ability to make the universe feel like something worth holding.
Something to consider, I suppose. I’ve got time, as strangely as it passes here.
It’s quiet in this nowhere realm. There is no such thing as silence on Erid. It’s a fantasy, a horror story; myths pertaining to phantoms, the kind that don’t make sound, who steal away pebbles in their sleep should they neglect to have a companion watching over them. It’s the kind of superstition we tell our friends we aren’t afraid of, all whilst hanging chimes from our doorways and workbenches, adorning ourselves in dangling, tinkling jewellery—just for decoration, we tell each other. Just in case.
Even alone, even after the death of my crew, I always had my ship; engines humming away, corridors and machinery dancing in tandem, always and forever, on and on and on. It was monotonous, but it was something. White noise, just enough to see by—not that there was much to see floating aimlessly about in the great void of space with only corpses for company. It never quite left me blind, but sometimes I wished it had. Better than being numb. I regret that wish now, here as close to silence as I have ever been, especially since meeting Grace.
There are volcanoes on Erid which erupt semi-frequently. They’re incredible. Terrifying in a way, when you can’t help but be touched by the raw seismic powers cascading through the ground beneath you. But there always comes a moment with eruptions, when the slow build of vibration reaches its peak and the entire planet is quaking inescapably and it’s like, for just that instant, you can see the whole world in everything around you. Being with Grace feels a bit like that, sometimes. With his peculiar speech, half-beat, half-melody; his soft, squelchy, gurgling body that never quite stills, even in his sleep; his staccato laughter, his breathy exhales, and his ugly, incessant leaking. Grace seems to me the perfect enemy of silence.
Perhaps the perpetual motion of his body is not unique to him, but simply something all humans are uniquely skilled at. Perhaps I’m biased; but, it’s not like there’s anyone out here in the far cosmic reaches of space to prove it, so who cares? I’ve watched Earth movies, absorbed what I can of human mannerisms; their lilting words and exaggerated motions. Most of it seems incredibly inefficient to me. If Grace could hear me say that he’d reply by pretending it was a culture thing, and I’d respect that, whilst myself pretending not to notice that slight stuttering uptick in his heartbeat that only occurs when he’s embarrassed.
Regardless, none of those humans leap out to me like he does, anyway. I find many of them interesting and entertaining, of course, but none demand my attention in quite the same way he does. After the initial novelty has worn off, I often watch them only half-heartedly, catching blurry snippets at the corners of my perception as I fiddle with a broken gear that needs mending, or sift through some of the vast catalogues of information stored aboard Mary. They disappear into my periphery as easily as if they weren’t there to begin with. But Grace...I could never not see him, even if I tried.
Fuck...I really miss seeing him, and this so-called ‘healing sleep’ is beginning to piss me off. I try reaching out to my body again, testing its mobility and once more finding it has none. But there’s something else there now, something new. The connection is easier to make, the dull throb of my vents just a little more pronounced, a little easier to feel. I try again, and again, and again. I’ll keep trying as long as it takes. I don’t want to die.
Don’t get me wrong, I’d still risk it again, without hesitation. For him. For Grace. Because he’s someone worth sacrificing for, and he deserves to make it home. He doesn’t need me in the same way I need him, but he’s the clumsiest individual I’ve ever known, and he likes to worry too much, and bury himself in his work, and forget to eat and sleep, and to do all those important things that he’s taken such great care in teaching me humans need to live, unless I’m there to remind him of them. I wonder how he’d manage without me. Probably bad, but I’m certain he’d figure it out. He’s smart like that. I know he’ll make it home, with or without me. I would really like it to be with me, though. I think we’d both like that, actually.
So, I summon what little energy I’ve managed to gather during my stasis, concentrating with everything I have on the process of reaching out; the mechanical cascade of movement as one joint braces, and then the next, and onwards to the next and so on. Finally, after what seems an eternity, there’s a twitch. I don’t hesitate to follow it through, pressing into the motion as my limbs attempt to seize back up. I stretch outwards, attention narrowing to a single petrified claw and begging it do something. There’s another twitch, and a tap against a familiar wall, and then in a shattering burst of echoing vibration I can see again.
I’m crashing back into my body, violently and without warning. It hurts, but somehow I’ve missed hurting. Or, maybe I’ve just missed feeling anything at all. I immediately direct all of my focus to my limbs, working through them in slight, concentrated movements, testing their give and take and assessing the full extent of the damage that might have been overlooked. Thankfully, I seem fully functional, if a little unsteady.
I shift an arm beneath me experimentally and tap a claw against the side of my xenonite enclosure, and stop when I find Grace pressed right up against the glass at my side. His unexpected proximity should surprise me, but it doesn’t. He’s resting with his back against the barrier, spine bent awkwardly and neck sitting at an angle that I know from experience will have him complaining about aches and pains when he wakes up. He is so still, so fragile in this moment, but he’s here, watching over me as best he can. Tapping against the barrier more precisely this time, I attempt to get a closer look at him, searching for proof that he had also taken the time to heal. Human biology remains mostly a mystery to me, but the inhale and exhale of his lungs alongside a steady heartbeat tell me everything I need to know. He’s alright.
Trying to stand is more difficult than I expected. I lose balance on my first attempt, limbs weak and flailing, like a pebble who has yet to learn the weight of their own steps. I imagine Grace is watching with his eyes open, attentive and encouraging, and I try again, slower this time. It’s a small victory when I don’t immediately topple back onto my side, but it’s mine and I’m proud of it. I take one last brief assessment of my body—aching, unsteady, alive alive alive—and then I bridge the short distance to my ball, bypassing the barrier that separates me from my friend.
As I clamber up beside him, I think about touch again, about warmth. I want that with him. I want to hold him like he sometimes holds himself, when he curls up within the safety of his bed, face tucked into the cradle of his arms as he wraps them around his knees, as he pretends not to cry and I pretend not to notice. I want to touch him in a way that doesn’t burn, to hold him like it doesn’t hurt. It strikes me in this moment, in that suddenly sharp and incomprehensible fashion that the most simple realisations always do, that what I want most of all is a hug.
I tap against the glass again and this time he wakes to it slowly, as he always does when I need him to. Bleary and unkempt, and fighting the battle against alertness with such sleepy ardour that it truly dazzles me how such a species ever survived long enough to become the apex predators of their world. He mumbles to himself, only half-aware, in that way that is so endlessly peculiar to me, and suddenly I forget what the universe looked like without his voice to reflect it, without the sound of him bouncing off the walls and bringing them to life. I press myself as close as I can to that sound, to him, to the song he makes. I listen and I feel and I see him as he turns to me. For a moment he stills entirely, limbs locked, breath caught, heart trapped in the beat it forgets to take. And then, he is everywhere.
Throwing himself at me, arms wide, body strained, he latches onto the xenonite between us, fingers clutching futilely at the smooth surface, cheek flattened against the panels. It’s an embrace, as close as we can get right now, and I push myself into it, tilting my carapace upwards and lifting myself to meet him.
We stay like that for a while, holding each other as best we can, in that way that will never be quite enough, and yet is simultaneously all I’ve ever wanted. For a moment, I believe I understand what it must be like to be human. This feeling as he rests against me, the soft patter of his tears and the subtle trembling of his limbs as he buries himself as close as he can manage. This must be what warmth feels like, I think. So this is why they love it.
We can’t stay here forever, we have work to do. Grace wouldn’t have sat idle whilst I recovered, he’s not the type to give up that easily. He would have worked as he watched over me, mind and body always moving, searching for the answers we need, for a way to make everything we have lost worth the sacrifice. He is braver than he thinks, and he would have done what was needed. He would have done just enough, I think, to give us a few more moments to spare.
His heart is beating against me, and I hope he realises. I hope he understands what it means. I hope he knows that the universe sings so much louder when we’re together, and that it is beautiful.