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The radiation sickness had changed Rocky slowly. Little by little, in incremental amounts no one would notice under any other conditions. But when you’re born terrigenous, biogenic alterations are… alarming. He pays the changes to his senses no mind as he and Grace slowly make their way to Erid. How his echolocation seems to get dimmer, less accurate the farther out he peers. How his sense of touch is reduced in some places and heightened in others. How he smells his atmosphere for the first time, recoiling a little for some reason. No wonder Grace had such a startled reaction to the atmosphere.
The night is like any other. Grace did his minimal hygiene, Rocky rolled around in his ball, checking over things on the ship, and they bumped into each other as they both went to lay down. Grace chuckled and patted the glass as Rocky transferred from the ball to his top bunk. It was quiet in a way they learned to both like. Grace snored softly, Rocky would occasionally chitter in his sleep.
But it was abnormally hot in his bunk tonight. Rocky noticed it when he got in, that it felt harder to move. Maybe it was just exhaustion, he thought to himself as he curled up and drifted off. He woke up deep in the night, extremely unusual for his kind. He felt like he was melting from every single cell. His skin was prickling, lungs burning, and it felt like he was personally carrying ten boulders on his carapace. It was hot. Too hot. Too hot too hot too hot get him out get him out GET HIM OUT–
Vocalizations come from his mouth that aren't harmonies as he pushes through a glass pane, falling to the cold floor gasping for air. He screams, ready for Grace’s atmosphere to burn him, but no burning comes. In fact, the burning in his lungs clears up. The ache in his chest lessens. He looks down finally, and with eyes much more vibrant and sensitive than before, sees Grace’s hands. On his body.
It dumbfounds him. He has never in his almost 300 years of living heard of an Eridian becoming allergic to the air they breathe overnight. Or having all these weird sensory inputs besides hearing. And these human hands.
He stares down at the hands that connect to arms, that connect to a body. His body. His very naked body.
Grace is grumbling about his beauty sleep, wiping the leftover lethargy from his eyes to see what the commotion is at the relatively late hour of the night. He crawls out from his bunk and slows, looking for what went wrong. “Rock, man, why you being so loud? What’s wrong…”
He stops dead when he sees the shattered glass. And no rock. Only a mess of tan limbs, tattoos and scars, and salt and pepper hair that’s wildly fluffy. Brown eyes meet his blue, and the confusion is palpable. Grace works his mouth, opening and shutting it several times before he can get a small word out.
“Rocky…?”
The man in front of him, wide eyed and confused, just stares up at Grace. He goes to reply, to sing in his normal language, ready to hear the text to speech say, “Yes, this Rocky. Is Grace dumb, question?” But the voice never comes. The voice doesn’t play, and the >UNKONWN< error pops up on the terminal. What comes out of his now fleshy mouth is something akin to his once beautiful harmonies, now warbled and distorted by the natural imperfections of humanity. When that fails, he resorts to what he’s seen Grace do several times, and swings his head up and down, nodding. Yes, he is Rocky. Although, he’s not very hard right now. Very fleshy. And too moist for his liking.
Grace drags a hand over his face before pinching the bridge of his nose, baffled. How in the world did this happen? He kicks himself internally, he’s not on earth. This didn’t happen on earth. It could only happen a million miles away, obviously. A sentient rock could only turn into a very objectively hot human in the depths of outer space.
He’s flustered. Time after time on this prayer of a project, he’s faced death as a coward. Met it and ghosted his lips against it. He thought, and accepted, he would never see another human again. His last humans were his dead crew mates he uttered vague funeral processions for. Now, something out of Cinderella has graced his tired, blurry eyes. Will this beautiful gown turn back to rags soon? Where’s the pumpkin carriage and the mice horses?
Finally, he zones back in. He can’t gawk at the much older man forever. So, with as much confidence as he can muster when he’s staring at his first human in God knows how long, Grace drags his hand over his face again and sighs tiredly. “Okay… Rocky. We’ll, uhh, figure this out. I mean, I’m not an English teacher, but—”
He squawks indignantly as hands are on his jaw, chocolate brown eyes staring intently at his facial structure. Rocky’s fingers, thick, warm, and so so gentle, trace each contour of Ryland’s mandible, pressing in on the hollows and following the curvature of the striations. His thumbs brush over his lips, and Ryland can’t control the blood that rushes to his cheeks.
Rocky hums warmly, deep in his throat, and moves Ryland’s jaw around, making him open his mouth and staring just as intently at the insides of his oral cavity. One of his hands abandons his cheek and wraps around his throat, feeling the windpipe contract and expand, his heart beating wildly under his thumb, and more importantly to Rocky right now, his voice box.
Grace, who would normally be revolting at such a violation of his personal space, is dead silent. The touch of caring hands is something that his mind hasn’t remembered, something that the coma seemingly didn’t take away because there was nothing to take. The gentle, curious caresses of his comrade make him shudder, and he has to bite back whimpers that bubble up his throat. Rocky lights up when he feels the column move, his pulse quicken, and the slightest shift of his Adam’s Apple.
“O-Okay, Rock, personal space.”
“It’s okay, Rocky figure out human language.”
Grace sputters and pulls away, another indignant squawk leaving his lips as he rubs his throat. That darn rock and his darn intellect- er… not darn rock and his darn intellect. At least he doesn’t have to scrounge up middle school ELA lessons now. Rocky’s voice is smooth. It’s choppy, just as the text to speech was, but his cadence is light, almost lilting. It’s not rough and hoarse, but smooth with just the hint of baritone. He’s not as friendly as the text to speech voice, but it still puts Grace at ease, soothes him to hear another voice. It’s hypnotic in tone, smooth in a way that makes him think this version of Rocky has been here longer than he knew. That he would gladly bend over and do whatever this hunk of meat says.
Ryland, thankful for not having to be a teacher again so abruptly, puts his hands in the air uselessly and sighs. Part of him wants to hear Rocky keep talking, but his crappy bunk is also calling his name. “Alright, that’s… good. That’s good!”
The heat on his cheeks comes back tenfold when his eyes flick over Rocky. Clothes. Ryland immediately pushes back, seeing how close his thigh was to something he definitely shouldn’t be eyeing. Is this monster fucking? Is it ethical? Is he really going to think about the ethics of wanting to make out with a rock-turned-human at some ungodly hour of “night?”
A memory splits into the light of day in his mind. Some time in college, scouring sites so late into the night that the sun was threatening to come up and the birds were wondering whether to start singing or not. Blushing as he reads about his current fictional crush. Some crappy alien sci-fi fandom that could fit on a bus together, all of them swapping stories and headcanons like they were old chums on a dock. Kicking his feet under the blanket and waiting desperately for the next chapter. And somewhere in there, he remembered having to genuinely fill out the Harkness Test.
He looks over Rocky. He’s sentient. He can talk. He’s of adult maturity. He could have been blushing and squealing over a rock five minutes ago. Now he has no Harkness Test to worry about.
The man is beefy, that’s the only way Ryland can describe Rocky. Sure, rocks are bulky, Rocky was all rock, but did it really have to transfer over to his human form? His hands and arms are covered in scorch marks from when he saved the both of them from crashing. Scars cover his arms from years of metalworking, tattoos intermingled showing his culture more clearly than before. Star maps dance over his biceps and thighs, measurements on his forearms, lines dancing up his inner arm. They don’t make sound anymore, but they’re just as beautiful. Muscle bulges beneath his tanned skin, defined and catching the dim light of the ship at night. He’s so lean he can happily follow the trail of his muscles south until he forces his eyes back up and smiles at Rocky to soothe him, or himself. He stands taller than Grace, has fingers thicker than Grace’s, biceps bigger than Grace’s, thighs bigger than Grace’s, dick bigger than–
Clothes. Clothes are the mission. Clothes clothes clothes.
“Let me go get you clothes, Rocky. Then it’s back to bed. We can figure this out in the morning.” Ryland eventually murmurs, turning around and bolting far too quickly to find some clean clothes that might, key word might, fit this bulky man. His biceps are so gonna bulge under the sleeves. He’s gonna fill out whatever pair of pants or shorts he finds– gosh darn it, clothes, Grace! Enough about his dick!
“Why Rocky need clothes, question?”
Grace’s head drops back as he slows, sighing. He would, for all intents and purposes, love to keep Rocky naked. He’s not that much of a pervert, though.
“Uh… Clothes keep you warm.” Is the explanation that Grace settles on as he grabs a clean-ish shirt and some sweats. “I’m sure you’re cold now that you’re not four hundred pounds of… weathered orthoclase. Or whatever your shell was made of.”
“No. Rocky body warm.”
“Well still, wear some clothes for me? I wear them all the time and I don’t make a fuss.”
“Why Grace not shed clothes to be like Rocky, question?”
Grace turns around, holding the clothes. Well fudge. Human customs and culture aren’t too important when you’re bound to die on an alien planet, now are they? He rubs the back of his neck and holds out the clothes, sighing. “It’s just the human thing to do. And it’ll keep you warm if you do get cold. So please, just put them on.”
Rocky grumbles something unintelligible and puts the shirt on, the fibers stretching over his broad chest. The sweats do much of the same, the fabric stretched taut over the mass of muscle on his thighs, not going all the way down to ankles due to his height. His fingers tousle with his hair, just like he’s seen Grace do with his own, and he smiles at the shorter man. He takes a few steps forward and cups Ryland’s cheek, rubbing the soft flesh with his thumb. Ryland, who was shamelessly staring down at the contour line in Rocky’s sweats, makes a hurt sound and stares up at Rocky when his hand touches his face.
He doesn’t know why he does this. This isn’t how he would’ve shown affection to Adrian. This isn’t how he’d show affection to any of his kind. But it feels right. To touch and hold this messy, imperfect creature. To touch and make contact with the very thing he’s become. It feels right to cherish the one and only other being he’s known after his crew’s death. His breathing deepens as he stares intently into Ryland’s eyes. He realizes, then, that his eyes are blurry like Ryland described his own. Oh well. He can see his Grace well enough.
Grace melts under the affection. He stares back into Rocky’s intense eyes, shying under his gaze. Rocky was always intense, but it was always softened by the fact he was a bundle of rocks in a hamsterball. Now, in the flesh, he feels need, human need towards another human. A gravitational pull to be near him, to stay in his orbit and worship him. And Rocky is apparently taking a liking to being the one who’s more… in charge. Not that he minds. He’s never been a leader. He’ll gladly follow Rocky, fall into step with him and let him make his cheeks tint red and his eyes glassy.
Rocky slowly brings their foreheads together, their hair meshing together, noses bumping against each other and breaths mingling. He doesn’t close his eyes, but they go hazy and half-lidded as he continues to stare at his angel.
Ryland doesn’t swallow the whimper that bubbles up this time. Or try to dampen his smile or hide his blush. Doesn’t push Rocky away when he lowers his face to press his lips to Ryland’s neck. Doesn’t push Rocky away when he breathes him in and starts sucking on his neck, leaving a trail of hickeys on his shoulder. He starts near the hollow of his throat, where he initially kisses his pulse point, and sucks a bright purple bruise there first. From there, he goes wherever he feels like. Down to his clavicle, up to his traps, then all over the neck, peppering them around his pulse point.
Ryland couldn’t pull away if he tried. He was too weak-willed, and too weak-kneed for the matter. All he could do was whimper under Rocky’s lips, squirm in his thick arms, and let him kiss him back to sleep. He occasionally gasped when Rocky’s teeth, pristine and too white for his own good, pinched his skin too roughly. Rocky would just lave his skin with his tongue in response to the sharp breath, shushing the anxious man and soothing him.
Eventually, much to both of their dismay, Rocky pulls away to look back at Ryland. Both are panting, both their lips shining with spit; Rocky’s from claiming Ryland’s neck, and Ryland’s from drooling over the intimacy. Ryland whimpers quietly one last time and crashes their lips together, unable to deny the pull anymore.
One of Rocky’s hands cups Grace’s cheek, the other moving to firmly hold the nape of his neck, fingers curling into the small hairs there. He reciprocates the kiss in kind, happy to show this angel some more affection. He crashes against Ryland with just as much intention, force, and lack of decorum, immediately putting more pressure into it to watch Ryland melt. Grace’s hands find their way around Rocky, fidgeting as they go until he’s comfortable. They eventually break away, both just as reluctant as earlier. Rocky brings their foreheads back together and sighs, happily breathing in Grace’s air.
“Rocky get to sleep next Grace now, question?”
Grace laughs at his question, shaking his head and sighing as he sits down on his cot. He groans quietly and makes room for Rocky, patting the empty space. “I have a feeling you wouldn't take no for an answer, Rock.”
Rocky hums triumphantly and lays down with Grace, pulling his back to his chest and curling around him. Their breathing syncs as both sleep peacefully, Rocky’s palm resting over Ryland’s heart. Nothing matters but the calm quiet between the two of them right now. He can’t hear as well as he used to, but his touch, let alone his sight, are millions of times more sensitive. He gladly stays up to watch Ryland sleep, just as he always does. He pulls the man closer and tucks his head into his shoulder, breathing him in and sighing when sleep finally takes him.
Tomorrow, they can explore this all. Tonight?
Tonight, they rest. Tonight, they share breaths and body heat. Tonight, Rocky plays with Ryland’s hair long after the blond has drifted off. Tonight, Ryland dreams of those same arms holding him during the day, during the mundane. Tomorrow is tomorrow’s problem. The mechanics of having a second person on board, the change in food and fuel needed to get to Erid, is tomorrow’s problem.
Now, they rest. Ryland falls asleep quicker than he has in years, not tossing and turning restlessly. Rocky sleeps deeper than he has in decades, lulled by being able to watch his Grace not from a glass barrier. Both have been deprived of warmth for so long, this fleeting moment feels like homecoming.
And maybe it is.