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Venus thought he'd given up on ever having life.
His orbit was too hot, atmosphere too toxic, magnetic field too weak.
It wasn't possible for life to exist on him, and he'd accepted that and moved on.
Until he senses the tiniest, minuscule movements of moving organisms high up in his atmosphere.
He didn't want to believe it at first. Surely it had to be the wind or something?
But more and more as time goes on and the feeling grows and suddenly it's all over him, consuming his senses and each flutter of movement beats along with his core--- Venus can't lie to himself anymore:
He has life.
He doesn't know what to feel at first. Confusion? Happiness? Pride? All he knows is that there's a bone-deep gratitude that he could finally have the dream he'd been chasing all his life.
The other planets are just as confused as him on how his lifeforms (Venuslings he can call them now, proudly.) manifested, apparently out of nowhere, but they accept them without judgement and celebrate his little achievement and it’s the happiest Venus has ever been.
Until Earth comes up to him hesitantly one day, Luna and Mars in tow, all of them looking incredibly guilty.
Earth explains to him the Petrova Line, the mysterious line of infrared light stretching from the Sun's north pole toward Venus, how his earthlings have dubbed his Venusling as 'Astrophage' because they apparently feed on the sun's energy before migrating back to him.
So what? Venus wants to snap. Who cares if his venuslings take a few detours now and then?
Earth goes on to explain hurriedly: the Astrophage feeding on the sun's energy decreases his light output. And whilst it doesn't harm the sun, over the years it will affect the temperature of all the other planets. If it's not stopped, all the planets could be plunged into their own ice age. And most importantly, Earth stresses, all life on Earth will die.
Venus realised with growing dread what they were trying to say.
They were going to kill his Life.
Venus reacts to this new information with the only thing he knows best: anger. He explodes at Earth, screams at Mars, pushes away Mercury.
( “Because this is happening to stars and planets all across the galaxy! Astrophage migrates from star to star; you’re their foster planet, you’re not special—”
“Some of us DON'T NEED TO BE SPECIAL, EARTH.” )
He isolates himself in his orbit, his rage exhausting into burning shame and grief and simmering hurt that swallows him whole, drowning out any attempts of consolation from the others.
It was unfair. The one thing Venus had for himself. The one thing he could call his own. The one thing that made him feel he wasn't a waste of rock and gas. He wants to ask what cruel, sick joke the Universe was playing; giving him a taste of what it felt to be wanted, to have something to care for and then poisoning the plate, the more he greedily, selfishly took from it.
Because Venus can't be happy. It's been carved into the depths of his mantle from the day he was born.
He doesn't talk to any of them. He can't bear their pitying glances or half-hearted apologies. None of them could understand. He misses Mercury the most. All the progress they made, gone over something as measly as life. He catches his sad glances from across the sun. He doesn't return them.
Earth whispers about a Project Hail Mary. A last ditch effort from his humans to find a 'cure' to Venus's curse. He knows from half heartedly listening to Mercury's frustrated attempts at talking to him. They're sending Astrodude to a star system light years away in hopes of figuring out why this particular star hasn't been infected. On a suicide mission. Earth is distraught and Venus ignores the guilt rolling in his gut.
Years pass on.
Venus watches as the Sun gets dimmer, his smile fading, eyes exhausted. He watches as the Earth's oceans freeze over and as he sobs himself to sleep. He watches as the other planets hold their shivering moons closer and as they whisper white lies and empty promises into their ears that things will get better.
None of their moons believe them.
Venus doesn't believe them.
But he still listens to their whispers and pretends he's included in the warmth of their comfort whilst he cradles himself, alone in his orbit.
He wasn't left alone for too long. But he desperately wishes he was.
The Project Hail Mary wasn't the Earthling's only hope at finding a cure. Humans being humans, they created technology far greater than Venus can comprehend to destroy his lifeforms.
Earth desperately tried to warn him but Venus ignored him.
Perhaps he should have listened.
The bombs come and suddenly his head is—
screaming and screaming and screaming—
nausea wracking his whole body and pain searing through his nerves. Light and energy exploding and crackling through—
his atmosphere—
and he can feel his lifeforms drop dead one by one,
sinking into his surface, and his core—
Breaks—
and his eyes burn—
and he wants to be swallowed alongside them,
buried under rock and soil and dirt,
just—
so everything
(stars, please, anything— all of it—)
could
stop.
It wasn't enough and the humans withdrew.
The Astrophage still runs wild and they'd run out of resources. They leave and don't realise they've taken with them the spit and fire that kept his soul burning.
Venus is left behind and alone again, this time with his own ashes, and the hollow, smouldering shell of what he used to be.
He's given up.
And the sun's dimming brightness begins to look tempting.
His days feel slower and he wastes his time between staring at the abyss dark sky or staring at the sun.
He considers it. It wouldn't be the first time he had to resist the light’s call.
But recently the thoughts have been coming wave after wave, crashing over him and pulling him under. The idea feels too alluring not to dip into.
He wants to melt in the sun’s embrace, consumed by warmth and emotion— to feel anything other than the numbness that sits heavy under his skin.
But Venus isn't cruel enough to push the burden onto someone else. The astrophage are attracted to the largest source of carbon dioxide: if not him, it would’ve been Mars. And Venus knows Mars would probably break from carrying the same lifeforms that caused his best friend so much pain. He was doing this for them, that’s what he told himself.
And maybe he was a bit of a coward, holding onto the whispered hope for a miracle that things will get better.
His miracle comes in the form of one triumphant Astrodude, returning from his suicide mission, alive.
There's exhaustion written deep between the lines around his mouth and between his brows, and his eyes look ancient beyond his years, but he still smiles just as widely when he returns. He announces he's found the cure, the solution to the Petrova Problem, and the planets and moons cheer and celebrate his success. And Venus knows it's time to finally let go.
Venus doesn't move anywhere yet. He lets Astrodude bring his ship to Venus and watches as he unloads the boxes that contain the cure to inevitably kill his astrophage .
It felt a bit like betrayal to kill them: they had grown with him, and lived in him and Venus had grown attached despite the self-disgust they’d clawed into him. They’d been the only things to keep him company for years. But he’d been carrying the weight of their existence for far too long and he’s so, so tired. He’s relieved to let them go.
Until astrodude announces he has bred his own form of life just for Venus and Venus's core pretty much stuttered in his chest. He gets to keep his life afterall? Astrodude explains, yes, it's the best solution: the lifeform— taumoeba— acts as a natural predator to astrophage, and will help even out the population and return things to normal.
Astrodude asks for his permission before releasing the taumoeba and Venus looks to Earth who’s been floating behind his earthling.
Venus doesn’t know why he does that. He doesn’t need the reassurance. He doesn’t even know if he deserves it.
But Earth just cracks a tired, encouraging smile anyways and Venus returns it, almost gratefully— the genuine first smile they've shared in half a century.
The taumoeba thrive on Venus, better than the astrophage did, as some of them mutate and differentiate into the beginnings of different species as the generations go on, evolution already playing in its sandpit.
Slowly but surely, the Sun returns to its full brightness, Earth’s ice melts and his surface blooms green again, and the gas giants don’t have to apologise for their whispered promises when their moons can run free.
Slowly but surely, Venus mends his relationship with all the others. He apologises for his outbursts, the cruel words, the regression into his old self. The giants forgive him easily, and he gets cradled by someone other than himself. The Rockies, not so much, understandably: Venus had hurt them the most. But they still pull him from sinking under and help fill the hollowness in his chest with new memories and laughs and hugs and reassurances that Venus matters, and is wanted and is cared for—
Slowly but surely, they gather the embers of himself that Venus thought he lost and help him put them back in place, right next to his core, and the numbness seeps away into the bright burn they adored him to have.
They enjoy their days in Earth’s orbit watching his life recover, or watching the sky light up with returning stars, or playing solarcards. Sometimes a weird wave of guilt would hit Venus and he’d try to apologise but they just tell him to shut up (fondly) and play his next card.
Now as the history books are written, there are two planets with Life in the solar system.
And it’s the happiest Venus has ever been.
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