Work Text:
I can’t stop staring at my hands.
It’s such a small thing, really. Honestly, it’s— it’s not even that big of a deal, it’s just—
I just can’t shake the thought from my head that I am never going to see another person again. I will never see another human person, and I will never be touched again, or held again, or even— even something as stupid as high-fiving someone, I will never get to do it again. Not any of it. And that’s just— Sorry to swear, but it sucks.
It never seemed like that big of a deal. Touch, I mean. Like, it was never high on my list of priorities. It’s one of those things where you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone, I guess. And I forget that I’m a person, but people are— are animals, and we need touch. I knew that logically, but, before now, I never understood it in this visceral sense, this very real sense, because I can feel it now. It’s in my bones, this desire to be touched. I just want a hug.
That’s really it, if I’m being honest. That one single, stupid desire. I just want a hug so desperately badly.
Glancing over at Rocky, watching his hands work, I can’t help but feel a longing so intense and bone-deep that I don’t know what to do with it. He’s stuck in his ball, always separate from me. We can’t touch each other, not beyond the flexible material between us, that almost-touch that’s almost worst than nothing at all. There’s no way we can actually touch each other.
It’s getting to the point where I want to cry over it. And it’s so stupid.
I’m supposed to be focusing on my work, and I’ve— I’ve been struggling for days— or, what I assume to be days, it’s all different on the ship— to pay attention to what I’m supposed to be paying attention to. Our suns are literally going to die without us, and I’m supposedly humanity’s last hope, and here I am, just barely figuring out that I’m useless right now because I need a hug. That’s so— It’s just embarrassing.
Rocky turns towards me the second before I’m about to sigh. How does he know?
“Grace stop work, question?” he asks me. “Heartrate elevated. Grace sick, question?”
“Sorry,” I say, in lieu of any better or more accurate response. “I just— Distracted.”
Phenomenal. Well done, Grace. You’re a genius.
“Grace distracted.” It comes out as a statement, not a question. Rocky puts down the tools in his hands, Eridian mechanisms filched off of his ship, and turns fully towards me. He doesn’t even need to, necessarily; I know he can perceive me from all sides, in a deeper way than I’m capable of. He does things like this for my benefit, turns and gestures and—
Geez, I wish he could do more for my benefit.
It’s a selfish thought, and stupid, and I try my best to ignore it, even as it takes root deeper inside of me.
But I’m so distracted by his hands.
His fingers are so agile, and he’s got those strong, sturdy palms, and he could— he could hold me. If he wanted to. I don’t see why not. I just— He just isn’t, and I wish that he would— I wish anyone would, but him above all else, an animal like me, I just wish— I just want—
“Grace worked up, statement,” Rocky comments, and it feels like something tight inside me wants to snap.
I just barely hold it all back as I tell him, “I’m just having a bad day. Humans have those. Eridians must too, right?”
Rocky pauses for a long moment before he says, “Rocky has many bad days.”
My eyes flick up from his hands to his carrapace, my attention caught. I can tell that Rocky’s looking at me, even if he pretends he’s not, now keeping himself tilted in the direction of the xenonite he’s threading together. His hands have stilled on it, and I just— want to touch him so badly— want those hands to move and reach out for me and—
“Rocky alone for so long,” Rocky continues. “Rocky lose everyone, alone for years. Those years bad, bad, bad. Every next day Rocky’s worst day, statement.”
There’s a quiet moment between us. I don’t know what to say. What does a person say, when they’re trying to comfort someone who’s been alone for decades, while they themself are losing their mind from being alone for a meager handful of weeks? He’s been alone longer than I’ve even been alive. How can I even compare?
“Does it bother you?” I ask on impulse, and then want to suck the words back in instantly. Of course, it bothers him. Why wouldn’t it bother him? What kind of a stupid question is that?
For all that my question is absolutely idiotic, Rocky still seems to consider it before he asks, “What Grace mean by ‘it,’ question?”
“Oh.” I pause for a moment. My expectation was that he would just say, ‘Of course it does, you moron.’ “I— Just—” My eyes flick down to my hands, curled up in my lap. I think of the times I’ve tried to hug Rocky’s ball and felt impossibly frustrated by the distance between us; I think of the times I’ve woken up and seen Rocky with his hands pressed to the barrier that separates us, as if he was trying to— wanting to touch me while I slept, the same way I feel with him. That could be wishful thinking. Or, maybe—
Rocky only lets the stammering and awkwardness and quiet go on for so long before he asks, “Grace not know answer, question?”
“No, it’s just that— I guess I feel kind of stupid about it,” I confess.
“What Grace mean by ‘it,’ question?” Rocky repeats, more forcefully asking this time.
I don’t know how to explain it to Rocky. I don’t even know how to explain it to myself.
“I just—” I start, then stop again. My throat feels thick before I just burst out with, “I feel so alone all the time, I can’t— I can’t touch anyone, there’s nobody here, and I can’t— even hug you, and I want you— I want to hug you so bad, and I— I just— I don’t know, I think it’s just driving me a little crazy. I can’t stand it, it’s freaking me out. I just— I want—” I shake my head, forcing myself to stop the idiocy pouring from my mouth. “I don’t know. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t— have said that, I’m sorry.”
On the other side of the barrier between us, Rocky goes still. I feel even stupider, because this— this is not something to be this agitated about, and it’s definitely not something to be bothering Rocky with, just dumping all my wild distress on top of him. He’s my only friend, the only other being I know, I should not be driving him away with my desperation to hug him, what is wrong with me?
It’s too long a silence before Rocky’s limbs all twitch at once and he puts his xenonite project down where he stands.
“Rocky forget something on ship,” he says, so abrupt that I know it’s not true. It makes my insides all clench; we don’t lie to each other, by unspoken agreement. “Grace stay here. Rocky be back soon, statement.”
I don’t have time to protest before Rocky’s scrambling for the airlock between his ship and mine. Each skittering step he takes as he somersaults away from me makes my chest tighten more and more until it’s like I can’t breathe at all.
Great. Great. I’m just a— a stupid, infantile, fleshy human that doesn’t know how to talk, and I ruined everything. Amazing.
With a huff, I abandon my own work. I can’t focus, not right now, not while Rocky isn’t here. All I can do is cycle my waterfall of words in my head over and over, thinking about how mortifying every single thing I said was, how— of course Rocky would want to leave after that, after I was so awkward and basically begging him just to touch me, while also reminding him how alone he’s been and how we can’t touch each other.
I’m an idiot.
That’s the thought that comes up most often as I attempt to neaten up our workspace and just— end up staring into the middle distance instead. I’m just an idiot, and now I’m all alone, all over again, forever. By my own hand, this time.
Huh.
It takes me about twenty minutes to realize Rocky’s not coming back— or, at least, he hasn’t come back yet.
I catch a glimpse of myself in my warbly, half-formed reflection in the nearest window. How much did it bother me, before I met Rocky? The lack of touch. I don’t remember thinking all that much about it. It was— I mean, it was difficult, being by myself on the Hail Mary, but it didn’t have the unique sort of piercing pain that comes with being alone now, with knowing that— that Rocky is right over there, on the ship I can see through my window, past my reflection, and not here, with me.
Is that friendship? Or— or codependency, or both, or more?
Is that why it feels like it hurts horribly not to be touched, but someone hurts even more not to be touched by him, specifically? Now that there’s someone here to touch me, and I can’t touch him— can’t touch him— Why does that hurt so, so much?
I know why.
I know why, and yet, I don’t know what to do about it. What am I supposed to do about it? Just asking Rocky how he feels about being by himself scared him back to his own ship, hurtling through space with my own. The two of them get to touch, even when we can’t, and somehow, that hurts, too. Rocky didn’t even want to be in the same room as me.
Peering out the window, I imagine I can see Rocky on his ship. I imagine we’re like— like Romeo and Juliet, and he’s watching me, too, and I’m not just so lost and lonely and alone in the universe. My best friend— my only friend— the being— person— I love, he’s right over there, and here I am, so far from him, unable to touch him, and still making a mess of everything.
For a moment, I think I do see Rocky on the other side. When I peer through one of the windows aboard the Hail Mary, watching the vastness of space and the closeness of Rocky’s ship, I really think that I can see him, that— that I can see Rocky through one of the striped portals opposite me on the Blip-A, and I can almost imagine that he’s there because he’s watching me the same way I’m watching for him, searching him out, unable to be away from him.
Even from afar, I can tell that it looks like his arms are pressed together, slowly rubbing up and down. I curl up in that window, watching him, eyes fixed on who I’m sure is Rocky, and let myself drift a little bit. I don’t want to fall asleep, though. It might upset Rocky when he gets back, realizing that I slept without him watching me— or, maybe it wouldn’t. I don’t want to find out, not really.
After a long few minutes, I reach up, wrapping my arms around myself, and imagine they’re Rocky’s arms. As if it’s him holding me, rocky carapace pressed to my face, hard jointed limbs wrapped around me and holding me close against him. Not anybody else, not any human’s arms, but Rocky’s, and when I shut my eyes, and squeeze hard, it’s almost as if his touch is real. Almost.
I think I’m going to snap.
Well. Either I am, or Rocky is— or both of us are, but, no matter how it goes down, it is going to go down. We’re reaching a breaking point, and reaching it fast.
Since our— I don’t know, disagreement? Is that the right word? Since the weird moment between us the other day when I semi-ruined everything by wanting to hug him, Rocky’s been acting strange. It’s not that he’s rude, or standoffish, or even all that different from usual, but there’s just been a shift. I can feel it, I can tell, and it’s driving me closer and closer to the edge I’ve been dancing along this whole time. Even worse, I know it’s my fault, because what else could it be?
It’s not bad enough that I’m close to freaking out because I can’t hug Rocky, of all the ridiculous things. He just has to add on additional freaking out by acting— acting so awkward about it. Couldn’t we just ignore it, like I’ve been doing the whole time up until now?
I try to tell myself it’s not a big deal, that I’m overthinking and overreacting and that it’s really actually fine. That I’m just being sensitive because I’m noticing that my feelings for Rocky are feelings for Rocky, and I’m analyzing every small interaction between us to death as a result, because I know his feelings for me are not feelings for me and maybe he’s realizing that, too. Maybe he’s noticing how much I am, how much more I love him than he loves me, how desperate I am to touch him when he’d rather do anything else.
Of course, then I look at the burn marks carved into my arm, and instead of feeling regret or pain or anything negative like that, I just wish that I could feel his touch again. Could feel him more. Even if it hurt, I’d still welcome it.
“Grace not focused on work again,” Rocky points out from across our workspace. I just barely stop myself from throwing the microscope my hands are white-knuckle gripping. “Why Grace always distracted now, question?”
Because you won’t touch me, I want to answer, even though I know I can’t. Because I’m so lonely even though I’m not even really alone. And I feel so absurdly bad about it. Please touch me, please, please, please—
And it’s just so frustrating. We’d been doing so well before: working side-by-side, talking constantly, bonding, sharing, opening up to one another. Every day, in our mutual lab, we’ve been telling each other jokes, and talking about our interests, and just— having fun. Even if we couldn’t touch each other, or— or be together the way I wish we could, we were together in that way, at least. In one way, if none other. It felt like we were getting closer, closer, close enough to touch, even if we couldn’t actually touch.
It had been amazing, even if it’d been rough. I want to hold him, and I can’t. I want to be as close as possible with him, and I can’t. I want to hug him, and touch him, and be with him, and I can’t, and the closer we get, the harder that knowledge becomes for me. Especially when I scare him off just by mentioning a fragment of how I’m feeling. And when I think about potentially touching him— when I reach out to him, before I remember— it just hurts. I want to fix it. And I can’t.
I sigh, trying to keep myself together. I don’t want to be short with Rocky, I don’t, but my insides are all twisted-up and I’m struggling to control myself, let alone my tone.
“I’m— I’m just worn out,” I tell him, doing my best to refocus. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
There’s a beat.
“Rocky tired, too,” Rocky says.
“I know, Rocky,” I bite out. “Sorry. I’ll do better.”
“Grace falling behind,” Rocky continues, as if I haven’t spoken. “Rocky making—”
“Look, I said I’m sorry,” I snap. “You don’t have to be so bossy all the time, I’m not an idiot. I can get it done.”
“Rocky not need to be so bossy if Grace listen to Rocky,” Rocky protests.
“Don’t talk to me that way,” I bite out, refusing to look at him, my insides all shaking at one.
This time, the beat is longer.
“Grace irritable all the time now, statement,” Rocky accuses, breaking the silence. “What happen, frustrate Grace, question? Wh—”
“I’m just frustrated, Rocky, leave me alone.” My tone is sharper than I’ve ever used with him, I think, and I immediately feel guilty about it, but I’m still upset. Nothing he can do can fix it. Part of me wants to just— storm off to another room, slam the door, throw a whole tantrum. I have to swallow that part of me back, enough to force out, “Look. It’ll get done, alright? Just trust me.” I almost tell him again to leave me alone, but I’m too scared that he’ll listen this time, and I choke the words back again.
Rocky is quiet for a long moment, long enough that I turn to check on him and see if he’s glaring at me. I know what he looks like when he’s glaring. I’ve adapted to him, the only other living being I know anymore, and still—
Well, still.
But when I look, Rocky’s not glaring. He’s tilted in my direction, but he doesn’t seem as upset as I thought he would be. Instead, he’s just— abandoned his work and is leaning against the wall of his tunnel, staring at me. I stare back for a long second before I push my goggles up and stare back.
“What?” I ask, when he still doesn’t speak. “I said it’ll get done. If you want to yell at me, just— yell at me.”
“Is Grace upset with Rocky?” Rocky asks me. “Rocky fix if Grace upset, statement. Rocky not want Grace upset. Grace Rocky best friend.” There’s a moment where his front limbs pull together, shuddering, before he adds, “Grace Rocky only friend. Not want Grace upset. Not lose Grace. Why Grace upset, question?”
“Hey,” I reply automatically, straightening up a little. “You’re not losing me, bud, I’m not upset with you. Look, I’m just— I’m just being cranky, alright? I’m not upset because of you. It’s not your fault.”
Rocky pauses, then asks, “Grace upset about argument other day, question?”
“Oh.” I can feel myself heating up, face burning. God, I hope Rocky can’t notice that. “Was that— That wasn’t an argument, was it? Just— me being stupid.”
“Grace not stupid,” Rocky protests. “Rocky stupid.”
“No, what? You’re not stupid,” I insist without even having to think about it. He’s probably the least stupid person I know. Well— “person,” but, still. “It’s not your problem that I— I want a hug. I shouldn’t have exploded like that, you were right to— It’s just so, so stupid, I shouldn’t have even—”
“Rocky been alone so long,” Rocky cuts me off. I refocus my attention on him, realizing my eyes had drifted to my own hands. “So many years alone. Rocky not been touched. Not hugged. Rocky alone. Rocky…” He pauses for a long moment, long enough that I almost try to decide what to say for him, but he speaks before I can interject. “Rocky miss touch, too. Rocky miss hug. No touch for so, so, so long. No one to watch Rocky sleep, to protect Rocky, to touch Rocky. Rocky alone like Grace alone, statement. Rocky not realize Grace feel same way Rocky feel.”
“I really do,” I say in a rush, not believing this could be true. It’s like I’m a child with a crush hearing through the grapevine that they might like me back. Maybe I am stupid, but maybe I don’t care, either. Not if this could be real. “It’s making me feel like I’m going crazy, all I can— can think about sometimes is hugging you, Rocky, and being touched by you, and I—”
“Rocky feel same, exclamation!” Rocky jumps up, pressing harder against the barrier between us. “Rocky think about touch Grace at all time. Rocky want touch Grace while Grace sleep, while Grace work, even while Grace eat. Rocky see Grace hug ball and wish Rocky could touch, statement. Grace too far from Rocky.”
“It’s not enough,” I tell him. “You’re right, it’s not enough.” My eyes are burning; I have to will myself not to cry, not over this, I can’t. Even if it’s the most I’ve really felt in a long, long time. “I don’t care how I sound. I’m going insane without— I mean, I want to hug someone, and it has to be you, and I just—” I can’t think of any other way to phrase it, and so I just confess, “I— I need you. I’ve been so lonely—”
“Why Grace feel so lonely, question?” Rocky protests. “When Grace have Rocky.”
It sounds like he’s fishing for something, but I’m currently more than willing to give it.
“But that’s what I mean,” I try to explain. “I have you, right? In theory? But I— I don’t, either. I can’t touch you, or be touched by you, or hold you, or be held by you, and it’s driving me insane, Rocky. It’s too much. I don’t know what to do about it. It hurts.”
Rocky pauses for a long beat. If he’s not talking, he’s thinking, so I just let him process for a few moments before he tilts up towards me again with a chirp.
“Rocky want to touch Grace, statement,” he informs me. I flush all over, heat rushing through me, even as he continues, “Distress hurt Rocky, too. Rocky know how to fix. Grace stay here, statement. Rocky fix.”
He doesn’t give me a chance to respond before he’s skittering back off through his tunnel system. I feel his absence more acutely than ever, especially after our recent separation; my insides itch, my arms ache, and I’d give anything to hold him right now. Even just to hold his ball— I’d give anything.
“Hurry back,” I say after him. He can probably hear me, knowing him.
I turn back to my work, but I know it’s a lost cause. Instead, I find my way to my bed, curl up on my side, hold a pillow against my chest. It’s not the same, but at least it’s something.
Rocky wakes me up in the middle of a dream I can’t remember.
“Grace sleep without Rocky to watch,” Rocky accuses me grumpily, staring at me from right beside my head.
Groggy, I blink at him. “I was tired. It’s not like we have walkie-talkies. You just disappeared.”
“Rocky not disappear,” Rocky protests. “Rocky fix. Rocky tell Grace, Rocky return to ship. Rocky not leave Grace, Rocky not gone.”
“I can still get sleepy,” I remind him. “And lonely. Wasn’t I just telling you that?”
“Grace not need to be lonely anymore. Grace have Rocky,” Rocky tells me as I continue blinking, rubbing my fists into my eyes.
I’m about to continue protesting when I look at him— actually look at him, and my heart jumps inside my chest when I realize he’s not in his ball anymore. There’s a moment of sheer panic that envelopes me, the terror that comes from remembering what it was like when Rocky left his atmosphere the last time, before I realize there’s something clinging to his body. A thin layer of glossy material covers him completely; I nearly fall out of bed, impossibly startled.
“Rocky?” I ask, and immediately regret how stupid I sound. “Is— What did— What is that?”
Stretching up a bit, proud of himself, Rocky informs me, “Rocky work hard, develop form-fitting version of ball.” After a slightly nervous pause, he continues, “Rocky suit sensitive to body. Rocky body and Grace body. Suit meant to feel real. Feel like real touch, statement.”
“Is— Really?” I ask, incredulous. There’s a brief few moments where I legitimately question whether or not I’m dreaming, because how can this be real?
“Rocky not lie to Grace, never when important,” Rocky insists to me as I sit up properly, my quilt pooling in my lap, still struggling to process what I’m seeing. “And Grace still sleep while Rocky gone? Grace not grateful—”
“Okay, stop teasing me, let me— let me—” I start to say, but I don’t know the end of that sentence. All I know is that Rocky’s right there, he’s— him, not him behind a wall, or him inside a ball, he’s just— him, and I launch myself forward without another moment’s hesitation. I feel as though, if I don’t touch him right now, I might actually die.
Colliding with him really is like slamming face-first into a rock, but I don’t care. I can feel his shape, the heat of him; the suit is layered over his body so closely that every dip and ridge and divot is easily felt, and my hands rove over him instantly, trying to touch him everywhere, attempting to memorize him, dang it, why wasn’t I born an Eridian, too, so I’d have a photographic memory and touching him wouldn’t be dangerous and we wouldn’t need suits—
Rocky’s arms come around me while I’m spiralling. Three of his arms, curling around my body, holding me close against his carapace. An unbidden, unstoppable sob rips out of me, and that’s it for me, curtains, I’m gone.
“Grace leaky,” Rocky mumbles against me, all low tones that rumble through my body. I can feel him.
“Yeah,” I choke out. My hands grasp against him, fingers digging in as deep as they can go, clinging to him as tightly as I can. Scrubbing my face against his carapace, probably annoying the heck out of him, I tell him, “I’m sorry. I didn’t— I guess I didn’t realize—”
Rocky interrupts me with another low, trembling tone as he tightens his grip on me in return. His whole body is shaking, I realize, and I just squeeze him tighter.
There’s a warbling sound coming out of him as he shakes, and it takes me a moment to understand that this must be his version of crying. That just makes my crying all the more intense, until I’m silent with it, chest hitching, throat tight, my face soaked in tears I can’t stop. It’s just—
It’s just that I never thought I’d be able to touch anyone again. I never thought anyone would be able to touch me again. It was one form of starvation that the life systems on the Hail Mary couldn’t do a thing about. And then— Then, when I met Rocky, I didn’t think his touch would be the same as a human’s— I didn’t think it would even be possible— and I fell in love with him anyway, and I just wanted his touch more, and the more I loved him, the more impossible it became, the more horrible it felt, until it was clawing me open from the inside, that need, but now, now, he’s holding me, and it’s so dreamlike and unreal and perfect that my body can’t contain the emotions it brings up, nor my reactions to them, it just can’t.
“Grace breathe, request,” Rocky says to me, even as every note that comes from him quivers. “Grace not need to leak. Rocky here with Grace.”
“Yeah, you are,” I choke out, then hiccup. A snort of a laugh comes out of me, and I shake my head against him again. “I’m sorry, I just— This is just—” A low sound escapes me, one I don’t think I’ve ever made before, and I mumble, “Rocky,” before I’m pushing a kiss into the closest part of him I can reach— the top of one of his arms, as it turns out.
Rocky shudders again, a shiver moving through him in a full-body wave, before his claws dig into my back and my sides, gripping me against him. The pull is so intense, and yet I want it to be more. I want to be part of him; now that we’re physically connected, I never want to be apart from him again, not ever.
“Leaky soft blob,” Rocky accuses me in the tones I recognize as being his softer words, his sweeter words, and I release a wet laugh again through my tears.
“Sorry,” I manage. “It’s just— This is a lot.”
“Grace not apologize.” One of Rocky’s hands finds the back of my head, his dextrous fingers starting to comb so carefully through my hair, and I sob again. “Rocky overwhelmed. Rocky touch Grace… ♫♭♫♩♭♪♬♫.”
“I don’t know that one, Rock,” I tell him. Every word is drenched in tears and emotion, muffled by my refusal to remove my face from his body, but still, he understands me.
“Need word,” Rocky insists. “♫♭♫♩♭♪♬♫ mean… best place to be in entire universe.”
I shake my head against him. “I don’t know. Paradise, maybe. Or Heaven.”
I don’t tell him that I know what word that translates to for me. It just means wherever Rocky is, wherever I’m allowed to hold him like this, wherever we’re together.
“♫♭♫♩♭♪♬♫,” Rocky repeats, stroking my hair.
Something bursts inside of me. I can’t help it, can’t stop myself, and my mouth opens and my chest tightens and I tell him, “I love you. I’m sorry, I just— I just— I love you, I— Rocky, I can’t, I— I—”
The tears overwhelm me again. I understand what Rocky means, by being so overwhelmed by our touch that I can barely form the words to express myself. They’re all caught inside of me, but the most important ones— the ones I didn’t know how to say, they’re released now, they’re out there for Rocky to hear, and I know he knows their meaning. I know he does.
A shuddering trill of a tone escapes him before Rocky is rubbing one of his arms over my forearm, pressing them together, guiding the friction as firmly as he can.
“Rocky love Grace,” Rocky tells me in return. I gasp through my tears, my lungs unable to function for a moment; Rocky’s hand across my shoulder-blades claps me on the back, startles my body back into working again. “Rocky love Grace, Grace stay alive. Stay with Rocky, statement.”
I nod furiously, clinging to him. There are logistics, but— but— to heck with logistics, I don’t care about logistics. What I care about is— is Rocky, right here, sitting in my bed with me, wrapped around me while I hug him harder than I’ve ever hugged anyone else, wishing I could be part of him, realizing that I might already be.
“I’m not going anywhere you’re not going,” I swear to him. “Promise.”
“Promise,” Rocky echoes.
It takes a long while for me to catch my breath. Even when I do, there are still tears, and I’m still shaking uncontrollably. Rocky’s not much better off, in all honesty, and so I coax him backwards with me, encouraging him to curl up with me in bed.
“Rocky too heavy, crush Grace,” Rocky protests as I try to guide him up onto my chest.
He has a point, and I pause for a moment. My arms are still wound around him; I refuse to let him go.
“Just— lay down with me, then,” I say instead, and that, at least, gains Rocky’s approval. He hums at me before he shifts on the bed; it creaks, not meant for the weight of a heavy alien body in addition to my own, but it doesn’t give. Instead, it just accommodates him the same way I do, makes space for him, ensures that he doesn’t have to go anywhere.
When we finally figure it out, we curl into each other. Our limbs lock into place so perfectly, it’s like we were always meant to hold one another, always meant to touch, always meant to be together. Something inside of me releases, something hurt and angry and terrified, and it just keeps coming out of me the longer he holds me.
“I love you,” I can’t stop saying, burying my face under one of his arms, flushed with the heat rolling off of him in waves. “Rocky, I love you so much.”
“Love, love, love,” Rocky keeps repeating right back to me, as if nothing bad ever happened, as if we were never separated, as if we never fought. “Rocky love Grace most in whole universe. Rocky being with Grace is ♫♭♫♩♭♪♬♫.”
Those same notes returning to me make me shake all the harder, and I just nod against him. “Yeah. It’s paradise.”
Even now that we’re together, even now that we’ve confessed, even now that we’re touching, I still want to be closer to him, as close as I can get. When I wriggle nearer to him, shoving my hands underneath his body, it’s as though something seals over inside of me, something heals inside of me, something I hadn’t known was raw and bleeding and open.
I’m too excited to sleep again, my body buzzing, my mind flying. Instead, I just start thinking of ways we can share a suit without one— or both— of us dying. It’d be worth it, I think, to be even closer to him, to be part of him that way. To touch each other completely.
“Grace not sleep,” Rocky points out.
“I just love you too much,” I reply, and Rocky releases a watery-sounding version of his laugh, draws me in closer, like he wants to be even nearer to me, too, and so I cling onto him, fingers digging in, refusing to let go.