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1.
Colt was waiting already, sitting with his legs criss-crossed, when Ryland climbed into his bed with a box. In front of Colt laid a single half-melted candle that he found from the bottom of one of their foster home's kitchen drawers, and a stolen lighter, quietly swiped from the coffee table after their foster dad fell asleep watching the football game while smoking and drinking.
Colt took on gathering the items, because he was always braver than Ryland, and he was also better at sweet talking the adults in case they catch him. Ryland had too much pride and too little patience for their condescension. Colt couldn't stand them either, but he was better at putting on a smile and acting like it didn't bother him.
Colt shuffled over a bit to make room for Ryland and his box. It was nothing extravagant. A plain nondescript white box. But it contained a whole year's worth of allowances that they earned from doing extra chores.
Ryland, who had the sweeter puppy face compared to Colt with his big glasses, took on the task of pleading their foster mom to buy it for him.
As Colt opened the box, carefully taking out the single cupcake out of the box, Ryland felt the familiar choking feeling clog his throat. He couldn't cry yet. He promised himself he wouldn't cry until after they're done. He sniffled, willing the tears to flow back up his tear ducts.
Colt gave him a side glance. "You can, you know, if you want to."
Ryland shook his head. No. He had to be brave just a little bit longer. For him. He wouldn't have wanted Ryland to cry.
Colt knew better than to push. He turned back to sliding the candle in the middle of the cupcake, trying his best not to smudge the frosting. It was butterscotch flavored. It was neither Ryland nor Colt's favorite, which were chocolate and red velvet, respectively.
No, butterscotch was his favorite.
He always pretended like he didn't have a favorite, and he never bought it for himself. Every year in the past, he would only buy one red velvet and one chocolate cupcake. But Ryland and Colt knew butterscotch was his favorite, when it was the only flavored he ate the one time he brought a box of cupcakes home that one of the homes' he mowed lawns for paid him with. He left the other five cupcakes for Ryland and Colt.
It took everything they had, but they got him one cupcake.
Ryland wanted to scream at the injustice of it all.
But screaming wouldn't do him any good.
So Ryland picked up the lighter and lit the sad, stumpy candle.
Without needing a count down, Ryland and Colt began singing in unison. They sang softly, only just audibly enough for each other, because they had to wait until their foster parents were asleep.
Happy birthday to you,
The words felt strange and unfamiliar in Ryland's mouth. Their singing felt flat. Thin. Incomplete. Like it was missing a third voice.
They'd never had to sing this song without him before. This was the his first birthday since he was taken away from them for protecting them from their dad, never to be seen by them again.
It was also exactly one year since he was taken away.
Happy birthday to you,
This past year they'd had to learn to do a lot of things without him. Eating dinner. Sleeping. Going to school. Falling asleep again from a nightmare. Reading. Running. Laughing. Crying.
This was just one more thing they had to learn to do without him.
Ryland felt tears welling in his eyes, so he reached out for Colt, who met him half way with the hand not holding the cupcake. They grasped each others' hands like their lives depended on it.
Happy birthday, dear Court,
In some sense, they did. They had no one else left in this world except for each other. At least for the next 29 years.
Ryland was struck by the sudden realization that by then, they will know how to do a lot more things without him than with him.
Ryland forced himself to choke out the final line, the warble in his voice echoed by Colt's equally teary sob.
Happy birthday to you.
2.
Ryland swished the whiskey in his glass, idly watching the way the liquid swirled into a whirlpool. His cheek smooshed uncomfortably against his elbow, his head pillowed by his arm on the bar counter, but he couldn't bring to move. Some time two glasses ago, his head spun too much to hold it up by himself.
He was in some bar whose name he couldn't pronounce and had already forgotten. After the UNESCO conference security escorted him off the premises and the gravity of what he'd done—the irreparable harm he'd single-handedly dealt to his reputation and career—finally hit him, he'd stumbled alone in the streets randomly until he found a relatively empty bar.
And he'd been there since. He'd drank glass after glass of some kind of whiskey. Three glasses ago he was sure they'd cut him off, but since they didn't he didn't cut himself off either. A glass ago, he was one of the three final customers left. The other two there besides him were a couple on a date that didn't seem to be going that well.
Been there, done that.
Heck, Ryland had had all sorts of breakups. Relationships. Friendships. Academiaship, academiship, acaship, acadeship. Eh, you get the idea.
Brothership.
Drunk on the idea of loneliness, Ryland finished his glass in one burning gulp and signaled for another. The bartender slides him a fresh glass without a blink.
Was this a smart decision by Ryland? No. But he hadn't been making smart decisions lately so what's one more?
Ryland, I mean it. You're going to be in trouble for it one day. Your temper… Colt had said in their last phone call a month ago. It scares me sometimes. It reminds me of- of dad. It reminds me of him that night-
And he'd yelled at Colt to shut up.
Ryland scoffed, the irony all to clear to him in hindsight, even when his vision was blurry like right now. Though whether the blurriness was from the alcohol he'd consumed or from the tears or from the lack of glasses or from the fogging of his glasses by his tears, he was not quite sure.
He'd yelled at Colt. Colt, who was still healing and in pain and struggling, one month after his spine injury when he almost died, and Ryland yelled at him.
All because he was afraid Colt was right.
Coward.
He was such an awful brother. Worse than even him. At least he was protecting Ryland and Colt, so it wasn't like he was trying to leave them all alone. Ryland yelled at Colt and pushed him away when he needed help the most. All because of what, some petty squabbles he'd been having with his colleagues left him frustrated and tired?
Add selfish to the ten-feet long list of things that were wrong with him, right there next to self-righteous.
Ryland couldn't stop replaying that conversation in his head. Perhaps because Colt hadn't called nor answered his calls since. Even though Colt promised to never leave him unlike him. Even though Ryland texted sorry like ten thousand times in the last hour alone.
Was that the last straw? Was Colt finally sick of Ryland?
His phone lit up with a notification, and he noticed it was past midnight. Then, he caught sight of the date. He scrabbled for the device, and after a few taps, held it to his ears. It rang for the familiar awkward length of time that Ryland was getting really used to before hearing his brother's cheery recorded voice that had become something like a safety blanket for Ryland.
Hey, this is Colt Seavers. I'm not at my phone right now. Feel free to leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can.
Surprisingly professional for Colt, but that's because he uses the same number for work.
Ryland sniffed, wiping at his cheek. The blurriness was from the tears for sure now.
After the stupid beep he was gaining a Pavlovian hatred for, mindful not to disturb the arguing couple on the other side of the bar so he didn't get kicked out of yet another establishment in less than 24 hours, he sang softly into the phone and to himself.
Happy birthday to us,
Ryland and Colt were all each other had. They always called on their birthday (and his birthday too) to sing together, because for the longest time nobody sang it for them.
He'd never spent a birthday without Colt.
Happy birthday to us,
Correction. Colt was all Ryland had. Colt had Jody and Dan and all those other people. Ryland was the one clinging onto Colt when he wasn't welcome anymore. Just like how he clung to academia when he wasn't welcome anymore.
Maybe he should let go. Quit his post-doc. Stop trying to call Colt.
Would Colt call him back one day? Would anyone remember his research one day?
Would that awful phone call be the last time he heard Colt's voice?
Happy birthday, dear Colt and Ry.
How many more birthdays would he spend without Colt?
Happy birthday to us.
3.
He stared at the small rectangular slice of sponge cake, dabbled thinly with frosting, in his hand. A single electronic candle—the kind that has a LED light bulb lit up with batteries to look like fire—stand alone in the middle of the slice. He'd woken up this cycle with Armando unceremoniously shoving the slice of cake into his hands.
Mary said it's Ryland Grace's birthday today.
He didn't feel like Ryland Grace.
Are you still you, if you don't remember the things that make you you? How much of the things that make you you do you need to remember to be you? If you never remember the things that make you you, then who are you?
He might not remember much about himself—not even his own birthday—but he still knew that this was a pretty embarrassing birthday by human standards. Even the most loneliest man on earth who had nobody to celebrate his birthday with would still see and maybe even talk to their neighbors, or strangers on the street, or even a bartender. Even if nobody wished that man a happy birthday, he still had people within a lightyear's reach to pretend someone did.
And he, who drifted along lightyears of nothingness had nothing but a spaceship from a planet he'd never see again—a planet that has moved on from him by a decade—to accompany him on his supposed birthday.
Not even a single memory of his past birthdays.
Was he so unhappy and alone, that even his birthdays were not worth remembering?
No that wasn't quite right.
Though he didn't remember who, he felt like there used to be people who'd be there for his birthday.
Though he didn't remember how, he felt like lonely birthdays were not unfamiliar to him.
Though he didn't remember why, he felt like his birthdays hadn't been happy for a long time.
Lips trembling, feeling emotions that he didn't have memories to assign to and couldn't make sense of, he asked weakly, "Mary, can you sing happy birthday to me?"
"Invalid command. Please try again." The impersonal drone of the computerized voice was an added thorn in his heart that there was not a single living being around him.
"Nevermind, Mary. I'll just- I got this."
Surrounded by the harsh, cold lights in the lab, he cradled the cake carefully to his chest, as if the candle might blow out, and he began to sing. His voice felt thin and reedy. For some reason, he expected some other voices to join him.
Which didn't make sense if he never spent his birthdays with anyone.
Happy birthday to you,
He felt like there was someone else he should be saying happy birthday to. Maybe he had a friend or acquaintance who shared his birthday?
(Say he had about 150 friends and acquaintances he kept in contact with, then the probability of one of them having the same birthday as him is 0.337. It could be possible that he knew someone with the same birthday as him. Maybe they used to celebrate together? Or maybe he'd send an obligatory "Happy birthday!" text?)
He wracked his brain for who this might be, but a splitting headache was the only reward he gets.
He hoped that whoever they were, if he really did share a birthday with someone hew knew, that they had many good birthdays in the past thirteen years.
Happy birthday to you,
He hoped that whoever used to sing happy birthdays with him were alive and happy and living well.
He hoped they remembered him still.
Happy birthday, dear whoever I am.
He hoped that whoever it was that used to make him feel special and loved and safe on his birthday felt special and loved and safe on their own birthdays.
He hoped that they didn't have lonely birthdays.
Happy birthday to you.
With tears—tears that belonged to Ryland Grace, whoever he was—streaming down his face, he blew at the electronic candle and clicked off the power switch.
He didn't need his memories to know this was by far the loneliest birthday he'd ever had.
He didn't have a single soul to spend this birthday with.
Not even himself.
+ 1.
Through the transparent xenonite wall and under the simulated light from his biodome, Grace stares through the sight in front of him to a land far a way and times long past, as a splitting headache cleaves his skull open and turns his brain inside out.
He'd forgotten.
Or rather, he hasn't remembered until now. Regaining his memories is a slow process. One largely outside of his control, mainly fueled by specific triggers, as far as his pattern recognition brain can tell. Perhaps if he were on Earth, surrounded by things that can all remind him of his life before, the recovery process could be much faster. But here on Erid, there just aren't a lot of familiar human things that he hasn't already seen.
It's been five years since Grace and Rocky arrived on Erid, and Grace estimates he's still missing over 70% of his memories. As far as he can tell, most of his missing memories are from before becoming a teacher, spanning his childhood to his college and PhD days.
So, most of his life.
He'd made peace with the fact that, whoever Ryland Grace was, he would never quite be fully him again.
He really did.
Until decades worth of pain and love and regret and sorrow and longing and once-lived memories of them violently rip him from Erid and back to Earth.
Grace had been standing, one hand on his cane and the other in the pocket of his cardigan, in his classroom that doubled as a meeting room when Rocky and Adrian scuttled in. But immediately he has to flop into the chair next to him, as his knees completely give out on him.
Rocky squawks in alarm, pushing himself right up against the xenonite wall and demanding to know if Grace is okay. Grace's brain registers the words, but it's still playing catch up with making sense of the sight in front of him and the memories flooding his brain. The only electric signals traveling from his neurons to his muscles are to open and close his mouth repeatedly and soundlessly like a fish.
A small part of his brain registers Rocky wailing in the background, screaming for his xenonite suit. Adrian stays put, but they continue trying to talk to him. Overlaying their baritone chords are little high-pitched squeaks chirp like a bunch of dog toys being stepped on by a dancing clown.
Balanced precariously on top of Adrian's carapace are three little pebbles. One is slightly bigger, with Adrian's teal coloring. The other two look identical, with Rocky's earthy brown.
Grace's eyes loose focus, and instead of three pebbles, he sees rapid flashes of the two boys, one similar in age—no, the exact same age down to the hour, differing only by 3.2 minutes—as him and one slightly older than him. The older boy holding his and the other boy's hands to cross the road to the park. The older boy reading a story book to them in bed. The older boy pushing them simultaneously on swings. The older boy handing them only slightly burnt chicken strips as he kept the plate of mostly blackened pieces for himself. The older boy waiting for them in front of their classrooms, his own backpack slung over one shoulder. The older boy smiling as they gobbled down cupcakes. The older boy whispering urgently to them to go to their room as the front door slams open. The older boy pushing them behind him, as fists and a belt rain down on them like arrows of fire. The older boy standing over him, a gun in his hand, the smoke curling mockingly into the air, and across his face are splatters of bloo-
There's so much.
Sharp bolts of pain ravages his already weak heart. He gasps for breath, gripping the handle on his cane so hard he'd be worried about breaking it if it weren't made of xenonite.
Perhaps the amnesia drug wasn't the only culprit for suppressing these memories. The human brain can do crazy things to protect itself.
As people say, ignorance is bliss.
He regrets the thought as soon as it enters his mind.
The pain is nearly unbearable, yes, but they make him whole.
They make him Ryland.
Them. One with a face identical to his own. The other, a face that would never grow old.
How could he forget?
He swallows down the echoes of bile and blood and anger and hurt and pain and regret. He forces himself to breathe slowly until Rocky finally makes it into the biodome and frets over him, demanding to know what's wrong.
By then, the pain of the past has fades, re-settling into his muscles and bones as the memories slot into their rightful place within his mind.
Ryland does everything he can to convince Rocky that no, he's not in severe physical distress anymore. No, he's not going to die. No, he's not sick. It was just a temporary migraine. It's passed.
He lets Rocky take his vitals. His heart rate is a little elevated, but not alarmingly so (anymore). Ryland gives Rocky's carapace a light, reassuring pat.
Despite the turmoil in his mind, Ryland forces himself to push out the words, "I'm okay, Rock. Don't worry about me. Now, aren't you going to introduce us?"
Ryland knows Rocky knows he's changing the subject on purpose. Rocky knows him the best out of anyone in the universe after all these years.
He also knows Rocky would let him, because he needs the distraction to keep himself tethered to reality. There is no one else in the universe who Ryland understands better than Rocky now.
(He tries not to think about how that role used to be occupied by two others, with the same dirty blond and the same blue eyes as him. Nor about how he'd had Rocky in his life longer than he had been. Nor about how the percentage of his life he'd spent with them will only decrease with every year, every day, and every minute that passes.)
Rocky reluctantly lets Ryland push him away from his face to stand up. He skitters closely as Ryland slowly trudges closer to the wall to get a good look at the three little pebbles on top of Adrian's carapace. Adrian gently brings them into their arms so Ryland can them better.
Each pebble is no bigger than the size of his palm. The bigger one plants themselves in front of the two little ones, who huddle together, carapace touching.
Ryland is aggressively filled with the urge to squeeze and squish them.
Though the pebbles had been born for awhile, they had to be old enough for their carapace to harden to leave their nursery, in order to minimize the risk of injury and diseases. Rocky and Adrian agreed for their first meeting with Ryland to be on the pebbles' first birthday, and Ryland was happy to wait patiently for the sake of the pebbles. Almost daily, Rocky would bring Ryland stories about the pebbles. Ryland feels like he'd already knows the pebbles, as if they'd been in his biodome scurrying around every day, and he could not wait to finally meet the pebbles in person.
So really, he should be crying tears of joy.
He does his best to muster up a smile to Rocky and Adrian, but it comes out more as a grimace. "So, what are their names?"
Rocky points to the bigger pebble, who hasn't stopped lowly growling at Ryland, and sings a name that sounded like a sorrowful but wistful keen. One of the smaller pebbles has a name that sounds like gunshots and explosions, bursts of vibrant staccato. They somersault with a flourish as Rocky sings their name. The last pebble waves shyly and squeaked when Ryland waves back. Their name sounds like a soft wind rustling through a field of grass.
As he spoke, Rocky picks up some of his original excitement, until he's chattering in his usual manner again, waving his arms impatiently, "now, Grace give their human names!"
Ryland only hesitates for one second. He points at the bigger one, who is still bristling, then the one that somersaulted, and finally the one who waved shyly.
"Court."
"Colt."
"Ry."
Yes. That feels right.
Ryland's throat is tight, and he sniffs to hold back the tears.
Rocky fidgets, probably wondering if he should call out Ryland's obvious emotional distress. Ryland helps him decide by pointedly ignoring the way his voice comes out watery and thick. "So the big o' one, huh? Big day! We should sing happy birthday."
Since that awful lonely birthday on the Hail Mary, Ryland hadn't celebrated a single birthday. Yet another way his brain subconsciously tried to protect itself, he supposes. What's the point of celebrating birthdays, if he's only going to be sad?
But, looking at the pebbles, Ryland thinks it's time to give it another try.
Adrian hums inquisitively. "A human tradition, question?"
"Yeah. Humans sing a special song for a person's birthday. You know, to celebrate them."
"Yes, yes, yes. Rocky heard happy birthday song in human movies. Many humans sing together, and the birthday human makes wishes."
"There's usually also a birthday cake to eat, but we can skip that." Ryland teases. Rocky is used to his human eating habits by now, but Adrian and the rest of his medical and biodome team still cannot stand it. True to form, Adrian shudders.
"Okay, Grace sing the song, and Adrian and Rocky will join."
Even though it was his suggestion to sing in the first place, Ryland suddenly feels off-kilter, to sing this song alone again.
Well, he'd done it so many times before already. He can do one more, right?
Happy birthday to you,
His voice feels as lonely has it had been that time he sang to himself on the Hail Mary, before he met Rocky. He hugs his cardigan tighter around him. He feels so cold.
Then, Rocky joins in with notes that mean nothing in Eridian, but which harmonizes with Ryland's melody like the laughter of three boys running through the park chasing butterflies.
In the hearth within Ryland's heart, where there used to be a fire that had been dying since the day Court was taken and smothered the day Colt stopped picking up his calls, a small ember splutters into life.
Happy birthday to you,
Catching the gist of the melody, Adrian joins in as well, their mix of baritone and tenor chords rounding out the symphony with the full-chested laughter of a brother making jokes about being set on fire and the steady reassurances of a brother telling him to hide it'll be over soon. The pebbles chime like the clinks of plates in the kitchen sink after three boys finish their cupcakes, decorating the song with fleeting moments of joy.
It doesn't sound like any birthday song Ryland has ever sang before, but it also sounds like every birthday song he sang before all at once.
Happy birthday, dear Court, Colt, and Ry.
The ember in his chest bursts into a roaring fire. His hand tingles with the ghost of a calloused hand clasping his tightly. His hair ruffles with the echo of a big hand running through his hair. He hasn't felt this warm in a long time.
It wasn't his birthday, but Ryland makes a wish anyway.
Happy birthday to you.
The last note of the song drifts into the air and settle into the sand beneath Ryland's feet and glide over the waves behind him. And Ryland feels fire continue to burn. Within his heart and in the stars.
(16 lightyears away two men with the same blue eyes as him and the same dirty blond hair save for the graying strands smile, an inexplicable warmth filling their hearts. They haven't felt this warm since the moment the sound of gunshot rang through their ears for the first time in their lives.)
Ryland smiles as a single teardrop falls from his cheek.
I wish we can be brothers again in our next life.