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Like any best friends, Rocky and I take turns with the optimism.
Rocky is sure. So, so sure that Erid will help me. And I do believe him, at least half the time. The other half, I’m staring down the barrel of my dwindling supplies, or a new symptom, and I don’t know if it’ll be enough. Even if they want to help me, that doesn't mean they can. Which I guess is better than them refusing to help me outright. Right?
Rocky knows Erid better than I do. He’s biased. So he tends to hold the optimism.
But not always. Sometimes he starts to shake so bad, I can hear it from across the ship. When that happens, I hold him close so he can hear me better. If he’s not in his suit, I press myself to the closest panel and hum. I’m alive, I tell him. I’m not going anywhere. I like holding him, and he likes to be held. He likes holding me, and I like to be held. Win-win. Eridians like proximity, but not necessarily holding. I wonder how we’ll explain that one when we get there.
When. When.
I’ll hold him and our optimism because it’s too much to carry alone. So, it’s an incredibly stupid thing for the cold to bother me so much.
It starts early, not long after the headaches. Compared to the recurring migraines and dizziness and mood swings, it’s the most benign. I’m a grown man! I’ve been cold before. And I have a deep stock of sweaters and hoodies. As deep as stocks can go on a spaceship, where every gram counts. Technically I have three times the choices, because now I can fit into Ilyukina’s jackets.
But even with my quilt over my sweater over my hoodie, it doesn't touch the chill. Like my insides are generating it. Or lack of generating, I guess. The cooling core of a white dwarf, out of elements to fuse for energy.
Death by starvation and star-death are surprisingly similar. It’s a very clever analogy, and Rocky doesn't appreciate it. Sad!
It doesn’t hurt, really. But it’s exhausting. Mentally. Physically, too, but I think that’s just. Well. The exhaustion. It doesn’t really need any help. I’ve been practicing what psychologists on the internet call “mindfulness” – “be aware of your thoughts as they are.” Yeah, I sure am cold. Doesn’t help. I’m cold and miserable about it. Miserable to be around too, I’m sure. I really do try to keep the complaints to a minimum. At a certain point, vocalizing it just doesn’t make me feel better, and it makes Rocky feel bad no matter how many times I tell him it isn't his fault. So, it just isn't worth it.
I’ve taken to shoving every warm thing I own into a divot of Rocky’s xenonite panels, and hanging out in it. I’m still miserable, but at least it’s soft. I brought a book with me this time, for grins and giggles.
“You are shaking.”
I look up from the book I’m not reading. Rocky is in front of me, in his xenonite suit.
“Yeah. Just cold.” Same as yesterday.
That's all the warning I get before Rocky is climbing over me and my quilt. I shift so he doesn't break one of my ankles, and he nestles himself into the gap between my crossed legs. The way he steps for purchase on the quilt makes him look like a cat. Makes me smile.
“Free real estate, I guess.”
“Grace was not using anyway. And I have surprise.”
“What's that?”
“Touch me.”
“Phrasing…”
“What?”
“Hah. Nevermind.”
I rest my book on top of him. He's a little too tall for it to be a prime reading angle, but that's okay. My knuckles touch the xenonite above his carapace.
“So what’s the surprise?” I look him up and down. All of his hands are empty. “Is this a new suit or something?”
Rocky makes a so-so motion with his claw. It looks identical. But then I feel it.
“You…”
When Rocky moved onto the Hail Mary for the second time, he modified his xenonite walls to be better heat insulators. In a small and mostly metal space, things could get warm pretty quick. And he didn’t want his pressure suit to be too hot for me to interact with. He gets a little touchy about me and burning myself, especially when his atmosphere was involved. Go figure. Not that I disagree.
So, I was used to slightly-above-ambient-temperature Rocky. Warm-like-a-towel-fresh-from-the-dryer Rocky was new. Almost too hot to keep touching.
“You're so warm.”
Almost.
“Yes!” Rocky does his jazz hands. “Higher heat conductivity, new formula with—”
I toss my book to the side and wrap myself around him. It stings my fingertips in the best way. It doesn't take long for the heat to seep through my three layers. Goosebumps race down my arms.
San Francisco winters were mild. But biking several blocks home after dark, with wind blowing from the water, was a great recipe for a human icicle. I would get home from work and immediately run a hot shower, letting the water fall over my face and warm the tip of my nose and my cheeks and the rest of me. One of life’s simple pleasures.
“You're so warm,” I say again, in place of something intelligent. As a man of science, I want to know how he did it. I also want to curl myself into a little ball around him and never move again. It's not like I have anywhere else to be. Basically, that’s what I do.
“You are still shaking,” Rocky says.
“Shivering.” Small difference, but still. “Sudden temperature changes can cause that.”
“So, this is okay?”
“Better than okay. Extremely.”
“Happy happy happy.”
“Happy,” I say back. I turn my head so I can rest my cheek against him. The soft trill he makes is warm in a different way.
Covering us both in the quilt is even better. Like a hot water bottle, or one of those rice bags you could heat up in the microwave. Rocky doesn’t mind – he can see through it anyway.
For a little while, it’s easier to feel optimistic.