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Most days, it's a presence. Not the aching, world-ending throb some make it out to be. Not a string wrapped snugly around his beating, throbbing heart, pulling towards a fragmented home that he still dreams about on long nights and even longer days. Not a noose tightened around the soft flesh of his neck, beckoning him to reach a little higher, drift aimlessly for a little longer.
Most days, it's just there. The slow drip of cave water down stalagmites, the unquenchable thirst drying his mouth, the static singing in his ears when everything gets too quiet. It's a space, asking to be filled, never quite satisfied with the furniture you adorn your mind with. It's the ticking of a distant, metaphorical clock, universal but achingly slow.
Sometimes, Grace can see it when he squeezes his eyes shut. Forces his eyelids against his cheeks and presses the heels of his palm into them so harshly he starts seeing splotchy colors. He thinks its been following him, slinking in his shadow and disappearing when he tries to catch it. Like a stray that keeps coming back because you fed it once.
His body is restless, like fingers reaching for a filing cabinet he'd opened thrice already, knowing it's the same stack of papers, the same markers, same trinkets but searching regardless. For something different, a different that'll prove repetition yields new results.
He's like a puppet pretending to be a normal, functioning human, sitting in front of a pretend ocean with his pretend classroom. Rocky made these things happen for him, and Grace can't so much as bring himself to be grateful for it all. The guilt of this realization swims in his stomach, eager to make its way up his digestive system and spew from his lips in the worst way possible.
Depression comes and goes in waves, he muses mindlessly. Rocky will say nothing, probably because he doesn't know what to say, now that Grace is giving it thought. Instead, Rocky will offer his existence, as if it were the easiest thing in the universe, and Grace will take and take and take.
He's always been good at taking.
The fog was climbing up his windows when Rocky asked him how to fix this. All of this sadness. All this baggage that comes with being around Doctor Ryland Grace, a man who never learned how to return.
"Not really something you fix, Rock." Grace had responded with a self-deprecating smile. "It's just something you learn how to live with, I guess."
"Rocky take Grace for walk." Rocky declared, undeterred by Grace's grimace. "Up, up, up. Grace wake up time."
"Don't really feel like it right now." He mumbled as he buried his face deeper into the pillows.
"Outside good for Grace." Rocky makes quick work of dragging him from the prison that is his bed. Grace can't quite bring himself to put up much of a fight, even as he's manhandled to the front door.
The ocean is still there.
Not that Grace expected it to go anywhere within the three days he'd spent avoiding it, but it's still there. And so is the murky, still sky. When he squints, he can see the glint of artificial light against the bio-dome's plastic-like shell. The fog that'd skittered onto his window panes is thicker, prominent, but not heavy.
"Grace Rocky sit." Rocky plops down onto the sand once they're a considerable distance away, far enough that Grace's house is no longer in view. Their footprints mar the damp sand, soon to be erased as the tides rise. The humidity clings to Grace's body, sticky like a second layer of skin.
"Bossy." Grace tries for humor as he lowers himself beside his companion. Rocky thrums lowly in return, unamused by Grace's deflection. Grace leans his elbows on his knees, staring out into the water like it carries the secrets of life. He's afraid, maybe, that he'll look at Rocky and find confusion. Or frustration. He's not sure if he has it in him to explain, or do anything for a matter of fact.
He couldn't get out of bed this morning, yesterday morning, or the morning before. Hasn't showered. Hasn't done anything productive. He's a burden on everyone he meets. A blown out fuel tank, trying to bring everything else down with it. He's an over-packed hiking bag, a clunky novelty gadget that'll wind up in a landfill. He's fixable, but easier to discard.
God.
"Why do you keep me around, Rock?" Grace scoffs — not at Rocky, never at Rocky — his voice wavering as his bits of rationality surface, he tries for a lighter laugh. "I mean, I'm not really, like, good company."
"No understand." Rocky hums. "Grace good company. Good friend."
Grace inhales sharply, the breath shallow, not quite reaching his lungs. He stifles a sniffle and rubs at his eyes. "No. I'm not. You- You made this whole home away from home thing for me and I just-"
"Eridian make for Grace, no want pay." Rocky presses himself closer to Grace's side. "Grace Rocky friend. Grace good friend."
"I don't deserve this." Grace mutters, all too vulnerable. He wants to backpedal the second the confession rolls off his tongue, but he doesn't.
"Grace save star."
"Couldn't have done it without you, though."
"Rocky could not either." Rocky insists. "Rocky need Grace. Grace need Rocky."
That's right.
When did Grace start forgetting that they were in this together? That their collaboration was more than their missions, but the relief that they weren't alone anymore? He inhales again. Slowly. The fog seeps into his organs, fills out his lungs before pushing out in one, fluid exhale.
"Grace not need be good." Rocky trills. "Grace only need be Rocky friend."
Grace laughs. It rumbles through his chest, loosens the tightness in his throat, sharpens his tear ducts. It's loud, annoying, and full. The waves laps against his shoes, the bog caresses his shoulders, the sand beneath him is soft and clumpy. Everything, all of this — it's not a burden.
It's Rocky's care.
He sinks his head into his knees, globs of saltine tears gushing down his tears. He's laughing and crying like a maniac, but it feels right. It feels like something. And after days of listlessness, it's all the more welcome.
"You know—" Grace half sobs, half chuckles— "This isn't something you can fix, Rocky. I'm always gonna be this way, all screwed up and wrong and- just, a mess."
"Rocky know." He prods at Grace's curled form, nudging at Grace's limbs. "I not fix. Grace not need fixing."
Rocky is good at breaking through things. Like spaceships, boundaries, and Grace. He's good at finding cracks in Grace's protective shell of deprecation and self-isolation, prying him open like a cell under a microscope.
Today, Grace got out of bed.
Today, Grace is just Grace.
Not humanity's last hope. Not a scientist. Not an astronaut. Not a survivor. Not a burden. Not a puppet.
Just Ryland Grace.
Human.
Today, no one is expecting him to be extraordinary. He can sit by the ocean, drink in the fog, and let the clock tick. Let time trickle away. There's no mission, no destiny, no goal. All he has to do is exist.
Next to Rocky.
"Rocky," Grace breathes, "I live for the fog."
Rocky leans his weight on Grace. He isn't heavy, he's simply there.
"Grace say already. Rocky not forget. Grace always forget."
"But you're here to remind me." Grace grins.
"Yes." Rocky lulls. "Always."
"Always." Grace repeats, and it sounds right.
Like peace.