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He’s half asleep when it happens.
And it isn’t cool. Not even remotely.
Grace rubs his eyes, rolling over and grabbing his glasses from – Wait. Where did he put them again? They’re not beside his pillow or dangling from the neck of his shirt or in the pocket of his sweater. Huh. Oh well. It’s not like he needs them to see or anything. Anyway, what happens is that he sits up in his little pod of a bed in the dorm and pushes himself off the mattress (with elegance, might he add). Aaaand he crashes (heroically, might he add) to the ground, trying to brace himself from hitting his head with his hands.
His forehead smacks the ground regardless. But that’s all because his right hand crumbles beneath the pressure, pinned at an awkward angle beneath him.
The pain is immediate. Overwhelming. Consuming.
“Oh fudge,” he grates out, writhing around on the floor like one does in this situation. He grabs his arm with his other hand, holding it protectively to his chest. His teeth chatter, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. Nausea brews in his gut, and he focuses all of his energy on not gagging. Throwing up won’t solve anything. In fact, there’s a 95% chance it’ll make this worse. He doesn’t… He doesn’t handle throwing up well, and oh gosh, oh gosh, oh gosh –
He throws up. Because of course he does.
At least it’s off to the side and not down the front of his shirt.
“Grace, question?” he hears. The low thrum of Rocky’s voice (Eridian sounds he can identify?) sends shivers down his spine.
Because he doesn’t want his buddy to see him like this.
Because Rocky tends to freak out when anything – and he means anything – happens to him.
The other day, Grace got a papercut while flipping through a book. Rocky forced him to put a Band-Aid on it (not necessary) and take a two hour nap because “Grace get papercut when Grace tired, statement” (also, not necessary).
He hauls himself into a sitting position, groaning as agony pulses through his hand. He tries to hide the fact that he’s shaking. Hard. And rocking back and forth to soothe himself, chewing the bottom of his lip so hard he nearly bites through his skin.
“Why Grace on ground, question? Rocky heard loud noise. Assume related, statement,” Rocky says as he rolls his way into the dormitory in his hamster ball.
But he doesn’t say anything because he can’t say anything because his mouth is watering again, and something feels so so wrong. He can’t bend his wrist. There’s a nasty purple bruise forming on his palm. Dang it dang it dang it dang it –
“Grace hurt, question?” Rocky asks.
He nods. There’s no use in hiding it, not when he can’t even formulate words.
“Grace hurt hand, question? Grace hold hand to chest.”
He nods again.
His shirt sticks to his back with sweat. He hates it. He hates it so much.
“Rocky help Grace get to med bay, question?”
No. No. He can’t move. His legs are fine. His forehead hurts vaguely from smacking it against the floor. But his hand? The pain radiates through the entirety of his right arm, sending shock waves up to his shoulder. He knows this pain. Hates that he remembers.
(Remembers the smell of freshly cut summer grass and alcohol and Mom’s new boyfriend Darryl’s B.O. and remembers saying something about the B.O. because it kept assaulting his nostrils and Darryl bent his arm backwards until Ryland felt a pop and cried and knew it was his fault because he was rude and didn’t understand what he could and couldn’t say out loud yet and it hurt so much Mom took him to the doctor and he got cool lime green cast and a lollipop and she read an extra story that night and everything felt okay again but also wrong)
“Heart beating fast,” Rocky says. His tone shifts upward. Grace knows he’s about to panic. “Rocky help. Rocky help Grace no feel hurt.”
Grace nods. He breathes a few times, deep and deliberate. “Okay, pal.”
He pushes himself to his feet, still cradling his right arm to his chest. He grips it protectively during the few hundred yard walk to the med bay. Rocky stays close behind, the edges of his ball poking the back of his legs. It helps. The sensation is enough to guide him safely into the room, where he’s immediately assaulted with a loud, echoing declaration.
“Physical distress detected,” Mary states. “Elevated heart rate and temperature.”
No duh.
“Distal radius fracture detected. Please proceed to treatment area.”
But he doesn’t.
His socked feet are rooted firmly in their positions, glued to the ground.
His throat bobs.
He swallows convulsively.
“Grace, question?”
Rocky’s voice is muddled, underwater.
Gosh, his hand –
“No be afraid. Medical robot help Grace’s hand to feel better.”
Rocky nudges him.
The brief warmth emitting from his hamster ball feels nice.
He’s so cold.
“Please proceed to the treatment area.”
Another nudge.
Grace walks. He lies down on a metal slab. His vision swims.
Mary’s robotic arms come for him in an instant.
He trembles as she tugs his arm away from his chest.
Tears stream down his cheeks.
“Grace okay, question?”
He shakes his head. “Hurts,” he manages.
Of course he’s a grown man being taken down by a broken wrist, but it does hurt, and he hates feeling out of control.
Like he said earlier, it’s not cool.
“Grace cold, question?”
He nods.
The robot places his fingers in traction and pulls.
Grace wipes his nose on the shoulder of his shirt. Squirms when he feels his broken bone slide back into place. Shivers as shock floods his system.
Until he feels something pleasantly warm on his shins.
He breathes.
Opens his eyes.
His vision is disastrously blurry, but he can make out Rocky perched carefully over both of his legs, applying ever so slight pressure to his lower half.
He breathes again.
Keeps his eyes firmly focused on his favorite (only) friend as his arm is removed from traction and wrapped in an elastic bandage.
“Orthopedic cast will be applied in one week. Tylenol and frequent icing recommended,” Mary states.
Wordlessly, he swallows the Tylenol provided as instructed.
Grace tugs his injured arm to his chest again, ice pack freezing through the bandage.
He sits up.
“Grace no get up yet,” Rocky says, moving to where he’s no longer on top of his legs. “Grace heart still fast.”
And he slides down to the floor.
He curls in on himself, pulling his knees to his chest and resting his forehead in the middle, holding on to his arm for dear life.
Grace breathes, and tears stream down his cheeks, and he hears skuttling faintly in the background.
Stupid.
Stupid stupid stupid.
There’s something warm shoved against him.
He creaks his eyes open.
Finds his quilt and Rocky.
Moves to drape the quilt around his shoulders and press his cheek against the xenonite ball.
Closes his eyes when he feels Rocky press against the ball too.
“Grace rest. Grace warm. Rocky here.”
The projection room is cold tonight.
Or today.
He doesn’t even know what time it actually is anymore. Not that it matters.
Grace watches the ocean swell, heart swimming uncomfortably somewhere near his stomach.
He picks at the fraying parts of his cast, worn and dirty from trying (and failing) to soothe himself.
Because something feels wrong.
(Or everything feels wrong)
Because he wasn’t supposed to be here.
Isn’t supposed to be here.
Shivers wracks his body.
He tugs his quilt closer, hoping if he tries hard enough that it will become part of his skin.
Shielding him from the darkness.
The ocean swells.
He shivers.
“Why Grace still on floor, question? Rocky and Grace do big science today.”
He’s never been more grateful for the softness of Rocky’s voice. It doesn’t grate at him the way that human language usually does, especially when he feels like this.
Lost.
Overwhelmed.
Like he could shatter into a billion tiny pieces.
Scared.
Scared, mostly.
Rocky rolls closer to him.
Warmth radiates through the grated ground and into Grace’s back.
He breathes.
“Grace hurt again, question?”
Meaning: Ryland, you just broke your wrist two weeks (one week? maybe three weeks?) ago. What could possibly be wrong now?
Meaning: I’m tired of you.
Meaning: That’s how everyone gets eventually.
He’s been running people (rocks? aliens?) off since he was three years old. Dad didn’t want him anymore, not after a diagnosis he supposes no parent wants to hear. Mom filled the void with other men, but never him. Only chose him when he was hurt.
And he doesn’t mean to cry.
He really really doesn’t.
But he finds himself trembling on the floor of the projection room, shrinking and shrinking and shrinking until there’s nothing left, and it’s so cold in here that he swears he can see his breath, and his breath is poison. It’s kryptonite. It’s –
“Grace breathe.”
He isn’t here.
He isn’t here.
He doesn’t want to be here.
She gave him no choice. They gave him no choice.
He doesn’t want to die.
“Grace breathe again.”
Something warm – no, hot – is shoved up against his side.
He sniffles. Snot dribbles down his chin.
His heart won’t stop racing.
And he won’t stop dying here up in space over and over and over and over again.
He curls into a tight ball, gripping his broken wrist to his chest.
The cast digs into his skin.
“Grace calm.”
A sob escapes.
The tears are acidic.
He reaches his left hand out of his quilt and rubs it against the xenonite ball.
Warmth spreads through his fingers.
Rocky rolls closer.
And he stays there, one hand pressed firmly against the ball until his breathing levels out.
Good.
He can breathe.
He can still breathe up here.
He shivers, shoulders quivering as he half-unballs himself and reaches out with his other hand.
“Grace careful,” he hears.
He finds himself nodding.
His arm hurts vaguely as he palms the xenonite.
It’s warm.
So warm.
Warm and alive and here.
He shudders.
“Grace breathe better, question?”
He traces his fingers over the material.
Oh, the stories it could tell.
He nods.
“Good. Good good good. This happen… more frequently,” Rocky states. “Rocky worried.”
Worried?
“Why?” Grace grates out, voice small.
“Because Grace Rocky friend. Rocky not want Grace to hurt.”
“I’m fine,” he whispers.
“Grace not fine.” His voice jumps two octaves. “Grace sick.”
Yeah, sick in the head.
He almost laughs.
“Not sick, Rock. Just… tired.”
“Grace sleep. Rocky watch.”
“Can’t,” he whispers. “Cold.”
“Rocky warm.”
He flinches as Rocky scoots the ball closer, sliding it to where it’s resting against his quilted stomach. The heat is immediate, enveloping him whole. Grace breathes – actually breathes – for the first time in what feels like days.
It doesn’t take long before his eyelids start to flutter.
It doesn’t take long before he presses his forehead against the wall.
It doesn’t take long before Rocky starts to hum, low and sweet.
Grace can’t make out the words. Isn’t sure there are words.
The shivering dies down in an instant, a flame finally put to rest.
“Thanks, Rock…” he mumbles.
“Grace sleep. Rocky watch.”
“’kay,” he yawns.
“Grace rest. Grace feel better when he wake. Rocky make sure.”
It starts with an ache.
He drops the pen and rubs at his forehead.
“Grace okay, question?”
Well, that was fast.
But Rocky is sitting right next to him, so maybe it’s not really all that fast. Rocky detects movements immediately. Anything remotely out of the norm to him gets called out, whether it’s an itch or a scratch or even just Grace rubbing his forehead.
“I’m fine, pal.”
And he is. It’s a little ache behind his eyes. He hasn’t been sleeping that great lately, often plagued with memories he doesn’t remember.
Ha. Memories he doesn’t remember. How ironic.
“Grace tired, question?”
“Nothing gets past you, huh?” he asks.
He picks the pen back up, wincing at the twinge in his wrist. Huh. He’s been healed for months now, if not longer. He can’t even recall the last time his formerly broken bone bothered him.
But he forces himself not to acknowledge it any further than that. That’s how Rocky gets worried, and Grace really doesn’t want Rocky to be worried right now. Not with the journey back to Erid still so long. Heck, he doesn’t want to think about it himself. He’d rather think about the beach and the ocean and the fog and sweet potato fries and Sudoku and his kids. Well, he supposes none of them are ‘kids’ anymore. No. No. Stop it. Stop thinking about it.
He blinks.
Stretches out his back.
His spine feels tight.
Vaguely, his bones hurt.
“Grace distracted, statement,” he hears.
He sighs. “Not distracted.”
“Yes, distracted. Grace need sleep, question?”
He shakes his head. “I’m not tired.”
“Lie.”
Grace balks. “Why do you think I’m lying?”
He swears Rocky scoffs. “Rocky know Grace. Grace get stupid when tired. Clumsy. Not sleep good. Move a lot.”
“Maybe I’m just cold,” he says. “There’s a ridiculous lack of blankets on this thing.”
“Lie again. Rocky know when Grace is cold. Grace body make weird shake. Grace whine.”
Grace blinks. “I do not whine.”
“Whine a lot lot lot.”
He almost crosses his arms over his chest, but that might defeat the point he’s trying to make.
And the point is that he’s fine.
“Can we just get back to work please?”
Rocky sits there. “Grace stupid when tired,” he repeats.
Grace throws the pen and his hands up in the air. “Fine. I give up.”
He gets to his feet.
Ignores the scattered pains in his head and back and… legs?
“I’m going to take a nap,” he says. “Since that’s what you so obviously want me to do.”
“Yes, Grace nap. Rocky watch.”
Grace rolls his eyes and makes his way to the dorm, where he promptly kicks off his shoes. He lies down on the thin mattress and yanks the quilt and three blankets he found over his body. His glasses dig into the side of his face as he watches Rocky scuttle around on his side of the barrier, free from the ball. He starts to tinker with something.
“Grace remove vision device, statement.”
Rocky’s voice shakes him from a stupor he doesn’t realize he’s in.
Grace takes off his glasses and places them in his hoodie pouch.
“Grace need rest.”
He almost does whine. “’m tryin’, Rock.”
And he must do more than try because it’s dark in the dorm when his eyes open again.
Grace tugs at the blankets, body shivering full force now.
What the heck?
He swallows thickly and groans.
It hurts.
His throat hurts.
And, of course, so does his head.
He scrubs his hands over his face and rolls over until he’s on his back, looking at the underside of the (forever) empty bunk above him.
Grace sniffles.
“Grace awake, question?”
He rubs his eyes some more, hoping it’s just the fog of sleep weighing him down.
“Awake, statement,” he says. He does not like the way his voice sounds.
And, apparently, neither does Rocky.
“Different human vocals,” Rocky states. “Deep. Scary.”
Grace huffs. “Scary?”
“Sound different. Not like Grace.”
“It’s just a sore throat, Rock.”
“Meaning of phrase, question?”
Grace sighs. His face feels hot and sticky. “It means my vocal cords are inflamed.”
“Grace hurt, question?”
He nods.
“Rocky help.”
Grace rolls over again, eyes heavy. It takes all of his effort to fling the hood of his hoodie over his head. It’s still dark. Nearly pitch black, actually. But the weight is soothing. He curls harder against the blankets, pushing at them until they’re covering his cheeks.
“Not sure you can help, pal.”
“Grace sick. Grace take medicine. Grace sleep to get better.”
He forgets that Rocky’s been through this with him once before. Grace doesn’t remember exactly when since dates and times are irrelevant here, but he recalls getting an ear infection not that long after he met Rocky. It was… rather unpleasant. Rocky freaked out, ranting about death and dying and his crew, while Grace listened and then explained that human bodies are fragile. He just needs medicine and sleep, and then he’ll heal.
And, honestly, he’s really glad Rocky isn’t freaking out right now. His head feels like a mushy watermelon.
“Rocky take Grace to medical bay.”
Grace moans. He tugs at the blankets some more. “N’thanks.”
“Grace not get better if don’t take medicine.”
He has no energy. Zero.
And it doesn’t help that he can’t stop shivering.
“’m cold,” he manages.
The blankets aren’t enough.
And he knows it’s the fever blazing through his skin. It hurts. It always hurts.
He tries to imagine he’s a marshmallow toasting over an open flame, but it doesn’t work.
Until it does.
He feels movement and then something settle across his legs, draped over him like a cat.
“Wha’?” he whispers, throat swollen.
He blinks, trying to shrug away the sleep and darkness.
“Grace no talk. Grace no move. Rocky keep Grace warm.”
His eyebrows furrow. “How?” he asks. “Human air bad. Ball.”
Great, now he even talks like Rocky.
“Rocky make suit. Grace cold a lot. Now Rocky no hurt Grace.”
“’s nice,” he says.
“Grace sleep. Grace take medicine when wake up. Rocky make sure.”
He nods and burrows his top half deeper into his cocoon, lower half a comfortable, peaceful temperature.
It doesn’t take a long before he’s out like a light, warm and safe and whole.
He hits a wall.
“Grace hit wall why, question?”
But of course Rocky doesn’t say that because he doesn’t actually physically hit a wall.
The wall is metaphorical.
And the wall freaking stinks.
He and Rocky should be doing “big science” right now, or at least something to keep his mind off of their never-ending journey to Erid, but he doesn’t. Can’t. Because the wall is there, and it keeps growing, looming over him like a monster in a closet. Red and big and scary. The worst kind of monster. He isn’t sure if the monster is…. Okay, no. Stop. He isn’t making sense.
It’s the longest he’s been without sleep in forever, especially since naps have kinda been his thing lately.
Cold? Nap.
Hungry? Nap.
Panicky? Nap.
Shirt itching his skin so badly he wants to cry? Throw it off and nap.
But it’s like his nap well has run dry, leaving him a useless, blubbering ball of cells and bones.
And he gets a little crabby when he’s over tired.
Just a little.
“Will you please stop staring at me?” he asks. His head in his hands, he hunches over a lab table and counts in his head by eights. Shivers rattle his core, swallowing him up and threatening to spill out. Rocky doesn’t have eyes like humans do. Sees things through sound waves. But, holy moly, is he staring hard right now. He hasn’t moved in, like, twelve minutes, at least. And Grace is literally just trying to relax and power his brain down.
Rocky sits on the table in his xenonite suit, three of his five legs (hands?) dangling off the edge. The noise grates his ears.
“Rocky not stare. Grace cranky, statement.”
He scrunches his nose. “Am not.”
(He is)
“Grace cranky,” Rocky repeats.
“Nope,” he says, popping the ‘p’ sound for extra emphasis.
“Grace go to bed, statement.”
He taps his fingers. “What? No. No way. Why do you always do that?”
“Do what, question?”
“Try to make me go to sleep. I’m not… I’m not that bad, am I?” he asks, voice breaking at the end.
Maybe he is awful to be around when he’s awake.
Maybe he is too much.
(Maybe maybe maybe)
(Mom used to yell and cry and scream a lot and Ryland would plug his ears and rock in a corner by himself and would take so long to come out and talk that Mom would yell and cry and scream again until she had to leave and go somewhere else and not be around Ryland anymore because Ryland was too much all the time and she needed her space)
Space.
Do he and Rocky need space? In space?
“Grace not bad,” Rocky states. “Grace get tired easy.”
His eyebrows furrow. “I get tired easily?”
“Yes. Grace get cold. Grace get tired. Grace go to bed but not sleep. Make Grace cranky.”
“And stupid?” he finishes, figuring that’s what Rocky is going to say next.
Rocky shakes his carapace. “Grace only stupid sometimes.”
He chuckles, short and sweet. “Thanks, Rock.”
“You welcome.”
Grace taps rhythms on the table some more, trying to distract himself as Rocky swings his legs. He gives up and puts his hands in his pockets. His skin is cold.
“Grace go to bed, question?”
He sighs. “I dunno. Maybe.”
“Grace tired.”
“So you’ve said.”
“Rocky not like it when Grace is upset.”
He runs his fingers through his hair. His glasses slide down his nose, and he has half a mind to throw them across the room.
“Not upset.”
(But maybe he is)
(Or he definitely is)
He stands up and begins to walk to the dormitory, hands shoved in his sweater pockets. He stops halfway there and sinks down to the ground.
He’s shivering.
His body and mind feel like they’re giving up.
Giving in.
Exploding.
“Grace, question?”
Rocky walks over to him in his suit and sits down in front of him.
A familiar warmth radiates off of him in waves.
Grace finds himself seeking out the warmth and pushing closer.
“Grace need sleep, statement.”
He nods. His eyes feel weird.
“Grace need sleep, statement,” he repeats.
“Grace lie down on floor, question?”
Another nod.
“Rocky help.”
Rocky doesn’t try to drag Grace to bed. Rocky doesn’t talk. Rocky doesn’t do anything other than help him lie on his side, head pillowed with a discarded jumpsuit. He usually hates being touched, even accidentally, but it’s not so bad with Rocky. He just stays close by and is there just in case, and it’s just enough for Grace to wrap his head around.
The shivers die down.
Rocky stays close by.
Not expecting. Not demanding. Not wanting.
Just being with him.
And it’s so much more than enough.
He’s starving.
Not just mentally, but physically.
The slurry and taumoeba are keeping him alive.
He isn’t sure it’s worth it anymore.
His diet was never elaborate to begin with. He survived mostly on bacon, eggs, vanilla ice cream, the occasional microwave spaghetti meal, sweet potato fries, coffee, and a host of vitamins. He didn’t eat burritos until he had them here. He didn’t eat soup or soup-adjacent things until he had them here. He doesn’t like burritos, and he doesn’t like soup things, but he eats them because he has to. Because it means starving if he doesn’t. And now he really is actually starving in a way that can very quickly lead to his death.
Adrian is close by.
Days now. Not weeks. Not months. Not years.
Grace can wait a few more days.
Rocky says he’ll find a way to make the proper vitamins and nutrition for human survival; Grace believes him.
He lies in the project room, swallowed whole by hunger and his once too big jumpsuit. He stares at the ocean, the sound of waves crashing against the shore soothing him. Shivers run down his spine. Grace is no stranger to being cold. Even when he was a kid, he had poor temperature regulation, often not realizing if he was too hot or too cold until it was too late. Usually, he was freezing and hid under his comforter once he got home from school. It was nice. Warm. Quiet. He could let the day wash away from there. It worked even better if Mom was by herself instead of with one of her boyfriends.
(Sometimes, she’d make him hot chocolate and sing to him)
(Most of the time, she'd stay away)
And he knows he should eat something now. Or, rather, have Mary hook him up to an IV. But that requires moving, and moving doesn’t sound great now. Last night, his knee gave out, twisting uncomfortably, just by walking from the lab to the dorm. Rocky managed to swoop in and steady him before he crashed to the floor, vision blackening around the edges as pain wracked his body. Rocky made sure he got to bed okay, elevating his knee with two pillows before ultimately fell asleep.
Now, his body is zapped of any and all remaining energy as he huddles himself with pillows and blankets on the floor.
His eyes are heavy.
His mouth tastes like copper.
He doesn’t bother poking around in there anymore. He knows what’s happening. Knows what will happen if he doesn’t get some real nutrients soon.
All he’ll be is dust in the wind.
Only there’s no wind up here. Or on Erid.
He’ll never feel wind again.
Oh well.
There must be worst things than this.
He shivers and curls into a ball, eager to conserve what little body heat he has. But he can’t really bend his knee, and now there’s a sharp ache in his hip that makes him groan.
Great.
“Hello, Friend Grace,” he hears.
Rocky waltzes into the project room, one foot after another. He doesn’t trip. He doesn’t fall. He doesn’t lose his balance.
What a jerk.
“Hey, Rock,” he says. His voice is hoarse and weak.
“Grace feel better, question?”
Rocky sits down beside him. The motion is almost human.
Or, well, as human as an Eridian can get.
Grace bathes in the warmth emitting from Rocky’s xenonite suit. He finds himself scooting just a little bit closer. Hip and knee be darned. He’s like a moth flying toward the light.
It’s almost enough to lull him to sleep right here.
“Not really,” Grace answers honestly.
There’s no point in hiding anything from Rocky anymore.
“Erid only 259,143 Earth seconds away. Rocky help Grace feel better.”
Grace sinks deeper into his pile of despair and trembles uncontrollably.
“Grace teeth make strange sounds. Rocky heard before.”
His eyes burn.
He doesn’t feel like talking. Doesn’t feel like moving. Doesn’t feel like doing anything.
“’m so cold,” he manages to whisper.
He wraps his skinny arms around himself.
It’s futile.
“Rocky help.”
And then Rocky’s nudging him and moving him until pillows pad his side, his head, his knees.
And Grace finds himself draped over Rocky’s legs (arms? he still doesn’t know).
And Grace’s head is in Rocky’s lap.
The heat is… incredible.
He breathes out a sigh of relief. Blood trickles from his mouth, but he doesn’t care.
He feels Rocky’s hand wipe it away.
Feels Rocky’s hand move to his hair.
Feels Rocky’s hand glide gently over his skull.
Suddenly, starving to death means nothing to him.
Not anymore.
Rocky is here.
And Grace knows he is safe.
The sand isn’t squishy.
He’s grateful. He loves the ocean but has never been the biggest fan of sand, which usually accompanies said ocean. There’s a lot of it, and it’s overwhelming. It sticks to every surface and gets in his shoes. And now that he can’t walk without a cane, the density of sand becomes important. He takes careful steps, left hand clutching the cane as he hobbles and right hand gripping onto his quilt, before he stops at his destination.
It's only a few hundred yards from his house. Far enough for it to be sufficient exercise. Short enough for him to get back without any help.
Grace spreads the quilt on the sand and lowers himself (gracefully, might he add) to the ground. His knee doesn’t pop. It’s progress.
He stares out at the water, hypnotized by its life. Its certainty. Its steadiness in this world.
Because – yes – he’s in a completely different world.
(And first to call a planet that isn’t Earth ‘home,’ but he isn’t bragging)
He tugs his left knee toward his chest, resting his chin on his sweatpants.
The water is peaceful.
Grace breathes in deeply. Inhales the smell of saltwater.
It’s nice.
“Rocky thought find Grace here.”
Grace’s glasses slip down the bridge of his nose as Rocky walks until he’s standing in front of him.
He pushes them back into place and smiles. “Water’s calm today.”
“Grace no like water calm, question?”
He shakes his head. “No no no. It’s great. Really serene.”
“Ah. Good good good. Rocky like Grace feel peace.”
He nods. “Me too.”
“Rocky sit, statement,” he says.
He plops (ungracefully, might he add) down next to him, narrowly missing sitting on Grace’s bad leg.
Grace chuckles and moves his leg a quarter inch to the left. “Yeah, Rocky sit.”
The journey to Erid was long. He almost starved to death. Almost died of decompression sickness. Almost didn’t survive the transition from living on Hail Mary to living in his own Eridian controlled human environment.
But he’s still here.
Thanks to his best pal Rocky, of course.
He knows he wouldn’t be here without him.
Rocky and Adrian and Rocky and Adrian’s kiddos and the kiddos in his makeshift classroom and other Eridians have been so great and kind and welcoming and sweet.
And, honestly, he doesn’t know what he did to deserve any of this.
Grace shivers, hunching in on himself.
But he knows he’s grateful.
The ocean waves lap the shore.
He swears he feels wind.
Grace feels Rocky instinctively scoot a little bit closer.
“Grace cold, question?”
He nods.
“Rocky go tell Eridian scientists to turn up temperature. Make warmer for Grace.”
And Rocky goes to stand up.
But Grace stops him, arm placed carefully on his suit.
“No, that’s okay,” Grace says. “Just… I’m fine. This is nice.”
“No nice if Grace body vibrate from cold. Rocky fix.”
Rocky moves again, but Grace holds firm.
And he thinks Rocky understands because he stops. Settles back down. Scoots even closer.
“Rocky stay, statement.”
Grace nods and gives a small, watery smile.
Their sides touch. Warmth – toasty and familiar and his – radiates through his body.
“Rocky stay, statement.”