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Ryland was told it was common to feel out of place, or like you've always been different, for people like him. It's a piece of advice that's probably worn out its use, coming from him. Any student that comes to him for comfort, that was the first thing out his mouth: It's okay that you feel different. You don't have to belong.
The thing is, he didn't feel out of place, not at first. It's easy to ignore most things when you're young. No five-year-old needs to be worrying about love. That's a thing for movie screens and late night telenovelas. Then you get older, maybe eight, nine, maybe a double digit. Love went from something not thought about to something held at a distance, plucked up with the tips of your fingers like a dirty wipe to be thrown away. The propagator of cooties, or whatever made up disease the kids substitute for affection these days. Love was illicit, scandalous, nasty–
And then it was everything. Kids shoot up to twelve. Thirteen. Teenagers now, getting saddled with all kinds of hormones and problems. Suddenly, love went from something you could ignore if you kept your head down to, well, reality. A wayward glance earned you a crush, a moment alone perhaps something worse. His parents would constantly needle him about having a special someone, at least when they were home and awake. His classmates found it hilarious that he had no one, and would set him up with girls out of his league. His bullies thought that maybe he was into boys instead. It didn't really matter in the grand scheme of things. No, this isn't when he realized something was wrong with him.
High school came and went. College came, and left much more reluctantly. He had girlfriends in college, believe it or not. He's even had sex. A brief foray into bisexuality in his third year when the idea that he was attracted to both genders the same amount sparked in his head. A few drunk make-out sessions of varying enjoyability. They were never bad. Some were better than others, maybe. He tried to be a good boyfriend, he really did. He did all the things they said to do. He bought flowers, he listened, he didn't hold out. He would get buried in his work, sure, sometimes he'd get his head stuck in the clouds or the dirt or wherever metaphorical place that wasn't the present but that wasn't what ended things either. They always ended with a whimper, never a bang. Whatever was there would fizzle out, and Ryland would let it. And he would sit there and think to himself, was he happy?
That was when he first thought something was wrong with him.
The second time he thought about it was after a slightly drunk night with his last girlfriend. Linda. She was so sweet, Linda. Really gave more than she got. She had wrapped her slightly sweaty arms around his midriff, hooked a thigh over his, leaned her head against his still racing heart. Her own hair clung to the both of them, ticklish in areas and sticky in others. She sighed, tapping out a rhythmless pattern onto his skin. “Sometimes,” she had said, not softly, not loudly, just very matter-of-fact, “It feels like you don't want to be with me.”
He looked at her, the edge of his jaw pressing uncomfortably in space between his neck and her head. The alcohol has slurred his words but not his panic. “What do you mean?” He asked, shifting minutely so that her elbow wasn't digging into his waist. It didn't work.
“You care about me. I'm pretty sure you do.” Linda had said. “I just think you don't know how to end it. This just is to you. Everything you do feels like you have to.”
“I love you.” He had protested, maybe drunker than he had realized. “That's the rules.”
Linda sighed. “You're nice, Ry.” She said, pulling away and laying back down on her own pillow. He feels her absence like a splash of ice water.
Four months later, they'd broken up. It was friendly, all things considered.
Life happened after that. He got a teaching job. The world was ending. He got sent to space. In the panic and frenzy of the last few years, he hadn't much time to think about love. Not until now.
Space is really big. It really puts things into perspective. Like how he'll never find true love. It sounds really corny when he says it like that, like he's some character in a Disney movie. If he pricked his finger on a magic spindle and fell into a coma, would there be anyone to kiss him awake? Maybe Armando. Rocky could, if he didn't die in Grace's atmosphere. Does Grace want Rocky to kiss him? No, not really. But he thinks it'd be funny to explain to him the concept of a true love's kiss.
Right, back to true love. Why, you might ask, is he thinking about the affairs of the heart? No reason in particular. They'd just finished watching some kind of romcom, he'd recalled one of the last few things Stratt had ever said to him, and he just happened to be thinking about it. Not even a dog, huh? He's never really been a dog person. Maybe Ryland would be over this much more quickly if Stratt had said “You don't even have a snapping turtle.” That might be a more reasonable argument for sending someone into space.
Ryland sighs, shifting around on his mattress. It doesn't even matter. He's not sure why he's so hung up on this. Losing sleep over love! That's a first. To the side he can hear Rocky tinkering away on some new project. He always has a handful of these with him while watching Ryland sleep, that way he doesn't have to leave the room to get something new when he finishes.
“Make many noise, none of them sleep sounds.” Rocky observes, after ten more minutes of Ryland sighing and squirming around. “You cannot sleep? Question.”
“Just thinking, bud.” Ryland says. Thinking about how he'll never form a meaningful human connection.
“Stop thinking.” Rocky says. “You are stupid this time of day cycle.”
“Thank you so much for that.” Ryland says dryly. He props himself up on an elbow, all hope of sleep long abandoned. “Hey Rocky, Eridians mate for life right?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Do they ever…not?”
“What mean?”
“Like, y'know. They don't fall in love and get married. They die alone.”
Rocky makes a noise, somewhere between a bird's chirp and a doorbell. It sounded like alarm. “No, never.”
“Ah.” Ryland says. He doesn't acknowledge the pit in his stomach. “Romantic species. I get it.”
Rocky stomps, grinding one of his five legs into the floor. He squeaks in frustration. “You misunderstand. Eridians can go without mate. We mate for life, yes, but is not requirement. Some Eridians choose to not have mate. But it does not mean they die alone. We are like humans, we are social species. We live in ♫♬♪. In groups. You do not need mate to watch sleep. Can be hatchmate, can be friend.”
Ryland lets himself flop back onto the bed. “Oh.”
“Why Grace ask this? Question. Acting strange, too. Do you want a mate?”
“No.” Ryland says quickly. He laughs a little. “No, nothing like that. I've just been thinking about the mates I had back on earth.”
Rocky slowly sets down the xenonite piece he's been working on. Hesitantly, he chirps out, “Do you miss them? Question.”
Ryland makes a wiggling motion with his hand. “I mean, kind of? Some of them I kept in touch with. I wonder how they're doing, if they're even alive. But I don't really miss them like that. I miss the time we had together, but not the experiences. Does that make sense? Am I being a jerk?”
“No.” Rocky says. He's still hesitant. Maybe he's finally caught on to how strange of a guy Ryland is, even for an alien. Or maybe he's just confused. “What about mate Grace thinking of?”
“Oh, just– that I had them, I guess.” Ryland says. He doesn't even really know where he's going with this. “None of my relationships were ever spectacular or anything. Probably because of me. My ex once said that I loved because I had to. I think I’m just thinking about how I'm gonna die without ever getting married or falling in love. Oh God– I don't think I've ever fallen in love.”
“This upsets you.” Rocky observes.
“I mean, kind of? Not that it really matters anymore, I know. No humans here for light-years. And even if there were…” He feels his hand flop back down to his side. “I don't know if I’d be able to love like that. But I just– I never really got to experience it, you know? I feel like I've wasted my life up to this point.”
“You said you had mate. You did not love them? Question.”
“Of course I did! Maybe.” He feels himself deflate, like helium balloons left out for too long. “I mean, I tried to. It didn't really work out. None of them ever really worked out. Guess I was the constant there, hah.”
Rocky was quiet. Well, as quiet as Eridians can be. He was emitting a soft droning noise, carapace cocked in a way that meant he was thinking.
He thinks for a while. Many seconds, in fact. Long enough that Ryland starts to get antsy, opens his big fat mouth again, “I mean. It's fine, really. Maybe I'm just not built for that life. Good thing they sent me up here, huh? I mean–"
“Grace be quiet.”
Ryland shuts up.
Rocky clicks his claws, rocking back and forth like he's trying to get his thoughts in order. “Explain to me. No understand. You have mate before but did not want to be mate? Was forced?”
“No, no.” Ryland says. Now that he's trying to figure out how to say it out loud, it does sound kind of stupid. “No one forced me to get into a relationship. It's just at a certain age, it's kind of expected of you. Maybe not marriage or anything like that, but to try to settle down, find a lover, fall in love. Culture thing. Sometimes, people without partners are seen as… alone. Unfulfilled. Like, um, your potential is being wasted.”
“Do you want a mate?” It's the same question as earlier, and Grace feels a negative response form almost reflexively. He swallows it down and thinks. He thinks he might enjoy the feeling of it, the experience of having your person. That was the thing with friends and lovers. Friends only ever got so high on the priority list when love was involved. It always felt like he was never as important, could never be that important to anyone as just a friend.
But that's wrong, isn't it? Rocky almost died for him. Rocky had been willing to die for him. And he'd be pretty willing to do anything for Rocky, including giving up his only chance at ever going home. He had already found his person.
“...No.” Ryland finally says. “I think I just wanted to love. To love and feel loved. And I think there's something wrong with me, because I– I can't really do it the way everyone else is doing it.”
“Is fine.” Rocky says, “Why need to do it like everyone else?”
“What?”
“Grace not broken,” Rocky says, waving a claw, “You love very much. Almost as much as leak. Rocky thought Rocky was alone alone alone. Then Rocky heard Grace voice and felt happy happy happy. Rocky know Grace love, Rocky feel it. If you do not feel mate-love, and you do not want mate, then you do not need mate. No waste. Your love enough.”
It's now Ryland's turn to be quiet for a long time. He turns what Rocky said over in his head, spins it around in the zero g of his brain. Pokes and prods at it. The part of him with the pit in his stomach, the one that's been there since his college days, falls away with the slow exhale of his breath. It sounds so simple when he put it like that.
Okay. Yeah, okay.
“Thanks, Rocky,” Ryland says, blinking away the wetness in his eyes.
“Is no problem.” Rocky says, picking his abandoned project back up, “Go to sleep.”
Ryland finally rolls over, pulling the quilt over himself. He'll probably think it over again in the morning, and the years to come. His brain has always been terrible at letting things lie. But he has someone now, someone who means the world to him and hopefully thinks of him the same. He rolls the words around in his mouth, feels out the taste of it. “Good night, Rocky. Love you.”
“Love you, Grace.”