Space Bro

by JumpingJackFlash

Summary:

In which Karkat Vantas is a surly ex-Marine who is absolutely for sure NOT a gray space alien, nor has he ever been a gray space alien at any point in his life ever, regardless of what this weirdo Sollux Captor claims when they meet in a bar one miserable Friday night.

Chapter 1

    "So what made you decide to join... you know... 'The Corps'?"

    "Anger management strategy." Stock explanation number two: 'irritated, perfunctory'. You scowl at the girl over the rim of your beer glass and wait for her to surprise you by saying something intelligent. You know she's not going to.

She doesn't. She traces the globe and anchor on your forearm lightly with the tip of a painted nail. Probably thinks that's a sexy thing to do. It just tickles. You cover the tattoo with the wrist of your glass-holding hand and rub the itch off. She gives a practiced pout.
    "Did it bother you? Fighting your own people?"

    "Wow," you say. "Here I was thinking you weren't going to impress me, but you did." You watch the beginning of pride in her drink-glazed eyes crash into hurt as you go on, "Your stupidity is breathtaking. What fucking 'own people' would those be?"

    "Well excuse me for making an honest mistake," she whines. "You just look kind of Middle Eastern, so... excuse me, God."

    Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you're American, fuckdammit. You were born in fucking Chicago. You served six years in the United States Marine Corps and came home with a purple heart and a titanium knee. You do not have to take this kind of bullshit from spray-tanned college girls or anyone else.

    You enunciate clearly for the thinking-impaired: "You're excused. Fuck off."

    She makes that special little tcha noise a certain kind of girl thinks is scathing, rolls off her stool on the side away from you, does a little oops-where-did-these-high-heels-come-from two-step, and lurches away, muttering "Asshole," under her breath.

    You drain the last swallow from your glass and set it down with a snort. The bartender grabs it and replaces it with a full one she had standing ready.

    She says, "Didn't you once tell me your dad was Iranian, though?"

    "Gosh, when did we invade Iran? I was not fucking informed." You give it plenty of venom, but she just grins. She's used to you. She walks off while you deliver your stock tirade -- understandable mistake, one letter difference, N and Q are next to each other on the keyboard oh wait no they're fucking not -- to your beer glass. It's an excellent listener.

    All told, a pretty standard Friday night. Occupy barstool, scowl, rebuff vapid woman, talk to self, somehow fail to get a decent buzz despite steady, determined consumption of shitty cheap beer. It's not that your life is so empty this counts as entertainment. It's just a kind of penance you need to inflict on yourself for some reason. It makes you feel better the rest of the week by contrast.

    "Excuse me," a man says, and there's a tap on your shoulder.

    You twist the minimum necessary to look at him, and see him bounce back as if he expects you to throw a punch. You take him in at a glance: tall, skinny white guy, short brown hair, jeans and a t-shirt, mid-twenties. He has an unnervingly hopeful expression on his face, like he thinks you're someone famous and he's about to ask for your autograph.

    He's going to hit on you. You brace yourself to be polite about turning him down. Rejecting gay guys is just about the only time you make an effort to be nice; someone has to do something about the stereotype of military men being foaming rabid homophobes.

    "Your name's Karkat Vantas, isn't it?" He has The Lisp. Bingo. He goes on without waiting for your answer; your expression must be enough confirmation. "I'm Sollux Captor. Do you remember me?"

    "No. Did we go to high school together or something?" You're pretty sure you didn't. You would've remembered a name that weird.

    "No, it's... sorry. Shit. I hoped you'd recognize me. At this point I don't really know how to proceed."

    "Proceed by telling me where the fuck I'm supposed to know you from."

    "Mind if I sit?"

    "You better fucking sit, I'm done craning my neck at you."

    He gives a dry, fond chuckle as he takes the stool next to you. It's not the kind of laugh a stranger uses. It weirds you out somewhat. "So you don't... I don't look familiar to you at all?" he prompts.

    "A little. I could've seen you anywhere. This very establishment, for instance. What do you want?"

    "I want you to hear me out and not automatically reject what I have to say just because you're pissed off at reality," he says. Again with that wry fondness. Again with the weirding you out. "I know," he adds quickly, holding up a hand. "I know what you're about to say."

    "Oh really," you drawl.

    His next words come out in a near-perfect imitation of your voice: "Sure, total fucking stranger, please allow me to credulously accept whatever bullshit story you've cooked up to scam me, would you like me to fetch my bank book? I'll just make the check out to Shitbag Douchefuck in the amount of Go Strangle Yourself."

    There's a long pause while you stare at him in disbelief. That's the best Karkat Vantas impression you've ever heard, and he is far from the first guy to try it. "How," you begin.

    A huge grin splits his face. "I thought you'd stay short. I don't know why. I was imagining this scrappy little Napoleonic fucker. At least you're not taller than me. I don't know if I could handle that."

    "What."

    "I also sort of thought you'd be a redhead, for some reason. I can't adequately justify that expectation. I was foolish. This is better. You look more like yourself this way."

    The speech center of your brain finally comes back online. "Who the fuck are you and what do you fucking want."

    There's that forgiving chuckle again. "Okay. Okay, there's no getting around the weird shit without lying, which I'm not gonna do, so just... bear with me." He takes a deep breath, and from the look on his face you fully expect him to confess to collecting used kleenexes out of your garbage.

    He says, "We were best friends in another life. In another universe. On another planet. Twelve of us played a game, and now we're human, and I don't know if we were supposed to remember and it went wrong for the rest of you, or we were supposed to forget and it went wrong for me, but one day I started remembering. I'm trying to contact everyone, but you're the one I missed most. I've been looking for you for thirteen years. I always. Uh. Fuck." He doesn't look like he's trying not to cry, but his voice chokes off and he has to swallow hard. "I kinda convinced myself you'd remember me. Like our bro-ship had the power to transcend universes or something. I'm kind of a dumbass sometimes, sorry."

    "Uhhh. Huh. Wow."

    "I can see you don't believe me, and I don't blame you, but thanks for not flipping your shit. Vriska ran me off her property with a shotgun after the first sentence. She lives in a trailer in Colorado and breeds alpacas. How does something like that even happen?"

    "Wow," you repeat in a stunned tone. "You know what? You're the first person to truly surprise me since Johnny Jihad kneecapped me with exploding roadkill. I think I'm more surprised by this, actually, because back then I lost consciousness before I could really savor the shock. This is some choice bizarro bullshit you're serving me, man. Kudos."

    He swallows again and nods. He's starting to look somewhat dewy-eyed; it's embarrassing to watch. Either he's Oscar-worthy or he really believes his story. "Guess I'll just leave it at that." He gets up.

    Your eyebrows manage to rise even further. "You're just walking away now?"

    "Unless you can think of a way I can convince you. All I can do is... hell, I don't know." He shoves a hand through his hair impatiently. "Let you think about it. Maybe you'll remember something. If I gave you my contact info would you use it?"

    "No."

    "That's what I thought. So I'll try again some other time, I guess." He shrugs helplessly. Then he walks away.

    You watch him go, of course, just in case he does something interesting. All he does is pause at the door to glance back at you. Then he's gone.

    "Holy shit," you intone. "That was some full-auto, belt-fed, water-cooled crazy. I have respect for that kind of crazy."

    "Oh yeah?" the bartender says. "And I was way over there and missed it. What did he say?"

    You shake your head slowly. "I can't do it justice."

Chapter 2

    Hovering on the threshold of waking, you're already annoyed at yourself. Typical: you can't even dream about being wounded in the heat of battle, no, you just get your knee blown out by a roadkill bomb. A fucking dead fucking exploding goat. Dumbest blood dream ever. That'll teach you to sleep in a pile of fabric like a human, it makes you dream up halfassed bullshit tiptoe wars with no conquest and no glory.

    That's probably the way humans do it, though. They're so terrible at everything...

The sound that woke you comes again. You identify it automatically: garbage truck backing up in the cul-de-sac. The dipshit driver would rather wake up the entire neighborhood at six on a Saturday morning than bump over the curb for two feet. One of these days you're going to go out there and

    kick his ass in your peejays

    garbage truck

    Saturday

    garbage truck and Saturday are human things

    yes of course they're fucking human things what else would

    ... oh.

    You drag the blanket off your face and blink at the wall of your bedroom, where an orange line of dawnlight slants across your framed poster of a '69 GTO. Like a no-smoking sign. No muscle cars. Thank you for not Pontiac.

    You rub your eyes. What were you even dreaming about? Were you dreaming that your life was a dream? That crazy guy at the bar must've gotten to you more than you thought. He acted so normal while talking his extraordinary bullshit. He was probably just trolling you.

    And okay, what's wrong with that phrase, why does it stick out in your head like a neon sign flashing HEY FUCKASS at you?

    Ugh. Hangovers.

    After a long shower, breakfast, physical therapy exercises, and another quick shower, you finally feel properly awake and functional. You've forgotten what was bothering you when you woke up. You barely even remember you were bothered. By the cold light of day all that stuff seems vague and pointless.

    You do some yardwork, help your other-half-of-the-duplex neighbor clean his gutters (the guy is completely goddamn hopeless at typical man stuff, he should just hire someone, but his bitch wife keeps pushing him because gender roles are like her religion) and get told off for swearing in front of their kids. You watch a movie (you don't care what the critics say, 'Hancock' is a pretty decent film, although mostly because Will Smith never sucks), then go to bed early.

    You don't have any dreams that you remember.

    Sunday, you do laundry.

    By Friday, you barely remember what the weird guy said to get under your skin like that, and you're kind of hoping he'll be there so you can try and get more of it out of him. You can record it on your phone this time. The guys at work will laugh their asses off.

    He's not there, though. You shrug and let it go.

    If you have an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach, like you've let something terribly important slip past you, it's subtle enough that you can ignore it. You're a pro at ignoring uneasy feelings.

* * *

    "I've heard about you," she says. "You're that misogynistic asshole who gets off on making girls cry."

    This one's got sharp eyes, is black and still has her natural curls -- no bleach-blonde spray-tan crap here -- and is wearing a band t-shirt; normally she might be a prospect. But not when she starts out like that, not tonight. You're not in the mood for this tonight.

    "I'm not the misogynist, you are," you snap. You're already on beer number five; tact is a distant memory.

    "You don't know what that word means, do you?" she laughs.

    "You have so little faith in your sex that you think I should accept the stupid ones out of pity. Listen, sister, I've been with women who were tested by war. Women who could fly a helicopter, field-strip an M-16, and match me in hand-to-hand combat. You. Don't. Rate. Fuck off."

    Her eyes widen in understanding, and she leans back slowly. "Oh. Huh. You know what? Okay. I get it. I'm sorry for assuming."

    You sigh. "Yeah. Sorry for exploding. I just seriously don't want to talk to strangers right now."

    She cracks an inexplicable smile and punches you on the shoulder before turning around and striding off. Weird. Attractive, actually. Maybe some other time.

    There's a male throat-clearing behind you. You whirl around and nearly fall off your stool. Your black mood lifts so suddenly it's like you got a lungful of nitrous oxide. "Oh shit, it's you," you laugh. You beckon the bartender. "Hey Andi, it's Space Bro! Space Bro is back!"

    Sollux Captor raises an eyebrow elegantly. He's wearing a yellow and black nylon parka like a goddamn mountain climber, it's ridiculous. As he sits next to you, he says, "Bit early to be drunk, isn't it?"

    "Naw, I'm just a little buzzed. Buzzed like a bee!" You prod the front of his parka with a stiff finger to illustrate the point. "Silly Space Bro. There's no bees in mountain climbing!"

    His other eyebrow goes up too. "Buzzed nothing, KK, you're fucking cargoed. What's the occasion?"

    "I got a promotion."

    "Congratulations?" He's rightfully suspicious.

    "I got promoted to 'independent contractor'!"

    "You got fired," he realizes.

    "I got fired!" You raise your glass in a toast to the world. "Let me buy you a drink, Space Bro. Let me buy you several. Take advantage of my gallows euphoria. Drink fast, catch up with me, and then tell me tales of the bromance that spanned universes. This is the closest you will ever get to my wallet."

    "Jesus Christ," he says, half pity and half grudging respect. "All right, but I'm buying. Let's move to a booth before you fall off that stool."

    "I'm not impaired, Mulder. Tell me about the spaceships. I want to fucking believe."

    "I never said spaceships. Come on, there's one open booth and that pack of hipster chicks is eyeing it."

    "Fuck those bitches, that table's ours." You make a break for it. In a totally straight line, dammit. A beeline, in fact. The thought makes you grin as you plunk down on the oversprung vinyl seat.

    Space Bro mysteriously fails to join you. You don't particularly care. Tonight, you decide, is the night of not caring. You'll care too much later, so for tonight you are Mister Fuckit. It was a shitty job anyway. You can do better. That new manager they hired is going to run the business into the ground. He's the kind of idiot who, upon finding out that the forklift driver has anger issues and PTSD, goes out of his way to goad the asshole into blowing up. It's probably some kind of discrimination.

    Captor appears across from you and gently sets down a pitcher of something the color of iced tea. Porter? Brown ale? You don't give a shit at this point. "Is 'asshole' a protected demographic, Captor?" you demand. "Is anti-asshole discrimination actionable?" Then you realize what that sounded like, and wait gleefully for him to gross out.

    His mouth doesn't even twitch, though. "Sorry, no. I didn't want to have to be the one to tell you. You're doomed to a life of slurs and slander. Your letter-writing campaign to have the word 'jerkass' stricken from the English language as a hurtful assholephobic epithet is condemned to failure."

    And then, before you've quite recovered from that, he gives you the most sincerely empathetic smile that has ever been directed at you. Just a small thing, nothing compared to the smarmy oozing mugs of assorted preschool teachers, babysitters, wife-of-a-friend-of-dad's-es, etcetera. But the first one that ever really felt like it... really... counted?

    Maybe there is something to this universe-spanning bro-ship thing.

    He says, "Let me guess. Being your usual charming self at work suddenly became not-okay, and you were holding a pink slip before you quite knew what happened."

    "They hired a new manager. Little bowling-pin-shaped cuntsuck right out of business school. Knows nothing about auto parts."

    "Thinks he doesn't need to know because business is business?" His smile is growing into a toothy grin, and that only makes it better.

    "First thing this shitwipe did was make a rule warehouse workers have to tuck their shirts in. Second thing, he banned swearing. Third thing, he attached himself to my ass like a feral fucking schnauser and devoted his every spare moment to driving me out of my goddamn mind. Thank you," you add as he refills your glass.

    "And the last straw was...?"

    "I called him a motard. He started lecturing me on the 'chain of command'. I told him if he wants to play chain of command he should buy a uniform on ebay, and I guess he can call me Corporal if he really wants to and is he a Sergeant in his little fantasy world or do the spankings go the other way." You jerk a thumb over your shoulder and make a rocket noise. "Pchooo! Shitcanned."

    Captor's grin has taken over his face. He has appealingly sharp canines; not like vampire fangs or anything, they're well within the normal range, just... pointy and cool. "You are a work of art. What does 'motard' mean?"

    "Oh, you know, that..." you wave a hand vaguely. "Motivation this motivated that, you know, the rah-rah dicksauce who's always trying to make the most boring daily bullshit sound exciting by rubbing buzzwords all over it."

    "My God, I hate those people. And now I have a word for them. I thank you from the bottom of my shriveled black heart."

    "You're welcome," you nod graciously.

    Who'd a thunk it. Space Bro is all right.

Chapter 3

    As the evening wears on, you learn that he's a software engineer for Intel, and runs a little app-game company on the side. Lives in Minneapolis and telecommutes. So much for this being a scam to get money from you. He doesn't seem to be trying to get into your pants, either. When he mentions an ex-girlfriend, you say, "I assumed you were gay because of the lisp. Sorry. Jerkass assumption on my part."

    "It's not an affectation, it's a speech impediment. I had to do a lot of voice coaching to get it under control." He sounds more proud than mad. "And I'm bi. We're all bi. Apparently some part of our biology or brain chemistry or something remembers being hermaphroditic."

Earlier in the evening you might've been delighted at the return of the aliens-from-another-universe story, but the two of you are halfway through your second pitcher, and the black girl with the sharp eyes has been throwing you looks across the room for a while now, so it's the other part of that you latch onto. "I'm straight, so I guess you miss."

    "Oh, weird. Are you sure?"

    "What do you mean, am I sure?" You tilt your head and side-eye him. "What do you mean weird?"

    "I mean are you sure. I mean have you queried yourself on the topic. Look at where you are in society and tell me you're not under pressure to be the hettest of the het."

    "Look at how many shits I do not fucking give what anyone fucking thinks, and tell me there's anything I'm scared to be honest about," you retort.

    He thinks about it for a moment, then lifts his glass to you. "Okay. Fair. I'm just surprised you'd be the exception. Considering how you were with John -- you were as in love as a kid could be. When I found John I halfway expected you to be shacked up with him. And you and Gamzee, sure it wasn't sexual but it was the real deal. That was the bro-ship that should've spanned universes."

    "I don't know these people," you remind him. "I don't have access to your imaginary world. Also the TV's not talking to you, just in case you were wondering."

    "I'm not schizophrenic," he says matter-of-factly, not offended. "I've had myself checked out by two reputable therapists, and both agree that my 'delusion' about my eleven friends from another universe is the only thing about me that's off the rails. The first one tried to make me remember reading it in a book or something, and was frustrated when I couldn't tell her where it came from no matter how hard I tried. The second said it's a relatively harmless escape from reality but I need to stop trying to contact my supposed former friends."

    "Yeah, that part's pretty weird." You drain off the last of -- what is this, beer number eight? -- and reach for the pitcher, but he beats you to the refill. "Thanks. I'm glad you didn't listen to shrink number two. You're entertaining as hell."

    "Thank you," he grins.

    "So one of the aliens is named John, huh?"

    "No, John was human all along. There were twelve of us trolls and four humans. I didn't put much effort into finding the humans, but John's kind of famous, so --"

    "Trolls."

    He rolls his eyes. "Coincidental linguistic parallel. Yes, I know it sounds dumb. Don't nitpick, it's not a goddamn screenplay I'm writing, it's my memory. Delusional or factual, it's not something I can edit."

    "Okay, okay. You are still the best crazytrain. Relax. There were humans in the other universe, then?"

    "The humans were from this universe. Not much changed for them. They just forgot the game. They didn't forget each other, because they were friends before we played. I was kind of surprised to find John dating Dave, after that 'not a homosexual' speech he gave you and how much it upset you. But okay," he puts a hand up as you open your mouth, "you're straight now so that's not even a problem. Maybe I should put you in contact with Terezi."

    "Whoa there. Nuh-uh. You can talk about this all you want, but don't start trying to get me involved in it. There are criminal harrassment charges in that direction, man. Pull up."

    He laughs.

    "What's so funny?"

    "She's a cop. She threatened to arrest me."

    The thought of meeting this woman is suddenly very interesting. You shrug it off. "Look, I'm not even going to verify that these people really exist. I'm not getting involved with it at all. Talk is fine, action is not fucking happening. Got it?"

    "I won't get you involved. But I'm not going to stop trying to get somebody to remember."

    "What you do on your own time is none of my fucking business, Captor. You can be as much of a freak as you want, you can get yourself arrested, I don't fucking care. I just don't want to know about it."

    "Fine. Jegus, KK. Don't flip your shit."

    "I'm not flipping my shit. My shit remains unflipped."

    He gives a startled laugh, while simultaneously looking like he's about to burst into tears.

    "What," you growl.

    "Nothing, just. You used to say that."

    "Whatever." You glare at your glass. Why do you suddenly have the urge to ask if you're still friends? Are you even friends now? You guess you kind of are.

    "Yes, we're still friends," he says soothingly.

    Your head comes up sharply. "How. What."

    "You always used to ask that. Whenever we'd get into one of our little bitchfights. Which was like... every day. Have you noticed how you answered to KK without even thinking about it? And you remembered my name after only hearing it once three months ago."

    "Has it really been three months?" you ask weakly, because he's right, and that's disturbing.

    "Oh, and you recognized me instantly, even though I got a haircut and I'm wearing different colored contacts. Not a lot of people would."

    "Colored contacts?" You squint, trying to determine whether his eyes are green or brown or what.

    "Yeah, the ones I had before were too green, it was kind of fakey. These are more natural. One of my eyes is weird looking," he adds quickly, as if expecting an objection, though you weren't planning one. "I wear colored lenses to make them both the same cuz I get tired of people asking about it all the damn time."

    "I wasn't going to ask," you say with a crooked grin. "I just assumed narcissism."

    "Fuck you, KK," he laughs.

    "Cheers."

    Suddenly the lights come on, and you yelp and wince. Closing time already? You didn't even notice last call. Captor says, "I hope you're not driving. You're supremely fucked up."

    "I always walk. Gotta exercise the leg."

    "I think you might be too fucked up to walk. You're going to end up facedown in a snowbank."

    "Is it snowing again?" You squint at the windows, trying to see past the reflection of the bar.

    "Come on, I'll give you a ride."

    "Are you good to drive?"

    "Sure. I wasn't even trying to catch up with you." He jingles his keys and grabs your arm. You let him pull you out the door by it, and as soon as you set foot on the sidewalk your heel goes out from under you and you end up clinging to his shoulder. Shit, he wasn't kidding about the snow, it's really coming down.

    Arms around each others' shoulders, you slip and slide along the sidewalk to his car, which is gray. For some reason you expected it to be yellow and black like his jacket. Either that or blue and red. You don't even examine the thought, it's just there.

    You give him directions and zone out while he drives. It seems like only seconds before he stops in your driveway. For the first time in a really long time, you're disappointed to be home. You push the door handle, making the dome light come on, then pause. "How about that contact info?"

    He lights up. "Gimme your phone." He puts his number in, then calls his phone so he'll have yours. "I'll text you my email and stuff when I get back to my hotel."

    "How long are you in town? You wanna hang out tomorrow?"

    "Just the weekend. Yeah. Yeah, let's do that."

    "Cool, I'll call you." You get out, slip, catch yourself on the hood, and shuffleslide the rest of the way to your door.

    You hear him driving away as you throw your snow-damp coat over a chair and start unlacing your boots. The engine stops getting quieter sooner than you'd expect, before he can possibly be at the stop sign, and holds steady for an oddly long time. You pop back up and look out the window. He's just past the entrance to the cul-de-sac, just sitting there. Idling.

    Checking a map, maybe? You retie your boot just in case. He's still sitting there. Something wrong? If something's wrong he could just call you. Maybe something's so wrong he can't call you. Feh, melodrama. He probably just realized he's too drunk to drive after all. In which case... he wouldn't call you, because he doesn't know you'd be okay with it. Because he's a dumbass. Always has been. Waitasec. Scratch that thought.

    There's snow spilling into your boot tops by the time you reach his car. You shufflewalked the whole way there, and your knee is fucking killing you. He's got his arms crossed on the steering wheel and his head down on them. It looks like he's passed out.

    You knock on the window. He jerks up, startled. The instrument lights shine on his cheeks. Fucker's crying.

    You point imperiously at your house. He looks puzzled. You step back, still pointing. He glances where you're pointing, then back at you, and starts to open his window. You roll your eyes, then do the carrier-deck shooter gesture, big arm circle and then both arms pointing schwoof at your house with a deep sideways knee bend -- ow, fuck. You have to grab the sill of his car door to pull yourself back upright.

    But he's grinning now. Mission accomplished. He reaches across to open the passenger door so you don't have to snowshuffle the whole way back.

    You don't ask why he was crying. You don't want to know. You just install him on your couch with an armload of spare blankets, give him directions to the bathroom, and go to bed. He stares at you with this planked sort of smile on his face until you're out of sight.

Chapter 4

    "What if we forget each other?"

    "Not going to happen."

    "But what if? Or what if we convince ourselves it's a dream or something?"

    "Shut up, fuckass. It's not going to happen."

"You don't know that, KK! You're just doing what you always do, shouting me down because you don't have an answer! Like you're going to fix it all on your own, but this time you can't, because there won't be any 'later' to fix it in! What if you don't remember there's anything to fix?"

    "Shut up!" you scream, so scared and furious you're shaking. You have two fistfuls of the front of his shirt, and you're glaring into the empty blackness where his eyes once were as if he can see you. There are yellow tears pouring down his gray cheeks, and pink ones dripping off your chin. "This is our only chance, we don't have a choice, and are we seriously going to spend our last minute as trolls fighting?"

    He cracks a watery smile. "That's what we do, isn't it?" He wraps his hands gently around yours and pries them from his shirt. "I guess all we can do is just... try really hard to keep hold of the memories. Like hold the truth in mind while it happens."

    The anger drains out of you, leaving you weak. You tilt your head forward to rest your forehead against his. "You seriously think that would work, don't you? You're fucking pitiful, Captor."

    "So are you." His breath puffs warm against your face as he gives a silent laugh. "I pity you so hard, KK. I figured it out too late. I'm sorry."

    "Oh." Your chest constricts painfully. Now you know why he's digging in his heels, because now you want to too. You want to hang onto the moment, beause finding this feeling and then having to change everything before you even get to talk about it is the most unfair thing that ever happened.

    You take his face in your hands and mash your mouths together. He's barely started responding before you pull away. The others are calling for you. It's time.

    As the universe starts to rip apart, all you can hold in your mind is: so that's what a yellowblood's tears taste like.

* * *

    You drift slowly awake. You feel warm and good. You feel like it's your birthday and there's a huge present waiting for you. You flop the blanket off your face and squint at the clock. 9:22. Apparently you slept through the garbage truck. There's a first time for everything.

    There's a contact lens case on your bathroom counter. It means nothing to you at first. You're on autopilot until you get your shower on. Once the hot water reboots you, you remember. Space Bro is crashed out on your couch. When you brush your teeth, you set out a spare toothbrush for him.

    You stop on your way past the couch to have a look at the guy. He's kinda balled up on one end, cocooned in blankets, with his face pressed to the arm cushion and his mouth open. He's drooling. It's cute.

    Not in a sexy way. In a kid way. The vulnerability of his thin, loose-curled hand clutching the blanket, so pale and red-knuckled, is also not sexy. It's just pitiful. He's here because you pitied him. Platonically.

    As opposed to what?

    You shake your head. Coffee time. Lots of coffee time.

    The view out the kitchen window suggests that you didn't sleep through the garbage truck, it just never came. The street's unplowed, the snow's halfway up your mailbox, and it's still coming down. Well, you don't have to be anywhere today. You don't have afternoon shift at the warehouse, because you got fired yesterday.

    Sitting at the kitchen table, watching the snow fall, you probe at the situation like you're tonguing a loose tooth. Somehow, the anger and dismay just aren't coming. Sure, you're out a job, but you have some savings and your veteran's benefits are nothing to sneeze at. You'll be fine. As for the way it happened -- that's just funny now. Thank you Space Bro.

    You hear running water in the bathroom. A few minutes later he ambles into the kitchen, looking dopey and sweet. Tempered. Sweet-tempered. Like a nice guy. He's wearing glasses and his hair's standing up on one side.

    "Where's the cups?" he says.

    "C'mere." You beckon.

    Puzzled, unsuspicious, he comes over to you. When you keep beckoning, he bends down, and it's kind of crazy how fast and dark the blush comes over his face. You study his eyes, frowning. One is hazel and one is blue. "I thought you said the odd one was red."

    "I... huh?" he breathes. He looks enraptured or something. You're embarrassed for him.

    You give his bedhead a hard ruffle and shove him away. "Cups are on the right side. Next to the fridge." While he gets his coffee, you explain your actions: "Your eyes, fuckass. You said the odd one was red."

    "No I didn't."

    "I distinctly remember. One red and one blue."

    The look he gives you is even more embarrassing than the enraptured one. It's like he found El Dorado. "You remember that, huh?"

    "So you admit to bullshitting me."

    He slowly shakes his head, still beaming. "No, KK. I was sober enough last night that I remember deliberately not telling you what color my odd eye is. I thought I'd make you guess."

    "Why would you do that, that's retarded."

    "Because red and blue is what they were before. When we were trolls. Now, as a human... KK, the odd eye is the blue one. The green is the normal one."

    You snort and turn back to the window. "Don't flatter yourself. That's hazel."

    He laughs, and after a moment you join in, because okay, that was a pretty dumb thing to say.

    "I was thinking we'd go grab some lunch or something," you say once he's joined you at the table. "Maybe see a movie. There's some new superhero shit out that's supposed to be pretty funny. Your car's snowed up in the driveway, though. Do you need to go back to your hotel at any particular time?"

    "Nah, I only reserved one night, I would've had to check in again last night." He side-eyes you while pretending to watch the snow. "A movie date, huh?"

    "Don't even. I've played in the gay-chicken big leagues, you have no idea how raunchy bored Marines can get, you're not gonna throw me by calling a bro-date a date-date."

    He accepts that with a shrug and a smirk. "My car's not getting through that. I guess the whole plan's gotta wait until the plows come by."

    "My street's always the fucking last one. For no reason I can discern. The assholes only do it to annoy me. Fuck you for laughing," you add, even while you join in.

    In the end, you decide to stay home, horse around in the snow, watch videos and play console games. You don't have all that many two-players, and he beats you mercilessly at the ones you do have, but it's fun anyway. He crashes on the couch again. You don't dig out his car until Sunday morning when he has to start for home.

    As soon as his taillights are out of sight, you go straight to your computer and add his messenger handle to your contact list.

Chapter 5

    Before your other-half-of-the-duplex neighbor even opens his mouth, you know he's about to embarrass himself. It's the shifty look in his eyes. That and the way he suddenly appeared with his shovel two minutes after you set up the ladder to clear the roof, even though his drive and walk are already done and he never helps with the roof because he's afraid of heights.

    "Spit it out, Jim," you command. "It's too cold to stand here watching you fidget."

"Heheh, sorry, it's just... okay, look, this is nothing personal. It's actually Rita's -- I mean I agree with her, just --"

    "Spit it out."

    "If you're going to be bringing men home, we'd really appreciate if you'd um... keep it indoors?"

    You stare at him until he takes a step back.

    "I don't have a problem with you, okay?" he yelps. "It's just! My kids! I don't want my boys seeing that!"

    "Seeing what, you prodigious dipshit? A snowball fight? Shut up," you snap before he can answer. "The only reason I didn't just punch you is because I like to know my reason for hitting someone and there are so many I can't decide." You tick them off on your gloved fingers. "One. Assuming I'm gay. I'm not homophobic, but you are, so from you it's an insult. Two. Assuming if I was gay I'd be 'bringing home men' like some California club-twink stereotype douche. Three, assuming my bro Captor is just some random guy, like I couldn't possibly have an actual friend. Four, seeing something obscene in shoveling a driveway and throwing a few snowballs. Or five, the knowlege that you are raising your sons to be the kind of 'eww no homo' assholes who can't relax with their friends because they think it looks gay." You hold your spread fingers in front of his terrified face and slowly close your fist. "Fuck. Fucking. You. Get off my half of the yard."

    Seeing him try to sprint in thigh-deep snow would normally be hilarious, but right now you just feel vicious satisfaction when he falls over.

    While you shove futon-rolls of snow off the roof -- carefully not aiming any more of them into his yard than yours, because you are not a petty douche -- you wonder why that got to you so bad. You don't normally get that worked up about people being idiots. People are idiots all the damn time. Idiots pave the world like gravel, you can't swing your arms without hitting one. Why this one, why now? Because he's your neighbor? It's not like he's going to take some kind of revenge. And you never cared what anyone thought of you, least of all a cowering twat like him.

    Halfway through, you realize you weren't mad on your own behalf. You were defending Captor.

    Two thirds of the way done, gray twilight gathering, the snow finally tailing off, and you realize you're also worried there was something about that snowball fight. Not that you were rolling around and groping each other or anything. You dumped some snow down the back of his parka, but then you jumped back laughing, so it hardly even counted as physical contact. What could there possibly be about that to make you defensive?

    Finished, and you sit down on the peak of the roof to watch the cold winter stars come out. And it finally dawns on you.

    You want to believe.

    That's what's wrong here. You want to believe in the bromance from another universe. You want to believe in a soulmate who would seek you out through reincarnation and disbelief and his shrink telling him to drop it and -- God, thirteen years, he said he spent thirteen years looking for you -- that's not just friendship. That's the kind of love they write myths about.

    Plus that dream about kissing him and tasting yellow... well, dreams don't mean as much as people think they do, and it's not like it was a sexy dream, his empty eyes were sad and gross, but it was still... kind of sweet.

    You shake your head and make for the ladder, dusting off your ass. You dreamed about it because he was talking about it, it's not like that was a memory. Damn, it's cold as shit out here now that the snow's stopped.

* * *

splodeygoat: Hey. I'll probably be 'away' most of the day but I thought I'd throw this down here so you can authorize me.
splodeygoat: Ping me when you get home so I know you made it. I'll probably still be up.
splodeygoat: Aaaand it is ridiculous o'clock and your phone's still turned off, nor have you messaged me back. I can only assume you're in a ditch somewhere in Wisconsin, wrapped around a jacknifed semi, watching your blood soak the snow and thinking sadly to yourself,
splodeygoat: "Why, oh why did I let my gender insecurity keep me from watching 'Benny & Joon'? Now I will never know whether it's the comedic masterpiece Karkat says it is!"
splodeygoat: And you know what, man?
splodeygoat: You brought it on yourself.
splodeygoat: Okay, I gotta sleep. Playing Rift until dawn on a weekday turns out to be significantly less awesome when you're doing it because you're unemployed and you're worried the one and only Space Bro got blizzarded to death on I-94.
twinArmageddons: it's not gender insecurity, kk.
splodeygoat: Aaaand he squeaks in under the wire! Where were you, asshole?
twinArmageddons: oh, you were totally correct. i died. i'm a ghost. this is a spooky ghost chat.
splodeygoat: Cool story, bro.
twinArmageddons: it was nice of you to worry, though. somehow i wouldn't have expected it.
twinArmageddons: re: benny n joon: not refused because chick flick; refused because fakey twee bullshit. see also 'hollywood crazy'.
splodeygoat: How the hell do you know if you haven't seen it?
twinArmageddons: it keeps coming up as an example of the 'love cures mental illness' trope, which is stinky assjuice and i will not watch it.
splodeygoat: No, they're still cuckoo for cocoa puffs at the end, they're just also happy. Someday you will learn to trust me about this shit.
twinArmageddons: huh. okay. next time then.
splodeygoat: I didn't figure you for the teen-angst all-lowercase type.
splodeygoat: You surprise me, sir.
twinArmageddons: it's not angst. i'm just lazy.
twinArmageddons: being case-sensitive and tweaking about punctuation is my day job.
twinArmageddons: my turn. why splodeygoat?
splodeygoat: I didn't tell you about the exploding goat?
twinArmageddons: you did, i just didn't think you'd want to like
twinArmageddons: be reminded
twinArmageddons: no, nevermind, who did i think i was talking to.
splodeygoat: I'm laughing so fucking hard right now you don't even know.
splodeygoat: And now I am going to bed.
twinArmageddons: best idea ever. night.

twinArmageddons has disconnected.

splodeygoat: Wait, one more th -- aaaah there you went.
splodeygoat: Okay, when you get back on, tell me what is up with your handle, because if that's not teen angst I don't know what is.

You have disconnected.

[11/22 4:03pm] twinArmageddons has connected.

twinArmageddons: no, you're correct, it was my username when we were kids. i keep using it in the hope that someone will remember and search for me.
twinArmageddons: maybe it's time i changed it.

twinArmageddons has disconnected.

[11/23 8:40pm] You have connected.

splodeygoat: No, man, keep it.
splodeygoat: Not that I'm saying I believe you, but if your thing is real, somebody might be looking for you.
splodeygoat: Don't cut off hope when you don't have to, you know?
splodeygoat: AAAAAAH I AM THE KING OF CHEESE, IGNORE ME.

You have disconnected.

Chapter 6

    You stay away from the bar until you find a job; you don't need to be wasting money like that. Fortunately, UPS just happens to be looking for someone with your qualifications, and, unlike some other places, is willing to accomodate your disability. Which isn't even that much of a disability, but you thought it'd be harder to find an employer who doesn't expect the forklift operator to do step-and-fetchit on foot as well. You hit the bar to share your victory with Andi.

    You have realized the bartender is the closest thing you have to a friend right now aside from Space Bro. You've let too many people drift away. Clock's ticking, you're twenty-six, it's past time you stopped living like you might have to skip town any minute.

The sharp-eyed girl is there again. It only takes you two beers to go talk to her. Her name is Clio. She's in law school. She enjoys heated political debates, romantic comedies, and weird food. Yes, she's free tomorrow night.

* * *

splodeygoat: I gifve up
splodeygoat: nO more fuckign girflnds..
splodeygoat: They are crazy adn mean every signle one of them
splodeygoat: and I am done the end goodbye.
splodeygoat: I mean goodbye girlfirends and datign, not like i'm going to off msyelf or someithng.
twinArmageddons: holy shit, kk, what have you been drinking, gasoline?
twinArmageddons: you never type that badly, not even on fridays.
splodeygoat: jagermister
splodeygoat: meister
splodeygoat: .
twinArmageddons: shiiiiiit.
twinArmageddons: how can you be having a jagermeister-level fight with clio when you've only been dating a month?
splodeygoat: She domped me.
splodeygoat: Merry fucking christmas.
twinArmageddons: shit, man, that sucks.
twinArmageddons: i'm sorry. what happened?
splodeygoat: She was mad I dind't invite her to my dads for xmas.
splodeygoat: I was like it's been not even a month, what are you a ring-seeking missle
splodeygoat: missile
twinArmageddons: oooh. bad move.
splodeygoat: well she fucking pushes
splodeygoat: I like that about her usually. like how she
splodeygoat: I don't know
splodeygoat: doesn't wait for the worldl to just give her what she watns
splodeygoat: but in this case jegus woman slow down, you know?
twinArmageddons: she dumped you just for that?
splodeygoat: No.
splodeygoat: I called up Dad and said lets do xmas a bit late this year
splodeygoat: and then I called Clio to tell her I canceled with dad
twinArmageddons: wait, i thought you said your dad's iranian
splodeygoat: and she said good then you can come to MY family xmas OH OKAY CAPTOR GOOD ALL IRANIANS ARE MUSLIMS THAT'S TOTALLY A THING THAT IS TRUE, THERE ARE NO IRANIAN CHRISTIANS
splodeygoat: ESPECIALLY NOT ONES WHO CAME TO THE US TO ESCAPE THE JIHADIST BULLSHIT OR ANYTHING LIKE THAT
splodeygoat: FUCK YOU OH MY GOD
twinArmageddons: shit, you're right, that was a stupid thing to say.
twinArmageddons: i'm sorry, kk.
splodeygoat: Whatever.
splodeygoat: Okay. you're forgiven.
twinArmageddons: so she totally missed your point and tried to shove you into a too-soon meet-the-parents deal anyway.
splodeygoat: Basically. I said no. she dupmed me. fml.
twinArmageddons: can you still go see your dad?
splodeygoat: Oh, that's the icing on the shitcake, he'd already made other plans. with his too-soon-to-meet-the-son new girlfriend.
splodeygoat: Fuck. My. Life.
splodeygoat: Fuck it right in the ass.
splodeygoat: veryone already has plans now, its too late to even set up a video call with my frieds on deploymnet, not that theyd even want to bcause they all have like wives and babis
splodeygoat: haha what are you doing tomorrow That is a joke i am a retard
splodeygoat: I'm just gonna go to bed now
splodeygoat: Thanks for listening.
splodeygoat: unless you are not. Listening.
splodeygoat: Did you get DC'd or are you ignoring me.
twinArmageddons: sorry, i was in another window. can you pick me up at the airport tomorrow morning?
splodeygoat: .............
splodeygoat: .............................
twinArmageddons: uhhhh. should i not hit the 'buy' button on these tickets, then?
splodeygoat: BEST. FUCKING. FRIEND. EVER.
splodeygoat: CAPTOR YOU ARE A BEAUTIFUL HUMAN BEING.
twinArmageddons: i do it all for the capslock, man.

Chapter 7

    You have that special, horrible hangover that only comes from Jägermeister. He's sleep-deprived from getting to the airport at 5am for a 7am flight. Neither of you have a present for the other, you didn't buy anything nice to cook, you didn't plan any activities. It doesn't matter. This is the best Christmas Eve you've ever had.

    He owns you mercilessly at Modern Warfare 2. You pound him in Guitar Hero. You bluster him into watching 'Benny & Joon', and while he feigns distaste to the last, he reluctantly admits -- under noogie torture -- that it was 'cute'. You tell him about your neighbor's bullshit complaint, and you go out and have a snow fight all over both lawns for great justice.

After a lavish holiday dinner of hamburgers, frozen hash browns, ice cream, and India pale ale, he disappears into the bathroom with his overnight bag. He comes back out in sweatpants and glasses. You realize belatedly that you were studying his bare chest when he drops his bag in front of you.

    "You're fucking kidding me," you grumble, jerking your eyes back up to his face. "It's only like... ten. There's no presents to open in the morning, man. We have no reason to get up early."

    "Your sleepover etiquette is terrible, KK. Go get into your jammies."

    You raise an eyebrow. "And then what? Makeovers and secrets?"

    "I think boy-sleepovers involve warm beer and porn mags smuggled from somebody's older brother, but no. We're having a geek sleepover."

    "Which is...?"

    "You'll see when you get in your damn peejays." There's a twinkle in his mismatched eyes that makes your stomach feel light.

    "I sleep in my shorts," you object weakly.

    "You're allowed a bathrobe. Git!"

    With a snort-laugh that does nothing to cover your confusion, you slope off to the bedroom. When you come out in underwear, socks, and robe, carrying a spare pair of warm socks for him in case he gets cold feet too, you find him waiting in your hall with a bag you haven't seen before. There's snow on the cuffs of his sweatpants and his bare skin is rough with goosebumps.

    "Did you go out to the car like that?" you laugh, backing up to let him in. "Jim is going to shit a brick."

    "Oh, I forgot about him, but that's a bonus." He sets the bag down on your bed and pulls out a laptop.

    You throw yourself stomach-down across the mattress to watch him hunt for an outlet. "Is this what a geekover entails? What are we going to do, message each other?" You point out your desk, which is against the wall. "I don't want to sit with my back to you, I'd feel like a bad host."

    "That won't be necessary. We'll use laptops."

    "I only have... the... desk... what... shit... no way." Your mouth is hanging open. Because he just handed you the laptop, and the lid of it is plastered with stickers of goats and mushroom clouds. Those are not easy things to find stickers of. You look up, and he's as red as an Easter ham. You scramble up on your knees so you can turn the gift over in your hands, just sort of... making sure it's real.

    "Don't freak, it's used," he mutters. "They keep giving me new ones at work. I need the latest stuff for development. Uh. That's a pretty good machine, though." He busies himself setting out cables and accessories. "I thought we could play Rift or something. I got an account but I forgot what server you play on so I haven't made a character yet. Anyway, it's not a big deal, I aaaaahshit --" He flails as you grab him in a sudden bearhug.

    "Fuck you, you're amazing," you laugh.

    When you don't immediately let go, he gradually relaxes, and at last puts his arms around you. "It's honestly no big."

    "Fuck you," you repeat. "It's the best present I ever got. Not because it's expensive or anything, shut up, I heard you, it's used, you got it free, whatever. It's the goats and explosions. It's everything today. It's... fuck." You sniff. "You get me."

    His hug goes instantly from tentative to fierce. "It's mutual," he chokes.

    "Nobody gets me. Just you. I feel like I've known you forever."

    He nods against your shoulder. His bare back is warm under your hands. He smells like soap, beer, and the color yellow.

    Silent seconds drift past, and still you're hanging onto him for dear life. This is really very gay, and you don't fucking care. This is sickening cornball sentimental, and you don't fucking care. Just yesterday you were anguished and furious over Clio, today you wouldn't take her back if she begged you, and you do. Not. Fucking. Care. It's like this hug is the most important thing that ever happened in the history of the world.

    "I want to believe, Space Bro," you whisper. "Sollux. I want to believe we were blood brothers in another world. I want to believe somebody loved me enough to hunt down my reincarnation."

    He makes a small clicking noise that you know is the sound of swallowing tears. "I did. I do. Okay? I love you that much. I'll say 'like a brother' if you want. There's no human equivalent for what we would've been."

    You're not sure how to feel about that. You're not sure you get to choose how to feel. It makes no sense to be getting choked up right now, but you are, and it seems pretty sensible for him to be soaking the shoulder of your bathrobe too. You tighten your arms so he can't try to pull away. "I don't remember anything. I wish I did. I dream about the stuff you tell me, but I think it's probably just because you told me. Sorry."

    "Like... what do you dream?"

    "Just... stuff that makes no sense. I mostly forget it when I wake up. I can only recall a few images. Like this giant white crab that's sort of my pet and sort of my boss or teacher or something. A house with windows shaped like... kinda... plus signs made of little squares? What," you gasp, because his arms are suddenly squeezing the breath out of you.

    "Yes," he whispers.

    "There's this one where we're kids and you don't have any eyes -- ow, ease up, can't breathe! -- thank you. Christ."

    "Sorry. Heh."

    "Anyway, it's a shitty sad dream but I've had it a few times. Your eyes are missing, like I said. And we're arguing, and we're both crying, but we're crying colors. Like you're crying yellow and I'm crying pink. And you tell me I'm pathetic and you feel sorry for me, and for some reason it just... breaks my heart. And then I kiss you."

    He slowly raises his head. His mismatched eyes are wet, and the end of his nose is pink, and it makes you feel the same chest-clenching, overwhelmed, grieving wonder you feel in the dreams. "What I said was, 'I pity you. I figured it out too late. And I'm sorry.'"

    Your mind goes into a tailspin. How can he know. How can he fucking know. The exact words from your dream. How is it true. All of it. How.

Chapter 8

"We had two kinds of love. Our race did. We explained them as pity and hate; it made the humans think we were crazy. But there was admiration in black rivalry, and our pity wasn't contempt, it was compassion." He cups your face with a hand that shakes like he's on the third day of an amphetamine bender. "You always tried to handle everything yourself. Your problems and everyone else's. You had nowhere safe in your head to go when it got to be too much, it followed you, you were angry all the time because you couldn't let anything go. And I. I wanted. To be your safe place. Your home base. But I didn't understand it until there was no time to do anything about it --"

    His voice dries up as your hands touch his cheeks. You push his glasses up with your thumbs on the frames until they rest on top of his head. Then you kiss him. As briefly and innocently as the child-you in your dream kissed the boy with no eyes. And just like in the dream, he tastes like tears.

    "I didn't even get to say it back," you say hoarsely.

    He smiles like it hurts in the best way. "It's okay, KK. I knew."

    You lean in again, and this kiss is a lot less innocent. He opens his mouth to you, groans softly as your tongues slide together. You scoot closer, straddling his leg, making him tilt his head back. Your hands stroke the long, vulnerable arch of his neck, the wiry breadth of his shoulders. You've never found male flesh sexual before, but touching him is making you want so much you're shaking.

    His long hands wrap your hips, and he pulls you against his thigh. You growl and tug his lower lip with your teeth, grind on him so he can feel how hard you are already, and both of you shudder.

    You throw your head back with a gasp. "Wait."

    You immediately regret saying it, because his eyes instantly fill with shamed regret. "Sorry. Sorry, I should've --"

    "No, fuck, shut up." You grab a fistful of his hair and bruise his lips with a toothy two-second reassurance. "I just want to move my present off the bed, dumbass."

    He laughs weakly. "Oh."

    You get up to do that, trying to ignore the way his eyes lock onto your hardon. You drop the robe on the floor and turn out the light. There's plenty of orangey-purple snowlight coming in from the window. He belatedly tosses his glasses at the bedside table, misses, and doesn't even look away from you at the sound of them falling on the floor. You climb back on the bed, slowly pushing him down.

    "I should ask," he gulps, "I should ask if --"

    "Shut up. No." You loom over him, pinning his shoulders with your hands. "No, I'm not sure, I haven't thought through my sexuality, yes I'm going to be weird about it, yes my dad will throw a shitfit and probably disown me, no I haven't remembered anything more than those few dreams, and no I am never letting you go again. Any more stupid fucking questions?"

    His adam's-apple bobs. "Do you believe me?"

    "Yes."

    He slides his hands around your waist and pulls you gently down. "Then you know I'm used to you freaking out," he smiles.

    You smile back, the sappiest smile of your life. You sink into kissing him. It's like coming home.

    You don't really know what to do with a male body, but he does, and he's eager to lead. He drives you crazy with those sharp little eyeteeth, nipping at your lips, your ear, your neck. With those long, delicate hands. Stroking your back. Carding your hair. When he drags his fingernails lightly over the tent in your boxers, you almost come in them. You grab the waistband of his sweatpants and yank them down impatiently; he does the same to your shorts.

    He moves back a little and pushes on your hip, wanting you to turn over. You bare your teeth at him; skepticism, warning. He shakes his head slightly. "No, not that. Just. Um."

    "Okay." You turn. He spoons up behind you. You're shaking so hard. You weren't planning to flip out about your sexuality until after you bang him, but there is a hardon way too close to your asshole right now.

    Then he reaches down, adjusting your leg and himself with a twist of his hips, and instead his dick is pinned between your thighs. He pulls you back against his chest. Presses a kiss to the side of your neck. Hands flat against your stomach.

    "You're shaking too," he whispers. "I thought it was just me."

    "Ditto." You roll your head against his shoulder, suck in a long breath as one of his hands slide downwards. "Oh fuck. Why is this so hot."

    His hips twitch. His cock sticks on the skin of your thighs, then suddenly slides slickly; precome, sweat. His hand cups you, feather-light, frustrating. His other hand teases a nipple, his teeth tug an earlobe, and wow, you've never made a noise like that in your life.

    You loop an arm back to pull his head into kissing range. He fists the first slow, hard stroke as your lips meet; you whine through your teeth, bite his lip hard, suck his tongue, rutting back against him to make him work you harder. The slow phase is over already. You're both losing your minds. Faster, needy and clumsy, breathless, whimpers harmonizing, eyes rolling back.

    Your lips smear against his cheek as you come. Your shout is wordless because you're too far gone to even call his name, but it's in your mind. Blazing triumph. When you can hear again, what you hear is your name broken into sobs, and then he chokes silent and pours himself out between your thighs, trembling like a road sign in a hurricane.

    The two of you lie still for a while. The moment he moves, you fist your hand in his hair angrily. "Don't you dare," you rasp.

    "... what?"

    "Don't pull away. Or let go. Don't... don't go clean up. Don't say things in a normal tone of voice or explain or ask questions or... anything people do at a time like this."

    After a split second's hesitation, he presses himself to your back and wraps his arms around your chest as tightly as the post-fuck floppies will allow. "I love you," he chokes. "Sorry. That's a thing people say at times like this. What should I do?"

    "Just hang onto me." You finally begin to see the window you've been staring unfocused at since you opened your eyes afterwards. It's snowing again. "Stay. And. Don't let me talk bullshit."

    "Okay."

    "And in a while we'll do it again."

    He breathes a laugh against the back of your neck.

    "I love you too, Sollux," you murmur. "If I was the one who remembered, I would've looked for you. And I would've found you. Even if it took thirteen years."

    He kisses your spine softly. "I know."

* * *

    You keep waiting to freak out, and it keeps not happening.

    When you wake up tangled together like a couple of paper clips, you don't freak out.

    When you suck cock for the first time, on your knees in the shower with Captor whimpering your name like you're God, you don't freak out.

    When he finally tells you the story of your alien other-lives, sprawled on the couch with his head in your lap, you don't freak out.

    When you say goodbye at the airport and kiss him in public, gathering a lifetime supply of dirty looks (and one rather startled 'aww!' from a girl about your age), you're annoyed at yourself for getting chokey, but you're still not freaking out.

    And finally, the time comes that you know is the most dangerous, the time when you fully expect some betrayer inside your mind to start talking seductive bullshit about 'normal' and 'sensible' to you, when you are really sure you'll have a change of heart and Captor will have to talk you back around on instant messenger...

    It doesn't happen.

    You talk with him like you always do, the usual awkward mixture of banter, bluster, and thanks-for-not-dying, and the only difference is that you add a 'love you' before 'goodnight'. You go to bed, smell him on your pillow, whack off to the memory of his touch, and wait for sleep.

* * *

    "Ffn. H'lo?" His voice is creaky with sleep on the other end of the phone connection. You close your eyes and imagine you can ruffle his hair if you just reach out.

    "I still love you," you say.

    "Uh. Okay. I still love you too. And um... I still will in the morning? Actual morning? Not three-in-the-morning?"

    "I didn't freak out. I am okay with turning out to be bi or whatever. Also I still believe you. Also this long distance shit will not stand."

    "Uh." A rustle. Sitting up, maybe. "Oh."

    "I have a mortgage but this duplex is a shitbomb and my neighbor's a douche. Is Minneapolis nice?"

    "It's uh. Pretty awesome, yeah. Smaller than Chicago though. Do you like the big?"

    "I don't care. Do you have a spare bedroom? I need my own space."

    "You want the sunroom, or should I move my office in there? Fuck. KK, are you serious?"

    "Yes."

    "Because I believe this can work, but uh... do you believe it can work?"

    "I will make it work by angry grubfuck power alone." You pause. "What is a grubfuck, Captor. Explain to me why I said that. It's disgusting."

    His laugh is warm and joyful. "Fiat Lux!"

    "On second thought, I'll call you in the morning, when you can make sense." You hang up, smiling.

    You fall asleep cradling your phone.

    You dream of cruel, beautiful, hopeful, monstrous children. You dream they created the world. You dream that something so miraculous can never truly be forgotten. You'll all find each other again someday.

-end-