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He says he’s leaving, dissipating, becoming something you will never really understand, and your selfishness hits you with enough force to knock the breath out of you.
“Wait…why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because you need to come home!”
“What? No! Why would I do that?! I finally escaped!”
You don’t mean to say what comes out of your mouth. You’ve been holding it back for years, cultivating its familiar ache until it’s almost a comfort.
"Because I’m in love with you, spacehead!"
Shit. Shit, fuck, damn, and every other curse you learned from your mother while she worked. You did not mean to tell him. You weren’t going to do this. Not now.
He fumbles his dinner into the fire, which feels like an appropriate metaphor. For what exactly, you aren’t sure, but it feels right.
“Y-you…you what? I…wait, you are?”
He stands, spitting with fury and hurt that is so very, achingly justified. “And you didn’t…I can’t believe you! How dare you! How dare you come to me now, after I went through hell, thinking I was alone! That no one loved me!”
How dare you, indeed. What reason could possibly be good enough to deny this boy, this young man, this person who has been and will be your future, the love he’s yearned for his whole life?
(In another lifetime, you learned to swear from your dad when he sat at the table, thinking you were asleep, and wondered aloud what he was going to do. In another, you learned from Marz, giggling while you worked in the depot. Or from Tang in the lab, results all wrong, equipment crashing to the floor. Cal while he tried to figure out what to feed a starving dillypillar. Anemone when she scraped up her knees and elbows during sportsball practice, and then again when she held her weapon close and tried to stay alive while monsters tore apart your home.
Once upon a time, Dys is the one who taught you to swear, right here on the ridge. He looked at everything that came before your colony and all the hell that was to come and said the exact same string of curses that your mom says when she tugs out weeds and doesn’t get all the roots.)
You can’t explain. Not now, maybe not ever. It isn’t that he won’t believe you—you know Dys. He’ll listen. He’ll take you seriously and trust you, even though you’ve hurt him so badly.
But you didn’t want to ask that of him. Not yet. You needed more time, more space, the chance to reflect and exist with the one being on this entire planet who can even begin to understand what you’re going through.
Sym stands on the edge of the mess you’re making, all patience and care. An hour ago, you kissed his brand new skin. A day ago, you cried into his slightly too-bony shoulder because your head hurt with an agony even he couldn’t soothe. A week ago, you whispered the details of dreams only half-remembered, desperate for someone to tell you they weren’t just delusions.
And all that time, you let Dys believe you’ve ever done anything but love him. Selfish. Horribly, cruelly selfish.
He still kisses you, despite what you’ve done. You don’t feel you deserve it, but you can’t do anything but give him all the love and desire that’s been quietly aching in your chest for years, even though you know you can’t use it as a bandage.
Dys kisses you with the desperation of a boy who has only ever wanted to be loved. It hurts, so you open yourself up for more. Anything for him. Anything, now that you’ve opened the door.
Even Sym’s patience can wear, it seems, or else his delight is too strong to stay quiet. “Oh! You young creatures are so wonderfully unpredictable! What is it like to have organic sexual desire? Truly, I cannot imagine it.”
You almost tease him and point out that that isn’t what he was saying earlier, with all his gasping and hypersensitivity, but you manage to catch yourself. You won’t hide what you have with Sym, but to reveal it now (and especially to reveal just how intimate you’ve been), when Dys has so much reason to doubt your confession…
You can picture it with a clarity that hits like deja vu. Dys pushing you away, hurt cracking through all the softness. Accusing you of lying, of saying what he wanted to hear just to change his mind. No, this isn’t the moment. Later, once the fact of your love is less of a shock.
Once he trusts you. If that’s something you’re still able to earn, in this lifetime.
A memory:
You, four years old, bouncing on your bed. Your dad, laughing and coaxing you under the covers with the promise of a story.
“What do you want to hear about tonight, my little tomato?” His smile is wide and his eyes are bright. No pink to be seen. You don’t know why you keep looking for pink, but it makes you so happy when it’s not there.
You flap your arms, wanting to stretch out the joy. “Gard’ners, gard’ners!” You say it a little wrong, because you are small. So small.
“Which gardener should we hear about tonight?” He knew to expect this request. You ask to hear about them almost every night. Sometimes your dad even gets close to right when he tells the stories! Usually he’s kind of wrong, though. You think he doesn’t have the right dreams. When you solemnly informed him of this, he’d smiled and picked you up, so you could keep chattering in his ear while he puttered around the space your little family shares.
Maybe someday he’ll pay better attention and get the right dreams. You hope so. You think he’d like the gardeners.
Especially your favorite one, who is almost always the star of your stories. “Sym-bi-o-sis!” This, too, you say a little wrong. “Sym! I wanna hear about Sym.”
“Alright,” Your dad says, pulling your blanket up closer to your chin. You clutch at it with your small fists, eager and yet already feeling soothed just at the thought of the very best gardener. “I’ll tell a story about Sym.”
Just having the name repeated makes you feel calmer. Your dad’s hands are both on the bed, but someone is touching your cheek. It’s not your mom, who dad said finally crashed after working too hard. In the moments before you fall asleep, you realize that you know exactly who it is. You know those hands. Of course you do. You’ve felt them all over your body, had that touch inside your very mind, you can’t believe you could forget—
“I did not know you loved him.”
You don’t flinch. Your perception is exceptional in this lifetime, but that’s only half of it. It’s hard to be startled when you’re drifting so far away from your mind. Sym sits down next to you on the sturdy branch, overlapping just your pinkies.
It’s a punch to the gut. A sense memory forcing its way into your guilt. Dys laying on the grass, showing you his favorite music, letting you slide just your pinky on top of his. Dys hooking your pinkies together while you walk on a trail. Dys making a pinkie swear on top of sealing your union with a kiss.
It’s a shame that it’s knocking you so far off balance, given that objectively it’s a very sweet and charming thing for Sym to do.
Your words are choked, spilling out between breaths. “Of course I love him. He’s so easy to love.”
Sym hums in agreement. You know he loves Dys as well. How could he not? Dys says that he knows he’s hard to love, but he’s so very wrong about that. It’s the easiest thing in the world, once you learn how to do it.
“I am still not accustomed to humans. I could see that you were fond of him, but I was not certain of its shape.” As if he needs to explain. As if you don’t understand. As if you deserve patience after—
His whole hand is on yours now, and he’s leaning closer, clearly waiting for a cue. “You’re shaking, sugarbug.”
You’ve collapsed into him before you even realize it. He’s so fucking warm. His arms are a little too long and his bone structure is strange in a way that your biology-focused brain can’t help noticing, but you don’t care because they still feel so fucking good around you.
“His sister hates being human, too.” You murmur it into Sym’s ragged coat. “Tangent. She hates the limitations of a physical form.”
Sym adjusts slightly, so that you’re being held at a more comfortable angle. He’s so kind and thoughtful that it makes you angry, sometimes, in a way you know comes from reincarnated trauma. “The one who engineered the plague?”
Ah. Not the greatest introduction. There’s a memory stuck in the folds of your brain, showing you Tang falling asleep in the lab with only Sym for company; Sym asking her a thousand questions and growing evermore delighted with her answers; Tang gathering up the courage to ask him about who Dys was, outside of the colony walls.
You wonder if any of that will still happen, in a lifetime where Dys blew up the engineering building because that was easier than talking his sister out of the biggest mistake of her life.
“Yeah.” You don’t know how long you were quiet before answering him. The prolonged pauses never seem to bother Sym, anyway. Put that on the long list of reasons why you broke your best friend’s heart. “I loved her once. I still love her, but it’s different. That was a very different lifetime.”
It’s hard to match up all your lifetimes with anything approaching coherency. Still, there are some things soaked in similar flavors of sorrow or joy. Your life with Tangent wasn’t a happy one. You were an orphan. You barely left the colony. You never even knew Sym, and when Dys blew a hole in the wall, it didn’t occur to you to chase after him.
Tang was obsessive over his disappearance. It drove her to highs and lows that you hope to never see again. She would’ve given anything to understand. Anything.
He is so loved, more than he’ll ever really grasp. You owe Utopia a life debt for responding the way she did when you brought Dys home. At least that’s a start.
“I suppose I shall give her the benefit of the doubt, then.” Sym’s tone is more thoughtful than anything. “Someone so loved by both you and Dys surely has more good than cruelty.”
“You can tell that Dys cares about her?” That gets your attention, pulls you a bit further out of your melancholy. You shift so that you can see his face and start to absently play with his hair. The texture might not be human, but it is pleasant.
“Of course. He has mentioned her many times. Perhaps more than he realizes.” Sym tilts his head, giving you a bit more hair to work with. You’re not sure if it’s intentional, but it sparks a burst of fondness all the same. “Not in the same way that he mentions you, but often enough that it was always clear that she holds great importance in his life.”
“He talks about me?” Your voice comes out in a ridiculous squeak that makes Sym light up, which means you’re never going to hear the end of it. You don’t know why you’re so embarrassed. You know Dys has feelings for you! He made that incredibly clear on the ridge.
Sometimes you feel a thousand years old, exhausted and ephemeral, and then you get brought right back down to the grounding humiliations of being a teenager. Still, you can’t get too mad about it. It does feel a lot better to be present in the moment like this, even if you can feel yourself flushing like mad.
Sym grins down at you, eyes impossibly bright. “Oh, you are such a treat. Do you like knowing that Dys talks about you? I do not wish to break his confidence, but you are lovely when you squirm.” His expression softens a bit, and he leans down to press a kiss on your forehead. It makes you ache a little, but it also sends your insides fluttering, so you think you’re probably going to be alright, existentially speaking. “I do so love to see you happy, sugarbug.”
You sigh, exhaling tension you’ve been holding for probably too long. “I made him so unhappy. I just don’t want to hurt him again.”
Sym brings one of his arms around so he can trace along your face, stroking the bridge of your nose, brushing the tips of his fingers across your cheeks. “You also make him incredibly happy, dear one. I cannot speak for Dys, nor would I wish to. Still, it seems a shame to hold space for pain where joy could live.”
You aren’t sure if he’s using any of his soothing influence right now to make the message go down easier. As a rule, he doesn’t do that unless you ask, and you do trust him. You trust Sym so much. More than you should maybe put on another person, if you’re being brutally honest.
But then, Sym does make a fair point. Perhaps you’ve been a bit too brutal with yourself lately.
“When did you get so wise?” You ask, threading your hands more firmly in his hair. You bring his head down further, until the tips of your noses are nearly touching.
His laugh is more breath than sound, exhaled against your lips. “It could be the millennia of existence. It could also be your influence.” And then he’s kissing you, soft and so sweet that it starts off aching, but quickly brings that fluttering feeling right back to the surface. He nips at your lip, which you think he might’ve picked up from watching you and Dys kiss on the ridge? And that thought nearly breaks your brain and the cycle of reincarnation along with it.
“Hey,” Dys says when he hops out of the transport, smiling like you’ve seen dozens of times when he leaves the colony, and exactly never when he’s returning. Until now. “It’s good to see you.”
It must be, if he’s smiling like that. “You stole my line.” And your heart. Add that to the list of things too embarrassing to say to either of your boyfriends. Though Sym would probably love it. Dys might too, even if he’d get flustered. You feel flustered just from thinking it. You’re so glad that everyone else has already gone inside the walls, so you have some privacy to be mortifying inside your own head.
And then Dys puts his arm around your waist, leans in, and kisses you, very firmly, without an ounce of hesitation. Flustered is no longer a functional descriptor. You are absolutely gone. What’s with the guys you love breaking your brain? Are they colluding? Is this a conspiracy?
“What’s all this about?” You ask, gripping tighter to his shirt than could ever look cool or normal. Not that you’re all too bothered. You’ve looked way more uncool in front of Dys more times than you can count, which isn’t a super enjoyable thought to have, but you can deal. Clearly he doesn’t need to think you’re cool if he’s going to kiss you like that. “Not that I’m complaining. You look—good. Happy. It’s a good look on you.”
“Now you’re stealing my line.” His arm is still around you, and even if his smile is smaller, it’s still there. You feel like your parents must have when they cultivated the first plants in this planet’s soil. “You’ve seemed stressed lately, but today you look a lot more calm. It’s just good to see you happy again. I thought that maybe you were…rethinking things.”
Your expression drops so quickly that it’s a real, physical sensation. “No. Dys, no, I would never—”
He cups your cheek in his free hand and leans in to kiss your forehead. It’s another of those breathless moments, sense memory and deja vu, but more pleasant than usual. “Hey. It’s okay.” He holds you even tighter, bringing your bodies as close together as physics and expedition gear will allow. “I talked to Sym about it, and he gave me some pretty solid advice.”
You stiffen just a bit at Sym’s name, which feels so wrong. “He’s good at that.” You should tell him. You should tell Dys a lot of things, but spelling this out is the very least of it.
“He is,” Dys agrees, with an ease to his voice that borders on teasing. “I bet he’s pretty good at kissing, too.”
Whatever your face does makes Dys laugh almost hard enough to loosen his grip on you. Almost. “I—Dys, the only reason I didn’t tell you right away was because I didn’t want you to think it meant I love you any less, I swear I was going to—”
He kisses the tip of your nose, which shuts you right up. It doesn’t feel like a very Dys thing to do, but then, you don’t know everything about him, do you? And if he’s happy enough to look at you like you’re freedom, you can’t be sure what to expect. “Hey. It’s okay. I mean, first of all, give me some credit. I knew you were with Sym before everything that happened on the ridge.”
Well. That would certainly change some things. “Oh. I didn’t realize it was so obvious.” Maybe you should’ve, in hindsight. It’s not like you were trying to hide it, really.
“You two are my best friends. I do pay attention to you.” His tone is still all easy, comfortable, content. It’s so good to hear. “And…okay, I know there are some things I don’t get that Sym probably does. It’s fine if you’re not ready to talk about it with me. I’m just glad you’re letting me in at all.”
You pull back so you can see what expression comes with words like those. He’s still smiling like you’re the wilds instead of a cage. You’ve been so caught up with the bigger picture that you forgot what’s right in front of you. There’s no wormhole in the sky to twist your consciousness into eternity. There’s just your best friend, holding you close.
“I love you, Dys. So much.” You pull him close again, speaking the words into his neck. “I love you so much, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I’m gonna tell you every day. You’ll get sick of it.”
His grip on you loosens so that he can fold you more comfortably into an embrace. “I won’t. And I love you too. More than you know.”
Maybe he’s right. It’s a beautiful thought, that he might love you more than you can understand, even given lifetimes to try and grasp it. You shudder in his hold, feeling that old ache of loving him, but it’s a good ache this time. Right on the cusp of pain and joy.
There’s the faintest rustle of foliage, quiet enough that even Dys doesn’t notice. But you do. You feel Sym’s eyes on the pair of you. You open your eyes and glance just barely up—and catch that silver gaze. His face is mostly hidden, but you catch the hint of his smile.
I love you, you mouth. His slow blink is response enough, but then he does mouth the words right back. I love you.
Here, on the boundary between safety and danger, between the colony and the wild, between your fears and the truth, everything finally tumbles into place inside of you. You are so loved, and you have so much love to give. Nothing is ruined. There is so, so much hope.
You’re looking forward to the future.