Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

in the district, near
what they insist is a border
the dust is still uneasy
on the graves, now only numbered

dead-men’s shirts
hang from the nearby trees
untired flags touched by
kids too young to know poetry

the gash across the verdant body
now even deeper, the glass map
of our country, broken still

i swear Shahid, i picked up where you left
in this long war of learning
our Kashmir only bleeds –

- Kashmir Bleeds, by Agha Shahid Ali.

***

Jochi Khasar’s hands are shaking.

At 3:14 pm, a small tremor begins in his left hand; it spreads to the right exactly seven minutes later, but remains largely unnoticeable. At 3:28, he is forced to wrap his arms around himself, tapping his fingers against his sides - they had begun rattling against the metal table on which they laid, which produced a noise not unlike raindrops. He keeps his gaze fixed firmly in front of him. It’s not worth the risk of glancing around to see if anybody noticed. Rubbernecking will only draw himself more attention.

3:31 pm. Hollister’s voice drones on and on and on, fading into a low buzz in the peripherals of his thoughts. (He should be paying attention– he should really be paying attention, but every time he tries to focus, the world only grows fuzzier, greyer, a dull and incomprehensible static. His eyes have long-since glazed over.) Sweat trickles down his back despite the chilled air being blown throughout the conference room. A sharp arrhythmia jerks him out of his haze, the disruption like a bolt of electricity to his system - his heart is rabbiting frantically, painfully, as if it’s attempting to rip from his chest - and he fails to muffle his shuddering inhale in time.

William Keen's stare burns into the side of his head. His lips tingle. Jochi tucks his long hair behind his ears with hands that tremble almost too violently to function, and he does not think about it.

An urgent tap on his shoulder. Stiffly, he turns his head; Will's brow is furrowed. “Jochi,” he whispers, “are you alright? Do you need to step outside?”

“I–” His voice is pitifully weak to begin with - but yet another irregular heartbeat catches him halfway through, breaking the word into pieces. His whole body is jittering. “I-I’m fine,” he mumbles. “I’m… fine.”

From the blurry corner of his vision, he can see Will making some kind of motion to Hollister, who nods briefly. Then there’s a hand on his shoulder, cutting through the fuzz in his mind, and he thinks he might be standing, but his knees are on the verge of crumpling under his own weight. Faceless people pass him by. Each is as indistinguishable as the next. They are staring, his mind hisses, and it’s all he can do not to screw his eyes shut to give them a reason to gawk more. Look at what you’ve done.

The click of a door. He lets the cool metal wall take his weight, now that they’re out of the conference room– Creators, it’s stifling out here. More sweat beads all over him. It dampens his pristine clothing, his face. The world is swimming, blurring, a confused muddle.

“Christ,” Will is saying. The words echo numbly around his empty skull. “Right, I’m taking you to the medbay. Have you–”

His legs give out beneath him. Jochi collapses to the floor.

***

They're trying very hard not to hold hands as they order. Pink has bloomed high on Jochi's cheekbones. "Just an Americano and a tea, please," he says, smiling at Ozzy. "Oh, and two of those raspberry pastries." She gives him a thumbs up.

"You want your butter and salt and shit in that tea, Ry?"

They grin. "You know it." Raised eyebrow, he shoots them a look, half-revolted and half-amused. They smack his elbow. "I'm gonna convert you one day! You wait and see. When you come home to Kyrat with me, you'll just have to get used to it. It'll sneak up on you."

A quick glance behind the counter– Ozzy has her back turned, humming a sea shanty as the water boils. He risks a peck to their cheek. "Oh, I imagine it will," he drawls, "as soon as you start drinking Mongolian tea." They don't quite manage to hide their grimace in time. Can you blame them? It’s got barley and shit in it, man. He laughs - a gorgeous, throaty sound that fills their head with cotton and their stomach with butterflies. "I suppose we'll have to call it a ceasefire until then, hm?"

They take a table in the corner. Their chairs are pushed close together; his shoulder is solid against theirs, hand warm on the small of their back as they blow on their tea. They're not hidden there - at least not enough to hold hands above the table - but with their backs turned to the rest of the canteen, they're sheltered enough that it feels like they're in their own little world. Under the guise of leaning over the table to reach their coat, they kiss him chastely; it's over before it's even started.

"Careful," he whispers, slipping into Cantonese. A shared tongue. "We're not alone in here, ilushka. I'd rather you not get fined."

"That wouldn't be a problem if we had a contract."

His lip curls. "And contracts wouldn't be a problem if Alterra treated its people like human beings. I refuse to partake in our dehumanisation, Ryley."

"You think I agree with it either?" they snap. They soften at the hurt in his eyes, the way he crosses his arms over his chest like a gate coming down. "Sorry. I shouldn't raise my voice at you, baby. But still– relationship contracts are sort of a milestone here, you know? Like your first real commitment. I'm not doing it because I don't value you as a person, or because I'm buying into the whole 'people as businesses' bullshit." They cup his face, smoothing the pad of their thumb along his jawline, and press their lips to the tip of his wide, flat nose. His stubble is rough under their fingers. His breath flutters across their face. "I want one because I love you."

Jochi shifts in his chair. He rubs at his wrists. "You know I love you too. I'll think about it."

***

"Who has a party in the prawn bay, anyway? Of all places."

Their coworker places a sympathetic hand on her girlfriend's shoulder. Ryley is too busy going to town on a tardigrade burger to respond. They don't think they'll ever get used to space food after growing up on Earth - but their lunch break has been delayed by four hours while they were cleaning up the prawn bay and at this point, they're desperate enough to eat an entire raw nutrient bar.

Besides, if they stop absolutely demolishing their lunch for even a second, their mind will finally catch up with the bone-deep exhaustion plaguing their body. They can't afford to let that happen. Not when they have another shift the second this break is up. That's something to look forward to, at least: four more hours of emptying bins and fixing every vending machine under the sun (whatever happened to people's respect of 'DO NOT KICK' signs?) and mopping the sticky VR suite floor. Nothing says 'living it up with Alterra' like wiping sweat from broken gym equipment. Don't let anybody tell you that working on a capital ship isn't glamorous.

"At least we get a break this time. Remember last month in the command crew cafeteria?"

(They don't remember much of it at all. Almost collapsed on Jochi when he came to pick them up after their shift. He was going to take them to the cinema on Deck 4, but they'd ended up in his bed, Ryley snoring loud enough to wake God with him curled around them.)

Both women grimace. "Fuckin' Alterra."

Her girlfriend lightly smacks her hand. "Careful what you say. They've got CCTV everywhere - bet there's mics too."

"Shush, you. What're they gonna do? Eject me in a lifepod into space?"

The rest of their lunch break is mostly the same: their coworkers complaining and laughing and enjoying the little free time they have together while Ryley tries to catch popcorn in their mouth for entertainment. Half an hour becomes ten minutes becomes five - then their break is over like it never happened in the first place, leaving them just as tired as they were when it began.

They're trying to slam-dunk their empty crisp packet into a bin when they hear the clicking of shoes on tile. A blond guy is sticking his head through the door; quiff they could crack with a hammer, a sleek, high-collared jacket, lapel pin reading Second Officer R. Keen perfectly in place– of course some command crew paragon would walk in while they're failing (spectacularly) to throw rubbish into a bin. They can feel themself blushing bright red as they trip over themself to pick it back up, disposing of it properly this time.

"Afternoon." As if this could get any more embarrassing. They wave one hand and smile sheepishly. "You wouldn't happen to be Ryley Robinson, would you?"

They blink. "That's me."

"Perfect. Come this way, please."

Without another glance spared in their direction, he's striding off, almost out of the room by the time they get their wits about them enough to stumble after him. One step for him is about double theirs (woes of being five-six)– they're practically jogging to keep up.

"Emissary Khasar is in the medbay. He asked for you specifically." They raise their eyebrows at him and frown. Shit. "Don't go getting any ideas - we wouldn't otherwise grant visitation until after your shift was over, but with him being a government official–"

"In the medbay for what?"

"I was getting there, Robinson," he snaps. Heat rushes to their face; they duck their head, torn between scowling and tearing up. "He collapsed due to hypoglycaemia," Keen continues, "and he's in stable condition. That's all he gave permission to tell you. You do understand the concept of medical confidentiality, yes?"

Sometimes they wish they could be like Jochi– wish they could understand social rules just to be in bold defiance of them, have unabashedly loud convictions, finish fights. He's stood up for them more in 14 months than they have in 26 years.

"Of course I do," they grit out instead.

(A rough day at work. The scalding feel of Jochi's body on theirs, his lips burning up their neck, his hands on their zipper. "I'll bring you back to Mongolia, when this is all over," he had murmured as he sank to his knees. Kissing their inner thigh, he looked up at them from between their legs, and smiled fondly at all their desperate little noises. There was a gorgeous fire inside those dark eyes. "I can take care of you like you deserve. You'll never have to worry about working, about anything at all, ever again. Would you like that, pretty boy?" It had sounded like fantasy at the time; something far-off and beautiful that'd never be brought to fruition. Now they think more and more about taking him up on that offer every day.)

They need to get a grip. Not like there's any point crying over Keen while their best friend is in the medbay: that's something worth fretting over, at least. It's probably nothing to worry about - he's been disappearing a couple times a month since they boarded the Aurora anyway; they’ve stopped asking after his whereabouts since the first time he told them, rather acidly, that he was visiting the medbay - but knowing that logically doesn't soothe their nerves. Their poor baby. He's always got something going on, and it's rarely positive. They'd make a pithy remark about him keeping their life interesting if they weren't so concerned.

Then Keen stops dead in his tracks, so sudden they almost ram into him. "You're close to Khasar?" he asks, bizarrely. The harshness from before is gone; he tilts his head to the side slightly, as if he's actually interested in the relationships of some janitor, and begins to walk again at a way more reasonable pace. His back is ramrod-straight, hands clasped behind his back.

"...yeah?" They fidget with the cuff of their sleeve. "We're, uh, good friends. He's a great guy."

"I apologise if that was too personal. It was out of curiosity rather than any desire to pry. I was with him when he collapsed, and when he woke up in the medical bay; he was barely coherent and very panicked. All I could make out at first was him asking for you."

They bite down on their lip until it blanches and starts to ache. It destroys something inside of them as much as it fills them with fuzzy warmth– their Jochi, so scared he wants them by his side more than anything else in the world. Them.

"O-oh," is all they can get out, in a dreamy, breathless whisper. "That's… huh."

He gives them a look from the side of his eyes. "Jochi has been a good friend to me," he says, quiet, but with purpose. "If you're as close to him as you say you are, you'll know full well just how vulnerable he is. He is a grown man who can make his own decisions - but I do not want to see him hurt." Eyes wide, they look up at him; his head is still pointed firmly to the front, as if he could be talking about the weather, but the steel of his expression gives him away. "Do you understand that, Robinson?"

"Uh," they choke out, "I mean– yeah? Yeah, of course."

He flashes them a brief smile. All teeth. "Good."

He slows to a halt in front of a door they hadn't even noticed in their daze. "I ought to get back to my work now; I've already seen him. Ask for Medical Officer Danby. She’ll show you to Jochi's bed." They nod dumbly. He claps them on the shoulder, squeezing them just a little too hard for comfort. "Have a good rest of your day, Robinson. I hope you and Jochi are happy together."

He's halfway down the corridor when their brain finally catches up to them. They glance up and down the hallway - it's just the two of them; most people have no reason to be anywhere near the medbay, least of all at 5pm on a Tuesday - and decide to risk it. "How do you even know we're dating?" they call after him. "We haven't got a contract or anything, man."

Keen glances back at them and laughs.

***

The reception room is devoid of any other visitors. They've only been to the medbay a handful of times in the 14 months since boarding the Aurora– the occasional electrical burn, a couple sprains here and there. (They're lucky. Alterra isn't exactly stringent in their health and safety department; they spend as little as possible to cover space-wide regulations, and not much else. They know a guy who got his arm crushed by faulty machinery.) They've definitely never visited anybody before either. With not much idea what they're supposed to be doing, they shuffle over to the sign-in machine, their work boots scuffing against the tile flooring. An attempt to use it is fruitless: their visitation permission hasn't been logged on the network. The screen flashes garish red. UNAUTHORISED ACCESS ATTEMPT. PLEASE RETURN TO WORK. Their shoulders slump.

A doctor rushes by in the hall outside– mousy hair stuck to her forehead, with a small, nervous face and washed-out skin, her crumpled uniform clinging to her in odd places and baggy in others.

"Excuse me?" they ask. She turns to them. A wobbly customer-service-smile is plastered across her face. Her hands bunch and unbunch in her scrub trousers, leaving behind faint sweat marks. They are all of a sudden very grateful that they never fulfilled their childhood dream of working in medicine. "Hi. Do you know where I can find Dr. Danby?"

"That's me. At your service, h-hah." She flaps one hand in the air in greeting. "Can I…?"

Their cheeks tint red. They've never derived much enjoyment from interacting with strangers, and that goes double for in professional environments - it's even worse when they can't tell who's making it awkward. "I'm here to visit Jochi. Khasar, I mean. The uh, Second Officer came to fetch me, he said I should–"

"Oh, of course!" she exclaims. "You must be Ryley." They nod, smiling sheepishly. "It's– it's nice to finally meet you. Jochi has mentioned you a couple times before during our checkups, and earlier today, of course…" Her voice drifts off. They're almost glad for the break - the way she talks is difficult for the ear to follow. Sentences grind to a halt for no apparent reason before dozens of words come rushing out at once. She claps her hands against her thighs. They startle. "Anyway. Jochi is just along the hall. I'll take you to him, just make sure to be quiet. He should still be asleep."

They trail along just behind her, concerned that they'll be in the firing range of her erratically-swinging hands. "Have you got him on sleeping meds or something?"

"Oh, no, there's no need– and the anaesthetics we use would cause serious interactions with his other medications regardless. He's just exhausted. Severe low blood sugar really takes it out of you. I'd recommend letting him rest."

Taking a deep, steadying breath, they brace themself to ask the questions that've been nagging at them since they walked in here. "And, uh, what's his condition like? Is he gonna be okay?"

"Short term? We've stabilised his blood sugar– he's comfortable and safe, and not at immediate risk of collapse again.” She takes a pen from where it had been jammed behind her ear, and juggles it from hand to hand. “Long term is a different question entirely. Jochi and I had a brief discussion earlier about the root cause of all this, and it's quite, ah... I'll let him talk you through that himself."

Tears well up in their eyes despite themself. Their whole body feels cold, shivery. "Okay," they say weakly.

Danby leads them up to a door. The small window is frosted, but they can still make out a vague outline of a person, if only by virtue of his hair; a black cloud, spilling out into the centre of the glass, with the bronze of his skin stark against a white background.

Nausea curls deep in their gut. They were playing with his hair just this morning. He's been snappish about people prodding at his curls for as long as they've known him, and probably for years before that - he only likes becoming a spectacle when it's of his own volition - but he's never had a problem with them touching it, as long as they ask. It's got such a lovely coarse texture.

This morning, they'd buried their face into the back of his neck, breathing in the heady spice of yesterday's cologne as they entwined their hand with his. (It's funny– he looks almost glass-blown, something that'll shatter with too much rough treatment, but he has such broad fingers. He likes to kiss their slender hands and tell them they should go into ring modelling. As if they're interested in any ring but one.) He seemed more tired than usual. Like opening his eyes was a struggle. Nothing really out of the ordinary, though - or at least they hadn't thought anything of it. Maybe they should have. Maybe if they were a better partner–

"Robinson?" Danby asks. They jerk upright, having begun to sink into the wall, and snap themself out of it with a shake of their head. She places a hand on their forearm. "I don't want you to be upset if he doesn't look all that well," she begins, in a low, soothing tone. They have to bite down on their lip to stop themself from crying. "Just remember: he's in the best possible place he can be. We're keeping a close eye on his vitals, and if anything goes wrong, which it shouldn't, we'll be the first to know. And we have a psychologist on board if you ever need to talk about anything."

Swallowing around the lump in their throat, they nod.

She clicks a button. The door slides open.

***

Sickness has lent a chalky pallor to Jochi's skin and a huskiness to his voice. He's sprawled across his bed - considerably bigger and softer than theirs - and is sporting one of the most pathetic, miserable pouts they've ever seen on a grown man. "Really, I'm fine," he rasps, making no move to get up. The words rumble deep in his chest. "I promise I can go to work. If I took the day off every time I fell ill, I'd never get anything done at all."

It's always the same conversation with him. Silly boy and his weak immune system– he insists he can work, drives himself into the ground, and is so ill by the end of the week that they have to take a day off to look after him. (Doting on their boyfriend brings them comfort they could never put into words, but don't tell him that. The last thing they need is Jochi batting his eyelashes at them and asking to be spoon-fed soup. Because they'll give in 100% of the time, goddammit.)

"Maybe if you took a day off once in a while, you wouldn't get sick so often, dumbass," they chide. "You've been working with the government for, what did you say, four years now - how many days have you taken off since then?"

Sweat beads on his forehead. His refusal to make eye contact is the only answer they need, but he speaks anyway. "I can't take time off." His voice is so quiet it makes their chest ache. "I'm still new to the diplomacy wing. I can't afford to give the others any more reason to mock me."

"Priye!" They flump onto the bed next to him; he lets them bundle him into their arms and pepper his face with kisses. "I'll get you sick if you keep that up," he warns. They act like he said nothing at all. "What are they being dicks about? I'll kick their asses."

He laughs. "No, it's… it's fine. I can handle it. They're just all a lot older than me - most of them had probably been working there twenty years when I arrived. They were a tight-knit group of deeply serious, senior diplomats, and I was a young emissary-in-training wearing stilettos and glitter lipgloss."

"I'm sorry. That must've been rough." Jochi shrugs. They entangle his fingers with his, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the junction between his jaw and neck; he hums contentedly. "If it's any consolation," they murmur against his skin, smooth and lovely like silk that's been left under the blazing sun, "you sounded pretty fucking metal, man. Do you still have any heels? Asking for a friend."

He rolls his eyes, a soft smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Depends," he teases. "Would you like me to put on stockings and tie you up, khairaa?"

Their face is suddenly very hot for entirely unrelated reasons. Jochi looks aghast. "Creators, Ryley! I was joking!"

***

Every room in the clinic is sterile enough to make their bones itch. Somebody like him should look painfully out of place– so it's even worse when he doesn't.

He's curled up under a blanket, shivering, frightfully pale. Ryley rushes to his side. They drop to their knees before the shitty hospital bed and just stare - at his tight face, his neck, his eyelashes still smudged with mascara, every little freckle dotted across his nose, and they've never been half as religious as him but they're praying that they'll be able to commit this all to memory. Because he's okay. He's okay, and– and he's gonna be fine. When they exhale, something tight in their chest dissolves, something they'd only dimly been aware of in the background of their mind. They cup his jaw with a shaky hand. It's clammy but an undeniable warmth thrums beneath the surface, however unsteady. He's okay.

They're broken from their spell by the shuffle of expensive shoes on tile. Still cradling his head (he'll crumble to ashes the second they look away, he'll disintegrate if they can't feel the faint heat of his lifeblood), they turn to see Danby, pale-faced. She wrings her hands as if she's not quite sure what to do with them. The bob of her Adam's apple is visible from across the room.

Her mouth flutters open and closed and open. Shaking her head, she sighs, and tousles her hair with trembling fingers. Sweat glistens on her forehead.

"I have confidentiality laws to abide by, but…" She blows out a long breath; her shoulders cave inwards, and it hits them only then just how terrible she looks, soaked with sweat and blanching and her arms hanging loose by her side. For the first time since she walked in here, she looks them in the eye, pleading. "You should talk to him. Please."

They nod. Trying to smile at her drains further at their sapped energy reserves. They're baring their teeth more than anything, lips straining around their gums, clunky and awkward - maybe they'd care more about how it looks if their attention wasn't already waning, Jochi reeling them in like thread on a spool.

Thanks, doc, they mouth– any words they attempt to speak would just jam in their throat, and fuck, they'd rather throw themself out the airlock than disturb Jochi. He of all people deserves to rest, for once.

"I'll sign off your leave for the rest of the day," she says softly - then those shoes are click-click-clicking away, the door snicking shut behind her.

(...huh. What they'd mistaken for expensive leather boots are just clogs, after all.)

Without Danby, the clinic is near-silent– even the low hum of activity all around them, tech buzzing and people talking and day-to-day life stumbling on, has ground to a halt. The Aurora isn't meant to be this quiet. All they can hear is Jochi's uneven, shuddering breathing, too loud in this bizarre silence. It has them on edge.

(He's safe here, they remind themself. He's safe, and nothing bad is going to happen to him.)

They turn back towards him, leaning in closer until the steel bed frame juts into their stomach. (The tile flooring is not kind to their aching knees. They couldn't care less if they tried.) Jochi whimpers in his sleep, and burrows deeper into the mattress. Their heart pangs; slow, gentle, they caress his cheek, whispering "shh, shh, it's alright," trailing their fingers tenderly over freckles and sunspots until he quiets down. The hard angle of his back smooths out. They smile. Just a little.

"There you go," they murmur. "S'alright, jaanu."

Their head feels like a weight on their shoulders. Even the shitty Alterra mattress is starting to look appealing. So they bunch their fingers around the cool, slick fabric of the bedsheets (the same material as their own), and lay their head to rest by his side. Not exactly comfortable, bent in half between a rock-solid floor and a hard mattress, but they're going to be here for a while. As long as it takes. Might as well settle down.

Their eyelids flutter shut. They let their mind drift idly where it pleases, the sound of Jochi breathing a pleasant buoy as his breaths begin to even out. Hypoglycaemia, Keen had said; the word leaves a sour tang in their mouth. They squeeze the bedsheet tighter, wishing he was squeezing their hand. Is he diabetic? They've never seen him take insulin. Has he been exercising too much?

…fuck, has he been eating enough?

There's a hollow pit where their stomach should be. It's not like they've never seen him eat, but they can count on their fingers the number of times they've watched him finish a full meal– they'd chalked it up to a small appetite or his greatly vocalised distaste of Alterran food or anxiety of eating in public (he's far from short on idiosyncrasies) and hey, maybe he just prefers having smaller meals more often, maybe that's how they do it in Mongolia, maybe he's fine, but–

You should talk to him. Please. They blow out a long breath, sagging further into the mattress, and shake their head like a wet dog until their spiralling thoughts dissipate. Maybe he's not fine - and that's something they're going to need to talk to him about when he wakes up. Until then, catastrophising won't make the time pass quicker.

So they close their eyes. They sit. They listen, their ears pricked for the sound of the door opening that never comes, and give up on trying to sleep. They wait. They are laid bare under the harsh fluorescent lights. They wait longer, and longer, until they've almost given up on trying to sleep, the world slowly filtering away from them like coffee dregs in a drain.

Jochi's breath hitches.

They jerk upright. He's rubbing sleep from his eyes like it's just another Tuesday, yawning spectacularly as he stretches until his bones pop. Then he turns to look at them with those lovely dark eyes and that lovely bleary half-smile and that infuriating raised brow - and they almost melt into the mattress until they remember no, you're not waking up in his bed, he's waking up in the medbay.

It's a sobering thought. They frown up at him, tilting their head to the side. His smile mellows. His crow's feet grow deeper.

"You stayed with me," are the first words out of his mouth.

They reach for him, slow, giving him plenty of time to back away. When he doesn't, they cradle his hand in theirs and squeeze it gently. It's a relief beyond words, to have his skin against theirs– that final confirmation that he's okay. He's alive. He's not leaving them any time soon. They press his glass wrist to their cheek just to feel it, feel his pulse sear against their skin, to be as close as they can to it and savour it and finally breathe. He's fine, says every beat of his heart against their cheek. You’re fine.

"You think I'd leave you?" They press a feverish kiss to his pulse point. Another. He gasps when they nip his impossibly fragile skin.

"Of course not, sweetheart," he rasps. "It's my own mind I have to doubt. I'm just glad not to wake up alone on the floor."

The image makes their chest ache something fierce. "Fuck, Jochi," they blurt, "I'm so sorry." They kiss up his arm, drifting over burn marks and scars and bruises, nuzzling the crook of his elbow. He makes a languorous mph noise from the back of his throat. It lights a blaze inside them, to hear him content. He of all people deserves peace– and they'll try every single day till they die to give it to him.

"It's–" He cuts himself off to shake his head, and flumps back against the pillow. His next words are distinctly exhausted. "It’s not your fault, Ryley. I'm to blame."

Wide-eyed, they stare up at him; he can't quite meet their gaze. Shit. That sounded like an invitation to talk about this if they've ever heard one.

He looks down at them with amusement in his tired eyes. "Come lie down, silly thing. I won't have a conversation with you sitting on the floor."

There's a dusting of pink across their cheeks despite everything as they haul themself off the ground. He shuffles over as much as the narrow hospital bed allows - it leaves just enough space for them to crawl under the covers beside him, curling up against his chest. The routine is achingly familiar; he wraps them up in his arms, presses kisses to their forehead and hair and the crown of their head, while they bury their face in his shoulder or press it to his chest, soothed by the gentle badunk, badunk, badunk of his heart. Most days they would talk and talk and talk. He's never out of things to say. Sometimes he even lets them braid his curls.

Today, he is silent. They stare cautiously up at him; his beautiful face is drawn tight across his skull. He parts his lips, frowns, closes them again. They'll wait as long as he needs.

Finally: "I'm very ill, Ryley," he says, deliberate.

Their blood runs cold. They stiffen in his arms. "...what?" they whisper, voice so, so small. A dull ringing begins in the back of their skull. Instinctively, they tighten their grip on him– they knew there was something wrong but the thought of waking up every day in a cold bed makes them dizzy and nauseous. They can’t lose him. They can't.

As if he can sense their worry, he cradles their face in his hands and kisses them, every brush of his lips bringing them closer to tears. I don't know what I'll do without this. I don't know–

"Oh, khairaa, please don't cry." His voice breaks. He presses their foreheads together; they grip the back of his suit jacket, sniffling as they try to withhold their brimming tears. "I don't want you to worry about me. It shouldn't be a problem for much longer."

"What does that mean?" they demand. They scrub desperately at the tears that've spilt down their cheeks, despite their efforts– he reaches out to brush them away, but they grab his hand to intercept it. He flinches. "No, look at me. Why are you being so vague? Wh-what's wrong, Jochi?"

He hangs his head; a veil of blue-black ringlets conceal his face from view. The silence stretches on and on, unbearably long, and they're on the verge of bursting into tears entirely when he finally cracks.

"Everything's been a little awful lately," he whispers. With hands that feel too steady for their pounding heart, they gently brush his hair away from his face, tucking the curls behind his ears; he presses himself against their warmth like he's dying from hypothermia, like they can see the ice crystals suspended in his eyelashes and the misty puff of his breath. His voice remains frighteningly quiet. "I started another two medications a couple weeks before the Aurora departed. Carbimazole and propranolol, for my hyperthyroidism. That's where I vanish once a month - I need regular checkups at the clinic, since the risk of interactions with my other medications is high."

They squeeze his hand. I'm listening. He smiles weakly. "Danby has to weigh me each time as part of ensuring my dosage is correct. At the beginning, I was put on a very high dose to bring me into a healthy thyroid hormone range; it worked, but I, ah," he purses his lips, something deeply hopeless in his expression, "gained weight."

"I thought I was getting better." The words are spilling from him like a dam overflows after a storm, frantic, desperate. "I'm supposed to be recovering. I know in my head that I'm perfectly capable of it; I've rewired my negative thought patterns, I've looked at the roots of my eating problems, I've come to terms with the fact that I'm hurting myself, I've done everything– but the second I put on any sort of weight, all I've been working hard towards is just g-gone." He covers his mouth with his hands and sobs brokenly. "I don't understand what's wrong with me," he chokes out between his tears. "I'm so tired, Ryley. How much longer do I have to do this? If I'm never going to get better, I wish I could just die."

They register, faintly in the back of their mind, that there are tears wetting their own cheeks. "Baby. Oh, sweetheart, c'mere." They crowd him into their arms. He clings to them like his life depends on it. "You're gonna be okay one day. I know you will. I love you too much to let you hurt forever."

His sobs grow louder, more guttural– it sounds as if every cry is tearing a gash into his throat. They shh him, dotting his face and hair with kisses, rocking them both gently from side to side. His hands tighten in their uniform shirt. "Keep– keep talking," he begs. "Please."

"Course. Anything for you, baby."

With a shaky inhale, they shift their position - them sitting upright leant against the headboard, Jochi in their lap, his legs wrapped around their waist. It reminds them of hugging their teddy bears as a kid. Only… bonier. His shirt and suit jacket are too thin to hide the hard, jutting angles of his body; what they'd chalked up before as his natural shape and weight now seems deeply sinister.

(Nothing's changed, they remind themself. He's still your partner. You still love him to pieces. All you have to do now is be there for him in different ways.)

"I want you to be happy, mera pyaar," they tell him, as they stroke up and down his back, "because you've made me happy like I never thought possible. Sometimes, when I wake up next to you, I still have to poke myself to prove I'm not dreaming. I can't believe how lucky I am to end up with a guy like you, Jochi. And I want to spend the rest of my life with you, for as long as you'll have me." Their voice breaks. "When this trip is over, we can move in together like we've talked about. We'll wake up together every morning to have gwaramari and tea, and I can come travelling around the galaxies with you on diplomacy trips, and I'll get to tell you I love you twenty times a day like I wish I could here. Does that sound good?"

His breathing is beginning to even out, though it still hitches and stutters on each breath inwards, sometimes cracking apart into tears. They'd give up anything to never hear him cry like that again. "You deserve better than somebody like me," he mutters.

"I think the same thing about you all the time. You're a diplomat, Jochi. You have a PhD - I didn't even go to university - and you speak, what is it, seven languages? That's fucking insane!" He laughs, just a little, and hiccups wetly. "You're gorgeous and crazy smart and funny and so great to be around, and you always make me feel good about myself. But I'm just some guy, y'know?" They run their fingers along the line of his jaw before cupping his face in one hand. His fingers curl around their wrist, holding them in place; his eyelids shutter, still leaking stray tears that trickle down and wet their palm, and a crease forms between his brow as if he's physically pained.

"I must be the luckiest person in the world," they finish softly. "To get to love you."

"Nothing on that list makes me better than you, Ryley." Trying to brush his tears away only succeeds in smearing them across his face; he lets them nudge his hand off, and they dry his face with the corner of their sleeve instead, taking care to be gentle. He gives them an exhausted smile.

"And I'm not better than you because you struggle with eating, either. So why don't we just agree to stop talking down to ourselves?"

"I– fine. You win." With an exaggerated huff, he glowers, glaring daggers at them. His oh-so-scary expression is undermined by his hand, still trapped between the two of them, squeezing theirs. (He’s too pretty to be intimidating, anyway. At least to them.) He presses a chaste kiss to the corner of their mouth. "But I meant what I said. You're perfect; I love you for who you are, lerii. If I wanted to be with somebody with my exact education and job, I would have four beautiful children and a white picket-fence house with William."

They roll their eyes fondly. "Hey, don't let me stop you from achieving your dream. We can live in the suburbs and drive our Mini Boden kids to harp lessons twice a week if you want."

"With Will?"

"He can be our chauffeur. Or cuck." That startles a laugh out of him; he bops them on the shoulder with all the force of a sick, orphaned kitten playing violin music, and they grin right back. "Ooh, and we can have barbecues every weekend on our marble grill with like, fucking grass-fed wagyu beef or whatever, except all we do the entire time is brag about how our kids performed in the school concert and sip rosé and ignore our marital issues."

Jochi gasps. "Our what?" he says wryly. "Though I suppose there was that time in Venice…"

They're giggling along like they're a schoolkid all over again. "Fake upper-class affairs aside– you want some water? I'm starting to get thirsty."

"That would be lovely, Ryley." He's smiling at them with a slow, warm sort of adoration, like every sun and star in the galaxy was hung just for them, and they're struck with just how much they adore him, this ridiculous wonderful man who treats an offer of water like it's the grandest gesture of love. Fuck, maybe he's right. They cradle his face in their hands and smother him with kisses. They think, listening to him laugh, that a sound has never made them this happy in their life.

"I love you," they whisper against his cheek, pressing one last kiss to his skin. His peach fuzz is so velvety on their lips. "See you in a minute."

"I love you too, sweetheart."

Chapter Text

I am being accused of loving you, that is all
It is not an insult, but a praise, that is all

My heart is pleased at the words of the accusers
O my dearest dear, they say your name, that is all

For what I am ridiculed, it is not a crime
My heart's useless playtime, a failed love, that is all

I haven't lost hope, but just a fight, that is all
The night of suffering lengthens, but just a night, that is all

In the hand of time is not the rolling of my fate
In the hand of time roll just the days, that is all

A day will come for sure when I will see the truth
My beautiful beloved is behind a veil, that is all

The night is young, Faiz start saying a Ghazal
A storm of emotions is raging inside, that is all

- a ghazal from Faiz Ahmed Faiz's prison journal.

***

As soon as the door shuts behind them, Jochi's smile crumbles.

He draws his legs to his chest, wraps his arms around his knees, and takes a deep, shuddery breath. His head is stuffed to the brim with scratchy cotton wool. It overflows from his ears, smothers his brain. Gravity isn't working right. He wants to claw off his makeup.

"You are holding it together," he insists, soothed by his own language. Each roll of a syllable on his tongue tastes like air so fresh it chills his nostrils and the crackling smoke of a fireplace and wiry horse hair beneath his palm. "The Creators have been merciful today. There's no need to panic."

Burying his face in his arms blankets him with darkness and quiet. A space to reflect. His Creators gave him Will, who helped him out of that conference room and carried him to the medbay. They let him meet Ryley. They let Ryley stay– even after the thing inside him, this writhing, viscera-soaked mass, crawled from his chest and… Well.

It has been with him for so long. By now it isn’t worth giving the exact number of years. What does it matter when he can't recall a time before it? When it can no longer be untangled from his intestines and arteries? Sometimes it hides in the crevices of his lungs, tricking even himself into thinking it’s at bay, and sometimes he has to clutch his ribs in place to keep it contained - but it is always, always ugly.

Surely, he thinks, with hollow, lacklustre humour, divine intervention is at play here. There are few people who would see him out through a revelation of this scale. He never thought he would find a lover in one of them.

"Thank you," he whispers. To the darkness he is curled into, to his Gods. He'll have all the time in the world to thank Ryley later; perhaps (and he thrums with muted exhilaration) the rest of his life. Gwaramari and tea…

"I miss chai," Ryley says sullenly, between sips from their paper take-away cup. Their tea is murky brown and semi-translucent. "I haven't had any good chai since I left Earth. Synthetic spices are dogshit."

That startles a laugh out of Jochi. He covers his mouth as he laughs, hiding all but his crinkling eyes.

"You'd love it in Mongolia," he says. They’ve known him for a couple months now, and whenever he comes out with things like that, they cannot tell for the life of them if he means it. Diplomats probably act this way with everybody. They can imagine him at inter-state cocktail parties, a beguiling young man slinking away to the bathrooms with the Ambassador… "There's this wonderful tea stall on my way back home from work. Terra-style, of course. I can't remember the last time I saw synthetic food outside of my postings."

His eyes flit around the cafeteria as he takes a delicate bite of his raspberry pastry. (Ryley might wonder, later, why that strange look came over him as he ordered from Ozzy. Every mouthful sends a tingle up his spine. From apprehension or exhilaration still isn’t clear. He feels like he's getting away with something– a crime, a wild and dangerous crime, as if Jochi is some sort of femme fatale.)

(It’s been happening more, recently; this surge of nervous electricity when he eats. It’s not like he doesn’t have the calories for this little indulgence. Those were worked out before he stepped a foot in the cafeteria.)

(Jochi shakes his head. He’s fine. It’s fine. He decides not to think about it.)

Ryley raises their eyebrows at him. “You invite every Alterran you meet back to your place?”

Glancing back at them with his richly dark eyes, he squeezes their shoulder. “Just you,” he says, so simple.

Their ears flush hot.

There are far bigger threats than pastries and coffee stalls in the Mongolian capital planet. It wouldn’t be his morning commute without dozens of fried bread vendors accosting people in the street. The noise, the smell– he has to breathe shallowly through his mouth, weaving through the crowd past them. He tells himself it’s the hot reek of oil that makes his stomach churn. Not the holes gnawing into his stomach lining.

Even when he started trying to get better, they were off limits. Has street food ever come with a calorie count?

That's never stopped him from imagining it, though. The daydreams are almost erotic. He images the crunch as he splits apart the golden crust with his thumbs, revealing a pillowy interior - breathing in the warm, savoury scent of bread so fresh that it still heats his face and hands with steam. He could slather it with melted butter or dip it in honey or jam. He could wheedle Ryley out of their family recipe for gwaramari; and they would hook their chin over his shoulder as he stirred the batter, their arms wrapped around his hips, warmth rising like dough in his chest…

He could do anything. If he could start with that.

His nails dig fiercely into the meat of his leg, hard enough for it to sting through his trousers. Jochi sighs. He reluctantly unfurls himself from the ball he'd curled up into. There's little point in torturing himself with thoughts like that - distant, beautiful ideas, all but unattainable.

It's not that he hates food. He spends too much time fantasising about it for that sorry excuse. It's hardly even that he has been deluded into starvation– no, he knows exactly where this path leads him. One day Jochi will collapse, and whoever comes to his aid will find no heartbeat. He'll be rushed to the hospital, paralysed by his decaying muscles and gagged with tubes down his throat, and told that his organs are failing: that his brain is swelling and his heart and lungs are filled with fluid.

And then everything that he is - each little fragment of Jochi Khasar; his memories, his meagre contributions to this world, all he has ever thought and touched and loved - will be snuffed out.

He will die. He is going to die, quite soon, and it will be slow and excruciating. There is no new body waiting for his battered soul.

Of course he doesn't want that - he doubts it'd appeal to somebody twice as sick as him. But what are his alternatives? At least like this he will die wielding control.

Jochi settles onto his side, pulling the thin sheets and his jacket tight around himself. He’s still trembling slightly. He tells himself he’s only shivering. Gods, he shouldn't be dwelling on this; he'd rather not humiliate himself further by having Ryley return to him hyperventilating in the corner.

An acute longing strikes him out of the blue. Not for them, bizarrely, but for what they wear. He’s started to associate awful days like this with lounging around in their clothes: T-shirts exposing the hollow of his midriff, joggers which can barely stretch past his knee, oversized hoodies that fit him about normally. (Something to revel in. Paul was always too precious about potential stains and wrinkles to let Jochi near his wardrobe.) The mix of absurdity and comfort always takes his mind off whatever grim spiral it was teetering over the edge of.

Wearing something of theirs would’ve helped, in that conference room.

It would’ve helped a lot.

There's a series of short raps on the door. He can see the vague outline of a person through the window. Their colour spills through the frosted glass like sumptuous ink; the blue of their janitorial boiler-suit, of the streak in their hair, the triangle logo over their breast-pocket a shock of orange…

"Come in," he calls, a soft smile already rising up on his lips. Tension he hadn't even noticed in his shoulders and clenched jaw melts away. Oh, what do their clothes matter when he can have the real thing in his arms?

Ryley peeks their head through the door. They hold a plastic cup of water in each hand. "Hey. Nearest fountain was broken, sorry it took so long."

"No need to apologise. Come over here so I can kiss you."

Their cheeks glow a burnt red. They avert their eyes, their lips curving bashfully up. One cup is set down on the bedside table; they chuck the other back in the space of about five seconds (awfully reminiscent of the Beer Pong Incident at Ozzy's birthday bash, which had ended in him trying to coax a swaying Ryley back to their room while they slurred out a history of Nepalese communism) then sling the empty cup into the bin.

Jochi shifts to make space on the bed beside him. It is a pleasant surprise when they neatly straddle his lap instead- though it doesn’t feel like a flirtatious move, so much as deeply, fondly intimate. Jochi brushes a floppy strand of hair from their forehead. Their face is unusually open. The inner corners of their eyebrows curve upwards, a slight tilt to their head, lips parted just slightly.

They end up being the one to reach out first. Ryley brushes their thumb along his lower lip, still staring at him the whole time with eyes so warm and understanding that it almost hurts. It's a languorous kiss. No surging forward or clashing teeth: Jochi just grips Ryley close and lets himself indulge in this sheer, precious intimacy, enjoying the slide of their tongue as it teases into his lips. Their mouth is comfortable. They are comfortable– a soothing balm to his raw flesh.

Kissing holds a gravity that sex has always lacked. Jochi’s had his fair share of sleeping around; with Paul Torgal, with a dozen or so of Paul’s shareholders, a handful of his own coworkers (separately), three grave-faced Serbian diplomats (simultaneously), and on one particularly memorable occasion, the Ambassador to the Chinese Territories, to name a few. It's never something he's been ashamed of - why shouldn't he enjoy himself? - but it has diminished the emotional weight of sex. Harmless fun. Nothing more, nothing less.

But when Ryley kissed him for the first time, he knew that it meant something. A silent affirmation.

Jochi's gown, a lustrous champagne silk, rustles softly and melds with the hallway's yellow lighting. It looks like he's enrobed in pure molten gold. He is clean shaven, effortlessly beautiful with his hair cascading down his back from its regal ponytail. A few ringlets curl loose around his jaw and eyes; Ryley brushes off the urge to tuck them behind his ears. One dress strap has slipped from his lithe shoulder.

They feel a little stupid linking arms with him like this. Embarrassment has occupied the back of their mind all evening, a smouldering bundle of embers and nerves; never scalding, but too hot to ignore. They couldn't stop thinking about it. About how they must've looked. Like Jochi’s plus-one, or his charity case?

Captain Hollister - the thought of calling him Malcolm like he can makes them prickle with discomfort - was kind enough to make some conversation with Ryley while they clung to Jochi’s arm. Their palms were clammy, their attempts at small talk audibly shaky. Everybody at the get-together outranked them by an order of fucking magnitude.

They wondered if he could tell that they had to borrow these half-nice clothes from a friend. They wonder if Jochi could.

"Here you go," he says softly, breaking them from their thoughts. They see the sign in luminous white above the door: Cabin #17, the four-bed room they share with five other guys. (The surrounding corridor is deserted: nobody from this part of the ship gets invited to that sort of party. After all their gossip, they’re not missing out on much more than tannic wine and intense anxiety.) His hand is still on their arm. “This was a wonderful evening. I, ah, I hope I haven’t kept you out too late.”

“Don’t worry about it. I-I had fun too. Thanks for inviting me out.”

They’ve still got the shakes from earlier. But lingering outside their room in the yellowy half-dark like this, him so beautiful, him so close– they’ve gotta say something. It’s too special a moment to waste. They can’t afford to wait another month for this.

What did Ozzy say - that they just need to open their heart up? So they brace themself, breathe in, and:

“I didn’t actually have fun,” they blurt. His whole face falls. Their stomach sinks through to the floor. “I– shit, sorry, that’s not what I meant. I mean, I was kind of stressed out of my mind the whole time because I have no fucking clue how to deal with environments like that, but it’s weird, because I think I’d do it again if you asked me to. Because. I always really like being around you. And I really like you a lot too. So. There.”

They’re burning with the force of the fucking Suns, can’t bear to look him in the eye. A silent pause. Then there’s the rustle of his dress again as he steps into their space, a hand on their shoulder. Ryley has to tilt their chin back to meet his gaze; they swallow, and can feel their Adam’s apple bob conspicuously. They’re close. They are very close.

They expect (and probably deserve) him to look awkward, apologetic, maybe even revulsed– but he only bears that amused little smile.

“You know that you can just kiss me, don’t you?” he says, not at all unkind. “It might be easier than explaining.”

Their eyes go wide. “Oh,” they breathe– and they don't see any other option.

Ryley is panting when they withdraw. Those pretty brown eyes are half-lidded. It could be mistaken for an attempt to look alluring– up until they just… collapse into him. They slump against Jochi with their arms limp at their sides, and groan lowly.

"Fuck, man," they mumble. They sigh as they sink further into him; their breath is warm against the crook of his neck. "You ever, like, forget how tired you are?"

He kisses the crown of their head. "We'll get you properly in bed soon, sweetpea."

"I better. My shift’s starting to catch up with me. Pretty sure I was meant to be fixing that water fountain earlier, but I’ve been stuck dealing with the prawn bay all day."

"Have you been working straight since you left this morning?” They shrug, and mumble out something that sounds vaguely like ‘pretty much’. His brows raise. “What is that, then– twelve hours. Qormusta fucking Tengri. Please don’t tell me that’s legal.”

They snort, settling their head against his shoulder so he can see their face, and smile feebly. “S’not that bad,” they say, and Jochi grimaces. “I mean, it is, it’s fucking terrible, but, y’know. It’s okay enough if you have a good crew. We cover for each other to get breaks, that sort of thing. You get used to it.” Their tone is far too easy.

“You shouldn’t have to.” His fingernails dig into the meat of his palms hard enough to leave light indents. He feels hot, unpleasantly so, a fever flashing in his chest. It is probably good that Jochi has access to neither the Alterran Board of Directors nor a weapon.

They shrug, lips pursed. “I know. But what can you do?”

Dwelling on that will only make him angry. Angrier. No point in pushing it more. “You know what,” he murmurs instead. “My offer still stands, khairaa. I’ll help you apply for a visa if you want one.”

In lieu of an answer, they tangle their fingers in the dense curls by the base of his head and steer him down into another kiss; deep, slow, wrapping their legs around his waist.

You don’t get into the Diplomatic Service by being oblivious. He knows when he’s being distracted. Right now, with Ryley pulling on his hair like that, he just doesn’t particularly care.

Eventually he forces himself to break away and check his watch, a delicate silver thing gifted post-graduation. They settle for kissing up his neck instead - “Ryley!” he admonishes heatlessly - which renders focusing so impossible that he stares blankly at the watch-face for a good ten seconds before registering its contents.

It’s six, just past the hour. Usually he’d be refreshing his makeup before dinner around now. Dreading another night of trying (and more often than not, these days, failing) to fill his calorie budget, or concerned looks from Will– knowing that not going would be even worse.

Dr Danby had wanted to talk to him in her office properly once he was feeling better. He should really get a move on. But… surely five more minutes wouldn't hurt, would it?

Sighing luxuriously, he tips back his chin and guides Ryley’s lips towards his collarbone.

(His hair is very dishevelled by the time he knocks on the doctor’s door.)

***

If somebody took it upon themself to blindfold Jochi, he's sure he could navigate Dr Danby's examination room anyway. It's rivalled in familiarity only by his personal quarters. He's glad, then, that it's not a terrible place to spend so much time staring at, at least compared to the rest of Alterra's hostile architecture.

The walls are a soft sage. To the left of her desk - cramped with scattered pens and boxes of PPE gloves, and even a handful of novelty rubbers, ranging in shape from farm animals to chemical structures - is a space poster, some sort of pun in Polish. The ceiling is dotted with glow-in-the-dark stars. It seems perpetually ready to fall down on them both. There's the hand-sanitiser dispenser by the door; there's the metal cabinet behind her desk and opposite the sink…

There's the scale.

Dr Danby has him strip behind that yellowing plastic curtain to weigh himself at their monthly checkups, now that they need more precise measurements. He wonders sometimes why she even bothers with this attempt to preserve his dignity. She has already cracked open his ribs and examined his insides– what difference does it make to see him nude?

Jochi shifts in his chair. At this point he'd probably be more comfortable if she did tell him to strip naked, a thought he's never had outside of weirdly intimate one-night stands. Doctor usually has the blood sample kit laid out on her desk, and the stout echocardiogram machine folded up nearby, but there's none of that today.

Change is never a good sign. He's tense all over.

She sits across from him, tapping a slightly frantic rhythm into the desk.

"I don't want to beat around the bush here too much, Jochi." Her smile is strained. Sourly, he thinks her matching discomfort is only fair. "You know why what happened today happened. I want to understand it better so I can help you.” He nods. “So. How long have you been dealing with eating issues?"

His pulse is pounding in his throat. Oh, why the hell did he come here, actually? He should’ve known better. Should’ve left straight away with Ryley. Shouldn’t have been stupid enough to let things get this bad in the first place.

"I. Ah." His mouth is suddenly dry; he coughs, giving himself time to find the words. Oh, Gods, please don't make me do this. "I suppose it depends on your, ah, personal definition of eating problems." He tangles his hands together in his lap and stares doggedly down. "F-food has been a worry since I was… twelve. I think around then. And it became a more conscious thing when I was an older teenager. Deliberate, I mean."

He's stumbling over his words like an incoherent fool. He tries to push on.

"It's n-not that…" He pauses, closes his eyes, inhales deeply. Breathe, Jochi. You can do this. His voice is steadier when he continues. "I don't usually want to lose weight. I just want to keep it consistent– I have a very specific number to stick to– a-and I know that's, that's not good either, because I'm still quite underweight. But I was getting better, slowly, until…"

"The Aurora," Doctor finishes. Jochi nods but, as if he is a child, still can't force himself to meet her gaze. He knows exactly what he'll find if he looks up. Pity– the thought of it makes him want to shrink into his own skin. It always sticks to him like tar.

"It's been hard," he says, voice small.

He knows what people are liable to think of him. The talk passing around the department when he returned from his first foreign posting made him burn up with shame. Yeah, no, no fucking clue how he scored this job. He was a nervous wreck half the time we were away. I swear to the Gods, if we get put under investigation because he slept with the Commissioner or something…

But it's not being away from home which can ruin him so thoroughly - it's everything else that comes with it. An unfamiliar menu filled with strange tastes and textures; a new structure to build around that. Another set of people to navigate. His previous safety net destroyed. The continuity he needs to feel secure is ripped from his hands, and he is left behind, bawling like an inconsolable toddler who has lost their stuffed toy.

Most people learn to deal with that by the time they hit thirteen. Not Jochi. But isn’t that him all over? He has problems that the general population couldn't even conceive of.

"It's very good that you can admit that!" Doctor says, in a robust tone that she probably thinks sounds encouraging. She scrawls something down on her PDA, her stylus tap-tap-tapping against the glass screen– it provides a lifebuoy of sound to ground himself in, at least for the time being, as he stares down at his lap.

Here is the issue: There’s something very wrong with him. Not the twenty-year illness. No, the key problem here, what’s keeping this monster trapped inside him, is the way it makes him respond. Jochi has been to one single therapy session in his thirty-four years. He remembers the feeling distinctly: he walked in, smiling tremulously at his psychiatrist, blacked out completely, and woke up three days later in the Solian Embassy.

It was frightening. Being torn from his body and catapulted back into it, each transition just as abrupt. He felt so shaky and destabilised and terrified - what occupied that blank spot in his memory? What did his body do when it was out of his control? - that he called in sick to work the next day and never tried therapy again. Until now, of course.

It isn’t as violent a feeling, this time around, but the base pieces of the sensation are still there. He’s slipping. He’s aware there are still questions being asked of him (though he can’t put a name to the asker), aware his answers aren’t very helpful. Anything beyond that vanishes to fog the moment it passes through his mind. It’s like trying to reconstruct a book from memory– the broad brushstrokes of the plot are there, but he fails to grasp the details. The tone is dissonant. The characters become uncanny.

And he floats, and floats, and floats through this dark void in his memory…

…and resurfaces with the uncomfortable awareness that the room has grown far too quiet.

He blinks. Finds himself staring at the wall to the right of Dr Danby’s head, his eyes dry. He shakes his head and looks back over to her. There’s an apology readying on his tongue - my apologies for making things awkward, doctor, it’s merely who I am as a person - but it fades away at the sight of her face. Her head rests on her propped-up hands. She stares at him with the expression of somebody watching an uncommonly good documentary.

He can see her PDA’s screen, where it is set on the table– Chinggis wept, that’s a lot of notes.

“Do you dissociate often, Jochi?” she asks.

For a moment, all he can do is look blankly at her, mouth open as he tries to remember how words work. “I… I’m sorry, what?”

“Dissociate. That looked like dissociation.” She gesticulates as she speaks, swinging her hand around her ear in broad circles. “Feeling detached from the world around you, or like reality isn’t real. Retreating into your mind. How frequently does that happen?”

He blushes and averts his eyes. A normal day, he thinks, would’ve been quite nice, you know. “It’s hardly an everyday occurrence,” he insists weakly. “It’s– i-it’s something that happens to me every single fucking time I’ve tried to talk to a doctor about this. That’s why I’ve never been diagnosed with anything, even though…”

“Fascinating,” she breathes. “Wow. Christ, that’s interesting.” She scribbles down another novel’s worth of notes on her PDA; her hand darts from line to line so rapidly he’s surprised there’s no motion blur. One last especially passionate (and loud) swoop of the pen and she lets it slip from her hand. The PDA clatters against the table. He winces.

“You remember Dr Kaur, don’t you?” she asks, slightly breathless. He nods hesitantly. She’d covered for one of his medical appointments almost a year ago now. A fast talker, with brilliant bedside manner and Ryley’s dark, glossy hair. He’d felt as though she could see through his skin. “I think you’d do well talking to her. She’s a medical doctor, of course, but she specialises in psychiatry, and I’m sure she’s dealt with dissociative identity disorder before.” His brow creases. “Not– that you have that, of course, but she’ll be far better equipped to help you with disassociation than me.”

Dr Danby’s not even looking at him, writing on her PDA. He fidgets with the smooth cuff of his sleeve and feels a bit like he’s going to start screaming. “Okay,” he says, resigned to his fate. “I’ll… I’ll do that.”

“Then I’m going to–” She dictates what she’s writing– “send… her… an email.” She settles the PDA on the desk then claps her hands together. “Alright, there you go. She should be in touch.”

“Thank you.” What empty words. Another bridge that he will burn in time.

She smiles, and waves a dismissive hand in the air. "I'm only looking out for my patient. Now– you deserve to get some rest, Jochi; we can talk another time. I won’t keep you any longer. Do you have any questions?”

He freezes. This is it: his long-awaited opportunity to get the hell out of here. Something is keeping him glued to this chair, though. He realises - much to his own dismay - that he does have a question. One that’s been lingering in his mind for months. One that cannot be put off much longer.

"...Actually," he says, “I did have something."

She clasps her hands in front of her. “Go ahead.”

“I– I want to preface this by saying that I don't mean to sound accusatory,” he starts off with. A great way to make whatever he comes out with next sound very mean. “But I want to understand how this–” he gestures vaguely at himself– “went under the radar for so long. My weight has been fluctuating since I boarded, which, yes, understandable, I'm on a new thyroid med. But I've been declining terribly for months and you never raised it with me. Why?”

"Ah." She shifts in her chair, tapping her fingers against the desk over and over. "That's a good question. It, um, all comes down to some very unfortunate coincidences, really. Do you remember how you requested a higher dose of sertraline, about two and a half months ago?"

"Yes." He was at breaking point. He knew he couldn't hold out much longer before he landed himself in serious and irreversible shit; he also knew that taking more antidepressants only had a slim chance of helping, but he was running out of options. So he told Dr Danby that he thought his tolerance was increasing - not a full lie - and she prescribed him a higher dose, no questions asked.

It did provide him some respite.

"I assume your doctor in Mongolia told you this, when you first started on carbimazole," she continues, as she stares at her hands, "but sertraline can decrease the efficacy of your hyperthyroidism medication. When you started losing weight around then, I assumed it was because of that. I wasn't entirely wrong - when your blood test results came back, your thyroid hormones were rising again, which is why I prescribed you more meds."

His heart is sinking into his stomach. He feels vaguely nauseous. "But I reported so many other symptoms to you as well. Difficulty sleeping–"

"–mood swings, feeling irritable and anxious, I know. Jochi, those are all symptoms of an overactive thyroid too." She glances up at him, looking terribly guilty. "It never even occurred to me that your weight problem was mental. It looked like a cut-and-dry case of medications interacting. I only would've been alarmed if I saw that you were still losing weight, even after your thyroid hormone levels stabilised– but we didn't make it to our next checkup before…"

He inhales shakily, air trapped in his chest for a too-long moment, then breathes out as calm as he can manage. Don’t blow this out of proportion, Jochi, alright? I know it feels like you sabotaged yourself– he is not going to start fucking crying again– but we aren’t going to spiral over this.

Breathe in. Out. In again. He repeats it on loop in his head: A chain of coincidences confounding the obvious. Not your fault. Not your fault.

He really shouldn’t have asked.

"Are you– are you alright there, Jochi?" Doctor asks. There's a slight tremble to her voice.

He sighs deeply, rubbing his sore eyes - a discreet way to clear up any stray tears. "I'm frustrated," he says, and it's most of the truth. "Not at you. Just… frustrated."

"I understand. It feels like the stars aligned, doesn't it?"

He laughs a little, shaking his head. "Creators. You have no idea."

Doctor clears her throat and goes back to tapping the table. "Any more upsetting information you want me to disclose, or are you fine for me to sign you out of the medbay?"

"I'm quite alright," he says. He tucks his chair beneath the desk then locks his hands tightly together behind his back. She rises with him. After a moment's pause, he adds: "Thank you for being patient with me. Today was difficult."

Her smile is close-lipped but kind. "Of course."

She takes several rapid strides to the door, and keeps her hand over its panel so it stays open for him. At least I'm not the only one in a hurry to see myself out. "Keep in touch. Make sure you remember to come along tomorrow morning, like we discussed earlier - and if I don’t hear from you or Dr Kaur, I'll contact you in a week or so. Until then– go easy on yourself, won't you?”

The worst part is that she sounds like she means it. His words taste like bile all the way up. "I'll try. Enjoy the rest of your evening."

She rocks back and forth on the balls of her feet. "You too!" - and the door slides shut behind him.

The medbay corridor is bright, sterile and empty, lined only with identical white door after door. When his last glimpse of Dr Danby's colourful office disappears, the heat in his blood goes with it. There's a lone plastic plant at the end of the corridor left discarded on the floor. It only intensifies this sudden isolation.

"Come on," he mutters to himself, and he embarks on the walk back to his room. The desolate corridor stretches as if for miles before him.

Ryley will be there, he reminds himself. Likely lying down by now, all colourful against clinical white sheets. They will let him pillage their wardrobe before they retreat to bed together– warm and cocooned from the world and always, always safe– and everything will feel okay.

You're doing this for them.

Knowing that doesn't make what awaits him seem easier.