It is almost cold on the balcony when Kutkha steps outside, and, as usual, the stars cannot be seen well through the thickness of the light pollution. He should be asleep, but the city is not, and there are probably a hundred other people just like him creeping outside for some air, to quell their churning thoughts. Kutkha inhales a shaky breath then moves over to the railing, stooping so that he can lean his elbows on it and look down into the dark street below. He likes the cold in a way he can’t explain. Before Earth, Kutkha had never shivered from a chill or sweat from the heat of the sun. Therefore, the temperature is unfamiliar to him, but unfamiliarity makes Kutkha feel the most like himself, devoid of the perfect prison he was born in. Difficult to explain, but nonetheless, truth.
Kutkha finally exhales. The feeling of it does not alleviate the weight in his chest, nothing has for a long while, but he can distract himself by watching lonely figures pass along the sidewalk far beneath him. The street lights cast them in long, cartoonish shadows, and they come and go, drifting off to their homes or work or lives. Kutkha does not know. Sometimes when he is out here, he likes to guess what their lives might be like, what his life could have been like if he was just like them.
Would he be happier if he had been born here? If he did not know what he knows?
Kutkha shifts and the railing creaks beneath him, then he stands up, drumming his fingers off the painted wood. What would a human do if up late with a restless mind? Perhaps play a game, watch a show, read, but nothing has been able to distract Kutkha from the ache in his chest, the need to move. He has tried everything else already; sometimes it is easier to just give in.
His mind wanders first to the smell of old paper and bad coffee -- though all coffee is bad in Kuthka’s silent opinion. Logan is sitting across the table from him and frowning down at a journal that he’s referred to several times as ‘bullshit’, but has continued to read. It is endearing. It is also not the first time Kutkha has decided to step out of his metaphorical shell to spend time with Logan. The both of them come from vastly different lives, but they mesh well together in private, as both of them find silence companionable.
It is nice, Kutkha had thought at the time and thus thinks now upon reminiscing, and it is fulfilling to be a part of someone’s peace. He thinks of Logan’s struggles, of his journey to fit into this strange, unforgiving life, and relates to it immensely, but the two of them never speak of it.
There is no need to. Instead, Kutkha flips the page in his book and frowns at a diagram. They, after a while, talk about the finality of dust. To start as the leftovers of dying stars, to end, someday, the same.
Kutkha shuffles from foot to foot, drawn out of his memory by the honking of an impatient car down on the street far below. He turns to his dark apartment, intending to return inside and maybe… sit downstairs and read something, but he stops in distraction. He is wrong about his earlier assessment: the sky is especially clear tonight and he can see more stars than usual, though it is nothing like when he’d gone camping. The barest, ghost of a twinkle stands out of the clear, grey-blue sky. He is drawn to them in a way he is drawn to nothing else.
He steps up to the metal ladder that leads to the roof, climbs it gingerly, and stands with his eyes to the moon. Perhaps he could have simply teleported to the spot, but there was something inexplicably attractive to physical exertion, to the feeling of getting something done and feeling his muscles work in his body. He can feel the blood in his fingers, rushing along, and it is enough to remind him that he is indeed alive and standing there.
On the roof, the city yawns open before him. He walks to the opposite edge, watching out across dark buildings, and distantly the glitter of water in the bay. There is a breeze that ruffles his hair and he closes his eyes, overcome with the feeling that maybe it could blow him across the stretch of lights, across the sea, somewhere else.
Instead, he thinks of another time.
Emmett’s house smells like some unknown dessert as Kutkha steps inside, gingerly kicking off his shoes by the door as he had a dozen times before. Today, they will be building a model garage for the model house that had been in the works, and Kutkha’s fingers itched for the complicated embroidery that Emmett had promised. Kutkha bends to say hello to the little dogs that run up and greet him, but when he looks up, he notices another person coming to say hello alongside Emmett.
Oh, it’s Gardner. Kutkha feels strange about him in a way he can’t place, but not negatively. Kutkha vaguely recalls Emmett mentioning his presence days before, and Kutkha is happy to make room for someone a little new. He tells himself perhaps the strangeness is just a form of unfamiliarity, though Kutkha knows it is not.
He remembers what Gardner said about himself some time ago, plain and bare, and Kutkha understands intimately. To be a part of something huge and fearsome, to play a role bigger than yourself, not precisely knowing the consequences until it’s too late. Kutkha watches Gardner struggle to paint adhesive to the back of a small piece of wood for a tool cabinet and feels safe, here, despite the hesitance of others. It is a small normalcy that ends too soon.
The chill of the night time finally gets to Kutkha, just a little, and he finds that he’s tucked his bone-white fingers in his underarms for a modicum of warmth. It does not help much. It is just a distraction from a distraction. It’s now long past the time of just catching fresh air and Kutkha should go inside, maybe make some tea or, if truly despondent, put on a coat and go for a walk. He could see some of the kittens in the alleyway that have been too skittish to coax out from under the dumpster -- maybe this time one of them will take the step and accept the gentle offer of cheese.
Instead, Kutkha exhales, watching the steam roll off his lips. Breathing is second nature, as it is with most residents of this planet, but Kutkha finds that when he holds his breath, the sharp pang of need hardly comes. He does not know what to make of it, the idea that his habits are only learned and he keeps them only for comfort.
Still, inside of him is warmth somewhere like with anyone, as told by the steam.
Another memory flits through Kutkha’s mind, one that is shorter and more precious all the same. He and Amin are entertaining Alex for the evening, and Amin has run upstairs to take a phonecall. Alex is visibility enamored by the click-clack of Amin’s paws on the steps as he disappears from view.
“So, what have you been up to? I feel like we’ve barely talked even though we’re always in each other’s space,” Alex asks him after a beat of silence.
“I don’t know,” Kutkha answers. He looks at Alex who is looking at him oddly, like Kutkha is some kind of question he can’t figure out. Alex has big, bright eyes that give away every emotion. The next words slip out of Kutkha on accident, “Biding my time, mostly.”
“Biding your time? What does that mean?” Alex asks immediately. He always speaks faster than his brain can comprehend words. “Hey, you know, I feel like you used to talk a lot more when I came over. Is everything okay?”
“Yes,” Kutkha replies after a beat. His mind is spinning from his strange admission. The question is so simple and so complicated all at once. “My mind has been racing all the time. Things are… okay, though. Thank you for asking. How have you been?”
Miraculously Alex drops it. Maybe he understands how it feels to be afraid to answer a truth you aren’t ready for.
In hindsight, Kutkha should have said more when someone had given him the opportunity, when he didn’t have to hide behind a veneer of shame that he was not entirely grateful he was here. The time is passed. He no longer has the energy to explain to himself or others how he feels about his place in the universe.
There is order and chaos, space and time, and he is none of them. He has seen countless histories unfold and snuff out like the wick of a candle on its own wax. He hates knowing. He wishes that he could just --
A sharp inhale and Kutkha shakes his head.
He remembers Lilius. He remembers the small victories, of Wil giving Charlie a big hug, or the rebels crying and singing in celebration before Kutkha is strong enough to bring them home. He remembers how everyone meshes together, how bonds are formed, how much he has struggled to be normal, to stand all of this.
He thinks of everyone coming home and finding a place within each other. He knows they are all grateful of Kutkha’s ability to have brought them there. He knows he is loved and wanted, that he has people to rely on, that he has a home, but he cannot escape the fact that he does not belong here.
The thought hits him like a brick. He bares his teeth.
Another memory, and he is laying in bed next to Amin midday during a rainstorm. Amin is half-dressed and asleep, the front of his chest gently brushing against Kutkha’s shoulder blades whenever he breathes. Everytime they touch, Kutkha is jolted with teases of memory, of Amin’s family, his parents, his siblings, various other things that only made sense to a dreamer. A room full of kucing sharing a traditional meal from their planet, only now crucial ingredients replaced with similar Earthen ones, and eaten on paper plates with plastic forks instead of carved ghilka wood.
It is all Amin knows, but Kutkha has seen the alternative. He has never spoken of it and Amin has never asked, but Kutkha has heard the ringing dialogue of an ilmir king and the striking of stone upon flesh. He has heard the rattling magic in the bones of the planet, the sprawling jungles and cities and deserts. He has seen what Amin will never get to see, what he was supposed to have, what he could have if it wasn’t for Kutkha and the purpose he was born into.
Kutkha lies still, unable to move. All he can think about is that it is a burden to know. He does not want to know, but he cannot forget.
It is a long time before Kutkha moves from the cold, empty roof back down onto the balcony and into the apartment as quietly as a ghost. The gray-blue darkness around him is tinged with the faint pink of morning and he has again not rested as he has not rested in days. He kicks off his shoes, hangs up one of the sweaters he’d borrowed off of Amin’s nightstand and glances back towards the sliding glass doorway he had shut on the way in.
He sees himself as glassy and transparent, a dark shape, superimposed over the outside world. A figment of something not really here.
Something that doesn’t belong, but something that has nothing else to do but stay.
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