in love with men who'd hate me

Now, while you’re known for your standoffishness (especially around the captain), confidence flows off you like waves; entirely in your element. Staring underneath the ship’s navicomputer perplexes your mind – vast cables lapping over one another, nuts and bolts decorating the sides of the machine – and yet, it all feels familiar.

Your planet, despite its outdated practices, has its perks. Workshops were practically your second home – spending hours upon hours deconstructing machinery just to put it back together; studying the function of each part.

During unexciting moments of the day (which were often), your favourite pastime was constructing miniature models of spaceships passing through the area – bashfully asking their pilots for a closer peek to replicate the original to the most minute details.

Reaching for a fusion cutter without removing your gaze from a bent piece of metal, your hand accidentally wraps itself around Hooter’s snout, and tugs; none the wiser.

The alien squeaks in surprise, recoiling from the contact, “What was that for?!”

His screaming reaches the ears of Idy and Ody, a pair of tall, furry, conjoined aliens known as ‘The Geex’  – who laugh boisterously from their position at the helm. They clap their shared hands in delight, immediately taking the opportunity to tease Hooter, “Serves you right, Hoot! Looks like your cheekiness has finally caught up to you!”

Hooter lets out a defeated toot; an exhale exiting through the small openings on his snout – caressing the spot you yanked with his tiny hands.

Wheeling yourself out of the navicomputer’s underside, you apologise to Hooter with a sheepish smile, “I’m sorry, Hooter – I didn’t think anyone was nearby. I’ll be more cautious of my surroundings next time.”

“No, no! There will be no next time! I’m hiding in my bunker until this is all over!” He scurries off, a collection of thumps following in his wake – disappearing into the confines of the small corner of the ship he deems his. The bunker in question is more alike to a garbage pit; as he continuously stores all sorts of food and rubbish inside it, to lessen the amount of time he needs to leave.

You were about to call out to the elephant-hybrid, to tell him that isn’t necessary, when Major Domo – a humanoid robot who acts as the ship’s security officer – comes to your aid, “Perhaps this is what you were looking for?” His monotone voice asks, metallic joints clattering as he bends to fetch the cutter.

“I- yes. By the Maker, Major, how did you figure that out?”

An amused chuckle warbles out of the robot, placing the tool in your palm, “Call it an educated guess, little miss.”

You have a fondness for the droid – who has acted as a fatherly figure in your life since abruptly joining the Electric Crew, taking you under his wing.

In the early days of your addition to Captain EO’s team, you found interacting with the other members too difficult; with established dynamics already in place. You spent days avoiding any verbal interaction, delving headfirst into work – only opening up at Major Domo’s offering of a wind-up music box to lift your spirits.

You’ve been inseparable ever since.

As Hooter rushes down the passageway, the captain enters, Fuzzball in tow, perched on his shoulder – tail wrapped around EO’s shoulders. As his name suggests, Fuzzball is a fuzzy, round, orange bat-esque critter that accompanies the captain wherever he goes.

His cape swooshes by his ankles, looking as formidable as ever – donned in his most formal attire; an attempt to appear more mature, as his morning was spent contacting The Command; offering a progress report.

The conversation turned heated instantaneously.

‘You mess up one more time and I will personally request your removal!’

‘This will not happen again, I assure you.’ EO grumbles, eyes to his white boots.

‘See to that it does.’

You only heard snippets – Commander Bog didn’t seem particularly… happy about the slow progression of the mission. The loss of the map was a setback, and meant more time and resources being wasted to rectify the damage.

EO’s jaw grinds as he enters; a metaphorical storm cloud above his head. “Starlight,” he beckons – and immediately, your lax posture straightens at the sound; halting any trains of thought chugging through your mind, “what’s the status of the navicomputer?”

You try not to read into the implications of such a personal nickname coming from the captain; knowing the man is far too mission-oriented to be distracted by something as distracting as romance.

But his actions say otherwise.  

He assumed the title would catch on with the rest of the crew, but it never did. EO claims it’s purely to conceal any identification from reaching enemies, but there’s a quiet understanding shared by everyone aboard.

Starlight is his name for you.

Only his.

EO couldn’t imagine a name better-suited for you; often acting as his guiding light – offering hope in its absence.

Precisely why you volunteered to fix the navicomputer.

The confidence you once had falters at the sight of him – fear of failure needling itself in your mind, along with doubt bubbling up your esophagus, “I-I think I’ve had a breakthrough, Captain. It appears a sharp sheet of steel has been cutting off circuit flow, preventing electricity from reaching the screen.”

The discovery was quite humorous – as the captain claimed he searched high and low for a mechanic skilled enough to undo the wreckage, when in reality, the solution is rather simple.

Nodding thoughtfully, the wrinkles on his forehead smooth with relief.

“Great work, keep it up.” Patting on Fuzzball’s back, he wordlessly orders the creature to return to his cubby – then, he eases the cape off his back, draping the fabric atop the command chair. “My only concern is… the mess you’re creating. Perhaps you could clean as you go?”

Snickers are shared between the crewmates, watching as you clamber to a sitting position – the platform skittering with your hasty movements.

“Ha! There’s that space brain of hers at work!” Idy chimes, nudging his twin, encouraging the other to join in. Without missing a beat, Ody adds, “You’d think she’d realise how much clutter she’s creating after attacking Hooter!”

The jokes made at your expense cause both Major Domo and Captain EO’s eyes to narrow – rushing to your defence.

“Eyes on your own plate,” Domo reprimands, elongating his retractable arms to face their heads forward.

Simultaneously, EO mutters, “Knock it off, you two. I was just playing.”

You scoop all the items up and off the floor, cuddling them to your chest, before placing them inside the toolbox; it’s unorganised, but allows more room for movement. It causes a huge ruckus, so much so, Idy and Ody bump temples – each struggling to cover both ears when only possessing two hands.

A side of the captain’s mouth tips upward, entertained by your will to please – sitting on his makeshift throne, the man rolls himself to your side.

He lowers his voice, ensuring only you can hear, “I just wanted to thank you. The Commander was set on aborting this mission – until I told him you were fixing the navicomputer as we spoke. So, really, you’re the only reason we’re still here.” A handkerchief – with the same colourful design as his shirt – materialises from Captain EO’s pocket; which he uses to dab away beads of sweat forming along your hairline.

You unknowingly lean into his touch, the delicate tapping of the material against your skin acting as a comfort - indulging in his undivided attention. For once in your life, you allow yourself to be selfish.

“I owe you one, Starlight.” It’s said with such gentleness, one you couldn’t ignore even if you tried.

Tilting your torso towards his, you respond, “You don’t owe me anything, sir. I’ve been indebted to you ever since you rescued me all those years ago.”

“Nonsense. That wasn’t done with an expectation of repayment – I saw someone who needed help; help I was capable of giving.” Captain EO sputters, finding your justification absurd.

You smile softly, laying back onto the platform, leaving the man to dab the cloth onto air, “Consider this the same. I’m offering you help in return for taking such good care of me – help I’m now capable of giving.” Returning your focus to the vandalising fragment – you use the fusion cutter to separate the sharp point from the power lines.

The repetition of his words plucks at his heartstrings, his authoritative exterior faltering. Tables have turned. How has this happened?

How did you catch him so off-guard?

From just a few words?

When did you get so… forward?

Captain EO’s head spins, thrown off his axis – a lick of warmth running up his neck. It confuses him, how mere seconds after your statement, being so physically close makes his heart race.

He needs to get out of there.

Clearing his throat, EO flits his gaze to the rest of the crew – the vulnerability he feels is too much, and he must return to stable ground. “Ahem. Maybe we should leave Starlight as she works – how does breakfast sound?”

The extraterrestrials cheer, exiting the control room one by one without looking back, filing into the small kitchen – distributing ration packs of differing contents to one another, oblivious to the tension between their captain and his favourite subordinate.

But what no one notices, not even you, is how Captain EO stares at your form before shutting the bridge entrance, a hint of longing in his expression.

Certain feelings are making themselves known, and it scares him.

So, he does what he thinks best – he runs.

Beneath the control system, you successfully extract the shard cutting the circulation of energy – missing how Captain EO ushered everyone off the main deck. So, when you emerge, you excitedly hold up the culprit to the navicomputer’s malfunction, “I did it! All that’s left is powering it up, which should be easy enough with-” scanning the room, you realise nobody’s there.

The Maestro.

His real name?

Nobody really knew.

Legend (used in a very loose sense of the word) has it, he arrived in the area decades ago, and by the grace of whatever god he worshipped, hadn’t aged a single day. The Maestro appeared more vampiric than human – luscious, black curls cascaded his shoulders, skin as smooth as silk; providing a pale contrast to his chocolate irises.

Often donned in a loose-fitting, ruffly, white button-down, paired with sleek, black dress pants, it was clear the man dressed as lavishly as his title proclaimed. It’s been said that he was an entertainer of sorts; a magician and storyteller – who used his dark powers to scare and amaze.

As strange as he may be, the townspeople have sort of… lumped you together.

Weird. Creepy. Freaks.

You never paid it any mind. The prejudice came with the job. It wasn’t exactly cause for praise or celebration – you were just the ‘body handler,’ for lack of a better term. Considered odd for spending your days with the dead; a bad omen most sane individuals would steer clear of.

And perhaps, your eccentricity was how you got yourself in this position in the first place.

A knock at the door interrupts your breakfast. It isn’t anything special – a tart, a bowl of soggy cereal drowning in milk, along with an ice-cold glass of coffee. Definitely more ordinary than most would assume.

Palms to the dining table, you push up to stand, hearing another set of knocks occur at your absence. ‘Whoever’s out there has the patience of a newborn,’ the thought of interacting with someone alive so early in the morning induces an internal groan, souring your mood entirely.

Stomping to the entrance, you swing the door inwards with violent force, a scowl looming over your features.

“What?” You spit, recognising the familiar silhouette of the man living next door, who’s currently standing on your porch – but today, he sports a skull mask (a poor attempt at concealing his identity), an inky cloak chained by the sides, laying along his collar bones, with a veil resting atop his head.  

 Slipping the mask down to reveal his doe eyes, Maestro projects, loudly, “Hello! Sorry if I scared you,” he titters, amused at your vexed expression. Face half-hidden, a smirk weaselling its way upward goes unnoticed, a mischievous plan brewing in his head.

One side of your mouth twitches, pressure building at your forehead, a headache already forming, “I can assure you, you didn’t.” The finality intertwined with your tone makes The Maestro falter, a brow raising in perplexion.

You didn’t question the Halloween-esque get-up? Not even a flinch, gasp, or twitch? Has everyone been made aware of his outlandishness that no one would bat an eye?

‘This’ll be more difficult than I thought…’ He grumbles.

Unwilling to tolerate any more of his shenanigans, you press, “Now, what can I do for you?” Jutting out your hip, you allow your posture to speak for itself. “My shift starts in… thirty, no- twenty-two minutes. So, if we could make this quick, it’d be a major help.”  

The Maestro tips his head, chin nearly kissing his neck, “You got quite the attitude on you. Thought the kids were exaggerating,” his eyes wander up and down your figure – taking his slow time while doing so, “but I guess not.”

Choking on a droplet of saliva, you feel your cheeks warm, “Excuse me? Attitude? You’re the one banging at my front door like you own the place! Do you have any idea what time it is?” The question is rhetorical – not giving him enough time to answer, “Well, of course you don’t. You never leave that spooky manor of yours!”

Letting the remaining portion of the mask fall, a ridiculed gasp escapes him, “Spooky? It’s Victorian – authentic. And what’s it to you? It’s my home!”

Throwing your hands in the air with a sardonic guffaw, you retort, “So, you do understand the importance of privacy! Here I thought you were the type to march onto someone’s property and throw insults to their face…” Poking his chest to emphasise the point, you finish, “Oh, wait. You are!”

Blanching at the unexpected contact, The Maestro recoils in surprise, arms extending (dropping his mask in the process), as if he could blow you away with his fingertips, “Don’t-!”

At the sound of his voice, an invisible force drags you further in the house – bare feet tumbling against the smooth wood, you resort to grasping the doorframe, knuckles peeking underneath the flesh.

‘What the hell?!’ You have no idea whether the sentence was actually spoken; too focused on balancing while battling the gravitational pull.

On the other side of the doorway, the man straightens his garments with a flick of the wrist, jaw clenching like a vice. A breeze follows his every command – the same force fulfilling his bidding as the one trapping you.

The Maestro claps - a forced, toothy smile thinning his lips, “Let’s start again, shall we?” Not missing a beat, the pressure holding you captive vanishes.

Once freed, your body crumples to the floor, exhausted from hoisting itself against the incantation. Terror seeps into your bones – and you instantly scramble away from the man, regretting ever letting him get so close.  

 “Oh, don’t act all afraid now. You ruined the fun,” he whines, kicking a stray pebble in annoyance. “This is why I don’t mess with adults… always taking things so seriously.” Rolling his eyes, The Maestro offers you a hand up; which you not-so-politely decline.

Evening your breathing, you muster the courage to ask, “W-what… what are you?” It comes out a whisper, the discovery of being in the same vicinity as that thing finally sinking in.

Crossing his arms, the man levels you with a deep frown, “What a rude thing to ask. Understandable, yes, but rude, nonetheless.” Two fingers perform a scooping motion – and just like before, his powers guide you onto your feet.

Out comes an embarrassing squeal, a growing hatred for The Maestro’s manhandling blooming inside you.

“Stop doing that!”

“Well, I need to demonstrate what I am to answer your question, don’t I?” The word ‘what’ is accompanied by air quotes, sarcasm dripping from his inflection.

Wiping the sweat gathering at your temples, you decide to put an end to this mind game, “Listen, I don’t really care who or what you are. I asked that in a state of shock, alright? I’m aware of your… tricks, and I want no part in it.”

“There that word is again – what! Is it not obvious? I am a person!” Detaching the delicate rings connecting his cloak, fabric falling to the cement of your patio, revealing his torso – clad in his usual frilly blouse. “People always seem to forget that…” He mutters under his breath.

Circling lanky fingers around your wrist, The Maestro leads your hand in the direction of his heart; a mere inch away from where you prodded previously. “Go on. Feel me,” he consents, loosening his harsh grip at the intimate turn of events.

You remain still.

Hesitating.

Here he goes again, manhandling you. But for some reason, this time doesn’t feel as controlling; more… romantic than anything.    

“What happened to all that flare from before, hmm?” Flicking his gaze downwards to meet yours, foreheads almost touch; you feel the heat emitting from each exhale. “You had no problem threatening me earlier. Could it be I succeeded in my evil plan?”  

“Evil plan?” You repeat lowly, gently caressing The Maestro’s sternum – the soft timbre of his voice erasing all the unease you had (for better or for worse). Then, you feel it. The unmistakable beating of his heart; solidifying his humanity with a single tap. And everything falls into place. He isn’t a monster, or a thing – he’s gifted.

Bursts of pink smear across the tips of his ears, your touch affecting him in a way he didn’t account for. “Mhm,” he hums, eyes following the movement of your fingertips. “You scare the kids more than me, y’know that? Told me I should play with you a little. I may be paranormal, but at least I don’t voluntarily handle corpses for a living.”

Scoffing, you toy with the strings dangling from his shirt, “Now, that’s ridiculous. It’s not like I use them for witchcraft! Being a mortician involves more than that! Arranging funerals, maintaining records, offering support to grieving families – but no, all that’s swept under the rug at the mention of death.” Your huffing makes The Maestro giggle, head tipping backwards in delight.

“They’re children! Do you really expect them to understand the complexities of a job such as yours?”

“If they’re capable of understanding your abilities, they can understand that.”

Shaking his head fondly, the man indulges in the absurdity of your conversation, “I don’t think those are remotely comparable, but if it makes you feel better, then go on believing that.”

“Whatever, Maestro. Just because you’ve won the hearts of the troublemakers of Normal Valley doesn’t mean you’ve won mine.” You quip with a flutter of your eyelashes, hoping the man possesses a comprehension of social cues.   

The Maestro grins at your admission, smoothly responding, “You haven’t given me the chance. A proper apology is in order! Dinner, at my place. What do you say?” A wide palm snakes towards your waist – subtly lessening the gap between you both.

Dinner?

He’s forward for a man who isolates himself so often, you’ll give him that.

Pretending to ponder whether to accept his offer, you slap his hand away, a playful teaser for what a meal with you entails, “I’ll consider it… if you promise to keep those powers of yours at bay.”

“I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die – get it? Because if I do, you’d have no choice but to see me.” As he speaks, glowing, red lines in the shape of an ‘X’ appear above the organ – showcasing the extent of his magic, while pledging against it, no less.

You close your door halfway with a cringe, you mumble, “On second thought, keep those puns at bay. They’re the real horror.”

“You got it, doll. I hope to see you very soon – you know where to find me.” The pet-name comes easily to him, and that fact hotwires your brain; all confidence you felt towards the ‘date’ fizzling out of you in the form of steam.

With a wink, The Maestro disappears, leaving a puff of smoke in his wake. Probably returning to the confines of his mansion, preparing himself for the upcoming night.

People like Mini Max; gangsters – they offered safety to those who had no choice but to conform to the area’s hectic lifestyle. He was the metaphoric and literal shield to cower behind when things took a turn for the worst.

Watching them rob innocent bystander after innocent bystander didn’t get easier as time went on - quite the opposite, actually. The terror shining in their eyes haunted his every nightmare, forever engrained in his mind; guilt brewing from the back of his throat, bubbling upwards until it released as a painful retch.

So, months later, when his acceptance letter came in the mail, it felt like a God-send.

A second chance.

An escape.

Darryl was on Cloud Nine, skipping up the steps of his apartment, a toothy smile adorning his features – dark hair swooping over his eyes.

He couldn’t wait to tell you.

His best friend – his angel.

The girl who’s been patching his scraped knees since kindergarten – the only person left in Harlem who hasn’t been poisoned by its many evils.

The neighbourhood was a prison, but it had you.

And back then, that was more than enough.

But things changed. He changed.

Call him a wuss for running – he’s been called all sorts of atrocities. At least he took his chance while he had it!

How much more was Darryl expected to suffer until he turned into a monster? Into someone like Mini Max? Someone so desensitised that he wouldn’t spare a second glance at someone being hurt?

No. He couldn’t let that happen.

If he lost you… he would succumb to the darkness; to the demons tempting him with convenience. He’d lose one of the few good things in his life, which come few and far between.

Bursting through his doorway, Darryl scrambled to find a spare piece of parchment and a pen. Seeing your face would cause him to reconsider; the strings of his heart wrapped around your pretty little finger, unwilling to part from someone so significant.

He can’t quit now.

Not after everything he went through to get here.

Endless nights spent reading textbooks as thick as tree trunks, filling his mind with a knowledge so great, schools couldn’t ignore it. They couldn’t ignore him anymore.

If leaving made him a better man, sobeit.

The next day, Darryl woke before the Sun had a chance to rise – sprinting to your house before heading to the bus terminal, where his future awaited his arrival.

On your porch lied a cream-coloured envelope, the cursive of your name greeted you.

You’d recognise that delicate handwriting anywhere. 

Tearing the seal gently, the note inside read:

‘My dearest angel,

I leave for boarding school today, and as much as I’d love to see you one last time before I depart, I’m scared the sight of you would make me stay.

I wish I didn’t have to leave - or at least could bring you along with me. But we both know that’s impossible.

I promise to return every semester break… just for you.

Forever yours,

Darryl.’

He didn’t stay long enough to witness your reaction, but he’ll never forget the melancholic gasp you let out once the contents of the letter sank in.

The weeks following Darryl’s abrupt farewell were a drag.

Boarding school was fine. Nothing like he expected.

He assumed that surrounding himself with people of similar intelligence – scholars - would offer him a place of comfort; community. A distraction from the homesickness bottling up in his chest, bound to break at a moment’s notice. But instead, he's at an impasse. An outsider amongst peers. Again.

No one looks like him, talks like him, acts like him.

Darryl feels their stares – how they subtly clutch their belongings tighter when he’s in close proximity, the backhanded compliments towards his hair, and how impressive he is for someone so… ‘different’.

Why?

Why does this always happen to him?

School was his way out – the solution to most, if not, all his problems. And yet, he finds himself marginalised, the butt of every joke.

The disturbing similarity regarding Darryl’s old and new environment stuns him; second-guessing his decision whenever the background noise faded into stillness – your voice echoing in the expanse of his mind, acting as a siren song luring him into the harsh riptide.

Soft moonlight peeks through the blinds of Darryl’s dorm room, where he jolts upright on his bed, reaching for a stray jacket on the floor.

He’s in dire need of a saccharine presence – delicate, feminine, flowery.

You.

Darryl’s been supressing the urge to call you ever since he left that half-assed note on your door. Your voice– your real voice, even through the warbling effect of the school’s cheap payphone might soothe the incline of his insomnia.

Tip-toeing down the sleeping quarter’s stairs, he makes his way to the phone booth right by the entrance.

Another thing Darryl hates about boarding school – having to reside in the same dormitories as the people who not-so-quietly judge his attendance there.

 He winces with every squeak and thump that accompanies his movement, knowing the scrutiny he’ll receive if he’s found wandering the corridors at the dead of night.

The wooden entrance of the booth mocks him, as if taunting, ‘you thought you could get away with it that easily?’ Darryl curses under his breath in frustration, tugging at the handle as quietly as possible.

A low groan escapes the hinges, which he tries (and fails) to muffle with his body.

Hastily inserting himself in the box, Darryl snatches the handset, and wedges it between his ear and shoulder. He punches in the familiar numbers of his best friend’s phone – a musical tone sounding with each press.

As the call transmits, the boy seats himself on the ground, head against his knees as ringing fills his ears.

He misses you more than words could describe.

Which makes him wonder if a phone call is the best idea – for if it wasn’t his only option, he’d much rather run to Harlem with his bare feet to beg you for forgiveness.

“Hello?”

Darryl feels warmth pool on his cheeks at the greeting; the desire of your essence suddenly feeling deeper than platonic.

“It’s me.” He whispers shakily, barely concealing the emotions coursing through him. “I- uh… wanted to talk to you. If that’s alright.”

Your response is a long minute of white noise, choking up on the other line. After days of waiting and waiting, he finally acknowledges you.

All the fright and unease from the lack of communication dissipates when you breathe out, “Darryl?” He could picture the disbelief in your expression, and it breaks his heart all over again.

How he ever abandoned you, he has no clue.

That elicits a bittersweet laugh out of the boy, the velvety tone used to speak his name rendering him speechless – for the most part, “Yeah, it’s me, angel.”

Coughing to stabilise himself, Darryl continues, “I’m so, so, so sorry. And I know that isn’t nearly enough to make up for the pain I caused, but-” a sob interrupts him, “i-if you could just give me a chance to explain, maybe you’ll understand.”

“Dee…” He hears the concern laced with the nickname – one he’s all too familiar with.

“I had to leave! You know that, right? If I stayed… well, I’d be like all the boys you’re scared of! Stealing, dealing, beating – the whole ordeal.” On the other side, Darryl balls a fist, nearly drawing blood with the pressure of his nails against the fragile skin of his palm.

“You should never, ever have to feel that way towards me. Ever.” He annunciates the final word with a defeated bang to the booth’s floor.

“I understand, Dee, of course I do.” Toying with the cord of your rotary phone, you circle around your living room – deep in thought. “You were given the opportunity of a lifetime. I spent not a single second blaming you for taking it. Leaving without a proper goodbye was painful, I admit, but I know you had your reasons. I just… I wish you called sooner.”

Darryl leant backwards, allowing the crown of his head to rest on the wall, listening intently – as if it were the last time he’d ever hear from you.

“I would have, I swear! Things haven’t been so easy here either…” He takes a heavy inhale, all the composure he’s fought so hard to maintain gradually crumbling down. “Nobody likes me here. Some are friendly, yeah, but no one likes me, y’know? They’re so… so stiff. Like they’re constantly walking on eggshells.”

Swiping some loose curls dangling atop his forehead, he huffs, “And it’s ‘cause of how I look. I’m sure of it.”

A wave of anger overtakes you at his admission, coiling the phone’s cord around your wrist firmly. How could they? Darryl’s dream school – the one he’s been prattling on and on about since, well, forever – degrades him for such an uncontrollable aspect of his life?

The sheer inhumanity boils your blood.

“Dee. Listen to me. Whatever those poshy assholes have to say about you is not only incorrect, but is incredibly small-minded. They see anything of variation and consider it a threat. Use that to your advantage. Make them respect you.” You stomp a socked foot on the carpet, ready to confront the damn principle if needed.

“You’re so talented, Dee. They see that, and they envy you for it. They take one look at your appearance and take a shot at it because it’s all they have against you. Don’t let them affect you – because they shouldn’t.”

A deafening silence follows your morale-boosting rant.

Darryl couldn’t believe you.

You’re so… considerate.

Despite living in a place like Harlem, you continue to spread positivity – especially when he needed it the most.

“I love you.” At the utterance of those three words, he felt the weight of the air change. Intimacy dripping from each syllable; unlike previous instances.

He wants to leave the statement as it is so badly.

To express the confusing feelings he’s held towards you since leaving.

But he knows. Now is not the time nor the place.

Not when thousands of miles separate the both of you.

“A-as a friend! I love you, as a friend.” Darryl cringes, squeezing his eyes shut at the awkward phrasing and delayed addition to his past sentence. “And thank you… for saying all those things. You flatter me.” He finishes with a giggle.

He doesn’t know how, but he senses disappointment when you respond, “Right. Of course, Dee. I love you, too. As a friend.” You clear your throat loudly, changing the topic, leaving no room for discussion. “So, uh, when do you think I’ll see you next? In person.”

Darting his wide eyes to the calendar hanging above the telephone, he squints from his position on the floor. “Well, the first semester doesn’t end for another… week and two days. Not too long to go.” Darryl’s spirits brighten at the discovery, for only nine days from now, he’ll get to visit his beloved girl – face to face.

“Don’t forget your promise, Dee. I’m holding you to it.” You sound so unusually stern, and Darryl finds it completely, and utterly adorable.

Soft, doe eyes circle around to meet yours. His dark curls bouncing slightly at the movement, "Any luck on finding the map Commander Bog gave us?"

There it is.

The gentle voice that worms its way into your every fantasy.

Captain EO.

Leader of the Electric Crew, dance-fighter extraordinaire, and sole pilot of the Moonwalker.

The man of your dreams – who just so happens to be your boss.

It’s not your fault, per say.

He was, and still is, your saviour.

From what, you ask?

Saviour from eternal boredom back on your home planet; where you’d be forced to wed a man who couldn’t care less about you (other than the fact you possess the correct equipment to reproduce), and tend to a home that serves as a prison for the rest of your measly life.

You can somewhat recall pledging your loyalty to the captain during your first meeting – but over time, it seems that you have continuously given him more and more of yourself, under the innocent guise of admiration and trust.

You know better now.

Blinking the remnants of affection glistening in your eyes away, you find yourself responding – rather dumbly, “It appears that Hooter has eaten it, sir.”

Hooter was the crew’s designated comedic-yet-frustratingly-annoying relief; an elephant-like creature that wreaks havoc whenever he finds the chance, and whose stomach has a never-ending appetite.

The man tilts his head, jet-black brows nearly kissing each other in bewilderment, “What?” Quiet rustling accompanies his question, the metallic embellishments on his outfit knocking against each other with every step he takes.

Defying the usually-cold temperature of space, heat begins to rise from your neck, a sudden explosion of shyness overtaking you.

Clearing your throat in hopes to rectify whatever mistake you think you made, you try again, “He- Hooter, um, has eaten the map, sir.”

The captain has an aura about him that seems to render you entirely useless. Merely meeting his gaze melts your mind, making you more accident-prone than one would assume.

Your clumsiness earned you the nickname, ‘Space Brain’ - a childish tease the rest of the crew concocted when you were caught spacing out on multiple occasions.

Not that Captain EO ever participated.

You try not to overthink that particular choice of his.

“And you didn’t feel the need to tell me?” Your admission elicits a sigh of frustration from the captain, running a hand down his face all the while. “We’re already the laughingstock in the eyes of the Command – the ones who always, without fail, mess up – and now, this!”

Pushing several stray wisps of glossy hair, exposing his forehead, EO’s disbelief of how quickly things turned sour is dreadfully obvious, “That map was our only hope of finding the homing beacon. Without it, well…” He throws himself into the Moonwalker’s command chair, “I don’t know what we’ll do.”

Captain EO snaps his head back to lean against the neck rest, wide eyes falling shut, craving for a moment of peace on this trialling journey – dropping a hand on the centre console, fidgeting with the knobs to alleviate some stress.

“If I may, sir,” you begin, left foot twitching forward half an inch, “is it not possible for us to use the ship’s navicomputer? I’m sure it would prove a lot simpler and far more efficient.”

Ending the suggestion with a timid smile, you watch as the captain slowly opens a single eyelid – the other too tired to do the same. His squint sweeps over your figure, sensing the anxiety buzzing through you. Letting out a low sigh, EO pushes off his thighs to stand.

“With the disaster that was our last mission, the navicomputer has been malfunctioning non-stop – and I have not found the time nor the right mechanic to repair it.”

Unbuckling the clasps of his jacket, he slides it off his arms, revealing a white shirt with a lopsided rainbow spanning from his hip to above his shoulder. He places it on his chair with the tenderness of a child with their favourite stuffed animal; the garment holding many a memory of past travels.

It was unusual, and quite unexpected to witness the captain in such a casual state – as he believes that looking the part is just as important as playing the part.

The rare sight of his toned forearms makes a flush of heat gather on your cheeks; feeling both pleasantly surprised at his comfortability when in your presence, and flustered at his lack of formal attire.

Captain EO takes a lap around the bridge, a habit you’ve noticed he partakes in when pondering – losing himself in his thoughts, using his nimble fingers to pinch the soft skin of his lips, concentration glazing over his eyes.

Breaking the intangible silence, you find the courage to ask, “Why don’t I give it a try?”

His head whips back at a speed that rivals that of a starfighter, a piercing glare looming over his features – and suddenly, his voice descends to a lower register.

“What?”

The question fills you with familiarity; déjà vu from just minutes before. But this time, scrutiny lingers in his expression instead of confusion.

As if setting yourself up for failure, your tongue decides to twist itself, lessening the impact of your statement, “I-I said, I could maybe, potentially, take a… crack at it? At fixing the navicomputer? Sir?”

‘Who says crack? Idiot!’ You scream into the void of your psyche, wincing at the phrasing. Talking to a captain in such a way should be warrant for suspension.

Well, that could likely be an overreaction on your part, but it was embarrassing, nonetheless.

To your astonishment, EO levels you with a blank stare, once again stuck in the palace of his mind, conjuring a response for such a ridiculous proposition. How could you, a lowly - but beloved - crewmate restore such complex machinery such as a navicomputer?

Sweat beads at your temples, fingers slipping against one another when balled in a fist – gulping, you anticipate his reaction.

EO’s head shifts subtly, seemingly returning to himself, “And just how do you suppose to do that?” Chocolate eyes initiating contact with yours, the darkness of the room causing them to dilate – creating the illusion of having no sclera at all. The intensity of his stare is alike to a tiger about to pounce on its prey, but you see no reason to be afraid.

His lack of faith is understandable, as you’ve shown no skill or talent in tinkering, but it weakens your spirits a noticeable amount.

“As you know, my home planet is famous for its renowned mechanics,” not wanting to come across as arrogant, you flick your line of sight to the floor, “and growing up surrounded by that culture, I’ve got a handful of knowledge up my sleeve. If you would only give me the opportunity to repair the navicomputer, sir, maybe then you could forgive me for withholding information?”

You finish the rant with a pained grimace, wondering if you were speaking over your station, until-

A muffled snicker echoes throughout the room.

Lifting your head, you’re met with the vision of Captain EO hastily covering his mouth to prevent more laughs from escaping.

“Sir?” You feel your heart drop to your feet, “What’s so funny?”

The man only shakes his head in response, a boyish grin plastered on his face, “I just find it kind of silly how you think I’m the type to hold a grudge.”

Marching towards you until your toes nearly touch, EO reaches for your hands – engulfing them in his own, and whispers, “You were forgiven the moment I saw that guilty look on your face.” He tilts your head up with his index, reinforcing his words with an equally forceful action.

“You never have to worry about that with me. No matter what happens, no matter how many maps Hooter eats, and no matter how many times we ‘fail,’” he exaggerates with air quotes, “I will always find it in my heart to forgive you. That, I promise. Understood?”

You fight the urge to weep at his words, voice wavering as you settle for, “Yes, sir.”

A playful roll of his eyes ensues at your answer, the stoic façade from before washed away by his childlike nature. Mischief dances in his expression as he asks, “How ‘bout this? You do your darndest – and I mean, darndest – to fix the navicomputer, and I’ll allow you to drop the honorifics.”

As if drenched with ice water, colour disappears from your face, horror taking its place.

“But-!”

The captain tuts at your interruption (his greatest pet peeve), slotting a pointer finger against the plump of your lips, “At-tut-tut! No buts. Consider this an order. Or a punishment. Whichever you feel suits best.”

Huffing, you mutter, “Definitely a punishment.”

It only makes him giggle more.