Idk Just Whatever I Felt Like

TW: ANGST AND CHARACTER DEATH

Backstory:

Adrian waited for years, hoping for his soulmate to return home. They were able to sense that Rocky was up there, lost somewhere in the firmament, and so they never lost hope. Always longing for the day their lover would be back between their arms.

Adrian's resilience inspired other eridians to keep hoping for their beloved astronauts return, even the ones that were certain that their loved ones had long gone. So the wait went on for years and years until one day Adrian went uncharacteristically numb.

"The link. I can't feel the link anymore." Is what Adrian had said, then everyone knew.

Their crew hadn't made it.

Preparations were on the move that same day to finally mourn and give their lost siblings a much deserved goodbye.

Rocky's confirmed death had been such a shock to Adrian that they decided to not participate in the funeral. Rocky was their soulmate. Their partner for life. The loss was so big that Adrian felt they had nothing else to live for.

Instead, Adrian pulled away from the support of their people and moved far away on their own, eventually, passing due to his grieving and lack of caring for themselves.

After ascending, Adrian had realised that they now had become a kind of guardian for Erid, and so, decided to stand guard by their new role and protect their planet against the Astrophage menace with whatever strength they gathered.

Hopefully that made sense... It's late and I'm tired sjdjsnxdjxk

My Adrian's design is inspired by fluorite!

I looked up various gemstones for inspiration, I really wanted to make them pretty! So this was my favourite pick dbdksndkd it's colors are close to what the general consensus of what Adrian looks like is right now (that way people could still tell this is supposed to be Adrian) and it has purple in it!!! (I love purple) So yes. Best pick.

Grace nearly trips over his own shoelaces skidding down the corridors, slapping a hand against the wall to avoid slamming his shoulder into it as he rounds a corner.

He’s late, he knew he’d be late, but after weighing his options he’d ultimately decided that skipping breakfast would have far worse consequences than showing up ten minutes late to Stratt’s meeting.

They already have a bunch of meetings in the task force. It’s fine if he’s late for one, right? Right?

He’s panting as he sprints down the hall, muttering apologies to the scientists and guards he barely manages to dodge as he passes them. He glances at his watch, grimacing as another minute slips by.

He comes to an abrupt stop outside the meeting room, attempting to quickly gulp down air and straighten his sweater. It’s probably a lost cause, but he does his best to not look like he’s just probably broken a few traffic laws on his bike and then sprinted through the building.

Unfortunately, there’s no back door to the meeting room so when he walks in he knows everyone’s going to see him.

No point in delaying the inevitable

Grace takes a deep, fortifying breath that ultimately does little to settle his nerves and reaches for the door knob. The door swings open smoothly and silently… not that that does anything to keep every head in the room from turning his direction. Grace smiles weakly at the other members of the task force already in the room.

“Hi, uh, sorry, traffic was-“

“Dr. Grace,” Stratt says sharply, cutting him off. Grace immediately clams up, dipping his head apologetically as he meets her narrow-eyed glare. “Please, have a seat.”

She doesn’t even need to lecture him in front of the others for them all to sense the unspoken reprimand. Grace’s heart drops and he slinks off to the open spot next to Ilyukhina, who shoots him a sympathetic grimace as she pulls the chair out. Grace meekly nods his thanks as he slides into the chair, drops his bag, and pulls out a battered notebook and pen.

He flips to a fresh page and writes the date at the top quickly. It’s only then that he looks up at the Powerpoint slide currently on the screen.

Next Steps

There isn’t any other information on the slide, and he looks around a little helplessly. He weighs his options again, wondering if he should risk asking Ilyukhina what the topic of the meeting is, or if that would just draw more negative attention to himself. He’s just about to swallow his pride and maybe raise his hand or something when Stratt’s eyes zero in on him again.

“You actually arrived at the perfect time, Dr. Grace,” Stratt says, and Grace feels a strange sense of foreboding settle into his stomach.

“Oh, that’s… good,” he says, though the last word comes out as more of a question.

His gaze darts to Ilyukhina again, but her expression is uncharacteristically ashen. Actually, now that he’s looking around, all of the task force look stone-faced and somber, like he’s accidentally stumbled into a wake instead of work.

“What am I in time for?” Grace asks.

Warning bells are clanging in the back of his mind. When he glances at the door, he stiffens as he realizes Carl is standing by it, expression pinched. It’s almost like…

“Do you, um, need me to help with something?”

“You could say that,” Stratt says. A flicker of something passes across her face, but she quickly fixes it back into a mask of forced neutrality. “As I was saying, our mission has hit a bit of a… snag.”

Grace nods slowly. “What kind of…?”

“Dubois and Shapiro are in the hospital,” Yáo says, cutting to the chase.

“Wait, what?!” Grace’s eyes widen until they feel like they’re about to pop out of his head, “How did- what?!”

“There was an accident in one of the labs,” Stratt says, tone clipped. “They’re both stable, thankfully, but they are in no shape to recover in the time frame we’ve planned.”

“Oh fudge,” Grace blurts before he can stop himself. He can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed in the way he’d usually be. “What do we- how are we-?” His words are all trying to exit his mouth so fast they trip over themselves. “What are we going to do?!”

“That is the question,” Stratt says, motioning to the words on the screen. “I’ll be frank, we don’t have the time to train up another science officer. The launch window is in less than a week, and we don’t know if we’ll have another shot once the station passes out of range on its current orbital trajectory. This is our only window.”

She gives him a hard look, as if Grace might suddenly have some brilliant answer to the problem. Grace swallows, but his head is completely blank. He’s still reeling from trying to process both Dubois and Shapiro being out of commission.

How on earth had that happened?! What had gone wrong in the labs?! Was it something they should all be worried about as well? No, focus!

“Well,” Grace licks his suddenly dry lips, “The other candidates-“

“Aren’t far enough up to speed,” Stratt says, though not unkindly. “Flight training is easy enough for an amateur at this point. Possessing the scientific knowhow…”

There’s a heavy pause after her words. Grace realizes that everyone in the room is staring at him again. It takes a second for the penny to drop.

“Wait- you- you can’t be serious!” He stutters. His blood runs cold as he stares into Stratt’s unblinking eyes. She’d never been one to make jokes before, and he doubts she’d start now but this was… this was… “That’s ridiculous!”

“You are the only option, Dr. Grace,” she says, folding her hands in front of her. “You are familiar with our objective, and you have the skills that will be necessary to successfully complete it. You have my full confidence.”

As if that’s all that was missing

Grace laughs, though it’s more from hysteria than anything else. “I- I’m not an astronaut!” When he continues to get blank stares he says, a little louder, “I’m not an astronaut! I won’t- I don’t know how to survive in space!”

Never mind that just getting to the abandoned space station would be at least seven months one way and another seven coming back. Just the thought of leaving the ground for more than a few minutes has Grace’s guts tying themselves in knots so violently he thinks he might be sick with it. The half-digested remains of his breakfast burrito churn alarmingly in his stomach.

“It’s for less than two years,” Stratt says, as if he’d never spoken, “You will be fairly compensated for your trouble, and we have done everything in our power to ensure the safety of the mission. Really, all you’ll have to do is go out there, collect some samples, and come home.”

“You- you can’t just make me-!” Grace blusters. He pales as he realizes that Carl has shifted slightly to be standing right in front of the exit instead of next to it.

“Hey, don’t worry,” Ilyukhina says, offering Grace a tentative smile, “We’ll make sure this is as quick and painless as possible!”

“We won’t take any unnecessary risks,” Yáo agrees. “You’re in good hands.”

“And we’ll get to celebrate a bunch of holidays together, huh?” Ilyukhina sounds like she’s trying to stay upbeat, “I hear Stratt’s loaded nearly every movie and video game onto the ship already! It’ll be like a vacation!”

Grace’s mouth opens and closes a few times. “This is crazy! This is-“

Stratt lets out a long breath through her nose. “Dr. Grace. We can do this the easy way, or the hard way.”

“Now, Stratt,” Yáo says, brow furrowing, “I don’t want anyone unwilling-“

“He’s not unwilling,” Stratt says, her eyes never leaving Grace. “He knows what’s at stake. And deep down, he’s a scientist. I’m hardly expecting you to die in space, Dr. Grace. This is a research mission, plain and simple. Now, what is your answer?”

Grace swallows dryly and feels his throat stick. He stares at the screen, the words ‘Next Steps’ burning into his retinas. He’s never done well with peer pressure, especially not when so many eyes are on him. He looks at the door again, but Carl just shakes his head slightly.

A bizarre sort of calm settles over Grace’s shoulders. He’s pretty sure he’s going to be sick in the bathroom right after this. Maybe he should have skipped breakfast after all. He lets out a shaky breath.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

There's a familiar knock at the door, the same quickfire four-count as always; a staccato ta-ta-ta-tap. 

Simon picks it up even through the comfortable muffle of his headphones, through the swaying, lilting instrumental of the game’s background music. The knock grabs his attention as immediately as it ever does, a response so Pavlovian that he's eternally grateful for the stellar background noise suppression of modern audio software. He certainly doesn't need Chat (proper noun, collective) to learn the pattern by which four little beats can open his ribcage like a goddamn treasure chest, beating heart ripe for the taking.

Or something.

He slides the headphones off and lets them fall to rest around his neck, half lost amidst the dark waves of his hair. At the same time he swivels his chair with an easy push of a single foot to face towards the doorway to his right. Just in time to see the handle twist, and the door pushes inward into that very practiced, perfectly acute angle Ryland has perfected for unobtrusively checking in while Simon's streaming. 

Chat is already lighting up, clued in by the telltale shift in Simon's attention and posture, the abandonment of his headphones. Well-versed by now in this little ritual that has become an evidently beloved stream-tradition. Words and emotes are flying by in the dedicated window on his second monitor, a gleeful chorus of PAPA STARs and RETURN OF THE KINGs and SCIENCE SNACK BREAKs. 

Through the opened gap in the doorway, Ryland peeks into the room, smile already in place and glasses somehow gone already askew in the space between here and their kitchen. Truly a cosmic mystery, Ryland Grace’s quantum glasses. It feels like sometimes Simon blinks and the things are in a new spot. 

(Chat would get a kick out of that ‘Papa Star' lore drop, but Simon's not quite that generous. There's a greedy little animal somewhere in his head or heart that likes to hoard pieces of Ryland for himself. A seabed keeping its treasures.)

Ryland's quantum lenses briefly catch the light from the mandatory Streamer Moody LED Setup™️ within— soft purple tonight— as he pokes his head through the doorway. “Am I good?” he asks, a shoulder bobbing in request for entry. Knowing full well the answer, always, but never failing to ask anyways.

Simon pauses the game and swaps his gameplay and cam windows on the stream without needing to look, the motion rote. He sees his own face briefly in profile on the stream preview, limned in that same violet. And yeah, he's well aware he wears his heart right on his sleeve and all over his face in regards to his partner, thanks. He doesn't need to read the rapid roll of Chat all declaring HEART EYES to know he's not exactly subtle. 

“Always good, starshine,” Simon replies, purposefully hammy. He can feel his own smile tug up into his cheek, lifting a hand to beckon the other man in. Ryland shoulders the door open so he can pass, and a rectangle of soft gold light from the hall cuts into the room. Stepping over the threshold, he shifts the bowl precariously balanced in the crook of his elbow to a free hand and pads over to the desk.

It's a familiar routine, and Ryland knows his marks. They have gaffers tape on the floor, for fucks sake, having long since mapped out precisely where Ryland can move within the room while still never revealing anything above the collarbones. And, again, Simon's quite fine with keeping those collarbones to himself. He's greedy, sue him. 

Simon stays seated as Ryland steps over beside his chair. A quick peek at the stream window verifies there's nothing immediately identifiable to be seen; just the soft sleeve of a sweater, the band of a nondescript watch at the wrist, short-bitten fingernails. 

Chat is, of course, acting like they're being treated to a full boudoir set. It is a nice wrist, Simon will concede.

He brings a hand up to the small of Ryland's back in thanks as a mug of steaming tea is deposited in the customary desk space left clear for exactly that. “Your perfect, very talented, and probably really hot spouse is here to bring you tea and monosaccharides,” Ryland announces, sporting enough to angle his voice towards the mic. Simon snorts. (He can see the exact moment ‘monosaccharides’ hits Chat, parroted back dozens of times and with letters in every conceivable order.)

“Yeah, yeah,” Simon drawls, voice low and fond. “That's definitely the totally normal way I am always introducing you.” The camera catches just enough of Ryland's shrug. Out of sight, Simon's thumb idly traces the dip of Ryland's spine through the plush knit of his sweater. Another little treasure to hoard.

From Ryland's other hand, a bowl of grapes joins the tea upon the desk. Simon snorts when his partner also sets a pair of chopsticks down with an audible clack atop the bowl. It's in clear view of the camera, and Chat whirls again into a higher gear, confused and delighted and crowing. 

Simon doesn't react— he's a professional. But there's a twist of amusement and affection and something like pride that curls up warmly behind his ribs and settles in to stay. Ryland certainly knows how to play for the audience sometimes. 

Not to be outdone in his own goddamn stream, he catches Ryland's hand as it withdraws with a single purloined grape. Leaning over and down and hauling Ryland's wrist up, Simon grabs the grape with his teeth and steals it back. “‘Kay, wow, rude,” Ryland huffs, tone colored warm with laughter. Simon is gratified to see the messages scroll faster for that than the chopsticks.

There's what passes for a quiet moment as Ryland lingers there beside the desk, pawing a few grapes up and out of the stream’s view. Simon takes a slow draw of his tea, always unhurried in the time they share. “You know,” Ryland says, thoughtful now around a cheekfull of grapes. Simon glances up at him, mug still at his lips, and watches his partner read the comments firing up across the second screen. “I don't think you ever actually introduced me, so that's why I got assigned Papa Star.”

Simon huffs again, his breath chasing a curl of steam from the tea. He sets it back on the desk, and twists his chair a bit more so it gently jostles where Ryland leans against the armrest. He has his undivided attention. “What, you don't like Papa Star?” Fighting words; Chat will have a field day with that. 

From his vantage, Simon has the pleasure of watching Ryland give him A Look™️. Head tipped toward a shoulder, nose crinkled. For benefit of the stream, Ryland raises a hand and holds it flat, palm to the floor, and then wobbles it side to side. “Ehhh,” he hedges, “I mean, don't get me wrong. It's cute! But a little… juvenile?”

It's Simon's turn to return A Look™️, brows popped as he leans back in the chair to really sell his surprise as he watches his partner. He's really enjoyed this past decade with Ryland, and it's just a real shame he's about to have to watch an internet mob rend the love of his life limb from limb.

Chat may never recover, rejected by their Papa Star.

“Juvenile,” Simon repeats, tone flat enough to walk across blindfolded. 

A quick glance confirms, a field of OH NOs and PAPA STAR WHY WE LOVE YOUs rocketing across the monitor. Undeterred, Ryland continues on. “Yeah, like… why Papa and not Father Star? I could be Daddy Star.” To his credit, Ryland keeps his voice level. But Simon gets to see Ryland glance down at him, glasses still at a totally useless angle but eyes bright, a sliver of canine showing as he bites his lip to keep composure through the smile. It's the sort of smile that’s best suited to start on one mouth and end on another. Simon wants to bite him back. He feels a muscle in his jaw jump as he stares up at Ryland, both doing their best to stay neutral.

“You can't say the word ‘fuck’ but you think you can be Daddy Star?” Simon fires back, completely composed. Ryland shrugs again, and steals another grape, pops it into his mouth. It rounds out his words as he speaks around it, vowels blurring. “I can say that, it's just a professional consideration not to.”

“Okay then, say fuck.”

“I have a reputation to uphold!”

“Yeah, a reputation that made you Papa Star. Daddy Star says fuck.”

“I'm leaving, have fun,” Ryland pouts and pushes himself off the edge of Simon's chair with a hip, hands up as he retreats out of stream view. Well-practiced around those marks on the floor. The smile finally wins its way across Simon's face. 

Chat avalanches, flush with caps and LET PAPA SAY FUCKs but a highlighted message catches his eye. 

Ryland is almost out the door, but obligingly turns back around when Simon calls after him with a “Hey, babe.”

He blinks indulgently at Simon, who points to the grapes by way of explanation. “Chat wants their Science Snack Science Fact.” It's gratifying to watch Ryland roll his eyes and give in to another grin. 

“Seahorses transmit wifi!” Ryland chirps from the doorway. 

“Absolutely not,” Simon purrs right into the mic, eyes fixed on his retreating partner. 

Ryland's out into the hall, backing away and closing the door into his own face— and again the glasses are at another new and jaunty angle— but he still raises his voice for the mic to pick up. “Bananas are radioactive!” 

The door clicks closed, and Simon plonks his headset back on, turns back to properly face his monitors and camera. That warm weight lingers behind his sternum, threading pretty as filigree along his ribs. 

Swapping the inputs back around again, shrinking the cam back to its usual corner, brings the endless scroll of Chat again across his eyeline. Simon shakes his head and levels a stare right down the barrel of his camera. It's endless THANK YOU SCIENCE DADDYs and DADDY STARs. 

“Alright, Chat, emote-only jail for five minutes,” he declares. Then crowds the mic again. “If anyone is Daddy here, it's me.” Let them go wild about that. It'll make Ryland laugh later when he inevitably finds it clipped. He pops a grape into his mouth with the chopsticks just to prove some pointless point, clicks back in and resumes the game. Half an hour more and he can go aggressively cuddle his better half into their couch. 

Simon's not sure what he did in a past life to deserve such a good turn in this one, but he's certainly not going to complain.

(... He might need to ban the word 'daddy' in chat for a few streams, though.)