A N D R O M E D A

“You’re a sky full of stars”

Dexter takes pride in piloting Serenity, especially when landing her like she’s a delicate butterfly landing on the flimsiest of flowers. Every stellar landing he pulls off is celebrated with a cocky eyebrow waggle in Kinam’s direction to fan the fires of competition. Without proper education or training he’d be considered by most grossly under-qualified for the job, and knowing that fact made him all the more insufferable. But, being needed elsewhere, he cut the gloating short. Wearing a hoodie of light blue and worn canvas shoes, he hurried out from Serenity’s belly (after stopping to tell a couple bad jokes) to meet Sully - who inexplicable, made him kind of nervous. 

At the entrance Sullivan’s silhouette fixed into focus, and he swallowed the tiny lump of anxiety that begun building in his throat. Six months into his stay on Serenity he grew accustomed to their steward’s natural expression that at best, appears bored with the world and all of its inhabitants. However, the Bitch Face is extra powerful today, and he begins to feel guilty for messing around earlier. In a rush, Dexter hops onto the railing, slides down, lands with a practiced grace, and walks to Sully with a genuine, rising smile. He keeps it when he’s scolded (or, it feels like a scolding), and the smiles grows when hit with the sound of his name. Maybe he’s winning him over by now?

“Sorry, Sully” he apologizes, but can’t force his face to be still and serious. Most respond well to friendly, except Sullivan, who to him is guarded with formality, and he has always hated formalities. “Hey, you didn’t call me mister” he grins and nudges him with his elbow in good nature, then looks out to the port, busy with colorful crowds and the flicker of neon advertising. The planet is small and not extraordinary enough for tourism, and barely appealing enough for living. Thus, it’s perfect for a disjointed group of smugglers, just like themselves. “Let’s get going” he insists, glancing to Sully’s intimidating stare, then back to the landscape of industry and humanity. 

As they descend into the strip he notices oddest traits of this place as the electronica that plays quietly on the street speakers and the apparent popularity of fanny packs among the general public. “What do you need to get?” Dexter asks, tearing himself away from the spectacle that is this strange, new place. He tries to refocus on the task and stares at Sullivan’s profile, but instead something catches his eye across the street: LEDs that blinked excitedly, the glow of blacklight, and all the other tell-tale signs of an arcade. “Wait. What is that?”

Sullivan can barely keep himself from rolling his eyes as Dexter slides down the railing into the cargo bay. Despite thinking he actually looked pretty cool (which he will NEVER admit) he’s not finished being cross due to having to wait an extra handful of minutes more than he would have liked and Dexter’s smile isn’t helping his case. There isn’t anything particularly wrong with his smile. In fact, it’s rather nice as far as smiles go. However, that doesn’t mean Sullivan appreciates the warmth of his expression or the goodwill behind it. Especially not when certain people go flashing them around at anyone and everything; as if they mean absolutely nothing. A smile from Sullivan is as rare as a blue moon and it makes them rather special in the estimation of those who are aware of this knowledge.

Dexter’s apology helps a little bit but pointing out that he’d forced himself to call the war veteran by his first name washes the steward’s cheeks with a rosy hue and increases the sourness in his expression. The nudge, another gesture undoubtedly meant to make things a little less awkward and bring them closer to ‘friendly,’ is poorly received. Arms crossed tightly over his chest and body rigid, as always, Sullivan’s thin frame ends up off-kilter from the tap of his elbow and he has to widen his stance in order to not fall over completely. Dexter only earns himself another glare for all his gestures.

Sullivan huffs softly, reminding himself that he needs to be polite...as polite as he can be and try to salvage the rough start to their errands before the entire outing is spoiled, but being the small and cranky person he is, that doesn’t come very easily to him. He too looks over the landscape when Dexter does the same, flashing neon lights catch his eyes but he quickly dismisses them. Work first...work, work, work. He unclenches his clipboard from his chest to reference the stops they need to make as to properly inform his assistant but he looks up upon hearing Dexter’s second question and the small amount of effort he’d put into calming himself is completely wasted.

“You’re really weird… but I like that”

sysullivan:

“I…I WANT WHAT’S IN THAT BAG…HAND IT OVER…OR ELSE.”

He’s torn. With all the might of a whole sled of huskies, Cyrus has mastered the poker face over the years, but this was all too comical. The man before him seemed harmless. That being said, he has also learned over the years never to trust a book by its cover, so there is a chance that this lithe man is potentially the dangerous one in this vicinity. Enclosed by the walls of the alley, and barren street, there is a high probability that this statement that passed his mind was entirely false. He risked it, and raised his brows in anticipation of what- he wasn’t quite sure yet. Surprise him. 

“You can’t be serious.” 

Cyrus didn’t move, not hiding the possession in his side nor moving closer or away. Unless the stranger was a very fantastic actor, it seemed with the eye’s analysis that endurance was not one of his traits- the freelancer would have heard running footsteps behind him, and there was naught. Perhaps this was a red herring of sorts- a good distraction that was the ultimate ploy for a bigger task at hand, and his client to see if he would qualify.

So his back straightened, and Cyrus squared his shoulders, facing the shorter male head on, walking closer. Choices, decisions, skepticism and hysteria all whirling in his mind as he had both plan A and plan B in his palms. Still. There was something so…. genuine about this reaction that it felt like the fatigue was not feigned. So he holds unto his plans, and waited it out.

“You’re not very threatening, I’ll have you know.” Stating the obvious here, but there was no time for pleasantries, considering the only statements the mere strangers have shared in their time together. 

He’s more than an arm length away after his slow steps towards the peculiar man, but he’s entertaining it ( Cyrus better not regret this, because there have been times where the joke is on him, but it’s been a long time since that and he hated how he had to disappear off the grid from that planet for a few rotations. Let’s not revisit that because he got a little cocky and bored… ) 

“But alright, I’ll bite. Or else… what? What are you going to do?” 

Sullivan had quite the predicament on his hands at this point. He could already hear Jaewon shouting in the back of his mind, scolding him for doing risky things on his own, for even leaving the ship by himself considering the track record he had with getting into trouble or ending up lost. But how was he supposed to ask for help when he was trying to keep things secret?! The fact that he was trying to work on his own was what was making the situation that much more complicated. He was already very worried he would end up getting ripped off and in an attempt to keep that from happening he was now in a potentially dangerous situation.

If they were going by doing and saying the wrong things, Sullivan was apparently doing a fantastic job. The courier held his ground for what felt like much too long, certainly after Sullivan had just issued him a very intimidating challenge. His breath still came in short little gasps despite having come to a stop in the last minute or so, a good indication that he was indeed in pretty poor physical condition but also that he was still in a panic, on the verge of fight or flight mode.

When Cyrus straightened his back and shoulders, Sullivan’s breath hitched in his throat, eyes widening when he turned to face him. He really, really hoped he didn’t look as scared as he suddenly felt. As Cyrus began moving closer to him, Sullivan’s eyes continued to widen, breath held. He hadn’t been thinking the person would be this good, to be honest? Clearly, he was very skilled if he’d managed to detect Sullivan following him, but he was also quite intimidating and possibly capable of adequately protecting the item he’d hired him to deliver. 

“You’re not very threatening, I’ll have you know.”

Sullivan balked, momentarily insulted, but he couldn’t focus on his damaged pride for long since Cyrus kept walking closer to him. He’d seen through his facade easily (although just about anyone would) and Sullivan was at a complete loss as to what to do even before Cyrus asked him point blank what this so-called ‘or else’ was going to be. He looked around, blinking hair and sweat out of his eyes, almost visibly struggling to think up something, anything, to salvage the situation but after opening and closing his mouth a few times he still had nothing.

[ ☀️ ]

“well, that’s the thing though, sullivan,” he murmurs low, his arms coming back around the shorter male, this time a little more confident, a little stronger, his legs doing their best to remember the steps while his lungs remember to continue breathing. “it’s impossible for me to not think of you while i’m holding you; everything about you is too unique to confuse with someone else.” even if he closed his eyes, he’d still be able to tell, so he doesn’t even try, again refocusing his eyes on sullivan’s face so he can remember the counting.

it’s precisely because it is sullivan that’s why jaewon is so nervous— isn’t that obvious? he suddenly wonders if what he’s saying though is about to backfire, making the other leave him alone to learn this shit on his own. “i’m… it’s hard for me to be this close to someone, you know. makes me a terrible student, of course, but even though i don’t like you seeing me this way, you’re sort of the only person i can ask for this.” he pauses, his discomfort growing exponentially, having exposed that much vulnerability. this is not a conversation he ever wants to have again. “you know that right?”

Sullivan had been doing his best to give Jaewon an escape when telling him to pretend it was someone else teaching him to dance. If he wanted, Jaewon could shut those magnificent golden eyes and decide it was someone else in his arms; someone he’d want to have there. Sullivan was slight enough; small enough to disappear and easily be replaced with whomever the Captain preferred, or at least, that’s what he’d believed.

However, as seemed to be the rule with Captain Yang, he took the practical and logical conclusion Sullivan had drawn, stomped on it a few times, stabbed it, shot it, and flushed it right out the airlock. The steward could feel the difference in Jaewon’s hold as he took him into his embrace again and paired with that rumbling murmur, Sullivan’s heart lurched and constricted inside his chest. He was already looking at Jaewon’s face as he continued speaking, gaze attaching itself to his lips as he began saying things Sullivan honestly couldn’t believe he was hearing.

“It’s impossible for me to not think of you while I’m holding you; everything about you is too unique to confuse with someone else.”

Sullivan’s eyes were wide, half vacant as he tried to dispell intimate connotations spoken at such an intimate proximity. ‘While I’m holding you...’ Sullivan’s head was sent spinning counterclockwise to the rotation of their slow waltz. This was supposed to be a lesson. A simple instruction; put your hands like this, move your feet like this, and keep doing it like this until you memorize it. Yes, technically Jaewon was holding him...but to say it...with his soft and gruff voice, with those lips inches from eye level, with no one else in the room to distract Sullivan from the irrefutable magnetism of the man who commanded him, to keep him too embarrassed and afraid of looking foolish in front of others to redefine what had been said into what his hopelessly romantic, lonely, and self-sabotaging heart wanted him to hear.

To make matters worse, he attached it to a compliment that absolutely tickled the validation-starved young man. To say Sullivan was flustered, was an understatement. His cheeks had already been aflame but Jaewon being tender with him, showing him, verbalizing the vulnerability Sullivan could already see and feel, was only worsening his condition. Was there a shade redder than scarlet? He felt like his cheeks must have turned purple by this point; his undesirable heart beating wildly in his chest. He’d just admitted that this situation wasn’t easy for him either, but his dear, precious Captain had misunderstood his complaint.

Sullivan had plenty of experience dancing certainly, but did Jaewon really think he had ever been able to dance like this with another man? Sullivan, for all his missteps and fumbles into dangerous situations, is very careful when it comes to his ego, his pride, his reputation. Did Jaewon think he would openly reveal how weak and soft he truly is in front of the scrutiny of strange faces in a crowd? Did he think Sullivan would let his guard down this far for anyone else but him? There isn’t anyone else he has ever trusted like he does Jaewon. No one else he’s placed his faith in like the tempestuous soul in front of him.

“It’s hard for me to be this close to someone, you know. Makes me a terrible student, of course, but even though I don’t like you seeing me this way, you’re sort of the only person I can ask for this. You know that, right?”

Sullivan exhales a shaky breath from somewhere deep within him, feeling his racing heart begin to calm, soothed by Jaewon’s effort to communicate with him. “I know, Captain.” It’s a vow; a promise and the whisper he manages is dredged in too much empathy. He truly understands what Jaewon is saying to him but it doesn’t change how Sullivan feels or how he’ll treat Jaewon. “You don’t have to worry,” he insists softly, breaking his gaze from the captain’s because his head is still spinning too quickly. He lays it on the man’s shoulder instead, trying to focus on comforting Jaewon instead of how the heat from his cheek must be burning through his shirt and into his tentacled shoulder.

His fingers gently tap the beat against Jaewon’s shoulderblade but he is liquid in his arms, softness melded to hot, iron framework. He moves intuitively as Jaewon leads and finds the pace that suits him while easing into the rhythm that pulses through Sullivan’s veins and out of his fingertips. Even in his bleak musicless existence, Sullivan can feel the metronome’s tick in his soul; unwavering. 

another day, another job. that’s all it was. the way others treated an accounting job, or a position in the army, or in the alliance- this was how he viewed his own occupation as well. though there were much less limitations in his idea. his own hours, and his own timeline (to an extent. after all, no one can teleport quite yet.

there’s a new task that comes his way, and he’s not intrigued. in fact, he barely bats an eye. deliver documents to londinium? he’s heard of more difficult things. couldn’t this have been mailed in… you know, the mail transport system? mark him as not-so-intrigued, but a job was a job and he barely glances at the sealed thick envelope before placing it in his bag. no creases.

it’s not that he is necessarily disinterested, but the less he knows, the better. he learned that the hard way, when there were some previous jobs where he’d gotten too personal with the subject, or a call too close, where blood did have to be shed. and cyrus would rather not have to repeat that experience. 

it’s only when he actually ventures off, feeling as if he were going for an errand to grab his morning coffee than anything else. and that is why he preferred to not know the identity of his deliveries- because there was no point in getting minutely riled up over something that he had no personal vesting in. except when there were past projects that were high in security and of extreme stress, that- while cyrus would not admit, would likely have him sweating slightly more than the normal circumstance. he doesn’t know if he likes that burden. hm. and so he’s off on his way, treating it like an afternoon stroll, blending into his surroundings of the planet’s civilization. 

it’s only a quarter of the way when he notices he’s got a shadow. in the form of a lithe gentleman who doesn’t want to appear noticed. ( but he is, the stranger is not invisible by any means ) and it’s annoying, like an itch he cannot scratch and it drives cyrus batty with every detour that his shadow follows. hm. seriously, who sent him on this journey, with what documents to this dropoff? stilling slowly, he glances where the envelope burns a hole in his bag but he doesn’t move to change his movements, continuing his pace, only slower. he hopes he doesn’t have to use whatever weaponry he has on him, but the stranger seems… harmless enough thus far, with what hazards that were not presented. 

“i know you’re there…” he says, if not awkwardly to the seemingly empty surrounding, stopped in his position as he doesn’t turn to face behind him, waiting to see if they would come out. 

It’s pretty much common knowledge and not easily dismissable as a misconception. He’s a creature of habit. He finds comfort in structure, in the ‘known.’ He’s a fan of order and guidelines; of organization, practicality, and efficiency. It doesn’t mean he’s completely uninteresting. Even reclusive, snippy, little Sullivan, with his clipboard and his red checkmarks and his naps and fine clothing; has secrets.

Maybe not the kind of secrets the other crew and passengers boast (or keep buried within), but still, Sullivan has dreams and aspirations. He has goals and desires and passions. He’s just very careful about how and with whom he shares them with. When you’re extremely self-conscious, borderline paranoid and happen to run with a group that’s predominantly contributing sources of a criminal element, it’s a bit harder to decide who to trust with such things.

Three years ago...

Sullivan had taken quite a risk in submitting an anonymous short story for publication. Not an actual risk involving danger or harm; he just hates rejection that much. But, he hadn’t been rejected. In fact, his story had been so popular that the magazine requested the author contact them to discuss terms of a quarterly or even monthly segment. Deciding on a pen name was the hardest task. Much more difficult than setting up a few dummy accounts for his payment to be routed, rerouted and then deposited. Mailing his work was easy then too. They were in and out of ports so frequently, at one corner of the ‘verse and then another; not at all easy to track.

The success that followed still doesn’t seem quite real to Sullivan. After all, it’s a secret. The credit is not his to take and it’s not something he can share with anyone - especially the people he lives with...the people whose lives and personalities he’s rearranged around in that whimsical head of his to create his own misfit crew of rebels. In the strangest twist of fate, Sullivan’s stories became wildly popular on Alliance-heavy planets; predominantly in the Core itself. City folk can’t get enough of the adventures and the renegade lifestyle that is borderline alien to their own.

His series was picked up by the most widely spread publication in the ‘verse; a publication that the crew picks up on the regular, no less! Maintaining his anonymity and the anonymity of their operation had always been a huge concern to Sullivan but especially with this latest development. He wasn’t even sure he could continue if he couldn’t do so securely, after all, Jaewon would be the first to boot him out the airlock if he led the Alliance to their door.

The enlistment of a courier became a necessity, but going back to that whole extremely self-conscious and borderline paranoid thing, choosing one wasn’t easy for Sullivan. Unfortunately for Cyrus, Sullivan was his client. A client who was struggling both with keeping up with him and keeping track of him. You can forget about his cover, he blew that long before Cyrus stopped him in a lonesome stretch of alley and confronted him.

Sullivan had been doing his best to creep back and forth between the dumpsters and heaps of discarded ship parts like he’d seen Kafka do on various occasions. He envied the way the thief moved, like liquid and shadow. In a flash and then just as suddenly in slow motion; silent. Sullivan was not any of that. He was hot and wheezing slightly. He’d practically tripped and had already bumped into something loud enough that someone the next street over could’ve heard. Needless to say, he was about as good at tailing someone as he is at yoga.

And yet, somehow he was so surprised at being caught that he gasped, eyes wide, heart racing. It hadn’t occurred to him that Cyrus would notice him, like many situations where he ended up in danger and that hadn’t occurred to him either. He stood stalk still in the middle of the alley, breaths coming in little huffs as he tried to decide what to say...what to do. He made a very poor snap decision.

  Neo was still awake when the knock came to his door.

  He sat cross-legged on his bed, his journal out in front of him with his unusually ring-less fingers wrapped around a pen, scribbling out words and plans and things he had to do ranging somewhere from fantasy to reality. It was an odd mix that he felt surely no one else would be able to understand, sentences almost incomprehensible as they dragged off one page and onto another. His hair was in a state not commonly seen, damp from the shower he’d taken shortly beforehand and not adhering to one particular direction nor the other, causing his hand to consistently come from his lap, pushing it out of his face with each wisp that fell across his forehead. 

   He was not prepared for guests.

   Neo was known for being well-put together at all times, hair and clothes styled to always teem with his charm from inside out; a slicked-back, deadly striking, and prepared mercenary with a look to match, but at the moment the knock sounded he was more prepared to sleep than to entertain, eyes slightly hazed and his always good looks disheveled. His head snapped up as he was jolted from his thoughts, pen sliding across the paper in his momentary distraction and drawing a line clean through the page. He blinked at it for a moment before looking back to the door and pushing the journal out of his lap and into his bed, standing. His brain lagged behind his body, walking to the door and opening it before pausing to consider who it might be, exhaustion heavy despite the gut-ripping insomnia. He supposed, in a sense, he had been as close to dreaming as he often got these days.

  The sight of Sullivan, however, brought Neo back to reality quickly, eyes focusing as he dragged them down the figure in his doorway; from his hand-covered face to his clothes. He would’ve smiled naturally if he were more aware, because it was so very unlike him to desire a man who wore pink satin pajamas but even so he couldn’t help but think that they fit Sullivan perfectly. He pushed up a smile anyways, something that ended up looking quite unlike his usual Cheshire grin, all soft and weary.

  He knew what he should’ve done, he should have sent Sullivan away with an excuse, a small frown and an apology as he found himself in such a mood that failed to uphold his usual persona. He wasn’t emotionally or mentally awake enough to be charming or scary, not guarded enough to be secretive. He was powered down in a sense, almost as if he unplugged his personality and put it on a charger, his body functioning without a motherboard and his brain foggy. However, because of this, his subconscious found itself thinking, remembering something Ephraim had said to him before when he’d asked about how he fell asleep at night.

     “holdin’ on to somethin’ or someone helps me most, really…” 

    His body was grateful that his mind wasn’t home, so tired and deprived that he found himself willing to try anything, and the fact that it was Sullivan here at his door only helped soften him up in a way he was sure no one else on board would’ve been able to. ‘Seemingly harmless in pink pajamas..’ He found himself thinking, justifying. Sullivan wouldn’t take advantage of him, he wasn’t capable of it – he wouldn’t hold anything against him, even if he were to slip and say some things he didn’t really want to say. Sullivan was okay, Sullivan was safe.

   Suddenly Neo found himself needing some comfort as much as it seemed the other male did, and more so, willing to accept it as well. Besides, he knew he wanted to get closer to the steward, and ‘what’s better than vulnerability, right?’ Justification further intoned.

    Neo smiled a little warmer, his hand running through his hair again to push it off his forehead before stepping to the side. 

   “Of course, come in.” He said with a small wave, stepping away from the open door to walk back over to his bed and clear off the journal, putting it on a quickly shelf before turning back to Sullivan. Then his hand was in his hair again, almost like he was trying to get it to cooperate now that someone was there to see him. His teeth dug into the inside of his cheek when he realized what that was. 

    Insecurity.

    “It’s good that you’re here.” His smile wavered for a second before steadying again, hesitating as he debated exactly how ‘vulnerable’ he was going to allow himself to be. “I can’t say that I want to be alone tonight either.”

Sullivan had gone through an extensive array of variables on how this situation might play out on his journey toward Neo’s door. He was torn on what seemed most probable. Would Neo humor and spoil him as he was hoping or would he end up rejected and worse, have interrupted some sort of steamy illicit rendezvous? Even though he’d hoped Neo would invite him in, Sullivan was surprised when he did. Or perhaps it was something else that he found surprising or a combination of things? 

Slender fingers slowly lowered from his face, a pout on his lips that seemed somehow pleased. Eyebrows lifting over dark eyes glittering in the dim light cast into the hall from his room and Sullivan inched forward. “Really?” he peeped, his spirits lifting further when Neo signaled his entrance with a flourish and stepped away from the door. Yes, he was very pleased he’d taken the chance. 

He hadn’t been in Neo’s room before but it was exactly what he’d expected. Not gaudy or overdone but it still seemed...expensive. Deep, rich, luxurious colors and textures made the enclosed objects seem all the more alluring. Sullivan shuffled in, feeling like cotton candy next to wine and closed the door behind him as he watched his host tuck a journal from the bed onto one of his shelves. He was intrigued, to put it mildly, but certainly, the most interesting object in the room was Neo himself.

He’d never seen Neo like this before. He was...undone. 

Sullivan had been enamored with the man from minute one and realized, of course, he hadn’t even scratched the surface when it came to the enigmatic male. He was sure Neo had experienced things that even hearing the stories of would alter Sullivan from his perpetually fragile state. Neo was a performer and he seemed to always be ready for the spotlight; mask in place. Even though he’d only beheld him for a moment; half dressed, damp hair in his eyes, an almost tender smile...Sullivan was rapt.

His tiptoeing ceased when Neo turned back to him, and again, that pout reappeared. “Really?” he repeated when Neo claimed it was good that he’d come. He didn’t mean to seem surprised that Neo would want him around or even need the company of others when he was so much by himself. It was his timing that seemed so suspiciously serendipitous.

“I can’t say that I want to be alone tonight either.”

Sullivan felt his jaw drop slightly and his cheeks flushed pink as result. He quickly clamped his mouth back together, ashamed that he really was that easy to shock. Still, the concept of Neo needing someone when Neo was Neo, it was strangely comforting to Sullivan. He covered his mouth with a fist and cleared his throat as he tried to pull himself back together. “You should’ve called me right away!” he grumbled gruffly, gently scolding Neo as he came to stand before.