Chapter Seventeen
Vel'aan
Three months later, we wake before dawn, as always. Alex groans and burrows deeper into my side, his warm feet seeking mine under the blanket as he pulls me closer.
"Too early," he mumbles into my shoulder, but he's already kissing the skin there.
"The zhik'ra doesn't care."
"The zhik'ra is patient." His hand trails down my chest. "Five more minutes?"
"You said that twenty minutes ago."
"And it was the best twenty minutes." He grins against my skin. "Want another twenty?"
I laugh, pulling him on top of me. "We'll be late."
"We're always late. That's why we wake up early." He kisses me properly now, slow and deep. "Besides, I like starting the day with you."
Eventually, we do get up. Alex pads naked to the kitchen while I find our work clothes—his are more patches than original fabric now, but he refuses to get new ones. Says they're finally comfortable.
"Want some?" He offers me the bowl of cold rice he's eating with his fingers.
"There's proper breakfast."
"This is perfect." He feeds me a bite, then licks the rice off my lips. "See? Delicious."
The water, when we reach it, is cold enough to shock but Alex whoops as he jumps in—his morning ritual of joy that still makes me smile.
"Fuck, that's refreshing!" He surfaces, grinning. "Race you to Section A?"
He's still a terrible swimmer, but his enthusiasm is infectious. I let him get a head start, then easily catch up, swimming beneath him to run my hands along his legs. He kicks at me, laughing.
The sky is just starting to lighten as we reach Section A—that grey pre-dawn that makes everything look soft and dreamlike. We can see well enough to work, though the deeper water is still black beneath us.
The work is routine—check the storm damage from two nights ago, clear tangled growth, replant where needed. I dive deep to check anchors while Alex handles the surface work, his hands steady and sure in the dim light.
When the sun finally rises properly, we're already three sections in.
Alex floats on his back for a moment, letting the warmth hit his face.
I notice the new definition in his shoulders, the way months of swimming have changed his body.
He's still soft in places—his stomach, his thighs—but there's strength there now that wasn't before.
"Better," he sighs.
I surface next to him after checking another anchor. "The deep lines held."
"Good." He's not really listening, just floating. I watch him—the way the early light turns his skin golden, the way his chest rises and falls, the scatter of bruises on his throat from last night.
A communication alert sounds from the platform. We both look.
"Probably Finn," Alex says, swimming over to check. "Yeah, dinner next week. All of us." He looks at me. "Want to go?"
"Do you?"
He thinks about it while treading water. "Maybe? I like Finn. And Tev'ra makes me laugh. But..." He swims back to me. "I also like our quiet evenings."
"We could go for an hour," I suggest. "Show our faces, eat, leave early."
"Perfect." He kisses me quickly. "See? We're getting good at this compromise thing."
Another farmer waves from the distance, and we wave back—the extent of our social interaction most days, which suits us both perfectly.
"We should keep working."
"We should." But he doesn't move, and neither do I.
We float there together, legs occasionally bumping, until a wave larger than the rest breaks over us and Alex comes up sputtering.
"Ocean's telling us to work," he gasps, wiping water from his eyes.
By midday, my shoulders ache and Alex's hands are cramping from gripping tools, but he's humming something from Earth while he works.
We take a break on one of the floating platforms, sharing water from the bottle we keep there. Alex drinks first, water running down his chin, dripping onto his chest. He passes it to me, then lies back on the sun-warmed platform with a contented sigh.
"Perfect," he says.
"Your shoulder is bleeding."
He looks at the scrape from earlier. "Battle scar. Makes me look tough."
"You look like you lost a fight with a platform."
"The platform started it." He grins up at me. "How much more?"
"Three sections."
"Excellent. We'll be done before the afternoon current gets bad." He sits up, stretches. "I love this."
"Being injured?"
"Being here. Doing this. With you." He stands, pulls me up with him. "Come on, let's finish so we can go home and do absolutely nothing except each other."
The afternoon work is harder—we're tired, the sun is brutal, and the current picks up. But Alex laughs when a wave catches him off guard, sending him spinning.
By the time we head home, we can barely swim straight. Alex is doing a kind of exhausted dogpaddle that would be embarrassing if anyone was watching. I'm not much better.
The shower at the platform is heaven. Alex stands under it with his eyes closed, letting it rinse the minerals away. Water runs down his body in rivulets, and despite my exhaustion, I want him.
"Tonight," he says without opening his eyes. "Whatever you're thinking, tonight. I'm too dead now."
At home, I start dinner while Alex lies on the floor, but he's tapping his feet against the wall, restless despite his exhaustion.
"What are you making?" he asks.
"Steamed wraps with protein paste."
He makes a face I can see even from the kitchen. "Again?"
"It's nutritious."
"It's boring." He rolls to his feet, joins me at the counter. "Let me make something too. Fish and chips."
"Fish and what?"
"Fried potato-things. Earth comfort food." He's already at the synthesizer, typing in what he needs. "You can have your wraps, I'll have my heart attack food, we'll share both."
We end up eating on the floor as always, the mix of foods strange but somehow perfect—his greasy fish and chips next to my carefully wrapped rolls. He feeds me a chip, laughs when I grimace at the oil.
"Too much?"
"It's very... coated."
"That's the point." He steals one of my kelp wraps, dips it in the leftover oil. "See? Cultural fusion."
"That's disgusting."
"That's delicious." He licks his fingers, getting oil on his chin. "I love that we eat like this. No rules, no proper dishes, just us on the floor eating weird combinations."
"Pool?" I ask when we're done.
"We should clean up."
We strip on the way to the pool, leaving a trail of clothes. The warm water is almost painful on our abused muscles. I sink in with a groan that Alex immediately mocks.
"Listen to you. And you say I complain."
"I don't complain, I state facts."
"You're stating facts very loudly."
He moves through the water toward me, and I recognize the look in his eyes. "Alex, we're both exhausted."
"Never too exhausted for you." He straddles my lap, hands sliding up my chest. "Besides, the warm water helps with the soreness."
"We have to wake up in six hours."
"Five and a half now." He kisses my neck, just above my gills, knowing exactly how sensitive that spot is. "Haven't you had enough of me yet?"
"Never," I murmur against his skin, but even as I say it, I can feel his exhaustion through the bond. His movements are slow, lazy, more about closeness than actual desire.
I pull him against me properly, his chest to mine, and we just hold each other in the warm water. His hands trace the scratches on my back from yesterday's work, gentle over the tender spots.
"We're a mess," he observes.
"We're always a mess." I run my fingers through his wet hair, working out some of the salt tangles. "Your shoulder needs cleaning."
"It's fine."
"It'll get infected."
"You just want to fuss." But he turns so I can see the scrape better. It's not deep, but it's ugly—a long red line from his shoulder blade to mid-back.
I clean it carefully while he hisses through his teeth. "Baby," I tease.
"Your bedside manner is terrible." He turns back around, settling against me again. He yawns against my shoulder. "We should probably get out before we fall asleep and drown."
"You can't drown anymore. You're too good a swimmer now."
"Liar. I'm terrible and you know it."
"You're adequate."
"High praise." He kisses me softly, just lips and warmth and familiar comfort. "Bed?"
We dry off minimally, stumble to bed still damp. The sheets will be wet, but we're too tired to care.
Alex is asleep almost instantly, one arm flung across my chest, snoring softly. His weight pins me in place, but I don't mind.
Through the window, I can see stars beginning to appear. The night sounds of the colony drift in—distant voices, water against supports, the ever-present hum of life continuing around us.
This is our existence now. Wake too early, work until we can barely move, eat, sleep, repeat. No variety, no excitement, no grand purpose. Just the rhythm of days blending into each other, marked only by storms and tides and how many new bruises we've given each other in the dark.
Ten years ago, I accidentally kidnapped a dying teenager from an alley. Now he's drooling on my chest, exhausted from farming, his body marked by my hands and his hands scarred from my work.
"Love you," he mumbles in his sleep, tightening his arm around me.
"Love you too," I whisper back.
Tomorrow we'll wake before dawn. He'll complain playfully. I'll coax him to the water. We'll work until we're dead tired. We'll come home and do it all again.
It's perfect.
It's everything.
It's ours.
The End