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On the way to the Archimedes’ engine room, Lysander laments not wearing his slippers. The metal-plated floors of the maintenance halls are positively arctic.
The low whirr of machinery is familiar. Lysander relishes how the overhead lights warm his skin. He shifts a lever to the side, waits for a near imperceptible hum, and presses his finger-pad into a scanner. Restarting the heating function now requires three attempts. It clearly needs replacement, rather than servicing.
But during the week of his birthday, Cassius becomes lethargic. Lysander notices he has less energy to expend. For the exterior of the Archimedes, verily; any scratch is promptly buffed away by Cassius' large, dedicated hands. However, the spacecraft’s interior remains neglected, as they won’t be able to land for replacements until he... recovers.
Until then, Lysander must tinker with components that should instead be upgraded.
Steadfast, Lysander returns to his prior engagement: his meal. The cockpit is dark. Martian incense thickens the air. An Andalusian rug muffles Lysander's footsteps as he approaches the co-pilot's chair.
Cassius sits in his usual spot, hair shining brilliantly with scented oils. He is clean-shaven. Prime.
“Sander! There you are," says Cassius. "I was beginning to wonder what took you so long. Did the wires give you trouble?”
Lysander settles into his chair and rests his hands in his lap. A light blinks on the metal console in front of him, recalibrated. “You ask despite knowing the answer,” he replies.
Cassius laughs at that, hearty and carefree. He gestures at Lysander with a crystal glass, which Lysander finds brazen; Cassius usually hides his whisky behind an opaque mug.
“I am simply verifying your knowledge, my goodman. I won’t always be around to help.”
Cassius smiles, bearing brilliant teeth. His tone is severe in juxtaposition.
Must he always mention that?
Lysander calmly collects his spoon. “It is difficult to eat while talking,” he remarks, not meeting his teacher’s golden gaze.
Ice clinks as Cassius raises the glass to his mouth.
“Registers.”
Lysander slides his feet into his slippers. He is thankful Cassius hadn’t noticed their absence, because he would never hear the end of it. Then, he draws a half-consumed tray of food into his lap. He enjoys gazing out of the cockpit while eating. It’s peaceful.
After a long, blissful stasis, the Archimedes veers to the left. Lysander takes a bite of the mashed potatoes, then favors his datapad for information. Cassius gave him special permission to access the system.
Lysander likes it. Control. “A large chunk of duroglass, floating six hundred kilometers away. The second one in under forty-eight hours,” he drones.
Cassius says nothing. Lysander initially believes him to be scouting, but minutes pass, and no response comes.
Cassius is somewhere else entirely. Drowning in nostalgia on Mars, Lysander reckons, judging by his choice of incense.
Lysander scrolls through possible routes; both Pytha and Cassius logged plenty of alternatives. Hovering over one of Cassius’, he speaks to himself in a hushed tone. “This will do.” His breath condenses, thinly veiling his datapad. The temperature hasn’t adjusted yet.
Lysander moves his hand to the wall and pushes a black square, opening a storage unit with a click. Slowly, he thumbs through its contents. He runs his fingers over a blue blanket. Upon it is a golden eagle. Lysander tugs the blanket from the compartment, crawls out of his chair, and lays it over Cassius.
He always liked seeing Cassius in proud blues.
Half asleep, Cassius mumbles something incomprehensible. He fumbles with the velvet-lined edge of the blanket. His fingers are clumsy. The fabric slips from his grasp, cascading onto the carpeted floor. Flaxen embroidery glitters as the eagle folds in on itself.
Something so beautiful should never lie in dirt.
Lysander stares down at the man he often looks up to. Only to see him… unable to keep a single blanket upon his body, for lack of coordination. He frowns, feeling ashamed for seeing Cassius in such a state.
Deeming it most respectful, Lysander turns to collect his tray and absconds from the cockpit.
A distant creak sounds as Cassius rolls over in his chair. Just outside the doorway, Lysander halts, his slippers squeaking against the freshly mopped floor.
Had Cassius noticed Lysander's absence? Unlikely. He is too inebriated.
“Julian?” Cassius calls out.
Lysander wishes he hadn’t heard that. His heart jolts. Raw emotion coils around his throat, muting his instinctive protest. You are mistaken, he wants to say. I did that. Why can’t you tell?
Nerve endings flare. Cassius believes that only Julian would spare him a blanket. Lysander's hands grow clammy. He recoils into the Mind’s Eye to avoid the unwelcoming prick of jealousy.
Alcohol impairs cognition. Correcting Cassius will only upset him. He doesn't need a reminder of Julian’s death. For him, the truth is bitter. Worse than black coffee.
“When you are older, you will become intimately acquainted with it,” Cassius once said, regarding its taste.
Lysander wonders why adults torture themselves with bitter things. Sometimes, it is much easier to lie.
Lysander grins. It is evident in his voice when he speaks. “Goodnight, Cassius.”
Faintly, Cassius hums in acknowledgment.
(Julian always had a smile on his face, hadn’t he?)
Waving his hand over his datapad, Lysander activates the door. His expression falls into neutrality. The airlock hisses shut.
Lysander finishes his meal in the kitchen. He eyes the dent by the oven as he chews his terribly lukewarm food. He scrubs his dishes until they shine, returns them to their rightful places inside the cupboards, and returns to his bedroom.
Lysander crawls into bed. He wraps himself in a thick blanket and curls into a ball.
If Lysander had a twin, he believes he would have trouble sleeping alone as well. However, unlike Cassius au Bellona, Lysander au Lune never had anyone to warm his back while he sleeps, nor has he listened to another person’s heartbeat to steady his own.
If Lysander had experienced that, he would surely remember.
For Lysander, sleep comes easily; he simply wills it. It washes over him in a wave and pulls him into its depths. He pictures the sunbaked sand under his feet, soft and pleasant. The chilled sea breeze caresses his ruddy cheeks and ruffles his golden hair.