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Warmth.
Warmth, warmth, warmth.
It’s the first and suddenly the only thing he can process. He feels Rocky’s claws, as close as he can ever safely get to them, wrap gently against the exposed skin of his arm, firm and real and warm, just above where he’d burned a scar all those months ago to save his life. The flexible xenonite suit is solid and wonderful and suddenly it’s the best thing he’s ever felt, the only thing he ever could have wanted.
Grace feels his breath catching in his chest, then leaving it in a trembling rush. There’s an odd surge of emotion and sensation up his spine, something that he doesn’t have the mind to articulate. His legs go numb, then weak, folding limply beneath him; he sags forward into Rocky in a partially-controlled descent before he even realizes it’s happening. The slight jolt of pain up his shins doesn’t register, though; he doesn’t feel anything, all of a sudden, anything but that wonderful warmth against his arm.
Rocky trills a noise of surprise as Grace pitches forward, crumbling down to the floor with a good amount more speed than necessary. Another hand shoots up to brace against his shoulder, equally hard and solid and warm, and the shivers come back full force. “Grace okay, question?!”
“Ynnh,” Grace manages. Words aren’t really working with him right now. His arms move on instinct, reaching up and forward to find the soothing, heavy heat of the suit around Rocky’s carapace, latching on and squeezing tight. “Mm-hmm.”
“Oh.” Rocky seems to relax at this, to understand the positive cues that Grace is unconsciously giving. He’s just so warm. “Good good. Give Grace hug now.”
Grace feels another arm circle carefully around his back, slipping over his shirt to pull him close to Rocky’s carapace. It presses down against him firmly, but not so hard as to hurt. Warm tingles explode across his back at the sensation, the pressure, the presence, the everything.
“Like this, question?” Rocky asks, his notes quiet, quavering a little. He’s concerned; he’s nervous. He doesn’t want to hurt Grace.
Yes, Grace wants to say, exactly like this, but his voice fails him. He rests against the xenonite, and oh, it’s so warm—and yes, it’s always been warm, but this is new, this is different. This is the presence of a living being against him, not just the air, not just an alien atmosphere.
This is Rocky.
He’s trembling harder, now, an odd numb tingling flaring to life across his face. A pressure feels like it’s swelling up all throughout his body, something achy and painful and cold being forced out by that wonderful heat and weight. He feels more than sees his vision blur with tears—he isn’t really looking at anything, now, only feeling, feeling, and melting into the touch. Against him, Rocky chirrs a little in surprise, in concern, but Grace grips him tighter, pulling his arms around the suit and squeezing as hard as he can. Rocky doesn’t pull away, he doesn’t leave, and Grace is so, so grateful for it. Rocky seems to understand.
“Grace okay,” Rocky lilts gently, his notes so quiet. “Grace okay. Rocky here.”
Grace has no chance of holding it back, now. Tears bead up and drip across the xenonite, clear liquid on clear solid, and if it’s gross to Rocky he doesn’t say. He makes no indication of discomfort; he doesn’t even shift his stance. Grace’s breath flutters and he chokes on a wet sob, pressing his face into the side of Rocky’s suit.
“I—” he gasps, struggling to reassure, to thank, to do anything. “I’m—”
Rocky hums a low warble, a sound meant to soothe and silence, what Grace has learned to be the Eridian equivalent of a hush. His arm squeezes around his back a little tighter. “Grace no need to speak. Is okay.”
It’s okay.
Grace can’t contain the torrent of sobs rising up his throat, so he doesn’t. He curls up against Rocky, burying himself into the embrace—he can do that, he can do that now—and cries, ugly and wrenching and awful and such a relief to get out. His legs lie sprawled beneath him, limp and weak, body juddering with the force of it all. A third set of claws slips gently into his hair, smoothing it down and carding it back, and it makes him sob harder. It makes him sob because it’s so nice and perfect and they’re hugging for real and it’s like they’re touching again, touching but they’re both okay, touching but it doesn’t hurt and neither of them are dying this time.
He sobs because he loves this kind, intelligent, witty, brave, long-suffering alien rock, who has the patience even for him—for his human needs, his leakiness, his disgusting features and intricacies and moods and desires. He sobs because he hasn’t been held, truly held, like this in so long—since far before the Mary. He sobs because he will never feel a human’s touch again.
All of it pours out of him, coaxed gently and wholly by the warmth, the touch, and Grace can do nothing to stop it. He surrenders to the flood of overwhelm, of sorrow, of heartbreak, of joy and longing; he pours himself out against the xenonite panels and Rocky lets him, Rocky holds him, Rocky comforts him and allows it to happen. Rocky hums and coos his gentle, soothing whale-song, murmuring words of reassurance that Grace mostly knows but at the moment doesn’t have the presence of mind to translate.
“Grace breathe,” Rocky reminds him at some point, when his gasping and hiccuping has gotten so out of control that he can hardly draw in air and is starting to get lightheaded. “Slow, deep. Breathe calm. Grace safe.”
Grace tries; he does his best. He fights to rein himself in in what small amount he can; he fights to even his breathing, to suck in a deep breath. It takes a few minutes to wind down from the near-hysterics of it all to feel like he has enough control again, that he can draw air in and out without it stuttering or catching too often.
“Good good good,” Rocky praises, chittering softly. “Grace do good. Rocky proud.”
Grace sobs out a laugh, half-mirth, half-sorrow. He buries his face back into the xenonite and shudders out a slow breath, trying to keep it even. He sniffles and hiccups some more, feeling a sort of release and relief all throughout his head and his shoulders and his body at the cry, at the good long cry to drain it all out.
It’s mostly gone out, now, a comfortable floating numbness and exhaustion left in its wake.
“Mmm,” Grace mumbles, shifting a little against Rocky. “’m…’msorry, Rock…”
Rocky huffs through his vents, tapping the claw of a free leg in an irritated gesture with no heat behind it. “Grace no apologize. Grace sad. Is okay. Rocky here. Rocky here for Grace always always always.”
“I don’…I don’t deserve this,” Grace gasps, feeling the tears prickle up again, a new wave of sadness swelling afresh to crest over him. “I don’t deserve you, I’m…Rocky, ’m a coward and I didn’t—I d-don’t—”
Rocky trills out the hush-hum, even firmer than before. “No speak. Grace being stupid. Is okay. Grace can be stupid and sad; Rocky protect, statement.”
Grace chokes another sob-laugh. It dissolves into a stretch of silent tears, his body trembling hard against the xenonite suit. Rocky cradles him close; he coaxes him back into breathing more smoothly.
“I love you so much, Rock,” Grace chokes out, at length. It’s the best thing, the truest thing he can think to say.
Rocky thrums, low and happy and soothing, adjusting two of his arms around him so they can both rest against the floor more comfortably. “Rocky love love love Grace. Rocky make sure Grace safe, Grace comfortable, Grace okay.”
Grace feels his breath hitch again, his chest shivering with a hiccuping sob. He presses harder into the xenonite plate between him and Rocky’s frontal carapace and breathes, and breathes, surrounded by the warmth of his friend. He closes his eyes, feeling wretched and laid bare and safe, so wonderfully safe and held that he doesn’t think he can fully take it in.
Rocky sings for him, a slow and calming stream of notes that reverberate through them both. The tones vibrate lowly in Grace’s chest like another heartbeat, like a reminder that he isn’t alone, that he doesn’t have to be alone anymore.
Neither of them chooses to move for a long time after that.