The universe is nothing but empty weightlessness. There is no dark or light, no hot or cold, no love or hate. There's nothing at all, just the emptiness that buffers you along from one moment to the next with absolute indifference. It's soothing to be at the heart of it all, to just float along and wash your soul in that indifference. Nothing can touch you.
Nothing at all.
"Pidge, wake UP!"
Despite my efforts to grasp that indifference the insistent voice and hand roughly shaking my shoulder refuse to dissolve in the emptiness. Reluctantly I open my eyes, wincing as the bright sunlight streaming through the wide-open windows of my small bedroom sends shards of jagged glass into my temples. I shrug off the hand and reach for my glasses, if only so I can glare up at Sven more convincingly.
I mean, it's daylight. What in the world could he possibly want from me?
"What?"
My voice comes out surprisingly hoarse, almost ragged, like the mechanism of sound is made up of rusty gears at the bottom of a well. Somehow even more annoyed, I glare up at Sven. It's all his fault anyway. I could still be asleep, floating in the dream.
"It's about time." Sven stares down at me, dark eyes narrowed in exasperation.
I give him a minute to continue and reveal the universe-shattering reason that I needed to be forced into a facsimile of wakefulness, but my patience is met with only silence.
Of course. I'm talking to Sven. How silly of me.
Gritting my teeth and complimenting myself on suppressing the urge to throttle him and go back to sleep, I prepare to drag the words out one by one if necessary. "What do you want?"
Sven looks down at me in silence for another interminable minute in his odd way, apparently deciding whether or not to even answer. Finally he sighs and reaches to pull me gently to my feet. "Get up. You need to get down to the space port."
I stare back at him, fear creeping in around the soothing edges of the leftover indifference from my dream at his evasion of my question. The spaceport? I can't think of a single reason I need to go to the spaceport, unless he's telling me in his subtle way that I have to leave. That's possible, I guess. It's not like I'm doing anything incredibly worthwhile here, but I don't have anywhere else to go, and half the time he's right down there at rock bottom with me. I'm not the only one cruising the seedier Polluxan bars in the middle of the night, even if we're looking for different brands of forgetfulness. With Sven it's always been sex, or more specifically, domination. I guess you could say he's addicted to the only way he's ever found to lose the tightly held control he wraps around himself like a shield.
I can't believe he'd turn on me now, after all these years. There's no one that understands an addiction like another addict. It takes a special kind of friendship to really comprehend waking up in a strange bed or the reeking dankness of an alley as the sun beats down on your face.
He can't be telling me to go. He just can't. Hell, he and Lance and Keith introduced me to this kind of life. They owe me!
"I..." No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to work the question around the sudden constriction in my throat.
Sven shakes himself, really seeming to look at me for the first time. His expression flashes through something vaguely sympathetic before slipping back into the solemn implacable mask. "I just spoke to Coran. Hunk's on his way here and you're going to go meet him."
"I...Hunk...meet...WHAT?"
Sven ignored every word I said, every argument that my frazzled brain could produce, which is why I guess I'm here, surrounded by the hectic bustle of the busy spaceport. Waiting for you.
If I'd been more awake, or less shocked, I suppose I would have managed to slip my way out of this little reunion, but now that I'm here I guess I'll see it through. Curiosity killed the cat, and the gods alone know what it's going to do to the cat's pilot.
An inflectionless computerized voice comes from the speakers overhead, announcing the arrival of the shuttle from Arus. Even while my eyes search the ebb and flow of the crowd I still have to fight the urge to bolt. I've done this before- stood over you in a moment of weakness, allowing myself the incredible luxury of watching your sleeping face and smoothing back your hair. I don't think I can do it again, especially not now, when I haven't had a drink or a hit or even a cup of coffee yet this morning. This afternoon. This evening. Whatever.
I just won't be weak this time. I'll hold on to that indifference if it kills me. What can't touch me, can't hurt me. All I have to do is float on the nothingness of the universe.
Then I see you and even the indifference slips through my tightly clenched fingers. You look so real, so alive. It's not like the dreams that wake me up in the middle of the night with silent tears pouring down my face and puddling in the middle of my pillow. You look angry at the world. Angry at me. I can see it in your face, with your clenched jaw and narrowed eyes. Even the crowd parts around you, abandoning you like the island you nearly are.
You have gained weight, haven't you? I saw that damned VH1 special at the bar, but I couldn't hear your voice or your words over the music no matter how hard I strained. Not that I guess it really matters. I saw the way you sat so close to Coran, and the looks you gave each other. The ones that speak without the need for words. Still, you look good. Healthy. Sober, I think, because you remind me of Keith. There's an alertness about you that the rest of us lack.
I guess I should be grateful to Coran for being there to take care of you. He did promise me that he would that night when I ran away from the hospital and the wreck of your too obviously mortal body.
I don't believe that you'll notice me leaning against the wall, wearing a jacket despite the heat lingering in the afternoon air and sunglasses to hide the telltale redness in my eyes, but you spot me almost as soon as I see you. Your eyes lock on to my face and you head straight for me, cutting through the crowd when the more stubborn people refuse to follow the trend and part around you. Then you're standing right here in front of me, in flesh and blood, and I can't think of a thing to say. It's not like in my dreams, where either everything's perfect or you take one look at me and walk away in disgust. I can see the same uncertainty that I feel mirrored in your eyes, the same fear and discomfort, and I can't help but wonder what we're doing here. Two strangers that used to be friends, and might once have been lovers.
As I look up at you it suddenly occurs to me that Sven didn't give me the requisite speech on second chances before he shoved me out the door. Maybe his silence can be a good thing after all.
"Hey."
Your voice is soft, and part of my soul starts screaming for me to throw myself in your arms so I can feel the deep bass of it rumble up from your chest. I shrug the urge aside with annoyance.
"Hey."
I pause again, faced again with the realization that I have no clue what to say.
You're looking at me critically. I don't even realize it until I feel my body tense automatically under the scrutiny, my senses trained by years that I'd rather forget to react the second I've attracted someone's interest. I'm waiting for you to say something, to hit me with one of the favored lines of the former addict, maybe even to throw me down on the floor and fuck me right here, but you don't. Your eyes just look sad as they drink me in, making me feel small and petty for thinking that way about you. Instead you shift the weight of your bag on your shoulder and glance once around the station. "So how is everyone?"
I take that as a hint, and start to make my way forward into the crowd, glancing up to make sure you're still really beside me and haven't dissolved back into the ghost that haunts me in my less than lucid moments. "Fine. Everyone's fine."
"Yeah?" You look at me for a second, but again you don't ask whatever it is that's on your mind. "How about Lance? I wondered when he wasn't on that video..."
I blink in surprise, trying to decipher you, trying desperately to remember the ebb and flow of your thoughts across a bridge that seems to encompass centuries. "Oh, no. He's fine, I'm sure. Lance just won't talk to anyone who looks like a reporter after that whole Playboy channel thing, you know?"
You're looking back at me blankly, and I realize you don't. You've missed out on so much of all of our lives, and all because of me. It seems unfair, but maybe you're better off because of it. You look it, anyway. Despite the extra bulk and the sadness in your eyes, you still look whole underneath. That's more than I can say for me.
I shrug off the question in your eyes. Sometimes it's just best to let the past lie. "Never mind. He's fine."
You nod and follow along. I can feel your eyes on my back as I dart through the crowd, a lead weight that sends alternating waves of chills and heat up my spine until all I can think about is escape. Finally we reach the car, and I hand you over into the capable hands of the driver.
You look back at me in surprise, your eyes narrowing again as they study my face. "You're not coming?"
I can feel the weight of the accusation, but I ignore it. "No, I'll catch up with you later. There are some things I have to do first. It's great to see you again. Bye!"
Conscious and cringing at the rudeness of my exit I dart back into the crowd, desperate for the escape into anonymity from the measuring weight of your gaze. As I slip out the back door I let a small smile cross my face and head down to the park to watch the sunset. Just as I slipped away, I saw the heat of anger in your eyes.
Maybe there's hope for us after all.
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