Chapter Text
…Well, thought Galileo, who was actually more curious than offended, where did that come from?
He wasn’t your stereotypical mathematician straight out of a sci-fi novel, allergic to anything remotely romantic. Sci-fi had never been his cup of tea, anyways; this genre, starting with (all respect to her) Mary Shelley, was too proud of its mad scientists for any real scientist to take it seriously. His college years weren’t exactly in the path of a Stoic, either. He knew that sometimes things could just happen, anywhere, anytime, as long as the atmosphere is right. They had been shrouded by this strange intimacy for some time now; impulsive actions weren’t entirely off the chart. Not to mention that it came from Kepler, whose mind operated like a supercomputer humanity hadn’t even dreamt of (and probably would never) inventing yet. So yes, it made perfect sense that Kepler suddenly found himself wanting to kiss him, Johannes Kepler with his moon child’s eyes and quivering lips pale from the memory of near-death.
As silence stretched on, Kepler became visibly fidgety. There was a subtle nervousness about him, the kind that only those with tender hearts unfit for any kind of society, and had hence become adept at putting on masks, could display. He frowned, unaware of himself, and it could almost be mistaken for irritation or cynicism; either way, it pulled him off of the surface of the moon.
He didn’t rush to explain himself; rather, he spoke slowly, eyes fixed on Galileo’s face, searching for something and nothing at all. “Don’t feel pressured to respond. I wouldn’t be disheartened by an almost-stranger’s rejection.” He said, glancing away. “I only mentioned it out of boredom, an experiment of sorts, to gauge your reaction. You are always so distant, elusive, I mean technically, you’ve been hard to reach. I want to catch you off guard, to break into your reality — wait, that’s too much. I know how I could be appealing to sheer absurdity, and too often my logic can’t speak for itself, as I try to understand how it all works, how you work…that is irrelevant; forgive me for rambling. My mind isn’t at its clearest; I think I’ll retire for the night. The sofa looks comfortable enough; your taste in furniture is well appreciated. Would you—”
His voice trailed off, and the tender harmony that had been ringing through his image faltered. Despite the earlier talk of not being disheartened, he was unraveling, slipping into incoherence, and he looked like he could grow wings any moment now, caught in his web of embarrassment. Slippery, slippery Johannes, who put forward a proposition only for himself to become invisible, to retract his hand from the challenge.
“Shush,” Galileo warned him, amused, before reaching down to cup the side of his cheek, “give me a second.” He could feel temperature arising at his fingertips. Kepler was sinking into his gaze, uncoordinated, his dangerous fall slowed by a little fright, a little consternation. There was his “ally in the search of truth,” his “first and practically the only supporter”; could this mouth mutter as passionately, “you have restored me back to life,” or did he speak more honestly than his pen and what he wanted to say all along was, “be close to me, how are you always so far away?”
I want to know you, said Kepler — he said by four unanswered emails, three unwitting hours of flight and twice he stepped forward then back; there was reserved touches, awkward nonsense, and eventually moonlight, not half as romantic. No wind; the windows became bright, the light quiet and cold, nature’s gaps filled by shivers. Night unveiled its face — of certainty, of the one and true affirmation of the body — prophecies were straining to fulfill themselves. And Galileo thought, maybe he should measure this jawline with very light kisses. Maybe he should startle Kepler’s eyes into fluttering shut so as to mark a final proclamation against sleep.
It all happened very quickly, and more sudden than a volcano erupt; one moment he was staring down at Kepler, weighing in his mind playfulness and obsession, the next their positions flipped and he found himself pushed down onto the sofa, with Kepler — now irritated for real — seated resolutely on his laps, fixing him with a glare, a hand pressed against his chest.
“You took twelve seconds,” was all his attacker could say before he swept down and crashed their lips together. But all his momentum seemed to be lost when the contact was made; he was hesitant, almost ashamed, in the tentative way he moved his lips, like a terrestrial force dislodged to a foreign planet; he wanted to appear resolute, assert dominance, and Galileo, recovered from the initial shock, was leaning back and letting him, finding it too much fun to watch. He let his hand wander against Kepler’s neck, gently pressing down on his pulse. It was beating too fast and he touched it soothingly, reverently, it was cold water meeting burning coal.
Kepler did seem to calm under his touch. His eyes became clear, a wise kind of clear that made him look older, interconnected, like the blue Danube — it was strange how at that moment, reeling through unborn desire, their shared speed compressed back into a static point, a true mystery of travel that marked the commencement of something great, something unspeakable, and in the flash of a moment he knew where Kepler was coming from. “I’m staying the night,” Kepler said, a promise seeking the power of the Styx, and Galileo nodded, a confirmation from the stars that just happened to cross the sky.
They solved the first button on the latter’s shirt, and then the second, and Galileo’s hands were in Kepler’s hair, sweet curls of secret amber, pulling him down, coaxing him forward, until his lips were against the younger man’s forehead and Kepler was led between his ribs, carefully, below the heartbeats that took the form of rapids, his lashes teaching the art of a blink; it wasn’t the most ideal embrace, though they could stay here forever — until Kepler moved around in protest, but not before stealing three full seconds of a forehead kiss. Very soon he was laying his cheek against Galileo’s shoulder, and looked up from the shadows, a fledgling of terrifying melancholy, as he planted these cautious pecks against skin of pure warmth, making a triumphant line down the other’s chest like a thawing creek admiring spring.
He stopped before venturing further into dangerous territory. Galileo kissed the inside of Kepler’s wrist, half-heartedly, and smiled despite himself.
“What’s wrong?” his voice was a little hoarse, and mostly cruel. Kepler bounced away, his trance broken, as if nothing had happened. “Clever little coward.”
Kepler let out a sigh; but it could also be the wind, because the shadows on the floor sighed with him, too, stirring the clouds in the sky, the windows, the moon. The room, which Galileo had been so proud to have designed and decorated, became him and only him. Time swirled and was pulled around him; cheeks flushed, teary-eyed, he was so serious.
“I’m not afraid,” said the ball of anxiety in his arms, attempting to unentangle himself from Galileo. “Making out on a sofa for eleven minutes and forty-two seconds, that’s the best you can do? Really?”
“…Oh no, you are not counting.”
“Am not,” Kepler declared, narrowing his eyes, “You are stupid to believe that I was. You, my friend, are so stupid, in so many ways right now.” He tapped on Galileo’s nose, chuckling, but then he remembered something and became quiet. “Hey, I’m eight years younger than you,” he murmured, darkly, “…it’s practically your duty to make my first time worth it.”
Galileo immediately sat up straight; his arm slipped down to drape around Kepler’s waist. “No way.”
“I do math for a living,” Kepler made a grimace at him, “I was also very busy dying, mind you. Actually, when I was twenty-one, there was a girl…”
He didn’t get to finish because suddenly Galileo was half-carrying him and Kepler was propelled forward — or on his own will, he really couldn’t care less — they began ascending the stairs; once the ascension started it felt endless, it made one wonder whether the clock broke every time desperate lovers were sentenced to waiting. But they weren’t lovers, and there was no waiting, there was only the clock, each tick of the second hand reverberating through the all-consuming dark. Tick — they were stumbling down the hallway; tick — Kepler’s back slammed against the door; tick — Galileo dipped his head to meet him and they kissed and it was a most grand unfolding, like tiny suns splattering, like blind rain.
Kepler was grinning, lips parted ever so slightly; he threw his arms around Galileo’s neck, and in that moment it seemed he knew nothing but snuggling closer, yet closer, it was so clumsily daring. Galileo was all too glad to accept his challenge, to have them meld into each other so thoroughly in a spectacle of warfare, they fought and killed their way into each other and voided out the rest of the world. It was destruction, and Kepler felt Galileo’s slightly calloused hand against his cheek, wiping away a tear.
He drew away. Someone let out a frustrated noise. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his temple; he looked worried.
“Did I hurt you?”
“No,” Kepler snapped, yanking Galileo back towards him, gritting out, “I was too damn happy.”