Chapter Text
Gabbro wakes to their familiar aches and pains and the gritty scratch of sand in places it shouldn’t be. Seriously, their space suit is meant to be airtight. How do they have sand between their toes?
They roll over and eye their tangled hammock with resentful affection. Fixing it every single loop has become both a ritual and a colossal pain in the butt. This time, though, a smile steals across their features as they imagine it strung up in the corner of a cozy Hearthoak cabin. If they shut their eyes, they can almost hear soft snores beside them, the patter of leaves on the roof…
A chilly gust of wind cuts their daydream short, and the noise resolves into raindrops bouncing off their faceplate. Their plaintive sigh is lost beneath the waves pounding the shore.
How many loops has it been? Fifteen? Twenty? They do a quick calculation in their head and decide they must have lost count, because it feels like weeks since they unearthed (unsanded?) Ugly Friend. Then again, it only feels like a matter of weeks since their first launch, so it's all subjective anyway.
They clamber to their feet and stoke their campfire so they can make some bitterwillow tea. It’s a hassle to store on this damp planet, but the smokey taste reminds them of home, and it's good for aches and soreness. (Mylon claims their compounding pains are all in their head, but Gabbro's not buying it. It could be their memory of pain persisting through the loops. Or maybe they're just getting old.)
They're halfway through stirring alkaline tablets into a kettle of rainwater and wondering how many alien microbes they're boiling to death when their eyes fall on their signalscope. Yes, they’re stalling.
Once their tea is ready, they scoop their signalscope up from the sand and settle down by the fire. The alkaline tablets do nothing to mask the water’s sulphury aftertaste. At least the bitterwillow masks it. Mostly.
They give themself a shake and set their cup down in the sand. They’re not so much thinking of tea as they are avoiding thinking about Chert. Or, more accurately, where they left off with Chert.
Because, despite everything, there’s a tiny part of them that dares to hope this loop will be different. That some part of their conversation has managed to survive the reset. That Chert will still know how much they care for them.
Hope is a dangerous thing.
They can’t put it off any longer. They flip the switch on their transmitter.
“Morning, Chert.”
“Is it?” comes the grumbled response. “A cycle here lasts approximately seven minutes. It’s a wonder I get any astronomy done with the sun blinding me. Anyway, do you mind? I’m in the middle of a scout survey. You know, doing actual science?”
The familiar words hit like a fist to the gut. Gabbro almost doubles over, a low groan escaping before they can stop themself. There’s a startled silence from Chert’s end.
Then, "...um, is that a no, you don’t mind? Or did you try smuggling sap wine off-planet again?"
“I…” Gabbro should have expected this. They should laugh it off, say something typically goofy that will make Chert roll their eyes. Or distract them with astrophysics, that usually works. But stars, they weren’t expecting it to hurt this much. “I just…”
“Okay, while you chart the shortest course to whatever it was you’re trying to tell me, I actually do have star charts to catch up on,” Chert says. “So-”
“-Your tree house,” Gabbro interrupts, before Chert can turn off their signalscope. What are you doing?! a neglected, sensible part of their mind screams at them, but the words are out there now, so they may as well forge ahead. “It’s not impractical, it’s brilliant. I wanted to tell you, but I never got the chance.”
Chert inhales sharply. “Wait, when did I - how did you - I’ve never told anyone about that!”
“You told me. Around ten minutes ago. Try to remember, Chert, please try. I persuaded you to go exploring, and you tripped and fell down a chasm, and you found a cave with trees, and-”
"What in Hearth's name are you talking about?"
“-in another fifteen minutes or so the sun is going to reach the end of its life and go supernova,” Gabbro babbles. “But instead of disappearing, you’re going to wake up as if nothing ever happened.”
“Gabbro-”
“You won’t remember a thing. You won’t remember this conversation - but I will. Just like I remember the one before that, and the one before that.”
"Stop it. This isn't funny."
"And I get it.” Gabbro can’t stop, even if they wanted to. “I understand why you choose to forget. But it kills me to lose you over and over again, and every time I feel as if I’ve lost a piece of myself that I can never get back. And I’m kicking myself, Chert, because it’s taken me half a lifetime to realize that-” they swallow, their mouth suddenly dry. “-I can’t give up on you. You’re a force I can’t escape. I’m falling, I always have been. and I never even knew it.” They laugh quietly. "All these years, I've been orbiting you. So when you do return to Timber Hearth, and find a place to make a home where you can watch the stars… maybe we could build it together. The two of us.”
That’s it. They don’t have any more words. They don’t know what they were expecting, now that everything in their hearts is laid bare. But it wasn’t the ringing silence that hangs over their campsite.
“Chert?” There’s no answer. Gabbro sits up and grabs their signalscope, as if physical proximity will prompt a response. “C’mon. Say something.”
Anything.
“Please.”
There’s a faint click, and the signal dies.
There’s no one else here on this giant waterlogged planet, but Gabbro is glad of their helmet nonetheless. It makes them feel less exposed. Their grief is for them, and them alone.
Out there in the vast black, another star dies, taking yet another piece of them with it.
Another loop passes, and another. Gabbro can’t bring themself to pick up their signalscope anymore. What’s the point? After a few abortive attempts at picking up their flute, they abandon their campsite and wander the tempest-tossed beaches instead.
The statue is exactly where they left it, in the shelter of the cliffside on its island. Gabbro can’t decide whether that faint half-smile is mysterious or smug. They flop down in the sand beside it with a sigh.
“What is this all for, Ugly Friend?” they ask. “Whatever it is, I hope you’re getting something out of it.”
It doesn’t answer, of course, but who knows? Maybe a spacefarer from some distant star will stumble upon it someday and figure out how to replay Gabbro’s memories. They won’t learn much about Hearthian civilization, but they’ll certainly receive a comprehensive education in awkward long-distance flirting.
Or maybe they won’t, seeing as how everything in the solar system will soon be obliterated.
Lightning forks across the bruised sky, the answering grumble of thunder loud enough to make Gabbro’s teeth rattle. The shadows fade as the clouds redden around the edges, signaling the loop is nearing its end.
Gabbro leans back against the rocky cliffside, and waits.
With their sense of time messed up, Gabbro hasn't had much need to worry about food. But for some reason right now it's the only thing they can think of.
Pickled Attleroot. Grilled fish in wild leek sauce. Hot spiced nut milk with marshmallows on top. Those truffle pastries Porphy always makes on the solstice. If they don't find something else to occupy their mind, they'll gnaw their own arm off.
Poetry is their usual go-to when they need something to focus on. Honestly, they never would have thought they would have the knack for it, not with their attention span, such as it is. But it has a way of centering them when their mind starts to wander, anchoring them before they lose themself in daydreams. Gabbro feels on the verge of losing themself now, though it’s more of a nightmare they have found themself in.
They’ve experimented with quantum poetry before, back on Timber Hearth. Working within the constraints of rhyming couplets is soothing, and there happens to be a similar signal originating from somewhere on this planet. Perhaps Mylon can help them pinpoint its source. Gabbro has been wanting to try adding more lines, double meanings. They have a sneaking suspicion the hunk of rock and the tiny shard on Timber Hearth could even be entangled with each other, which would open up a whole slew of other possibilities. Imagine poems that could swap lines at will, or travel vast distances.
But for the time being, they decide to start small. A new set of four lines for a new signal. A quantum quatrain.
Upon the beach
I’m all alone
It’s out of reach
My dream of home
Okay, so inspiration is eluding them right now.
“That’s a bit tragic,” remarks a voice. Gabbro jerks around to find Mylon leaning against the cliffside, faceplate gleaming in the firelight. “I liked the other one better.”
“That’s very apropos of you, sneaking up on me.” Gabbro quickly scrubs out the words. “What brings you here, Time Buddy?”
Mylon looks away, kicking at the sand as if it’s personally offended them. “Oh, just… checking in.” They fumble with the clasps of their helmet, and when they pull their head free Gabbro winces at their careworn expression. “I found your ship,” they add. “I’ll give you the coordinates. In case you get bored of moping around here.”
"I'm not moping, I'm relaxing. You should try it sometime,” Gabbro shoots back, with a forced laugh. But Mylon's not even looking at them. One pair of eyes keeps drifting out of focus, as if they keep fighting the urge to check over their shoulder.
“..Mylon?” Gabbro ventures, waving a hand in front of their face. “Everything okay in there?”
“Huh?” Mylon jerks away, blinking. “Oh. Yeah, fine. I’m fine. Everything is fine.”
"I'm starting to worry about you, Hatchling. Why don’t you stay on Timber Hearth for a while?" seeing Mylon's dismissive head shake, they carry on, "You could hole up in the old radio tower for a few cycles, and get some proper sleep.” They reach out to squeeze the young astronaut’s shoulder, but Mylon slaps their hand away.
“No, you don’t get it. If I…” they grimace, curling their fingers into claws of frustration. “Look, if I stop now, I’ll keep finding reasons to stay on Timber Hearth. The weather’s nice. I'm not in danger of nose-diving into the sun. There are no monsters hiding in the shadows waiting for me.” Suddenly, they’re blinking away tears. “And then, before I know it, I’ll be stuck in a rut I can’t climb out of, like you. Yeah, that’s right,” they sneer at Gabbro’s bewildered expression. “Like you. You sit here, loop after loop, and what are you achieving? Apart from slowly losing your mind.”
“I’m losing my mind? Look at you. You’re a spring wound to breaking point.”
“And you’re wasting away here pining over Chert!” Mylon rolls their eyes at the dumbstruck look Gabbro gives them. “It’s not rocket science. Anyone can listen to you two talking if they find the right frequency.”
“Esker’s a bad influence on you," Gabbro mutters.
"My point is, you have a ship, and you have supplies. So why are you wasting time here?"
Gabbro shrugs. "Hey, we've got an unlimited supply of time, remember?"
"For Hearth's sake, do you seriously want to live the same twenty-two blasted minutes forever?" Mylon snarls. "Dying again and again, too lazy or afraid to leave your little island? Having the same conversation with Chert for the rest of your existence? Because I can tell you how that will go; you’ll become a sad old Hearthian in a middle-aged Hearthian’s body, longing for someone who can never love you back. Not in the way you want.”
“Too far, Hatchling,” Gabbro says, their voice so sharp they barely recognise it as their own. “Not cool. Seriously.”
“You know it’s true!” Mylon’s hands flare with frustration. “What happened to Gabbro the astronaut, huh? I used to sit with Hornfels and listen in when you did your satellite maintenance runs. You were one of the coolest Hearthians in the universe.” What can Gabbro say? Mylon’s expectations are their own business.
"Feldspar wouldn't sit here forever writing depressing poems.” Mylon tries, a last-ditch attempt at getting a reaction. Disappointment oozes from every pore. “They would do something.”
Yeah, but that’s because Feldspar had the poetic ability of a spanner. "Feldspar's gone," Gabbro retorts. Then, in an uncharacteristic fit of pique, they add, "And they're not coming back. The sooner you accept that and stop trying to be like them, the less likely you'll be to-" the words kill yourself curl up and die in their throat. They keep forgetting that’s the least of Mylon’s worries.
"I found them,” Mylon says, so quietly Gabbro isn’t sure they heard them right.
"You… what? You mean their signal, right? Their harmonica?”
“Well, yeah, but-”
Surprise softens the edges of Gabbro's expression. “Oh, bud. I hate to break it to you, but I've heard it too. We all have. It's a recording, or an echo, or something."
"No, you're not listening," insists Mylon. "I found them. Alive. They're camped out in Dark Bramble with a damaged ship and a fried signalscope receiver."
"But that's…"
"Impossible?" Mylon snorts. "Apparently not. Maybe everyone simply stopped listening.” Their scowl returns. “Or maybe you gave up on them too early. Think about that."
They slam their helmet back onto their head and stride away, leaving Gabbro to stare wordlessly after them.