surrender ; minsung

gravity

Since Jisung struck a deal with a jeweller from the market, he's been slowly venturing into deeper waters, diving for gemstones. He's out of practice — he can only hold his breath underwater for six or seven minutes, and the cold makes his hands stiff and clumsy. Still, he finds some beauties, green-tinged serpentine, sludge-like olivine and smooth, cloudy sea glass.

Now he's walking the long dirt road to town. 99 has two suns, one that domes wide and high over the horizon, and another that hangs in the distance like a bright yellow button. Both are out this morning, watching over him, the crops and the collarless dogs that sit around and wag at passersby, knowing they'll be fed. Jisung has started to carry treats in his pocket.

A bell rings behind him. He can't help but jump, starting for the holster that used to sit at his hip. Some habits he hasn't been able to unlearn, even though he's been living here for months. (The sight of an open window makes him flinch, every time.)

Mrs. Oduya rides past him on her bicycle, her wife trailing behind in a wagon, boxes of fresh-baked desserts in her lap. "Morning, Mr. Jisung!"

He waves. "Good morning — save me something!"

"Can do!"

They pedal off ahead, laughing boisterously at nothing in particular. He smiles. It fades.

The swap-n-gift market runs every day in the town square, a dusty field outside the one tele-hub in the area. Everyone has their own booth, with fluttering tablecloths and signs that read Art commissions or Homemade nappies or Bike repairs. Mrs. Oduya gives him a piece of peanut brittle, then he carries on to Mx. Sol's table. Fine jewelry here.

"Mr. Jisung!" calls Mx. Sol, a little elderly sort in a smart suit. "Take a look!"

Jisung leans over the table. The gems he collected rest in a velvet-lined case. There are rings, bracelets, brooches, piercings for ears and noses and eyebrows. A note below the case reads Gemstones courtesy of Mr. Han Jisung. He loves the look of his name without the 'commander' there to set him apart.

"They look beautiful," says Jisung. "You did a great job."

"It's all thanks to you. I never would have thought to use marine gems without your... your well-travelled self!"

The Stingray's past is still the talk of the town. Sometimes children tug on his sleeve and ask to be told stories. Jisung tries to make them entertaining, lots of gunfights and evil monarchs and terrifying beasts. Sober realities should be saved for adulthood.

"I'm glad," says Jisung. "May I?"

"Of course."

Jisung snaps the peanut brittle in two, hands half to Mx. Sol, then carefully picks up a pair of earrings. He brings them to Mrs. Oduya and she thanks him with a bone-crushing hug, then promptly goes about putting them on.

Jisung is about to leave when he sees someone in the crowd. Someone with scraggly black hair and a leather trench coat. His voice leaps into his mouth. But he knows not to call out. Not to get his hopes up.

Some habits are hard to unlearn. Some are hopeless. Some are wounds that won't heal.

His bed is empty as always when he gets back to the homestead that evening. And as always, there's only one place to go.

The water is stirring with small, white-crested waves. He takes a deep breath and steps in. It's freezing. It takes him back to Ophiuchus Alpha, the frigid cold seeping through his suit, the fear sinking into his bones, the thought: I am going to die, and the fire it kindled. He thinks about gentle hands and gentle tides, igniting him from the inside out.

He's up to his shoulders now. He takes his feet off the seaweed-covered floor and dunks himself under, once, twice, three times. He shakes out his hair, eases himself back, panting and trembling, and floats as the water slowly numbs his body. The waves rock against him, salt wincing on his tongue.

He looks up at the sky and every star whispers Minho's name.

He squeezes his eyes shut, scrubbing his face in his hands. He's sick of that damn name. It cuts and taunts and loves him in his dreams. The one thing that keeps him stranded in space, keeps his feet from touching the ground. The one thing stronger than gravity.

He hears something else now. His own name. A voice he recognizes. God. He's losing his mind.

He dunks himself under again. Water rushes, drumming in his ears, but when he surfaces, he still hears his name.

Through blurry eyes, he sees a figure on the shore, standing in the moonlight. He sees Minho.

"Jisung!"

No. This is not real.

Even hearing his voice, even staring right at him. This can't be real.

The figure on the shore abruptly marches forward, straight into the water clothes and all. Jisung is frozen as Minho — Minho, real, flesh and bone, that mangy trench coat — crashes into him, arms locked tight around him.

"Damn you," Minho whispers, shivering. "Damn you, it's fucking freezing."

He laughs breathlessly, reaches up to stroke Minho's hair.

"You have no one to blame but yourself," he murmurs.

He dunks Minho under. Minho surfaces with a torrent of curses, voice spiking octaves. Jisung laughs so hard he can barely breathe.