★彡[ꜱᴛᴀʀʟɪɢʜᴛ ꜱᴛᴀʀꜱʜɪɴᴇ]彡★

☾☉☉☉☽

When he was fourteen, Cupid had wandered off when he wasn’t supposed to.

And he never forgot that day, because that was the first day he’d watched a pilot (specifically one that was around his age) fly, doing loops and tricks and all the things a child would think were cool. That pilot shone so brightly; enough for Cupid to decide that he had to stay in Cosmos Administration. Enough that Cupid needed to track that pilot down and say something:

“Wait!”

Cupid grabbed Saturn’s wrist. It was the day they first met, too.

Saturn was in a mood often back then, frustrated and angry enough to finally start snapping back at his aunt Pandora, getting into near constant arguments with her (that were near constant losses for him). So when Cupid went on about sharing fun and joy, he couldn’t empathize. It vexed him, admittedly—how could Cupid be that sickeningly sweet? He had no reason to be. He had no right to be that happy. It felt fake—Saturn, confused, left Cupid behind, hoping to not cross paths again.

But they did.

When Cupid caught Saturn crying, Saturn froze in place, and before any embarrassment or panic could sink in, Cupid chased away such thoughts. “It’s okay,” Cupid had whispered gently, and patted Saturn’s head, which only made him cry harder.

Saturn had never been comforted by anyone. Definitely not by his aunt, not by his instructors, not by the friends he didn’t have.

Taking a peek at Cupid through the blurriest vision he’s ever had, Saturn couldn’t help but feel that Cupid was an angel.

Yes, Saturn shone brightly. He knows this to be true, because that’s what everyone’s told him since he was little, and that’s what he wants to believe.

But Cupid shines a hundred times brighter.

✦✧✩✧✦

Outside Neptune’s Trident, the wind picks up.

But no one is paying attention to that.

“Don’t think that just because you gave me possibly good advice, I’d forget about how stupid you are.” Caju’s eyes are less puffy and red—it’s been some time since he stopped crying and he’s back to being annoyed. Cupid has that effect on him. “If you’re that determined to make me happy, you should be even more determined to make yourself happy, but you’re not. It’s dumb.” Caju gives Cupid the harshest glare he can muster. “I’m not taking love advice from someone who won’t do anything with his own feelings.”

“What feelings?” Cupid asks cutely, but Caju has a glowering face that says Cupid won’t get away with playing dumb again. Cupid exhales. “Caju, what do you want me to say? What do you want me to do? Saturn isn’t worth it, and he doesn’t think I’m worth it, either.” I have a rule against falling in love with boys who won’t love me back. “Your situation is entirely different. You can’t compare them like that.” Cupid shakes his head. “It’s not fair.”

Caju leans forward. It might have been intimidating to someone else, but not to Cupid.

(What’s really intimidating to Cupid is how easily Caju sees through him).

“What’s your problem? What’s stopping you from trying?” Caju narrows his eyes. “Do you think its gross that he’s slept around?”

“No.” It’s disgusting that Caju would even suggest such a thing.

“Do you think he’d cheat on you because of it?”

“No.”

“Then what’s your problem?”

Cupid’s problem is Saturn.  Obviously. “You know as well as I do that Saturn’s never been in a real relationship. With anyone.” His reputation precedes him. “I doubt I’d be his first. I doubt he’d date anyone, ever.”

“…Do you hear yourself?” Caju criticizes. “You were basically the most mentally stable out of any of us when we were told to go back to Earth, which is insane. You’re that optimistic about returning to a place that definitely doesn’t want you, but you can’t entertain the possibility that maybe, just maybe, Saturn might say yes.” Caju huffs. “Your odds are better with Saturn.”

“Why?” Cupid asks. He’s smart, but not when it comes to this. “Why are my odds better with him? Why can’t I be happy on Earth? Why can’t that work? Why can’t they just let it happen?”

“You can forgive them and hope they’ll be better all you want, but they’ll never forgive you.”

For existing.

“You’re wasting your blind faith on the wrong thing,” Caju concludes.

Cupid looks greatly upset at this revelation, like a sopping wet cat. And Caju does not feel bad about it. Because this is vengeance. Because Cupid looking like a wet cat is surprisingly endearing.

Cupid wants to talk more, mouth agape, but there is a thunderous rumbling nearby.

Sao has come back. With their privacy gone, Cupid decides to drop it. Sao would, without a doubt, not enjoy this conversation, so Cupid will spare him the misery of it all.

✦✧✩✧✦

When Cupid had sent Sao off, he’d explained that a few tiny pieces needed to be collected, which was only half-true. They were small… relative to the mecha-ships. But in reality, they varied from the size of Sao’s hand to the size of an average human being.

So the Kuiper Belt is the one who delivers the missing pieces (rather than Sao carrying them himself), setting them gently onto the tiled floor. Impossibly bright lights jut out from the impossibly lofty walls, illuminating what they can—it’s hard to keep a room this tall (one that can house multiple ships) fully lit.

And it’s hard for Cupid to work on a ship so large on his own. This is why he loves technology.

Detached mechanical arms, not unlike cranes, will listen to Cupid’s commands in an instant, doing all the heavy lifting for him. They wriggle and crawl after him, joining him on a moving platform with the pieces in their grasps. The platform ascends, floating where Cupid directs it to through a little touch screen, up and down or left and right.

“Ew,” Caju says. “The way they move is awful.” He leans back against the bars of the floating platform, staring at the metal limbs next to him.

“But they’re impressive, too, aren’t they?”

“No,” Caju replies on instinct. But if Cupid thinks they are, they must be.

Cupid makes a noise like he thinks Caju’s answer is funny. Like he knows Caju doesn’t mean it.

Cupid raises the platform higher, up to the Ursa Major’s bear-like face, and picks up something from the open palm of one of the mechanical arms. And then they’re inching closer to the ship, close enough to reach out and touch it, close enough for Cupid to secure the piece back in place.

This—watching Cupid get absorbed into the job he loves—is not high on Caju’s list of things to do. Unfortunately, Sao dropped off the parts and left too fast. Caju didn’t have the chance to utter a single word. What the hell is Sao doing? How could he brush Caju off so fast?

Make it so he can’t run. Cupid’s words echo in Caju’s head. He deepens his frown.

✦✧✩✧✦

The first time they kissed was awkward and imperfect, neither magical nor romantic.

Caju demands it happen, because he’s certain they like each other in that way, and he’s certain Sao’s been waiting for his permission, so here it is. Kiss me.

And Sao wants to—he doesn’t. He can’t comprehend why Caju is asking him to do this, and he can’t comprehend how to proceed. His hand reaches out, like he wants to pull Caju closer and hold him, or like he wants to move Caju out of the way so he can leave and forget Caju ever requested such a thing. Instead, his hand lowers back down, incapable of deciding.

And Caju watches Sao, uncharacteristically patient. He doesn’t repeat himself. He just waits.

Sao hates that Caju is giving him the option—both options are rigged. Every action and choice he makes is the wrong answer. Autonomy is a curse. Existence is a curse.

Sao caves—uncharacteristically selfish—and they kiss.

It’s a peck. It lasts a second.

It’s so short, it’s like it didn’t happen. It’s nothing.

But it’s everything to Caju.

And despite the guilt and regret that follows him in an instant, that void in Sao’s soul feels a little less empty.

✦✧✩✧✦

“I don’t think you’re right,” Cupid says (out of literally nowhere).

He pauses the clanging of metals but doesn’t stop fidgeting with whatever he has. He doesn’t look up—it takes Caju a moment to realize Cupid wasn’t talking to himself (he’s absolutely done it before, toiling away in the early morning, when he thinks no one is listening).

“I don’t think my faith is a waste,” Cupid elaborates, continuing where they left off. He’s collected himself—Caju misses the ‘sopping wet cat’ look. “It’s necessary. I’ll ask Saturn, he’ll say no, and I’ll return to Earth like I planned to do from the start.”

“How do you know Saturn will say no?”

“I know him. That’s all.”

“I know him, too, and I know you, and I think you’re delusional.”

“Why are you so grumpy? You convinced me already. Be proud of yourself.” Cupid offers a gentle smile: Caju’s reward. “I’ll confront Saturn, the same way you’ll confront Sao. The outcomes will be different, but that’s fine, because at least we can’t scold the other for not trying.”

The Ursa Major buzzes as if it agrees (it does not; it cannot). (It’s recalibrating, humming and droning as it processes the areas in which it’s been mended).

Caju rolls his eyes. “…Why are you jumping to your own conclusions? Stop acting like you can predict the future.”

“I can’t predict the future, but I can predict what Saturn will do.”

“You can’t.”

“I can.”  

Cupid is certain of this, moreso than anything else—it’s why he had, not once, planned to pursue Saturn. But if Caju puts on a brave face, Cupid will follow. (For solidarity? For fairness? Something like that.) It’s stupid, Cupid knows, but Caju will appreciate it (maybe), so it’s worth it in Cupid’s eyes.