Qilby remembers.
No matter how much he tries to hush his mind, it swirls around memories searching for a stimulus. The stimulus is always the same; the bittersweet taste lingers in his mouth. Qilby was the scientist; he was the engineer. They worked together through day and night, through life after life.
Qilby was a fucking fool to think that would never end.
He lies back on white ground, stares at white sky, and unlaces his shirt with a trembling hand. Just like he used to do, with those calloused hands of his, murmuring "let me take your stress away." Qilby's hand is softer with years of disuse, but in this moment he can pretend his fingertips are rough, that the engineer is looming over him. Slowly Qilby opens his shirt, closes his eyes, and runs his palm over his torso.
The engineer would take his time, so Qilby takes his time with himself - the time to untie his beard and run his fingers through it, the time to toss his hat to the side, the time to tweak his nipples and imagine his inventor's heavy breathing until his cock presses up against the loose fabric of his pants. He takes his hand over the planes of his chest, down his stomach, and down further, where he presses his palm against himself just so that he can imagine it's his cock straining against his own.
You smell like flowers, like the ocean, he would say as he rubbed down into the scientist, taking in sharp breaths and biting at his neck. I want to have you. And Qilby would let the other man have him, so completely it would encapsulate his mind in waves of pleasure, and meanwhile Qilby would explore the other man's skin, his favorite subject of study, with his hands and mouth. Gods, even the memory of his touch still sends shivers down Qilby's spine and a jolt between his legs…
Qilby lets out a breathless moan as he takes the base of his cock between his forefinger and thumb, drags the fingers up to the tip, lets the foreskin rub against his head, curls his toes in and moans a little louder. Thinking about his engineer always made him helpless to control his voice. He spreads his legs wider, imagines he's exposing himself to his lover, and bites his lip as he begins to stroke.
If he had his other hand, he would run it between his legs, press against his perineum; let the shivers of stimulation overcome him. But for now he settles for sliding his hand up and down, slower, and then faster, pulling himself to the brink of orgasm and then back. His breathing speeds up, and he can almost hear the other man's ragged moans from when they used to press against each other desperately. He can almost see the engineer's intense gaze behind his eyelids. He can feel his hand on him, jerking him faster, harder-
Chibi, let's leave this place. Let's find what's out there, let's pick apart every bit of the Krosmosz, together.
"Together," Qilby whispers as he spills into his hand.
He wonders if Chibi has forgotten. He wonders if he'll be out of there someday and get to see him again, if he'll ever atone for his sins, if he and Chibi and Shinonome and Grougaloragran will get to take the Zinit and run across the Krosmosz, the right way this time. He imagines Chibi's strong arms around him, stares at the white sky, and falls into a deep sleep.