Sometimes, if you look closely, you can see the horizon in her eyes before the sides crinkle and her lashes brush it away, but in that one slow second she has your entire world wrapped in hazel irises. Your breath will often catch and there is a clawing sensation that will stick in the back of your throat, so the best you can do is look away.
She never tires of it, the traveling, and you can't stop the pull that echoes in your hands when she disentangles herself to explore the new world you've given her. It will hurt to see her step away from you, and it is irrational, despondent, but then she will turn, eyes alight, and you will somehow be content to follow. Your footsteps will be in time with hers, and your breathing will have slowed so the calm inhale, exhale of your lungs will match the soft padding of your trainers.
You'll pretend you're always this attuned, to everything, everyone, but your thought process will have already unraveled into nothing because her hair would have caught the light when she reached for your hand.
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The planet you're on is far, far away from her small spinning blue-and-green sphere of a world, and you will have meant to land somewhere in the Ailah nebula because it's her, and you can feel when her heart slows at the experience of new impossibilities, and the stuttering beats give you an oblique sort of purpose.
The natives are scared, troubled, because of strange fluctuations in the chemistry of their atmosphere, but even if you've seen this before, when you turn to look at her you will still be surprised. Sometimes you will feel like you're at the disadvantage, because compassion is her second language and you're still trying to weigh the feeling of it on your tongue.
These things take a while to get used to, you will tell yourself. Emotions are heavy and sometimes dreadful things, and maybe, well, probably, you're still pushing the limits, testing the boundaries. This tingling body you woke up in isn't averse to new, bright, burning feelings, but there is an instinctive caution that you will hold which, you will confess late in the nights, prohibits you from speaking about--- it.
And even though it will hurt to have words lodged in the back of your throat, no matter the struggle, the sentence which you will let out is never really right.
(You will have accidental confessionals because somehow your voice loves finding her ears, and it is almost always followed by a rambling breath of words about nothing, and you will smile when her head will tilt to the side, bemused.)
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It will be a few years on and the hurt you have will not have lessened, but you will have learned new ways of pretending not to think about it. (her).
A violently colored planet and a bad incident on a space station will leave you furious with all that you have ever given to the bloody buggering universe, and the bitter aluminum taste of betrayal and the injustice of what you get in return will be thrown from your mouth in a rage.
You will have killed half a planet and your lips will curl in a sneer (grimace) because oh, you will think, oh, what a gift I am to these stupid people, destroying all their cities–their–their lives and–(the word feels taboo even in your mind) families.
You'll try not to, but you will end up thinking that if she had just been there, just, have been waiting for you when you came back, had never left, you would have told her.
Probably.
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Later, in a moment of calm domesticity, cleaning out a mug for one, you'll think about a certain string of words which are carefully placed on the seat of your tongue and you will think of her blonde head, tilting to the side.
Your chest will constrict painfully.
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She will have saved you from certain death, something which you will have tried to avoid on several occasions, and when she whispers thank you across your neck in the study, it will end up with your lips on her throat.
It will have escalated into something you don't normally do, but the way she will hold you in her arms will break whatever restraint you thought you possessed. You will sink into her warmth and it will be all-encompassing, fire against your skin, and you will feel nothing else but the burn of her imprinted on the cells of your blood for days and days.
She will smell like summer and sun and tea and you will be thinking, in between her small steady breaths, that anything but the moment is simply irrelevant.
(You will wake up alone one day, and a bewildered, hasty run to the console room will have you taking deep breaths, and then you will–oh, you'll remember, straighten, and walk slowly back to your empty study.)
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You will busy busy busy yourself into terrifying routine. You will do this only to stop from hearing a voice which will whisper harshly into your ear, well we're all basically alone.
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She will be fading into the horizon, and maybe you're worlds apart, but the pull in your heart will feel like a rupture in some sort of reality which is not your own, which is-- well, fuck. Which is really hers, you will think hysterically. This will be the cause of a chain reaction.
A month later, it will be a breathless walk (run) out of your ship and you will have shaved that day, and you will only remember this because you will scratch the side of your jaw listlessly when you see her.
hello, yes, hi, hello, pardon?, you can't imagine, won't-- yes i know, but, won't, won't you come with me?
The pauses in your conversation will be caused by a frantic meeting of lips and she will be so warm that you will forget three dead languages, and just being able to taste the air she's breathing in will be one of the most memorable moments in your long, long life.
She will tug against your collar, her face will be in the crook of your neck, and you will wonder what you have done for this to have happened. Her lips will form something like thank you just below your right ear and you will pull her so close you will never think to let her go.
Fin.