Archive of Our Own

Edward used to think that the South Pole was the loneliest place on Earth. Now he knows better: the people working at the observatory are like family. A ragtag group of scientists, Blanky always says. No one else lives around here. Staring out the window, all one can see is an endless field of ice.

It’s not about looking.

It’s the listening.

Here, the universe speaks.

Edward pulls his headphones down around his neck, rests his forehead on the cool glass, and glares ahead. His ears ring with the sizzling of radio signals, that single second of deterioration he’s been playing on a loop, the gentle knock of the rest of the galaxy, a bloody beautiful Cherenkov emission of a cosmic neutrino flux caught in the ice—a secret, subatomic event which was simply not observable a decade ago, yet here it is now: translated into data, resonating in his skull, just Dr. Crozier theorised. If a connection to gamma-rays can be observed, Dr. Crozier will inevitably make Edward email Dr. Franklin I TOLD YOU SO in all caps. He’s not looking forward to that. But the discovery—

Something splashes against the wall. Edward politely ignores it, but then Dr. Crozier shouts, “Well, fuck that,” and he’s knows he ought to react. He slowly swivels his chair around so he’s facing the tiny lab, just as bright and white as the ice outside, except for the distinct dark mark on the wall, where Dr. Crozier’s coffee met its unfortunate end. Tom is already on his knees, deftly wiping off the coffee with a bunch of balled-up tissues.

“Shite!” Dr. Crozier says, shaking off his hand as he squints at his monitor from behind thick glasses. Edward is sitting painfully straight on a creaky stool, half-hidden behind his humming MacBook, trying to turn invisible, and also not to stare at Tom. He’s in a lab coat: he must’ve come from the computer room. Edward hasn’t noticed him leaving: Tom is always on the move, silent on his feet.

“What appears to be the problem, sir?” Tom asks, unflappable. An admirable quality in any PhD student. Edward has a lot of professional respect for him. Tom gets to his feet and swipes a lock of hair behind his ears. Now his hair will smell of coffee. Or whisky. His hair usually smells of an apple cider vinegar shampoo, something Edward observed in passing, because his job as a scientist is to observe things. Apple cider vinegar has no business smelling so delicious.

“It’s bad news,” Dr. Crozier says. “Please, sit.”

Tom elects to sit on Dr. Crozier’s desk, feet dangling. He crumples the dirty tissues in his fist and shoots a glance at Edward, so Edward gives him a reassuring thumbs-up reflexively, then proceeds to hate himself.

“I just want to preface it by saying that we can always murder the old bastard,” Dr. Crozier says, and turns the monitor towards Tom. He reads on, his pleasant expression melting away for a moment. A blink, and Tom’s smile is back, but it no longer reaches his eyes.

“I see,” he says, voice even.

“What happened?” Edward asks.

*

Tom throws back a can of tomato soup as if it were a shot.

“There must be something we can do,” Edward says. They’re in the canteen, all white plastic. The drops of tomato soup ending up on the table make it look like a crime scene. Tom swipes them up with his thumb and licks them off, which makes Edward’s brain short-circuit. It’s unfortunate, because he should be using his brain to help Tom, who was pegged as the top candidate for the observatory's postdoc position opening, except Dr. Franklin wants to choose John Irving instead.

John Irving, of all people.

“I mean, it’s no surprise,” Tom says. He sounds nearly cheery, but Edward has noticed that the more energetic Tom is, the more reason there is to panic.

“It is, to me,” Edward says. “I mean, University of Edinburgh, I get that, the Ascent Award too, but Irving has less astronomical work experience than you do. Hasn’t he been co-researching sheep in New Zealand or whatever, with that agriculturist buddy of his, Malcolm-Something?”

“‘Cool season grass grazing tolerance,’” Tom says. He’s picking at the label of the soupcan. It’s rare to see him fidget.

“Real trailblazer, that.”

“He’s a great climatologist-to-be. I referenced his publication on satellite lidar remote sensing of the atmosphere in my dissertation, he’s just been… looking for a change, from what I hear.” Tom almost sounds defensive, as if he regrets talking ill of Irving, but then he can’t resist. “It’s not about qualifications anyhow. Never is. You did not hear it from me, but Dr. Crozier told me that Dr. Franklin said over dinner that he wants the position to go to a ‘reputable man’ with ‘good breeding.’”

“Ew.” Edward frowns. “You’re plenty reputable.”

“But I’m not upper-crust, so.” Tom pokes at the empty soup can, then glances at Edward’s tray.

Edward has barely touched anything. “I’m not going to finish it.” He pushes the tray towards Tom, who smiles for the first time since they read that blasted email. He stuffs his face full with a slightly stale biscuit. For a man with such refined manners, he eats like a starving puppy. (Edward really likes puppies, and he really likes watching Tom eat, so he always saves him something. It may or may not be totally creepy. He hasn’t decided yet.)

“Dr. Franklin said he didn’t want to repeat the Mr. Hickey Incident, you know, the plagiarism-slash-identity-theft case,” Tom says, covering his mouth, “which is funny, because Billy from catering tells me Irving has been all up in that business. Don’t tell anybody, mind.”

Edward bites down a smile. He tilts his head, watches his little tattletale (his colleague) finish the biscuit. “It’s just his opinion, yeah? The vote can still go your way. You’ve been busting your arse off—excuse me—every fucking day. The papers, the conferences, your seminars, this trip, you're walking towards a doctorate on a red carpet! "

“I did take my sweet time submitting my dissertation, and I'm yet to defend it."

“Um, yeah, because you've been working. This Cherenkov emission thing could be groundbreaking, and I'm sure Crozier will credit you for your assistance. You have actual research experience while Irving is wasting his scholarship on a glorified petting zoo. The board will have the vote after Christmas, so there's still time to convince Franklin you’re from a long line of fancy scientists. "

“I think not,” Tom says, dimpling, and picks up Edward’s soda. Edward meant to drink it, but he’s glad Tom has it instead. Tom deserves the very last of their Pepsi. He also deserves a permanent position. Right here. Right where Edward is.

“But you have connections,” Edward insists. “Fight fire with fire and nepotism with nepotism. I’m sure Dr. Crozier will vouch for you.”

“He’s reputable, but Dr. Franklin doesn’t consider him to be at his level. Socially speaking, you see.”

“Middle class much?”

“Yeah. So what chance does my little working class self have, experience or no?”

“You’re a self-made man. He should be proud of that.”

“He's set in his ways,” Tom says softly.

Edward swipes back his hair, thinking hard. His leg jumps up and down below the desk, an anxious rhythm. “I could vouch for you too.”

“That’s so sweet of you, but—sorry—you’re not on the board, are you?”

“Oh. Shit. Yeah. No. Who is?”

“Nobody I know.”

“Do you know anybody in Franklin’s circle? Outside academia. Doesn’t have to have voting rights, just influence.”

“Influence…well, there’s Fitzjames, I guess? I heard they know each other, but not much else.”

Edward’s leg stops jumping. “You know him?”

“Yeah?”

“The Fitzjames? The sci-fi author? The End of Vanity?”

“I fact-checked Vanity,” Tom says shyly, and adjusts his hair.

Edward is reeling. He needs to take hold of the table, or he’d fall over.

“I mean, it was all rather silly,” Tom goes on, “I read Vanity during the winter break when I was a bachelor's student and I thought it was good, but I couldn’t get over some stuff, so I did a blog post about it; on tumblr, of all places, I never expected him to find it. But turns out he had a secret account and loved searching for his own name…”

“He would,” Edward interjects.

“So he got in touch, and he wasn’t offended; I sort of expected him to be… He offered to pay me for fact-checking his next book.”

“What! That would’ve been…Some of the Hardest Miles?”

Tom nods shortly, playing with the label of the soupcan self-consciously.

“I told him to go to somebody with actual expertise,” he says, “I suggested Dr. Crozier, in fact, but Fitzjames called his work ‘too dense.’ He said he enjoyed my meta because it was an easier read.”

“That’s great!” Edward flashes a proud smile. Tom gives him a look he can’t read; is something stuck in his teeth? But it’s not a look of disgust, more like—appetite. As soon as Edward can analyse it more, it’s gone: Tom’s face smooths out into its usual pleasantly neutral expression.

“Science communication is crucial, and I always said you were good at it,” Edward adds, a bit dazed. He needs to get his mind back on track, to the task at hand.

“Thank you, that’s—you’re so sweet.” Tom manages to tear the label off completely. He balls it up in his hand, and gives Edward an oddly desperate little smile. “So um. He got me a paid contract from Harper Voyager so I’m officially credited as his science consultant.”

Edward covers his mouth.

“He’s my favourite author ever,” he whispers through his fingers.

Tom’s beautiful blue eyes go wide. “Is he now?”

“Yeah, I—you’ll laugh. I really liked the accuracy of the science in his latest works?”

Tom does laugh, and it’s the sweetest thing: a breathless, startled chuckle, like he’s not used to hearing himself make so much noise.

“I um,” Edward goes on, “so I loved him even before that, I just love this Verne-esque sense of grand adventures. And he’s not afraid to be silly. There’s so much whimsy but also heroism and this epic scale and—and I never read the credits page and I’m so sorry.”

Tom chuckles again, and puts his chin in his hand. “Well, in that case, I think I could manage to get you his autograph.”

Edward already has every single copy signed, but the offer is still too kind. Tom is just so kind and brilliant, and his credentials should speak for themselves. Edward's chest swells with pride: how smart of Tom, to get that contract, to work so hard! All Edward did was glide through academia, and by the time people noticed his presence he had a summa cum laude in his pocket. A young, promising talent, ripe for teaching undergrads.

First thing he did was fuck off to Antarctica.

“Invite him here for a day,” he says.

“Anything for you,” Tom says, raising the Pepsi can in a toast. (One would think such a well-funded program like this could get the personnel some coke, but no.)

“No, not for my sake, although holy shit, but—for you. Flaunt him in front of Dr. Franklin.”

Tom frowns, which makes his nose look even more adorable than it already is, which is plenty. “Fitzjames knew Dr. Franklin's name when I cited him once, and left a comment saying they "hang out" sometimes, but that's all I know. I’m not sure Dr. Franklin considers him ‘reputable enough,’ despite being acquainted.”

“Nonsense. Dr. Franklin’s old chums with the Coninghams. They’re Fitzjames’ adopted family.”

“Really?” Tom asks, genuinely shocked that he might've missed a tidbit of gossip. Edward is happy to provide.

“Yeah, I—so you’re not stalking him online, huh?”

“No, I don’t really know much about his personal life. I happen to know he’s queer though.”

“Yeah, he’s pretty public about that. Not to mention all the gender in his books.”

“I’m just worried how Dr. Franklin might treat a queer person?”

Edward blinks slowly. “Everybody’s queer here.”

Tom raises an eyebrow. “Not everybody.”

“Bridgens and Peglar are married and Dr. Franklin has no issue with that.”

“Dr. Franklin thinks they’re related.”

Edward’s mouth falls open. “He thinks it’s incest?”

“No,” Tom says gently, “he thinks they’re just related.”

“Oh,” Edward says with palpable relief. Tom looks oddly charmed, but before Edward could ponder on that, Tom starts listing people on his (very elegant) fingers.

“Dr. Le Vesconte, but again, Dr. Franklin described him as “eccentric” and “European.”’

“He’s from Devon though? He’s from…Devon.”

“There’s also the postdoc, Armitage, but I doubt Dr. Franklin noticed he exists.”

“Tozer from IT,” Edward adds, then clears his throat.

Tom waves it away. “Dr. Franklin would never clock somebody like him. It’s me. Because I’m young and mid-twinkish and I look like I might go clubbing.”

“Do you go clubbing?” Edward asks. He has trouble picturing Tom in London. He has trouble picturing him without two layers of sweaters. (Except when he’s alone in his room, then he has no trouble at all.)

Tom smiles mysteriously and takes a fizzy sip from the last of Edward’s Pepsi.

“There’s also me,” Edward says, and Tom nearly chokes on his drink.

“You’re gay?” he says, recovering swiftly by hitting his own chest.

Edward scratches his muttonchops, wondering if they’ve lost their power to communicate his very clear preferences. “Always have been.”

There was a time a man with muttonchops, polished boots, and tight jeans didn’t have to say anything to get invited into an alley. Has he aged?

“Ah, I never knew, haha!” Tom wiggles a bit in his seat, pulling closer.

“And Dr. Franklin doesn’t mind me, either,” Edward says. “Or Professor Ross. Franklin must know about Ross?”

“He takes less kindly to Dr. Crozier though.”

“Crozier’s super private, I doubt Franklin noticed he was bi.”

“I never said anything.” Tom bites his lip. A beat later, he adds, “But Dr. Crozier and Professor Ross—y’know.” Makes a vague gesture.

"Wait, let me guess. Did he propose to him?"

"We simply cannot rule out the possibility."

Edward attempts to wrap his head around that bit of gossip. “I don’t—okay. Nevermind. Still. Ross attracts funds like a magnet. They can’t stop funding the man. Proves my point, in fact. I think Franklin is more upset about Crozier proposing to Dr. Cracroft. He doesn’t strike me as a homophobe, he’s just—a snob.”

“Snobs do like Fitzjames,” Tom ponders, adjusting his hair. Edward is taking special effort not to ogle his wrist. (His wrist.)

“Yeah. I’m a snob, I like him.”

Tom scoffs, softly. He gives Edward that inexplicable look again.

“So you think I should invite him?”

“Absolutely,” he babbles. “This is just the kind of shenanigan he’d enjoy, and Dr. Franklin, you know Dr. Franklin. Dr. Franklin is a susceptible man. That’s Dr. Franklin for you.”

Tom hums, low in his throat. For the first time since he’s arrived in Antarctica, Edward feels hot under his collar.

*

Edward suspects the invitation happens more for his sake than for Tom’s ambition.

The timing is perfect: it coincides with Dr. Franklin’s pre-Christmas stay, when he’s usually in a generous mood. With the holidays looming, there’s less work to do, leaving Tom plenty of time to play up his part.

The plan isn’t foolproof. Not by half. It may be fruitless; it may fail. However, Tom likes it, and there’s the added benefit of James Fucking Fitzjames visiting, so Edward is happy to please the two people he likes best in any way he can.

It’ll be a laugh, he tells himself.

*

“Ready?” Tom chirps, zipping up his coat.

“How long will it take?” Dr. Crozier asks, hidden under multiple layers of scarves and hats.

“You’ll be back in your laboratory before you know it,” Dr. Franklin says. He’s in a deerstalker.

They brave the weather together to walk to the helicopter: -17 Celsius, -27 with the windchill. The blazing sunlight is deceptive. The sparkling snow hurts Edward’s eyes, even through the goggles. He hugs himself as he walks through the terrain, an old habit that’s useless against cold like this. Could be much worse, he thinks as he grits his teeth.

“Are you excited to meet our guest, Dr. Little?” Dr. Franklin says. He sounds and looks exactly like he used to do in the lecture hall at Durham University: so aloof he always seemed to be levitating a bit. The only reason he remembers Edward’s name is because Edward’s dad used to work with Stephen Hawking.

“I’m very excited to meet Fitzjames; Jopson told me great things about him,” Edward says, taking the opportunity to hold Dr. Franklin’s brief and wandering attention.

Dr. Crozier stops dead in his tracks.

“You’re involved in this?” he says, catching Tom’s arm before he can scurry away.

“I'm sure glad Jopson extended him an invitation, it'll be great to have Fitzjames here, ” Edward goes on, raising his voice over the biting wind, while Tom and Dr. Crozier talk in hushed tones. He manages to divert Dr. Franklin from Dr. Crozier's fire and fury. For a moment, Edward's worried he pushed too hard and showed his hand early, praising Tom instead of letting the scene play itself out so Franklin can finally notice Tom's brilliance for himself and feel very clever for discovering something that has always been there.

“Are you familiar with James’s work, then?” Franklin asks, tilting his head. The deerstalker’s flaps are fluttering violently in the wind. Edward tries not to stare, and adjusts his goggles. Okay, so Dr. Franklin won’t even deign to discuss Tom's qualifications as small talk. He keeps forgetting Dr. Franklin has such a severe blindspot for people below his pay grade.

Edward is tempted to take him by his shoulders and turn him towards Tom, still chatting with Crozier and say, don't mind Fitzjames for a moment, do you honestly not see the talent you have right here?

“I’m his biggest fan, sir,” he says, “I think I’ll shake his hands, bow, and promptly faint.” 

“Just say hi,” Dr. Franklin says with a fraternal smile, and places a hand on Edward’s shoulders as if he’s bestowed great wisdom upon him. Edward returns his smile, though it will not show. He had the sense to hide his face with a  muffler.

“One doesn’t just say hi to James Fitzjames, sir,” Edward says, and glances at the helicopter. It’s circling now, searching for a place to land.

“Should I say hi for you?” Tom suggests. He’s caught up. Edward is pointedly ignoring Dr. Crozier, though he can feel him staring daggers.

“That’s sweet but, ah. I’ll uh. Just say hi and beg for a selfie and die.”

Dr. Franklin laughs heartily and claps his back before letting go of him. “You should talk to him; he came all this way, you can count on him being interested!”

“‘xcuse me,” Dr. Crozier slurs. He smells of rum, cigarettes and tea, in that order. “Please do not suggest a theoretical physicist of Dr. Little’s calibre educate some sci-fi writer. Sir. Surely he has more important work than to socialise. With respect.”

Dr. Franklin waves it away. “It’s not socialising!” he announces cheerfully. “James is here on a research trip.”

Dr. Crozier visibly pales under his many layers. “Sir,” he says, trying to catch up with him on his considerably shorter legs when Dr. Franklin starts to walk again, “with all due respect, what some authors call a research trip is entirely different than—”

“I told him the Plan,” Tom whispers as he steps up to Edward. Edward can't see his eyes behind the shades, but he's fairly certain they share a conspiratory glance.

“—Fitzjames just expects to what, pop by,” Dr. Crozier goes on, “with no scientific education whatsoever, and believe himself to be on our level, to be able to hold a conversation for longer than a minute just because he invented a planet made of shit in one of his stories—a blasted guano planet, sir!—”

Tom chuckles. He glances at Edward.

“Anxious?”

“Always,” Edward admits, putting a hand over Fitzjames' latest paperback in his pocket to placate himself. It has a cheetah on the cover floating in space. It’s very cool. “I’ll focus on the Plan, though.”

“No, come on,” Tom says, and takes Edward’s arm. Edward freezes when he realises that Tom nearly slipped. However, he doesn’t let go of him. “It’s your favourite author! Just enjoy his company and leave the rest to me.”

“I genuinely have no fucking idea what to say to him,” Edward admits with an edge of utter desperation.

“Just...tell him about your research. Well. Simplify it? Talk about the inevitable heat death of the universe? You know, the fun bits.”

“I was thinking,” Edward says slowly, “that I could pitch my theories about his next book, but fuck, that’s annoying, it must be annoying, right?”

“I’d love to hear your theories.” Tom’s grip gets firmer. “Tell me.”

Edward licks his lips, accidentally getting a mouthful of wool. “It’s just, the cover art they released? The person in the spacesuit submerged in ice water, a harpoon-like weapon in hand.”

“Mm, yeah!”

“That’s a clue, yeah? Because Cilo just left Nabhivarsa, and the only ice planet in that  sector is Anián, so it must be where Thiago is headed next, right?”

“He called an ice planet Anián?” Dr. Crozier interjects, snapping his head around mid-sentence. “As in the Northwest Passage?”

“I think the name comes from there, yeah.”

“Fascinating.”

“But if they go to Anián,” Edward says, thoroughly embarrassed to be overheard but unable to stop himself (he’s now talking with his hands), “then Double Charlie won’t be featured in the story, because he’s not a science officer, and the Clio doesn’t have a hyperdrive, so I think they’ll take Erebus and we’ll meet Dundas and Dr. SSS again. ”

“And Thiago Gambier,” Dr. Franklin interjects.  “No story without the main character!”

“Actually,” Edward explains, getting animated despite his best efforts, “there was an exclusive short story on Patreon that didn’t feature Thiago at all, set on Chrononhotonthologos…”

“Did you know,” Dr. Franklin interjects, “that the name comes from his biological father?”

“His Da was called Chronohotdoglogos?” Dr. Crozier deadpans.

*

The helicopter lands,  only a few feet ahead. Edward decides to stay behind, ever the silent observer. His nerves are getting the better of him. He tries to breathe on a count of one, two, three, but it doesn’t help that breathing the frigid air hurts his lungs, burns his throat.

It was smart of Fitzjames to accept the invitation, no matter what anybody says; it would’ve made sense even without the Plan. Antarctica has often been likened to a foreign planet, and rightly so. There’s no other place on Earth to experience such complete isolation, to feel the effect of a perfectly uncaring landscape, both familiar and foreign and entirely unnerving. It's paradise for any sci-fi fan, including The Thing enthusiasts.

“‘In the endless tedium of the plain, the uncertain snow gleams like sand,’” a voice says, a voice Edward knows quite well. Fitzjames emerges from the helicopter like a conqueror, head held high and hair flying about, wrapped in a white parka belted at the waist, complete with heeled boots: his signature look. He lifts his round sunglasses, which is probably a bad idea, and takes a deep breath, which isn’t a great idea either.

“Rimbaud?” Dr. Franklin supplies, offering his hand to help Fitzjames descend.

“Verlaine. His lover. Oh, I already feel inspired! Tom, where’s Tom—thank you so much for the invitation!”

Dr. Franklin completely misses the happy handshake between Tom and Fitzjames, turning to Crozier instead.

“Verlaine was homosexual?” he whispers, loud enough for Edward to hear.

“I’m not in the habit of discussing symbolic poetry before my first glass of whisky,” Dr. Crozier says, acrid.

“We better get you a glass then!” Fitzjames chirps, offering his hand. “James Fitzjames, charmed!”

“Francis Crozier.”

“Ah, you’re Irish?”

“Expertly observed.”

Edward is shifting his weight from his left foot to his right. This is not going how he hoped. He didn’t expect Fitzjames to have such an aura even off-page, off-screen: he eclipses everybody around him, so full of life and wanderlust he’s bursting with it. Tom, even brilliant Tom, pales next to him, unable to get a word in as Fitzjames waltzes to get his luggage, chatting all the way, and Dr. Crozier following him like an old hound who discovered a sly cat on his property.

Edward is about 70% sure Tom and him lock gazes, but it’s impossible to tell with the goggles.

Dr. Franklin collects himself, and announces the line he must have prepared in advance,  “Welcome to the Admirality Neutrino Observatory! I’m happy to announce that the coldest months are behind us, and you won’t lack any sunshine. You met Dr. Crozier, our senior expert on electromagnetism, and Mr. Jopson, Dr. Crozier’s PhD student—where’s Dr. Little? Ah, there he is!”

“I do indirect dark matter searches, timescape cosmology,” Edward says, standing at attention.

“Ah, what’s that?” Fitzjames asks, jovial, and approaches, which puts Edward on the spot with the awkward realisation that he’s unable to make any sense. He opens his mouth to summarise all six-hundred pages of his dissertation and ten-odd years of his life, but no sound comes out.

“Dr. Little is investigating the end of all things,” Dr. Franklin says. “He proposes that the expansion of the universe is slowing.”

“A Doomsday expert,” Fitzjames says, shaking his hand. For a fleeting moment, standing in Fitzjames’ regard, Edward feels cool as shit.

“Tell me your first impressions,” Dr. Franklin says, gesturing towards the bulk of the observatory, a massive steel building of blocks and cylinders that manages to look insignificant compared to the scope of the land.

“It doesn’t look how I imagined it,” Fitzjames admits. Fascination still pulls him forward, and he starts walking towards the observatory in big strides, carrying his luggage like it weighs nothing.

“What are you missing?” Dr. Franklin inquires, rushing to keep up.

“A telescope, for a start! Tom promised me a gigantic telescope.”

“Oh, our telescope is not pointing at the sky: we’re looking down into a cubic kilometre of unmelted ice able to capture neutrinos.” Dr. Franklin graciously adds, “They're subatomic particles that can pass through anything, but sometimes, well, bump into ice.”

“Oh yes, I understand that: but how do you see the collisions?”

“To simplify it, the collision of the water particle and the neutrinos releases light we can detect and study. We can even tell where the neutrino came from!”

“We just found one from an exploding neutron star,” Tom pipes in. “If you need technical details, you should talk to Mr. Blanky: he’s the one who drilled our Science Hole.”

“Please introduce me,” Fitzjames says, and skips over a heap of ice. “I’m so excited to see everything!”

*

There’s not much to see. There’s everything to see.

Edward walks around the observatory as if it was his first time seeing it, his heavy boots creaking on the floor. He never really noticed the look of the corridors, the blankness of it all, steel and concrete, and one white room repeating after another with even lights burning ahead. It had to be neutral, he supposes, because these rooms are not the point of Admirality. The observatory is not its walls, because it expands beyond. It’s a building without matter, representing something far greater, a gateway into the invisible world. A wormhole, perhaps.

“How do you like it here?” Fitzjames turns to him in the main laboratory, an eager smile on his lips.

“It’s fine,” Edward mutters, flexing his fingers behind his back. He has no hope sharing his thoughts. They cannot be expressed accurately. They're just all this raw data he struggles to decode himself, let alone share. “It’s work. Um, great opportunity, I’m very lucky.”

“Could we see your room?” Tom pipes in.

“Um, sure. Okay. This way.” He has no idea why Tom would suggest something so boring, but Tom’s better at reading him than anybody, so it’s worth trusting him.

“Yes!” Fitzjames enthuses, tagging along. “I’d be very interested to know what it feels like working here, living in such a place.”

“It’s cold,” Edward says, and Fitzjames laughs, then turns to Dr. Franklin who begins reciting a routine monologue about the glory of scientific missions. Dr. Crozier reaches inside his pocket for his flask.

Edward’s nook is just around the corner. It was built for two people, but he doesn’t have a bunkmate at present. It's really not that interesting. All the rooms are the same. He switches on his galaxy lamp, which casts blue light all around with twinkling stars, and surveys his narrow iron-framed bed, the dresser with the darkwave music posters, his bookshelf and mineral collection. It’s embarrassing, he decides. It looks like the room of a nerdy teen, not an established officer of science.

He turns around to apologise, and catches Tom’s eyes, filled with wonder. Edward tries to remember if Tom’s ever been inside—they’re in the habit of walking each other to their respective rooms, but he doesn’t think Tom has ever crossed the threshold. He’d remember. They should’ve visited Tom’s room instead, it’s so neat and orderly and he has volumes upon volumes of actual science literature instead of sci-fi paperbacks, and an inspiration board and sticky notes with brilliant ideas.

“This is amazing,” Fitzjames announces, respectfully lingering in the doorway. Edward flushes at the compliment, looks away and—oh yes, his bookshelf. All of Fitzjames’ works. But that’s not what Fitzjames comments on: he’s staring at the ceiling, the swirling of a projected galaxy. “Is this why you chose to be a scientist?” he asks Edward.

“Because of—my lamp?”

“Because it’s beautiful.”

“Ah.” Edward looks at the galaxy. The rotation is not even accurate, but, well, none of the celestial bodies he’s seen at the planetarium were accurate either, and he still begged his parents to go every day. “I think it’s like watching a horror film,” he says, eyes fixed on the hypnotic swirls. “Space has always terrified me, even as a kid. I was obsessed with it, because kids are obsessed with scary shit. Space is sublime. It was never meant to be understood by humans. That’s why I can’t look away.”

He clears his throat, feeling like he’s said too much. His eyes dart to Fitzjames, who grins and says, “Mind if I jot that down?”

He looks at Tom then, and Tom looks smitten.

*

Except it’s impossible that Tom would be smitten. Edward contemplates it for the rest of their little tour, completely zoned out.

Like—surely not. He’s known Tom for over a year now, and they’re friends. Coworkers. Friendly coworkers. Tom has always been polite. He’s kind and considerate. He’ll make Dr. Crozier coffee and remind Edward to take his anxiety meds. He’s just the type of person who’s caring and nice and will rub your shoulders after a long day, and laugh at your dumb jokes, and ask you about stuff. His big blue eyes would shine like twin stars and he’d adjust his night-black hair, cheeks flushed—frostbitten, perhaps—and he’d look down at you from behind thick lashes, and you’d realise that oh, crap, yes, he’s perhaps half of an inch taller, and he’s not the first guy you met who’s taller than you because you’re a mid-sized king, but nobody else has made you feel so safely tiny.

And that’s Tom.

Edward is staring at him through the entirety of the fancy dinner Dr. Franklin throws to honour their guest, despite Dr. Crozier’s objections about supplies and the necessities of napkins in a place where one cannot leave rubbish. Tom is dipping his prawns into ketchup, which is the oddest choice of condiment he could’ve possibly made, and Edward loves him for it. He loves his soothing voice and the clever questions he asks, his unerring politeness in the face of Dr. Franklin boasts, his support of Dr. Crozier as he passes him water and painkillers, his possessive loyalty as he protects him from some mild remark Fitzjames makes concerning Dr. Cracroft.

Edward looks at this man, huddled in an adorable maroon sweater, back straight, strong hand elegantly curved over the neck of a beer bottle, his pointy nose bumping into it as he raises it to drink, and he thinks, well, fuck knows if Tom’s really smitten. But Edward? God, he’s in deep.

*

He steals away from the company to rethink his life. The perfect place for that is the computer room, humming and dark and filled with machines as high as the ceiling, dreaming their electric dreams. Edward paces about in his labcoat like a ghost, careful not to get dust or such on anything, and blinks back at the green lights flashing.

Tom Jopson.

Tom Jopson, right here and still out of reach, because they’re colleagues, for heaven’s sake, it’d be quite fucking unethical. (Though their hierarchy is nominal. Edward is not his supervisor.)

It could harm Tom's chance of getting that postdoc. (Anything could. It’s all decided on the whims of a pompous board.)

Provided Tom even said yes to dating. Because if Edward took him out on a date, it wouldn’t go well. (It never does. He’s been accused of being a bore.)

Tom might like him in Antarctica, but would he fancy Edward in London? (Edward in London spends half an hour in Tesco trying to decide between two brands of toilet paper and failing. Then he’d go to the Opera to relax. Tom’s a West End guy. He loves Cats. Sure, Edward can be spotted in Camden vibing in the far corner during some garage band’s first and last escapade into live music, but he can’t do clubs, or indie, or anything so commercial, which just proves that he’s a massive snob. God, does Tom know he goes to membership-only clubs to drink slow drip coffee and avoid eye contact with the locals?)

“Moping again?”

Edward turns around and faces Tozer, who has his snowpants tied around his waist and is wiping his hands on a piece of cloth. Edward takes a step back from the computer he’s been staring at for the past five to fifteen minutes.

“I just needed to think,” he says.

“Would hope so, they pay you a shitload to do thinkin’,” Tozer says and slips the cloth into his back pocket. It’s a bandana, Edward realises. The red bandana that made him approach Tozer when he first came here some five years ago. If you want a quick fuck or a fist up your arse, you come to Tozer. Edward doesn’t want either at the moment, so he’s unsure what to do.

“Writer bloke scare you off?” Tozer asks.

“Fitzjames? No, he’s perfectly lovely.”

“Well, if he’s puhfectly lovely. Tommy loves his stuff.”

Edward’s heart sinks. Tommy. Of course. Of fucking course. If Tom wanted to get laid at the end of the world, he’d try his luck with Tozer, and he’d succeed, because he’s perfect and Tozer will fuck anybody, including Hickey, despite his vehement denials. And Tozer knows how to fuck, unlike Edward, who has a theoretical grasp at best and tries to make up for it by asking constant question and issuing timely warnings.

He has no right to feel jealous. If Tom chose Tozer, he made the right choice. He shouldn’t be tearing up about it, especially not in front of Tozer, who’ll mock him relentlessly for the rest of his life and during his funeral.

“Hey,” Tozer says, stepping closer. He offers the red bandana. Edward stares at it dumbly. “If you wanna have a lil’ cry where nobody can see you, that’s okay with me, I’ll get out of your hair, just don’t get snot on my computers.”

“Ugh,” Edward says. “Thank you. I’m not crying, by the way.”

Looking at Tozer he can vividly picture how well he’d fuck Tom. Maybe so well that Tom would fall in love with him. Maybe Tom would sneak down to the computer room and look at Tozer with soft eyes and he’d dust a bit to relax; he loves to dust. And Tozer would love him for it. Tozer loves them neat and polished. They’d be a perfect couple. Nobody would give shit to Tom, ever. A man like Tozer would be able to protect Tom and actually fight for him, go to Dr. Franklin and call him a daft cunt if he doesn’t give a postdoc position to Tom, instead of coming up with some silly scheme that doesn’t even appear to be working because Dr. Franklin is too self-absorbed to notice their attempts.

“Keep it,” Tozer says. Edward pockets it, because yeah, if nothing else, he may have a soft hanky to keep him company. Now that Tozer and Tom are in a relationship, he can’t even come here anymore, probably, not for cruising. Like maybe it’s a polyamorous sort of thing, but Edward shouldn’t get entangled in it, because he’ll just break his own heart, and he’d have to be honest about being in love with Tom, and that’d be awkward.

“Can you do me a solid?” Tozer asks.

(Tozer sure as hell doesn’t drink slow drip. He’d drink PG tips like Tom.)

“Sure,” Edward says, sniffling slightly.

“Could you get an autograph from Fitzjames? Doubt they’ll let him near me but I wanna get one for Tommy. He’s home for the holidays. Wanna surprise him.”

Edward blinks slowly.

Tommy.

Tommy Armitage. Who the fuck else but the guy who’s constantly hanging around the computer room with the excuse of bumming cigarettes from Tozer.

Edward should feel relieved, but, well. This is why he must’ve misread the expression on Tom’s face. He’s too dumb to be loved. He’s an idiot with a PhD. He’s a fake.

“Yeah,” Edward says at length.

“Ta. Make sure it’s signed for Tommy, mind.” Sol starts heading for the exit, shuffling with a comfortable gait. Edward turns to look after him.

“Do you also want a—”

“Nah, I don’t care much for Fitzjames’s stuff. I’m an Asimov guy.”

Edward frowns. “You’re an Asimov guy?”

Tozer does a curtsey. “I’m full of beautiful surprises.”

*

“I’m just saying,” Dr. Crozier slurs, “that it’s not worth it.”

“How come?” Tom asks.

They’re back in the office while Dr. Franklin and Fitzjames are inspecting the Science Hole. Dr. Crozier has his gear on, so at one point he was probably heading out. He sits slumped, eating a bag of crisps with fingerless gloves on, which are getting crusty. Tom watches him with a resigned expression, standing at attention. Edward elected to sit atop his writing desk, his back to the light of the antarctic night.

“You may swing Franklin’s vote,” Dr. Crozier explains between crunchy bites, “but it’ll cost you. You wouldn’t want to be associated with Fitzjames in the long run. He’s a fop.”

“With your excuse, there’s plenty of fops in academia.”

“Dr. Hodgson,” Edward interjects, and Tom nods, grateful.

“Good point,” Dr. Crozier muses, “but you’re better than that lot.”

“Hodgson’s pretty great,” Edward says.

“Well. He shouldn’t have associated with Hickey.” 

Tom seeks Edward’s gaze, an eyebrow arched. Edward’s smile is fleeting, uncertain. He doesn’t know what to think anymore. He only just learned Tom is gay. Maybe it’s all wishful thinking. He’s projecting. Maybe Tom just really likes interior design. Edward wasn’t saying anything back in his room that’d warrant that expression he read as smitten.

(He’s not doing anything that’d warrant this conspiring exchange either, the look of oh yes, the Hickey incident. He doesn’t deserve to be Tom’s confidant. If Tom shouldn’t be associated with somebody, it’s Edward, who took eight years to finish his PhD because he had a nervous breakdown in the middle.)

(Tom would understand, though. He never made fun of Edward for his sense of impending doom, and the strange rituals he does to prevent it.)

“Academia is about navigating a labyrinth,” Dr. Crozier explains, adjusting his glasses. “And at every turn, you’ll find a door that’s locked. Gatekept well. And sometimes you have a key in your pocket that opens them. Other times you spend years searching for the right key. The point is, Fitzjames is a bloody bobby pin. You may be able to open this door with him, if you have enough cunning. But when you reach the next door people will say, ‘Jopson has no right to be here. He's just a lockpicker with a bobby pin.’”

“I see him as a skeleton key, sir,” Tom says. “I think he can open more doors than you think. He’s well-connected, charming, and intelligent, even if you don’t see him that way.”

Dr. Crozier crunches up the empty bag of crisps in his fist. “Here’s what you’re forgetting: there’s a monster in every labyrinth. It’ll chew you up if you’re not careful, and it’ll use every excuse against you.”

*

“I have lost Dr. Franklin,” Fitzjames says, taking a drag of his cigarette.

“Didn’t think I’d find someone else who’d risk life and limb for a smoke,” Edward confesses, putting his vape to his lips.

“Ah, it’s windproof enough,” Fitzjames says, gesturing around the patio. “I found the right spot then, right? I didn’t dare ask Dr. Crozier where I may light up, and Dr. Franklin’s off somewhere—the wife was calling him.”

“It’s as good a place as any,” Edward says. “Just mind your eyes.”

“Oh.” Fitzjames fishes around for his sunglasses. “God, how do you sleep in here?”

“With eyes tightly shut.”

“Hah!” Fitzjames smiles as if Edward said something genuinely funny. That’s good. He’s screaming inside. Stuck on the patio with his favourite writer. Go figure. He’ll make such an arse of himself.

“I really appreciate you helping Tom,” he says after a too-long pause.

“I really appreciate him helping me,” Fitzjames chuckles. “I really wanna up my science game, so to speak. And this next book—it’s going to be a big one. It has to be perfect. It cannot be anything less.” He takes a long drag and lets the smoke drift from his lips.

Edward wants to ask about Anián. Can’t. Wants to say something poignant. Can’t do that either.

Fitzjames fills the silence, chin tipped up and eyes closed as he savours the smoke. “I should technically submit the final draft in three months, but I just started having more ideas. Maybe it should be an additional story. I don’t know. Can it exist separately? I feel that its the point of the book, a point I missed. I might rewrite the entire thing!  Like the story ends—no spoilers, sorry—it ends with a triumph, but maybe that was a lie. Because I haven’t thought of the Challenger yet.”

Edward frowns. “The space shuttle?”

He didn't think Earth tech was going to be part of the lore.

“No, a new character," Fitzjames says.

"A new character?" he asks, vibrating to know more, but he already made a fool of himself with the Challenger comment. He really shouldn't be allowed to talk to people he likes. He's gonna mess everything up.

"Couldn’t think of a name yet. He came to me today.” Fitzjames exhales fragrant smoke “All of Thiago’s grand adventures so far showed him in a great light. He’s the hero, right? He’s flawed and vulnerable, but he’s also this larger-than-life space rogue. He’s come to believe his own mythos. He’s all but story now. The Challenger is there to subvert him. To bring him down, take him apart. And Thiago hates him: the Challenger is a captain of a different ship, think like, mirrorverse, so it’s Erebus in essence but it’s Terror, the Terror, the one you told me about, the terror of space.”

“Oh,” Edward gasps softly. Did something he said… made sense, then?

"The Challenger is Thiago’s narrative foil,” Fitzjames goes on, gesticulating with his hands, his cigarette carving nonsensical letters in the air. “But he’s nothing like him, he’s an older man, he’s more experienced, but he’s a prick, he breaks all the societal norms Thiago cares about. Takes everything so damn seriously, and he has no ideals, he’s a stone-cold realist and an absolute bummer at parties. He has this super dry sense of humour—damn, I can’t think of a name!”

Edward stares at him dumbfounded. “Rawdon?” he says at length, more like a question than an answer, because he really didn’t have ‘favourite author develops instant crush on Tom’s supervisor’ on his bingo card of random predictions.

“Rawdon,” Fitzjames says, murmuring it like a spell. “I like that. Rawdon…”

His eyes glaze over, and Edward knows instinctively that he’s about to lose him: Fitzjames is about to enter the realm of fantasy, and there’ll be no coming back until he has written. It’s the same look Dr. Crozier has staring at data.

He’s going to the invisible world, Edward thinks. He wishes he was a quantum physicist like his father so he could better articulate the realisation that hits, that space and imagination are twin realms where human minds wander, where they go to be bigger than themselves.

Tom found him there.

He cares about Edward because that’s where they first met, reading each other’s papers. They connected through ideas first, ideas that were larger than the mundane reality of class and prestige and all the things separating them. 

Edward may not believe in himself, but he believes in his ideas. He’s an unremarkable man, but peel that away and what remains is this: black holes warping time and space, eternity mutating, all the things he spent years observing, which occupy his mind and define him better than any status, rank or label.

*

He forgot to ask for a bloody autograph.

He won’t let it deter him. Autographs can wait. What can’t wait is seeing Tom again. Talking to him. Saying things such as hey (or hello) (no, hi) and do you have plans for Christmas (do you celebrate it?) (oh with your family sure I understand me too in fact silly of me to ask) or how about New Year’s Eve (do you have someone waiting you’d like to kiss) (will I bawl through Auld Lang Syne if you say yes if you say oh have I never told you about my gorgeous boyfriend).

His heart feels like a Red Dwarf, swelling and consuming everything with burning determination, swallowing fear, if not worry. 

He heads to the communal shower to do something about the state of his muttonchops and his too-long hair. He walks like Neil Armstrong on the moon, if Neil Armstrong was wearing pool slides for the expedition. He’s going for broke, his toiletry bag rattling in his hand. He knew that packing his Manscape kit wouldn’t be a waste of space. (It may still prove to be. But if he’s getting rejected, he’d rather go through it with a smooth dick.)

He reaches the bathroom and confidently swipes away the steam from the mirror. Anorak, check. Never looked better. It’s a strange combination with his jeans and slides, but he likes the added bulk in his shoulders. Maybe he should leave the anorak on when he asks Tom out.

Maybe he fucking shouldn’t.

This is a terrible idea. He’s not even in a suit.

He splashes some cold water to his face. He’ll take a shower and get through this. He’ll smell great. Tom won’t say no once he gets a whiff of Lush’s one and only Posh Chocolate. (If Tom ever comes over, he’ll need to hide the bottle or get rid of the label. But the scent is very good.) 

When he closes the tap, he realises two things. One, that there was a reason the mirrors were steamy. Two, that he should fucking knock before barging into the communal showers, as it is custom, because now he’s glaring at the reflection of a very, very wet Tom.

A very naked Tom, save for the towel around his waist.

Tom, who’s wonderfully, deliciously, absolutely hairy.

“Oh,” Tom gasps, eyes wide and cheeks flushed, shoulders flushed, his entire body flushed—

“Good evening,” Edward says, hating himself, loving Tom, loving him so much, Jesus, no, Christ, fuck.

“Did you need the—” Tom points behind his shoulder. Looks Edward over. Bites his lips.

“I’m just brushing my teeth,” Edward says as he gets the razor out of his bag. Wrong object. Shit. He doesn’t have his toothbrush with him. He’ll just need to roll with it now. He’ll need to pretend that he uses a razor to brush his teeth. Tom will think he’s an idiot. Tom will—

“Forgot your toothbrush?” Tom asks.

“Yeah.” Edward sighs with utter relief. Tom is still staring at him. At his arse, specifically. But that’s ridiculous. Edward barely has any bum. Even if his mutual attraction hypothesis proves to be correct, why would Tom be looking—

Edward gasps and turns red.

Just as red as the hankie still hanging from his left pocket. Tozer’s bloody bandana. Jesus Christ.

It’s not what you think, he wants to say, but also, like, Tom is young, he’s like five years younger than Edward, and even Edward, for all his old-school queer ways, learnt about flagging quite late in his life, so there’s no reason to worry, because Tom doesn’t know what a red handkerchief means. It’s a fashion accessory. It’s fine. It’s hip.

“Do you,” Tom says, then clears his throat. He adjusts his grip on the towel. Edward shouldn’t keep looking at the towel, because the last thing he needs is adding a boner to the list of the encounter’s embarrassments, yet here he is, half-hard already, because Tom, towel, naked, Tom. “Do you have the toothbrush…in your room?”

“Oh,” Edward says, and makes the mistake of looking away from the mirror and directly at Tom. It’s like taking off your safety glasses during an eclipse: bloody stupid. “Yes, I do in fact have a toothbrush in my room, several in fact, because I packed a lot.”

Tom bites his lips again. Edward should do well to remember it’s not necessarily an act of seduction. He bites his lips plenty when he’s nervous. But Tom has no reason to be nervous. Not unless—

“Do you know where they are,” he says, “or do you need help searching for them?”

Edward blinks slowly.

His brain is empty.

His instinct is to defend his memory and ability to store objects. But that’s not what Tom means. But maybe it is. But it probably isn’t.

There’s only one way to find out.

*

They’re sitting on Edward’s bunk by the light of a galaxy. Tom put on his pyjamas so he wouldn’t have to waltz through the corridors in a wet towel, but he’s still radiating a raw sexual energy, dino PJs and all.

Edward doesn’t really know what to do about it.

They sit in silence.

He should’ve put on music.

He’s staring ahead, tapping an anxious rhythm on the metal frame of the bunk.

“Perhaps,” Tom says, then shakes his head.

“No, no, go on.”

“I don’t want to make things awkward.”

Edward sighs. “Things literally couldn’t get any more awkward.”

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” Tom asks with genuine concern.

“No, not you. Not ever.”

“What is it?”

Tom is looking at him. Tom smells amazing. Tom is in his room, the door closed, and there are so many impossible possibilities within arm’s reach. Dare Edward raise a hand to grasp them, when they're already slithering away?

“I assumed,” he says at length, “that you weren’t really going to help me look for my stuff.”

“Did you want me to?”

“No, I—no.”

“What did you want me to do?” Tom asks, so unbearably soft and understanding. Edward closes his eyes, whimpers. Can he say it? Is it really allowed? Can he make a move, or would it result in a catastrophic collusion? He needs to calculate the exact trajectory of this encounter, otherwise he may make a mistake and lose something he never had.

Tom’s hand is on his knee. How, and more importantly, when did it get there? It’s a nice, solid hand, and it doesn’t do anything, it’s hardly even applying pressure, it’s just present, like Tom is present, in Edward’s room, alone, at night. It can only mean one thing, and Edward is so daft about it Tom must think he’s playing stupid, or hard to get, or whatever, but it’s no strategy, it’s just Edward’s inability to function, because it’s difficult to really, really want something, something you could mess up so easily.

They should’ve gone to the canteen. He should’ve gotten Tom a Pepsi from the vending machine. They should’ve started there.

“Would it help if I explained my perspective?” Tom suggests. He’s so sweet. His voice is so soothing. Edward nods, lulled. “So,” Tom says, very carefully, not moving his hand, “you went into the bathroom without knocking, knowing I was there, and waited until I got out from the shower to show me a red handkerchief in your left pocket and invite me over. This lead me to certain assumptions, but I’m starting to wonder if I may have been wrong?”

Edward cringes. This is it, then.

But Tom goes on. “Because you see, you're not that sort of person, are you? Spontaneous. Forward. But I thought… “ A gulp. It’s difficult for Tom to say this, Edward realises. To bare himself again. “I got caught up in the moment. I’m sorry. You're really attractive. I like you a lot. I don’t want to mess it up. So please just tell me—were you, er. Were you trying to fist me?”

“No,” Edward whispers, not knowing if he should laugh or cry. He braves a glance at Tom, who looks crushed, upper lip stiff and eyes wide. Edward can’t bear seeing him being so brave about perceived rejection, so he says what needs to be said, the truth in all its ridiculousness. “I was preparing to tell you how much I loved you.”

There’s a beat.

Then Tom is kissing him.

He doesn’t know how it happens. There must’ve been a moment before their lips collided, but it’s lost to the heat of the kiss, the sheer desperation of it. Tom lets out a sound, a gasp, a laugh, and they’re falling backwards, into the unknown, into each other’s arms, the bed creaking under their combined weight.

*

“Let’s take it slowly,” Tom says.

“Is that something you want?” Edward asks. His lips tingle from kisses. He’s lost his slutty anorak, but otherwise he’s still dressed, with a panting Tom over his chest, tousled hair falling into his face. Edward touches his cheek and marvels how soft it is, and how the stubble tickles. “You were hoping to get fisted.”

“Nothing’s slower than fisting,” Tom says, an eyebrow arched.

Edward kisses him again.

“Do you want that?”

“I’m impartial. But I thought if that was your thing, I’d be game.” Tom tilts his head like some sort of curious bird, an adorable dinosaur. “What is your thing?”

“Anything,” Edward says, wondering briefly if he may live to regret it.

Tom hums, and follows the line of Edward’s lips with a finger. “This leads me to conclude that we both prefer to bottom.”

“Uh-huh?”

“Mm.”

*

Holy shit, Tom is straddling him. Edward is staring up at him open-mouthed, holding onto his thighs. This is Tom, he thinks, the very same Tom he knows and loves, Tom from the lab, but somehow he’s in Edward’s lap, moving his hips in lazy circles while they kiss. Edward slides his hands over his bum and it’s basically concave, it’s the tiniest, boniest thing, and Edward loves it, could just knead it all day, knead Tom’s arse, Tom, Thomas Jopson.

Thomas Jopson licks into his mouth.

“I might come,” Edward says.

Tom chuckles, but it’s not mean at all.

*

Edward is lying atop Tom, shirtless now, jeans unbuckled, but the progress of his undressing got significantly delayed when Tom took off his shirt and thus Edward gained access to two beautiful nipples. He’s suckling on one now, pinching the other, and Tom is making these happy little noises, so Edward doubles down, because Tom needs more joy.

He’s worried about the angle. The pressure. Everything.

But this is the part where the body takes over, because without meaning to, he’s rutting against Tom, pressing his clothed cock against Tom’s thigh and it’s so instinctual he doesn’t need to fret about it, because it’s magnetism, it’s the exact thing Tom studies and Edward’s body responds to it, pulled towards him and obeying some natural rule that keeps the universe together. This, how they move, the heat of it, the thermodynamics, this is it,  this is where things start making sense.

*

“Condoms, condoms,” Edward calls out, and Tom pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Edward’s underwear is sogged.

“Where do you keep them?” Tom asks, all innocent in his tighty whities, as if he wasn’t just teasing Edward’s cock, so Edward needs a minute before he can talk, he needs ten.

“Drawer,” he manages, complete with a vague gesture. He may die soon of sheer pleasure, but at least he gets to ogle Tom’s arse when he gets up on his knees to get the condoms.

Edward always considered himself an incurable pessimist, but at least his doom and gloom wasn’t strong enough to not bring condoms to Antarctica.

“Oh, it’s fancy,” Tom says, opening a sleek black package. Edward can’t even remember the brand. He distinctly remembers the price tag and how it made him feel like he was making an investment.

“You like it?” he asks, insatiable, because now that he experienced Tom’s uncensored attention, he can’t get enough of it.

“I really want to see it on you,” Tom says, all but purring as he climbs back to him. He hooks a finger into the waistband of Edward’s Calvin Klein’s. He hardly has to pull, Edward’s cock bobs free, red and obscene. “Hello,” Tom says, giving it a tender caress, and locks eyes with Edward, who’s about to combust.

“Sorry I didn’t shave,” he manages to say.

“Oh, it’s fine,” Tom purrs. He keeps holding his gaze as he pops the condom into his mouth.

“Fuck,” Edward says, watching Tom do some clever trick with his tongue, getting the condom over his lips, so all he has to do is—fuck—bend down and take Edward’s cock into his mouth, and slide it inside, into wet, rubbery heat, deep down Tom’s tight throat.

The condom is on.

The possibilities are endless.

*

So. Sixty-nine it is, with Tom licking at Edward’s cock while Edward works his slick little arse open with what lube he has left from lonely nights. He hooks a finger inside, pumping it with knuckles pressed to Tom’s skin, who can’t stop moaning around Edward’s cock, and it’s all so surreal. Edward presses a kiss to Tom’s buttcheek then buries his face in it shamelessly, inhaling the scent of soap and heady skin.

*

He’s in. He’s moving so carefully, because he doesn’t want to hurt Tom, not ever, darling Tom riding him into the mattress, dictating a punishing rhythm. Edward seduces him towards something slower, gentler, because he feels like Tom is trying to prove himself, and he really shouldn’t. He’s perfect the way he is. Whatever he can give is enough, is plenty.

Edward can’t stop looking at him, the way his hair spills forward, his open mouth, nipples kissed red and the elegant curve of his cock. His body arches with the grace of a dancer, chest heaving, and he doesn’t sweat, of course he doesn’t—Edward is soaked already—

“Don’t let me come,” Tom pants.

“Thought that was the goal?”

“I’ll want more. Don’t stop, don’t ever stop—”

“I won’t,” Edward promises, though it feels impossible, because he’s so close, but he’ll do it, he’ll do it for Tom, he’ll keep going on and on.

*

Tom’s on his back, legs thrown over Edward’s shoulder. God, he’s so flexible, and he’s reaching behind Edward’s back to finger his arse while Edward fucks into him, fucks him good, he hopes it’s good, it looks like it’s good because Tom’s eyes roll back and he grabs the base of his cock and moans.

“Do you like that?” Edward asks, just to be sure.

Tom’s answer is incomprehensible, and Edward grins.

*

Edward squats over Tom’s cock and guides it inside, fingers slippery with lube, and he misses like three times because he’s too blissed out to focus, on the edge and staring at Tom, wanting to remember every minute movement of his body, how beautiful it is, how it feels, the hot length of his cock, pushing in and in.

“Oh,” Edward gasps, trembling. Tom grasps his hips, his movements languid. They both look like they’re high, pupils wide and eyes filled with joy and wonder, are we really, are we really doing this, does it really feel so so so good—

Tom guides him to move up and down. Edward has to bend forward a bit so he doesn’t hit his head on the bunk bed above. It gives him a better view of Tom, his nearly  delirious expression.

“I'm mad about you,” Tom says. Edward smiles, because he knows it’s true, he knows it as soon as Tom says it.

“Feeling all loved up,” he says, clutching around Tom’s length. Tom’s eyes flutter shut, his lips part. Edward caresses Tom’s trembling arm, rises up, sinks down. “Took us a while to figure it out, huh?”

“That’s the process of discovery.”

*

He’s on all fours when his orgasm hits, Tom wanking him and fucking him from behind, and, well, doggy has never felt so intimate.

He collapses upon himself like a neutron star, his gravity pulling Tom to him, pulling him closer, deeper. Edward lands on his soaked belly, and Tom atop him, mouthing at his nape, his ears. Edward is trembling all over, but he has just enough strength to cross his ankles, press his thighs together, making himself all snug for Tom, who comes in perfect silence, because of course he would.

They lie together, winded, sweat-slick and shaking. Tom takes Edward’s hand, holds it firmly in his grasp.

“I got you,” he says.

“You always have,” Edward says, closing his eyes. He presses a kiss to Tom’s knuckles, and wishes he’d never pull out.

*

In the endless tedium of the plain, the uncertain snow gleams like sand.

In his dream, Tom and Edward are on the patio, surveying the ice fields stretching into nothing. Ragged ice for miles and miles, the landscape warped and the cold sun beating down.

“Look,” Tom says, pointing ahead. “A penguin.”

It takes a while for Edward to look away from Tom and his cute little snowsuit, his dimpling smile. He puts an arm around Tom’s waist, and Tom lets him, leaning into the half-embrace.

A penguin is waddling towards them.

“Oh, I just love penguins,” Tom says. “Isn’t it adorable?”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Huh?”

Edward strains his eyes to see the staggering shape in the even gleam of ice and snow, a strange black dolt.

“There’s something wrong with it,” he says, feeling it in his guts, in the cold creeping up his back. “There’s an odd set to his head.”

It approaches.

It’s so much bigger than it should be. Some sort of prehistoric nightmare, neck cracked to a painful angle. Its beak is long and sharp, and the face is red, resembling a turkey’s, the contorted folds of skin. It makes a sound like metal piercing through ice.

“Run!” Edward yells, stepping in front of Tom to shield him with his body.

“There’s no reason to run from it,” Tom says, even as the creature screams. “It was here long before us. It’s the sentinel of this place. It just wants to protect Antarctica, that’s all.”

And suddenly, Edward knows—the monster is the reason for the cold; it attacks them with wind and gale; it guards the territory with sharp rock and ice. The sun shines so it can see at night, survey the premises. As it approaches it gets bigger, as big as the landscape, as the sea, and the sun is its eye and the moon is its eye and it’s watching them with a burning gaze.

Edward’s instinct is to run, but he can’t abandon Tom. He looks up at the monster, and the monster stares back. He surveys his soul, determining the worth of it. It opens its beak.

*

“Palaeeudyptinae,” Fitzjames nods sagely.

“Bless you,” Dr. Crozier says.

Nobody is addressing why Fitzjames is sitting in Dr. Crozier’s chair, or wearing his sweater. He sweeps a lock of hair behind his ear, and explains, “A subfamily of prehistoric penguins. Quite a fascinating nightmare, Dr. Little.”

“Thought you’d like it,” Edward mutters, still shaken. Tom hands him a mug of coffee, which he takes with a warm smile. Their fingers brush. Tom didn't even mind when he woke up screaming.

“I’m sorry to report that I might just redraft the entire book,” Fitzjames goes on, stretched like a cat in the sun. “There’s just so much to add!”

“Prehistoric penguins included?” Dr. Crozier asks, clearly teasing, but with less combative malice than yesterday. Edward hardly recognises him.

“Perhaps," Fitzjames says, lingering on the consonants." Though inspiration is rarely that direct—it’ll morph and evolve…a different sort of predator…” His eyes have that distant look again.

It’s all right. Edward’s got all autographs secured, courtesy of Tom who just went ahead and asked for them like an absolute champ. He sits on Edward’s desk, and he fits there so perfectly, like the desk was made specially for him.

Dr. Crozier is balancing his laptop on his knee, scrolling through something while Fitzjames mumbles and helps himself to a pen from Dr. Crozier’s desk. The silence is easy and comfortable; there’s sunshine in the air, and the smell of coffee. The four of them are awake now, safe from nighttime terrors. For a moment, all's well.

Then it gets better.

“Hah!” Dr. Crozier shouts in triumph. “Thomas! You have to see this.”

*

The blades of the helicopter send wisps of snow flying around as it lands. The air is crisp; no wind. A fine day for goodbyes.

“What a shame,” Dr. Franklin sighs. “Irving is really such a bright young man.”

“I think there are plenty of bright young men around,” Fitzjames notes, giving a pointed look to Tom, who blinks behind his goggles and looks away. He’s really awful at taking compliments: Edward will help him work on that.

“I just wish he contacted me privately instead of replying to the email thread,” Dr. Franklin says, shaking his head. “I might’ve been able to talk some sense into him.”

“Doubtful,” Dr. Crozier comments while helping Fitzjames with his bag. “Didn’t he say he wanted to focus on the ‘more important things in life?’”

“What’s more important than science?” Dr. Franklin says.

“Life.”

“Malcolm,” Edward mutters into his scarf. Tom is holding back laughter; of course that’s when Dr. Franklin looks at him. It’s like he’s seeing him for the first time.

“Jopson. You work with electromagnetic radiation, isn’t that right? You should apply.”

“I have, sir.”

Dr. Franklin looks pleasantly surprised. “Jolly good, then.” He boards the helicopter, and Fitzjames follows.

“I’ll call,” he tells Dr. Crozier in a half-whisper that’s just loud enough not to get numbed by the engine.

“Bet you will,” Dr. Crozier says, impish. He smells different today. Not of whisky. A cologne, Edward realises. Well, he’ll be damned. He can practically feel Tom next to him arching his ear to pick up every bit of gossip.

“You know what?” Fitzjames says. “Bet I won’t. Bet you’ll call first.”

“We’ll see about that.” Dr. Crozier gives him a lazy salute.

Fitzjames smiles, and bends down, holding onto the helicopter’s door. He grabs Dr. Crozier’s scarf, pulls it off and kisses him square on the mouth with such passion it’s only polite to look away.

The brief moment Edward caught though: he didn’t see Fitzjames, but Thiago Gambier, brave adventurer and notorious heartbreaker, more story than man, but all the more real for that.

Then he and Tom start the long walk back to the laboratory, hand in hand, heads full of tales about the infinity of space, and a gleaming future within reach.