Archive of Our Own ^beta

Kavir wonders, not for the first time since they walked in here, why any of the Rhapsody crew agreed to follow a plan that Chuckles thought was a good idea. There had to be a better way to scout their latest bounty that didn’t involve Kavir sitting at the bar of a space-disco club, so many glitter flakes coating his shoulders it’s like he was caught in the sandy winds of Zahra Dune. He reaches up to tuck a dangling strand of hair behind his ear, and accidentally hits the teardrop-shaped gold earring hanging there.

Kavir doesn't wear earrings often. This specific pair is kept hidden in a box adorned with an ornate geometric tile pattern because both are a memory of simpler times, times when he would spend whole afternoons watching the aunties gossip in the town square, their gold jewelry winking in the sunlight. Rais, Soraya, and him always wondered when they’d be allowed to wear earrings and hang out with the cool older kids. Kavir ended up piercing his ears on some seedy planet he’s forgotten the name of, and he doesn’t know if Rais ever did his. He doesn’t know how he would ask. If he should ask. If he can say anything at all about a memory that was supposed to be shared by three people but is now broken in half.

The bass thumps with a vengeance, and Kavir suddenly remembers that he’s stuck in a space-disco. 

He will admit that he also couldn’t think of a better infiltration strategy on Space Station Zoolanding than sending in the most model-esque humanoids of the crew. Amidst some good-natured ribbing, he dutifully removed his more-obvious armor and pulled on a long-sleeved crop top to cover his runes. At least this did give him an excuse to buy some pricey pomade and a priceless excuse to work with Pyke’s hair.

Pyke, currently slouching on the stool next to Kavir, rolls his head around in a survey of the club that’s easily mistaken as a lazy stretch. His shimmery turquoise eyeshadow glints like counterfeit coin slipped between Kavir’s hand and an outpost guard. His hair still swoops with reckless abandon, but the bangs now fall just right over his sharp eyebrows. There’s a good amount of space-cowlicks still waiting to be wrangled, but Pyke was getting twitchier with every next dab of pomade and Kavir is an experienced diplomat. He was satisfied to compromise on that and Pyke wearing his usual outfit, with the concessions of eyeshadow and the barest hint of lipgloss.

“Menuuu?” Kavir stifles a flinch as the bartender, some large, shaggy creature, growls at him with a shiny laminated sheet in paw. He takes it with a smile, but they hurriedly duck their head and shuffle away. 

The front side of the menu is filled with pretentiously-titled cocktails, so he flips it over to reveal a sparse appetizer list with even weirder names. Berry Bestie Space-Beignets? Cutie Patootie Space-Croffles? Kavir won’t question what those titles mean or why this bar is serving bakery fare. There’s also a collection of numbers and symbols next to each item, which must be something like portion sizes. “Would you like anything, Pyke?”

Pyke’s unimpressed survey ends at the whiskey glass in front of him. “Nah.”

“Are you sure? We might be at this stakeout for a while.” 

“I already ate.”

“That was a good idea, because the food options here are ridiculous.” Kavir slides the menu away, although he doubts the bartender will visit their corner after seeing a polite smile instead of a space-magazine-cover pout. He also took a quick bite on the Rhapsody in anticipation of this exact situation. “There’s barely anything substantial, and it’s all terribly overpriced.” Pyke takes a sip of whiskey in apparent agreement. “Also, for some reason, they have space-calorie counts for everything, including the drinks.” 

Kavir had finally spotted a key on the bottom of the page explaining their system of ‘spcal warnings’, and a quick review confirmed that every possible ingredient was listed, which seemed awfully pedantic. Did anyone really need to know that to this much detail?

“The reason is that space-calories are what actually matters about food.”

Kavir doesn’t know if he’s more concerned about the statement itself or how Pyke said it like he was explaining to Dandy why he has a cigarette right before he falls asleep and right after he wakes up.

Without straightening up from his slouch, Pyke gestures at the dance floor behind them. “They’re all models.” Kavir doesn’t need to look at the mob of symmetrical faces and taut stomachs to get his point. Nobody fits into space-supermodel standards naturally, which is why neither of them truly fit in this club–not because they were unattractive, but because of Kavir’s bulky muscles and Pyke’s terrible posture. 

“Leboosh could have told you that,” Kavir says, “and he’s still trying to wrap his head around—well, his ooze approximation of a head, around the concept of beauty standards, much less making an industry out of it.”

Pyke takes a drag from his cigarette instead of responding. He looks more stoic than usual, and the glitter does nothing to soften his stone cold eyes. Kavir’s reminded of statues sculpted by beginner artists who haven’t yet learned how to breathe life into a slab of cold stone. Mastering that skill demands sacrificing your time to it, the same demand of sorcery or martial arts or catwalks. There is no greater sacrifice than time.

Perhaps that is why Kavir has always been more interested in the sand falling from a chisel, the necessary sacrifice of a masterpiece. “But I’m not sure I understand your point, Pyke. Why would space-calories be the only thing that matters?”

“Well,” Pyke says, each word slowly dragged behind the spluttering All-Terrain Space-Vehicle that is his sense of polite conversation, “it’s the same for racers.”

While usually he’d be laying into Pyke with a thousand follow-up questions, Kavir can play connect the stars to form a constellation flashing ‘HE WILL NEVER SPEAK OF THIS AGAIN.’ But it would be strange for him to not have any, so he nods in polite agreement and asks: “Racers?” Pyke pulls out another cigarette from his jacket pocket and lights it in one smooth motion, even though he was only halfway finished with the first.

“I did some racing with the Sparrow a long time ago. When I was…” The end of the sentence trails off in the exhale of a deep drag from the new cigarette. It joins the old one in Pyke’s right hand, but held in between different fingers. “Well, they made us do modeling work sometimes. For promotions and other stuff I didn’t care enough about to ask.”

Kavir says, lightly, “I’m sure you were more popular than the models,” and gives him an exaggerated once-over. The only exposed skin in Pyke’s outfit is his forearms and half of each collarbone. The fabric isn’t baggy, but it’s not skin-tight either, revealing nothing about the slender frame or enormous power beneath it. Kavir had assumed it was to gain an upper edge in battle, but that seems like something Pyke would care about even less than people leering at his body.

“Sure.” He lifts up his whiskey as if to take another sip, but it doesn't make it to his lips before he sets it back down. “But that was then. Decades ago. 

“I’m all washed up now, man.” Kavir watches a smirk carve a practiced path into Pyke’s sharp cheekbones, and he thinks that it would fit just right on a shiny billboard above a roaring crowd. ‘Washed up’ has never made him think about plates scrubbed-clean; he thinks about glimpses of bone popping up under the perpetually shifting sands. Skinny white slivers bit by time more than scavengers. Rais, Soraya, and him would use them to draw landscapes into the sand, seeing who could best capture the curve of each soaring dune before the winds washed them away. He’s only just realizing the irony.

The synthesized club music trickles back into his awareness. Pyke has also fallen silent, hand still loosely cupping the whiskey glass. The cigarettes flicker like tail lights dancing through space-rain. Maybe Pyke’s on his own memory lane, which Kavir imagines is a racetrack swooping through the air. Very few are granted entry, and even fewer can keep up. If Kavir was to walk it, would he see skid marks and laser burns etched into each chicane, the sacrifices of a life hard lived? Would Pyke have washed them clean? Kept himself safe on the straights? Kavir can answer that himself.

“That can’t be why.” Pyke looks up immediately, but Kavir’s looking past him to the shadow falling through the whiskey glass, where the silhouette of his fingers are lost in one blur. 

“Occasional modeling responsibilities would not require something like that.”

“‘That’?”

“The… the space-calorie counting. The controlled diets, and not caring about food beyond its function.”

“You’re making it sound dramatic.” Pyke doesn’t sound upset, but he’s certainly talking more than he normally would. “Controlling your food intake is part of being an athlete, and the diet’s not that bad–well, not for the scrubs, but that’s why they never win.” He takes a large swig from his glass. “They just need to squeak past the weight limits. It’s not a flat number with everyone’s different vehicles and anatomy, but you are expected to stay consistent. The officials get real strict with the measurements when you’re fighting for the prize.”

Kavir says, “Of course, I understand that this is all a necessary part of fair competition and strategy. The rules are the rules, not that I care to follow them.” Pyke inclines his head in appreciation of the joke. They’ve always had a good connection, being around an equivalent age and exasperation levels with the Rhapsody crew, although Kavir is better at hiding it than Pyke has ever tried. He continues, “Still, restricting your enjoyment of food seems too harsh.” Pyke barks out a laugh as dry as his whiskey. 

“I don’t starve myself, if that’s what you’re implying. It was actually the opposite. You have to eat enough space-calories to burn during the race. That’s why I know exactly how much sustenance I need to function.”

“I’m not talking about that, though,” Kavir says, “I’m not talking about sustenance or diets, or anything that’s measured in numbers. I’m talking about food.”

Pyke looks him dead in the eyes. “What’s the difference?”

Here’s a difference between the two of them: their aim. Pyke shoots a beam of light racing through space until it pierces through his target with pinpoint accuracy. Kavir directs animals formed of sand that dance around his target, sometimes to shield them, sometimes to tear their shields away. A secret to diplomacy is controlling your attack after it lands. Kavir knows he’s in, but he still has to find his next move.

“While it is ultimately a personal judgment, I think most people would say there is one. I think the difference is what you gain from food beyond the nutrition. There are additional physical benefits like the taste or spectacle, but having a meal is also a welcome break in your day. I can enjoy a quiet moment to myself or with my companions around the same table. Food is the center of these experiences!” The cigarette–Kavir has lost track of which one was lit first–is back in Pyke’s mouth, and those golden eyes are piercing into his. Time to strike.

“But for you, Pyke, I can imagine that racing was all everyone thought about, even while eating.”

Pyke shrugs. “That’s why I left.”

“Did you?”

Kavir doesn’t realize how that sounds until it’s already escaped his mouth, a mistake he thought he forgot how to make. Pyke just quirks an eyebrow. Kavir does notice, however, that the next exhale of his cigarette wavers.

Now that he’s noticing, Kavir would confidently report that Pyke never snacks. His favorite meals are a cigarette or a shot of whiskey. He said he already ate, but only space-breakfast was served on the Rhapsody today. He’ll never ask for seconds. He doesn’t comment on food except to complain about their usual lack of it. Kavir notices these little details about everyone, but he especially notices their eating habits, because this isn’t the first time he’s tried to ask these questions.

Rais never ate a lot. It was strange, since his family’s inn made delicious food and he was always working through the meal rush. Soraya and Kavir would beg his parents to let him play with them, but Rais shushed them and suggested they keep him company at the bar. He would feed them scraps or rejected plates, all while dodging their questions about if he had eaten yet. He told Soraya that he preferred for them to eat together instead of him alone. That wasn’t a lie, but he also told Kavir that he lost his appetite after seeing all the leftover food wasted by merchants and Empire soldiers.

He stopped eating completely after… after Kavir failed Soraya. Failure is the only way he can describe that awful memory, even after all this time, even in the silence of his own mind, even when it was his hands that asked for something he didn’t deserve the power of taking. It was his failure, and how could he say anything to Rais after that? Kavir still doesn’t deserve to ask him to share a meal.

But he is asking Pyke.

They are crewmates, but there was no obligation for Kavir to ask nor is there an obligation for Pyke to answer. Kavir asked because he was curious. Pyke answered without knowing that this question reminds Kavir of home, which is not a place but rather a time he can’t return to and a grave that holds more memories than bones.

Kavir has to answer to her, if no one else. “There is a lesson I had to learn about leaving.

“A grain of sand can travel anywhere. The wind can blow it across a planet, or it can hitch a ride on a ship and travel to the next galaxy. It can also be transformed into something else, like space-sandpaper or glass.

“But this grain originally came from one stone. Maybe it naturally eroded away, or maybe it was scraped off. Maybe the stone was smashed to bits. No matter how it was separated, the memory of that stone still exists in the sand.” Kavir forms two fists, holding them in between him and Pyke. “We cannot flee our past sacrifices.” He unfurls his hands and almost marvels at the smoothness from years of wrapping them in abrasive sandstorms. None of this skin knows what it’s like to clasp Rais’ palm or tangle with Soraya’s fingers, but Kavir has tucked those memories safe inside his heart, where he’s starting to carve out a place for the Rhapsody to dock.

“What we can change is how we remember them. As a mistake? As an omen? As a failure or a treasure? As an obligation? After you question what the original stone means to you, then you can have an answer of what you will become.

“So, Pyke, have you ever asked yourself why you treat food as fuel?”

Pyke doesn’t startle, but something flickers across his face as Kavir addresses him. He lets his gaze drift down to Kavir’s open hands, then to his own around the whiskey glass and two cigarettes. Those hands hold more memories, more stones, more sacrifices than Kavir can know. Pyke draws in a breath, as deeply as if there was a cigarette in his mouth, and speaks.

“I never had any dreams about exploring cuisines or bougie space-delicacies. After I stopped racing, I just ate like I used to, but I started gaining weight and losing funds pretty quick.” He makes a sound that could be a laugh. “Then I paid attention to the ratio of space-calories and credits to decide my next meal.

“But even before racing, I only cared about not starving to death. I’ve never thought about how to enjoy ‘eating’, but you’re a reasonable guy. I’m sure there’s some food out there that’ll blow me away.” Pyke shrugs and leans back, probably exhausted by the rare exercise of his emotional expression muscles. Kavir hides his grin.

“It doesn’t have to be this big, important thing,” he reassures, “but it also doesn’t have to keep being this strict duty. Maybe you can start paying attention to how you feel when you’re eating, or the company next to you.” If he was asked, Kavir would say that his favorite food is hand-torn meat and half a spoonful of space-rice, because Rais would always eat when Soraya and Kavir shared with him. It won’t be the same, but he will definitely be giving Pyke a bite at every meal from now on. “I’m sure the Rhapsody mess hall is louder than you’re used to.” 

Pyke snorts, and almost seems to surprise himself with the sound. “The company, huh? You guys make a hell of a lot better company than a mob of scrappy outlaws or fans.”

Kavir laughs, and doesn’t bother hiding the buoyant relief lifting up his shoulders. “I am glad to hear that, though I don’t think that’s a very high bar.” He lets Pyke get away with one last wry smirk, more than satiated with the answers he’s dug out of each of them for now. 

He slips into a familiar surveillance mode, scanning for strange faces and pockets of activity, until he hears a high-pitched buzzing. The silver band around Pyke’s left wrist is glowing faint purple. “It’s Rett.” Kavir’s hand darts to the sequined space-handbag hiding his hourglass as Pyke taps an imperceptible button, and they both lean in to listen to the space-communicator.

“Pyke, Kavir. We got a new sighting of Derrick Rediron on Planet fucking Malaysia. Come on back to the Rhapsody, and we’ll all head out. Hank is sending you our new coordinates. Sorry that was a waste of your fucking time.” Pyke sighs, already sliding his empty whiskey glass and a few credits down the bar. Kavir hops off the space-barstool. He’s about to start weaving his way through the dance floor, but then he realizes that Pyke hasn’t hung up yet. With a single cigarette in hand, Pyke holds up his wrist and says:

“Nah, Rett, it wasn’t a waste. Right, Kavir?”

“It was not, my friend.” Pyke’s face is as stoic as ever, but Kavir can see the smile dancing in his golden eyes that looks just like a sun drawn in the golden sands.