Chapter Text
The sun is starting to sink into the ocean.
Ryley, tucked up in an armchair (handmade, not from the habitat builder; he and Bart are both attempting to make their own furniture and it's only moderately lumpy), scrolls to another page of the novel he's reading, courtesy of the Aurora library. He's only half paying attention, his attention drawn by Bart puttering around making something for dinner; there's already something that smells good on the stove.
Bart approaches now, and Ryley sets down the PDA expectantly; he lifts his head and gets a kiss for his trouble. "Kelp for the salad?" Bart whispers (even now, months later, it still strains his lungs to speak louder - but he's getting there, and they have their own shorthand, their own abbreviated phrasings, a language that's developing organically).
Ryley nods, and sets the PDA down.
He doesn't bother with the dive suit, the oxygen tank, or anything more than just his knife and a container for the creepvine. The kelp forest is close at hand and he's getting better at freediving anyway; living on an ocean planet means adapting to the environment.
Stepping out on to the sun-warmed deck, Ryley doesn't hesitate before diving in smoothly, startling a small school of boomerangs. From beneath the deck, the cuddlefish emerges, and Ryley pauses to give the little creature a tickle and a scritch before tapping their nose in the way they've taught to mean 'stay'.
They nuzzle his hand, then disappears back under the deck, going back to teasing one of the rabbit rays.
Ryley smiles to himself, surfaces to breathe, and starts for the forest. It's not far from the little home he and Bart have built in the reef and he sees the glow of the seed clusters within a minute. There's movement within it, and he ignores it; Ryley has started working on gaining the trust of the local stalkers.
Ryley! Ryley, play?
Ryley laughs, letting loose a stream of bubbles, as one of the leviathan babies - the littlest one, the one he thinks of as (more or less) his - zooms up from where they had been playing in the kelp. They bunt him gently and he mock-flails (they're bigger than he is, now), reaching up to rub between the antennae.
Not right now, sweetpea. I've got to get some dinner, okay?
The baby pouts, headbutting him again, slightly more insistently. Play later?
I promise.
They perk up, swimming in a quick loop that reminds Ryley of the cuddlefish, then snuggles up to say goodbye. Ryley beams, feeling warm contentment filling his chest like a balloon.
Okay! Bye bye! I love you!
Nuzzling the top of the baby's head, Ryley smiles fondly. Love you too, little one.
He really needs air. Kicking upwards, Ryley surfaces, eyes closed as he catches his breath before continuing on with his task.
Bart isn't in the room when he returns, setting the soggy container and his knife down on the counter. Curiously, Ryley scans the room, spots the door to their workspace open; he calls out, "I'm back!"
Almost immediately, Bart pops his head back out through the door, grins, and holds up a finger for Ryley to wait. Bemusedly, Ryley nods and returns his attention to the kelp, starts slicing off the tougher middle part and setting them aside to make more fibre, finely chopping the more tender, edible parts for the salad.
It takes a few minutes for Bart to return, one hand hidden behind his back and a mischievous smile on his face. "Made you something," he whispers when he's close enough, unable to keep the grin from widening, "Close your eyes and hold out your hand."
Well, call him intrigued. Ryley sets down the knife and does as Bart says, and feels the weight and coolness of something smooth and made of glass drop into his outstretched palm.
"Now open!"
It's a small glass container, lid held on with a line of silicone. Intrigued, Ryley pops it open and finds some kind of goo inside, pinkish-purple and faintly glowing. He pokes it; it's sticky.
In fact, it feels suspiciously like...
"Bart?" he says, voice almost cracking, "Did you make me hair gel?"
Bart's grin grows wider. "Go try it!"
He doesn't need to be told twice. Ryley makes a beeline for their room, where there's scissors and a mirror; his hair has grown on the shaggy side and he trims it back to an approximation of earlier, does not regret it as he snips out the last of the blue-green streaks from his hair.
The gel holds magnificently. A little softer than the commercial product he had used before, vaguely botanical-smelling (gel sack, he thinks, and creepvine seeds), just bioluminescent enough that he suspects he'd glow slightly in the dark.
Ryley stares at his reflection. He feels absurdly close to tears; delighted, relieved tears.
He can remember that first night down in the cove, of awkward conversations about potatoes and trees. His breakdown in the shower over hair gel; seeking out Bart to help fill in the loneliness and isolation, more crushing than the kilometre of water above his head.
"I wanted..." Hair gel. To feel safe again. You, so I wouldn't be alone any more.
He had wanted. Hadn't expected to get any of them. Had ended up with all three.
Returning to the living room, grinning, he gestures to his hair. "What do you think?"
Bart gives him an enthusiastic thumbs up, and if he's noticed Ryley's overly bright eyes, he doesn't comment on it. Abandoning their dinner, he approaches, lightly running the tips of his fingers over the hairdo and nodding in approval.
Ryley steals a kiss, closes his eyes and rests his forehead against Bart's (only having to tilt his head up a little), arms around his waist. Bart's arms rise up too; they stay there for a moment, content and calm, at peace.
"Thank you," Ryley whispers, and tries to put every meaning into those two words.
Thank you for the hair gel. Thank you for saving my life. Thank you for helping me. Thank you for being here.
Maybe Bart can hear the unspoken thanks, because he doesn't let go.
They both catch the whiff of something very slightly burning at the same time; breaking apart clumsily, Bart yelps and darts to the stove to rescue their dinner, giving Ryley a sheepish smile and shrug over the pot. Ryley laughs out loud and goes to help, getting out a spoon to start digging out the charred spots, his and Bart's heads knocking together as they both lean over the pot at the same time.
Laughter, dinner, hair gel. The setting sun makes the room glow luminously; his shoulder is warm where it's pressed against Bart's.
Ryley Robinson is having a pretty good day, after all.