Chapter Text
Day 1445
Today is the day.
They're calling it The Great Migration.
Ilya is thankful for yet another new point of reference.
The last two weeks were spent building the gestation chambers and prepping the Thunderbird to receive the embryos. And yesterday, Ilya made the highest-stakes pass of his life when he sent the insulated embryos flying through space and into Shane's cradling arms.
They won't know for sure whether any of the embryos were corrupted in the transfer. Not until they attempt gestation. Still, Ilya is hopeful for once in his life.
He looks back at the aluminum tube that's been his home for the past four years, gives it the middle finger, and then pushes off. He's tethered himself to the ship, just in case. It would be pretty fucking dumb of him to make it this far only to overshoot his trajectory and end up floating into the void.
The seconds stretch on and Ilya wonders if this is what time dilation feels like. And then, just like that, he's in the Thunderbird's airlock.
He releases he tether and then the door slides shut, prompting a red light to go on indicating re-pressurization is in progress.
Ilya's heart is beating double-time, his pulse crashing in his ears like waves against a cliff.
When the green light flashes, his practiced hands twist and release the levers and clamps that keep his spacesuit airtight. He drops his helmet, only it doesn't hit the ground since Shane had to disable the ship's artificial gravity mechanism.
The second his suit is off, Ilya suddenly—gloriously—feels warm hands on his face, soft lips on his lips.
Shane kisses Ilya fervently, and Ilya kisses him right back. He tastes of peppermint, a hint of ginger. And then Shane's mouth curves up into a smile, and fuck if that's not the most decadent part yet.
Desperate to see Shane in the flesh—to just look at him—Ilya reaches for his very last remaining atom of will and breaks the kiss. He's rewarded with the sight of Shane's chestnut eyes, shining wetly.
Ilya brackets Shane's face with open palms, then wipes the tears gently with the pads of his thumbs, admiring Shane's angelic beauty as he does.
Is this what it feels like, Ilya wonders, to touch the sun? To bask in its mighty brilliance?
That the world had to end for the two of them to find each other is not a thought Ilya likes to consider.
As it is, he'll take what he's offered, gladly and with infinite gratitude.
"Hey. Heyyyyy," Shane says after a few solid minutes of them kissing and grinning like idiots.
Ilya didn't realize he'd been crying, and it's Shane's turn to be on tear-removal duty.
"There," Shane says, then reaches for Ilya's hand, strokes his thumb along the back of it. "Better?"
"Better," Ilya says as his eyes settle on the paint-splatter of freckles that have been driving him wild for the past four weeks.
On Shane's left cheek is Cepheus and Orion and Canis Major; on his right, Perseus and Virgo and Centaurus.
Lyra and Cassiopeia adorn the bridge of his nose, and Ilya kisses them all, one by one.
He smiles a private smile, says a silent prayer. Because they do taste like stardust.
Or maybe stardust tastes like Shane.
