After a day, the sharp edges of their first meeting softened, and the tension that had lingered between them gently melted away. In its place, a quiet, tentative warmth began to grow—each small gesture and glance carrying the promise of trust.

  Yan Qing found himself slipping into the role of teacher, guiding Chen through the basics of human language—though, in a strange twist of fate, he was only returning the favor for lessons once given in another life. Chen, for his part, absorbed every word with a hungry seriousness, as if knowledge itself were a lifeline. He listened intently, repeating each phrase with careful precision, even when his voice faltered.

  “How are you?” Yan Qing prompted, enunciating each syllable.

  “H-hao you?” Chen echoed, his accent thick, the sounds unfamiliar on his tongue.

  By the third day, Yan Qing began teaching him how to shape spoken words. It wasn’t Teleopean, but it satisfied Chen’s restless curiosity. Patiently, Yan Qing corrected him, “H-o-w a-re you.”

  “How are you?” Chen tried again, the words still rough, but closer now. He had never spoken aloud before; his vocal cords were unpractised, his pronunciation halting. Yet Teleopeans learned with astonishing speed—rarely making the same mistake twice.

  “Good,” Yan Qing said, a small smile tugging at his lips as he patted Chen’s shoulder and stood.

  Are you sure you’re not hungry?

  The question came, not aloud, but as a gentle nudge in Yan Qing’s mind—Chen’s worry slipping through the silence as he watched the human head back to the cabin, exhaustion etched in every line of his body.

  Yan Qing shook his head. “I’m not hungry.”

  Still, over those days, Chen brought him food again and again, searching the planet for anything edible. Yan Qing ate little, always less than Chen, and tired far too easily. His pallor never faded, and Chen, uncertain what was normal for a human, grew increasingly uneasy.

  -The radiation is too strong. I can’t handle it-

  Chen remembered those words, and a shadow crossed his golden eyes. He’d tried every anti-radiation medication in the ship’s kit—formulated for Teleopeans, not humans—but nothing worked. Different biology. Different rules. The medicine simply couldn’t take hold.

  The more he thought about it, the more restless he became, irritation prickling under his skin.

  It’s been ten hours since your last meal. You should be hungry.

  But Yan Qing only shook his head again, retreating to the sleeping compartment, climbing onto the bed, and slipping almost immediately into sleep.

  Chen followed, silent. By the time he entered, Yan Qing was already breathing evenly, a faint snore escaping his lips.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Chen sat on the edge of the bed, watching him. He reached out, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from Yan Qing’s face. In his golden eyes, a flicker of worry, longing, and something softer overflowed. He leaned closer, hesitated, then pressed his forehead to Yan Qing’s, closing his eyes.

  This is my choice, he told himself, not a memory, but a decision made in the present.

  His hands tightened, as if anchoring himself to that moment. Then, softly, he woke Yan Qing.

  “Mm… what is it?” Yan Qing murmured, his eyes—dark as midnight—hazy with sleep as he blinked up at the face so close to his own.

  Chen studied him, brushing aside another strand of hair.

  I want to take you somewhere.

  “Tomorrow…” Yan Qing mumbled, eyelids drooping. “I’m tired…”

  But Chen didn’t move away. He didn’t accept the gentle dismissal, didn’t let the moment slip into sleep and silence. Instead, he bent and, without a word, swept Yan Qing up into his arms.

  Yan Qing startled, a sharp gasp escaping him as he clung instinctively to Chen’s neck, suddenly and completely awake. “What are you doing?!” His voice was thin, almost frightened, but Chen only held him tighter, as if afraid that if he let go, Yan Qing might vanish into the dark.

  Chen didn’t answer. He simply carried Yan Qing out of the ship and into the night, the air biting cold against their skin. The canyon outside was vast and ancient, shadows pooling in its depths, the stars above so bright they seemed to press down on the world. Yan Qing shivered, the wind stinging his cheeks, but Chen’s arms were steady, unyielding.

  Then, with a soft, powerful beat, Chen’s wings unfurled. Before Yan Qing could protest, they were rising—up, up into the sky, the ground falling away beneath them. The planet’s starfield stretched out in every direction, silver and blue and endless. Yan Qing curled deeper into the blanket, heart pounding, thinking of the life he’d left behind, of everything he’d lost and everything he was afraid to want again.

  He felt Chen’s arms tighten around him, pulling him closer, as if to anchor him against the cold and the ache of memory. Heat seeped through the fabric, and something restless and raw flickered in Chen’s chest—a longing, an agitation he couldn’t name.

  They circled once, silent, suspended between earth and sky, then landed on a high ridge. The world below was a patchwork of shadow and stone, the canyon rim too perfect, the exposed rock layers radiating outward in patterns Yan Qing recognized even through the haze of exhaustion.

  “This was an impact crater,” he murmured, half to himself, half to Chen. “I can’t confirm without isotope tools, but the symmetry, the condensed stone near the edge… If I’m right, the meteor was enormous, and it hit at a shallow angle to form this conical canyon—”

  He caught himself, embarrassed, and looked up. Chen was watching him—really watching, gaze fixed and unblinking, golden eyes burning with something that made Yan Qing’s heart stutter.

  “…Uh. I talk too much.” Yan Qing broke eye contact, swallowing hard. “Put me down please.”

  Chen did, but his arm stayed firm around Yan Qing’s waist, as if letting go was not an option.

  “Yan Qing,” Chen said, his voice low, the sound of Yan Qing’s name spoken aloud sending a shiver through the air.

  Yan Qing flinched, startled by the intimacy of it. “Yes?”

  Chen’s gold eyes didn’t waver. Slowly, he reached into his collar and drew out a necklace—a disk-shaped pendant with a red gemstone at its center. But this was no ordinary stone; within the crystal, red fluid rolled and shifted, alive, catching the starlight and reflecting it back in a thousand fractured sparks.

  Yan Qing stared, stunned. “What is this?”

  Chen spoke slowly, carefully—his longest sentence yet, each word deliberate and trembling with meaning. “Our… ritual. Sullanta. A vow-token. For you…” He held it out, the pendant gleaming in his palm, his hand steady even as his breath caught.

  “…Be my Frolandii.”

  The words hung between them, fragile and immense, and for a moment, neither of them moved. The canyon, the stars, the whole world seemed to hold its breath, waiting for Yan Qing’s answer.