Ice creeps across the transparisteel in delicate fans and fractals. They melt back at the heat of Tup’s hands, leeching the warmth from his skin and making his fingers spark with cold so intense it burns. It’s the middle of the night, somewhere around 0300, but outside, the trees cast shadows on the yard.
It’s light enough outside to run daylight ops, but nothing about the light reminds him of the sun. The moon glows white on this planet. It’s full tonight, and the snow throws the white everywhere. Not like sunlight at all, Tup thinks. It’s not bright enough, but that’s not the real difference. The real difference is the way it seems to come from everywhere, from the darkness itself. There are shadows, sure, but the under-places, the spots that stay dark during the day, seem to be illuminated. Illuminating.
Once, on Ilum, Tup got sunburned so badly his face peeled and he got new freckles. Dogma was convinced he was going to get skin cancer and Jesse slapped him with a cold spoon that ripped the top layer of the burn off his cheeks. He’d worn sunscreen and limited his outside time and kept his bucket on more often than not, but the sun bouncing back off the snow was so intense that it hadn’t mattered. He still remembers the way the barracks turned shades of green whenever he came inside as his eyes adjusted to the lower light levels. He wonders how Ilum looks at night, if it ever gets like this.
“It’s called ‘snowglow,’” Dogma says, and Tup jumps so hard he nearly knocks both of them into the tookas’ water bowl. Dogma grabs him by the shirtcollar and yanks him upright.
“Force, Dee, warn a guy.”
Dogma snorts, shuffling over to make room for both of them at the door. He presses his face to the transparisteel and braces his hands against the wood. His breath fogs the window. “Thought you heard me.”
Tup shakes his head. “What are you doing anyway? It’s late.” Not that either of them sleep through the night anymore. Nothing wears them out like training could, and the nightmares don’t exactly make sleep pleasant.
Dogma shrugs. “It’s called ‘snowglow,’” he repeats, standing up on his toes to get a better look at the yard. “The snow has a high albedo. It can reflect eighty percent of light shined on it back to its source. Also, since the moon doesn’t really glow, it just reflects the sunlight, this is technically sunlight, just like during the day.”
In the pale windowlight, Dogma’s face looks rendered in black and white like the charcoal sketches Tup’s been working on recently. His tattoo smears in the shadowplay, spreading into the crevices of his face. He looks better lately, and there are less hollow places for the darkness to settle now, but still, his cheekbones and eye sockets, the space under his eyebrows, his temples, all still fill with pools of shadow. His hair is growing back.
“Do you want some hot chocolate? I saved the leftover stuff from earlier, just have to reheat it.” They’ve been learning to cook. Turns out the holiday season on this planet is perfect for it, packed with traditions centered around food. After this morning’s disastrous muffins, Dogma had suggested they try homemade hot chocolate. It turned out to be much easier than the muffins. Much tastier, too. Chocolate had been a luxury in the GAR, but out here, they sold it at the corner store for fifteen credits a kilogram. It’s good, they’ve discovered. Probably the best food so far. Good texture, sweet, a range of flavors, intra-flavor predictability, liquifiability.
Dogma breathes another puff of condensation over the window. “Sure. Mugs should be in the sink.”
Some of the things they’ve tried haven’t heated up well. It was a nasty surprise the first time, running the day-old fries through the nanowave only to have them come out soggy and wilted. That was their first day in the house, and Tup’d already been so homesick that he’d burst into tears over it. Thankfully, the hot chocolate heats up well, and when it cools enough to drink, Tup finds it tastes nearly the same as when they’d made it. It warms him up more than the blankets around their shoulders.
From the couch, they’ve got a clear view of the living room windows. It’s still bright outside, and perfectly still. According to the thermometer, it’s negative twenty five. They’ll have to start the speeders early tomorrow morning to let them warm up.
Dogma’s mug is already empty, sitting on the coffee table next to his stack of books and Tup’s sketchpad. Dogma himself is curled up with his feet on the couch and his head against Tup’s shoulder, snoring softly. His hair’s finally grown out enough to be a soft puff against Tup’s collarbone instead of the rasping stubble it had been at the beginning. Tup’s own shaved patch is growing in, too. Absently, he twists his fingers through it, searching for the fading scar. It still stings, but he’s pretty sure it’s psychosomatic.
Dogma twitches against him, tightening his hands in the blankets. Tup sets his mug down and throws an arm over Dogma’s shoulders. He draws him close, swinging his legs over Dogma’s knees and tipping them horizontal. They’ve got lots of pillows now, and he falls back into them with a sleepy sigh. It’s cramped on the couch and Dogma’s heavy on top of him, but…
Sleep piles aren’t—you can’t—ever since—
It’s only the two of them, and vodepiles need at least five. A dozen, for a good one. He misses it. This, Dogma crushing him into the cushions and drooling on his shirt, is the closest he’s going to get.
Tup startles at the soft patter of paws next to the couch. Zing jumps up on Dogma’s back, chirping her arrival and butting her head against Tup’s chin.
“Oh, hello, pretty girl,” Tup cooes. Her brown patches look almost black in the snowglow. “Are you going to join us?”
She curls up between Dogma’s shoulderblades with her paws tucked in. Tup blinks at her and she blinks back, slow. She’s purring.
It’s quarter to four. They’ll have to be up in two hours. Tup closes his eyes.