#large format printing in Toronto

[mywifeleftme]

365: Patti Smith // Horses

Horses Patti Smith 1975, Arista

There’s a man named Nicky Drumbolis who lives up in Thunder Bay, Ontario, in an apartment that doubles as perhaps Canada’s greatest bookstore almost no one has ever seen. The septuagenarian Drumbolis is short and nearly deaf, a master printmaker and eccentric autodidact linguist. For years he ran a second-hand shop on Toronto’s Queen St. called Letters, until push (the size of his collection) came to shove (skyrocketing rent) and he went north, where he could afford a sufficiently large space to spread out. Unfortunately, Thunder Bay has little market for antiquarian books and micro press ephemera, and his shop is located on one of the most crime-ridden streets in the country. And so, the transplanted Letters has no storefront—in fact, the building looks derelict, its windows boarded up and covered with what at first glance seems to be graffiti but on closer inspection resembles a detail from the cave paintings at Lascaux. Letters’ patronage is limited to the online traffic in rare first editions that brings him a small income, and the occasional by-appointment adventurer willing to make the long, long 1,400 km drive from Toronto or further abroad.

When you enter, you find yourself in what appears to be a well-kept single room used bookstore, the kind there used to be dozens of in every major city. Books of every type and topic line the shelves, neatly arranged by category, and a long glass display features more delicate items, nineteenth century broadside newspapers and the like, some so fragile they seem on the verge of crumbling into dust. But this is not, Drumbolis warns you as soon as you attempt to take a book off of the shelf, a bookstore: this room is a facsimile, a tribute exhibit to as he calls it, “the fetish object formerly known as The Book.” The real bookstore lies in the chambers beyond this front room, the full catalogues of bygone presses, the one-of-one personal editions he’s assembled over decades of following his personal obsessions, the stacks which crowd his own modest sleeping quarters.

To Drumbolis, the original utility of the book as a container and mediator of information is now effectively passed; virtually every popular book in existence has been digitized, their contents instantly available in formats that are better-indexed, more easily parsed, and more readily transferrable than the humble physical book ever allowed. To desire a book is to desire possession of the thing rather than its contents, this edition, this printing, perhaps this particular copy that once passed through the hands of someone significant. He can show you the copy of John Stuart Mills’ On Liberty that was owned by Canada’s founding father John A. MacDonald, and argue convincingly that this object helped set the course of a nation’s history; or a set of Shakespeare’s complete works bearing Charles Dickens’ ex libris, which sets off a long anecdote about how Dickens liked to troll his houseguests with a collection of fake bookshelves. Drumbolis’s collection is threaded through his life like an old wizard in a fantasy novel whose flesh has fused with the roots of a tree: he eats with his books and he sleeps with them; collecting fuels his arcane research and dictates where and when he travels; 25 years ago he uprooted his life when his collection bade him, and though he’s starved for company in the frozen city it chose for him, he abides.

My own case of collectivitis is not so advanced, though Lord only knows what I’ll be like when I’m Old (I’m currently 47). And despite the conceit of this blog, I’ve seldom spent much time in these reviews dwelling on the physical properties of my records, evaluating the relative merit of pressings and the like (or even mentioning which one I’ve got). But as I sit here listening to my copy of Patti Smith’s Horses for the first time, I feel a small but definite sense of wonderment. It’s an early ‘80s Canadian pressing, so near-mint I might’ve stepped back in time and bought it new, still with what I take to be the original inner-sleeve, pale azure (to match the Arista disc label) with a texture almost like crepe paper.

It’s a delightful, surprising contrast to the iconic black and white cover portrait of Smith by her former paramour Robert Mapplethorpe. Generations of fans have stared at this image as they listened, not simply because Smith is hot (though this is undeniably true) but because the music’s visionary qualities demand an embodied locus. That a record, unlike a book, can speak aloud, has always primitively fascinated me; that this one contains what I can only describe as rituals makes it magical, this physical copy that is unique because it’s this one that is speaking to me in this moment. 

 Smith writes on the back of the sleeve:

“…it’s me my shape burnt in the sky its me the memoire of me racing through the eye of the mer thru the eye of the sea thru the arm of the needle merging and jacking new filaments new risks etched forever in a cold system of wax…horses groping for a sign for a breath…”

“charms, sweet angels,” she concludes. “you have made me no longer afraid of death.” The record becomes an extension of Smith’s body as it existed in that time—I think here of the physicality of the moment in “Break it Up” where you can faintly hear her striking her own chest with the flat of her palm to make her voice quaver. It makes me wonder how anyone could sell this thing once they have it: not because it is particularly rare or difficult to acquire, but because it’s hard for me to imagine the experience of slipping the lustrous black disc from its dressing and setting the needle down upon it as anything but a personal one. It is poetry and waves; the subliming of the idea of a rave-up; Tom Verlaine shedding his earthly mantle in an explosion of birds; John Cale; Kaye, Král, Daugherty, and Sohl; one of my boys from Blue Öyster Cult; the pounding of hooves and the Mashed Potato.

I suppose what I’m describing is a fetish, my pleasure in acquiring these things and writing these reviews the hard and strange work of finding life’s joy in its dusty corners. This year has run through my fingers like water, as it seems they all do now. But on my good days, all these words behind me and the records in front of me seem like a document of abundance.

365/365

[cristianordonez]

DISPLACE Limited edition of 8 copies + 1AP 10 x 13 inches, 52 Pages Newsprint, French Fold + Gate folds Repurposed Chipboard Cover Side Sewn Binding + Elastic Published by Another Earth Text by Stefan Novakovic, Architecture Critic Print supported by Gas Company Inc. Part of the exhibition "Display" at Project 107 Gallery in Toronto, Canada. It reinforces my interest in book form, using the materials and medium to express themes of fragility, vulnerability and memory present in heritage buildings around the city. Many of these buildings are being demolished for newer condominiums to support gentrification, a common occurrence throughout the last decade. The book and exhibition uses recycled materials, repurposing them for their construction. All photographs were made using large format negatives and printed on newsprint, taken within the same building where the exhibition is located, between 2021 and 2022. The building is yet another scheduled to be demolished in Toronto over the next couple of months. The use of these mediums represent both the preciousness of the location and the fragility of its current state and future.

[signlandcanada]

Signland: Your Complete Solution for Custom Print, Signage, and Web Design

In the competitive business world, creating a strong and memorable visual identity is essential. At Signland, we offer a range of services designed to elevate your brand and capture attention. Whether it’s through custom signage, professional canvas printing, or sleek web design, we help you stand out. Based in Toronto and proudly serving Mississauga, Vaughan, and the GTA, Signland is committed to quality and creativity.

Custom Signage: Make Your Brand Shine

Nothing draws in customers quite like impactful signage. At Signland, we specialize in crafting custom signs that bring your brand to life. From illuminated channel letters and LED displays to durable acrylic signs, our signage solutions are built to last and designed to impress. Whether for a storefront or corporate office, our signage speaks volumes about your brand’s identity.

Large Format Printing: Communicate Big Ideas

Our large format printing services help you communicate your brand’s message in a big way. From banners and posters to billboards, we use premium materials and vibrant inks to ensure your large-scale prints make a lasting impact. Perfect for events, product launches, and retail promotions, our prints guarantee high visibility and durability.

Canvas Printing: Turn Art into a Statement

Transform your favorite photos, artwork, or brand visuals into beautiful canvas prints. Our canvas printing services are ideal for adding personality to your office, lobby, or retail space. Using high-quality materials, our prints are designed to be visually stunning and long-lasting, allowing you to showcase your brand’s creativity.

Web Design: Build a Strong Digital Presence

A well-designed website is essential for engaging customers and establishing your online presence. At Signland, we specialize in creating user-friendly, responsive websites that reflect your brand’s values. Whether you need an eCommerce site or a corporate website, our web design services ensure that your digital presence is as professional as it is attractive.

Marketing Materials: Professional and Impactful

From business cards and brochures to promotional flyers, we offer a range of print services to support your marketing needs. Our high-quality printing ensures that your marketing materials are visually appealing and professionally crafted, helping you make a positive impression on potential clients and customers.

Professional Photography: Capture Your Brand’s Best Side

Great photography plays a key role in showcasing your business. Signland’s professional photography services include product photography, real estate listings, and corporate portraits. Our skilled photographers work closely with you to capture the essence of your brand, ensuring that each image aligns with your marketing goals.

CNC Cutting: Precision for Unique Projects

For unique and detailed signage, our CNC cutting services provide precision and quality. Using advanced CNC and laser cutting machines, we create intricate designs and custom shapes that add dimension to your signage. Our CNC cutting is perfect for businesses that want something truly distinctive and memorable.

Why Choose Signland?

At Signland, we’re passionate about delivering creative, high-quality solutions that help your business grow. With over 40 years of experience, we offer a range of services that are tailored to meet the needs of each client. Serving Toronto, Mississauga, Vaughan, and the GTA, we are committed to helping you succeed with top-notch print, signage, and web design solutions.

Contact Us

Ready to bring your vision to life? Contact Signland today at 905-760-5551 or email us at info@signland.ca for a free consultation and estimate. Let’s work together to create the ideal print, signage, and digital solutions for your brand!

Find Printing Services in Areas Mentioned Below:

Printing Services Ajax

Printing Services Barrie

Printing Services Brampton

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[promemorie]

Echo Lake, 1998

Peter Doig

Echo Lake is a large, dark painting of a scene at night. Like many of Doig’s paintings of the late 1990s, it is landscape in format, with a composition based on horizontal bands of colour overlaid with detail. The painting is bisected by a line of white representing the shore of a lake. Above it is a band of earth and scrubby vegetation painted in white and pastel colours. This area is illuminated by the headlamps of an American-style police car located at the centre-right of the image. The bright lights on the car’s roof are roughly level with the top of the vegetation. Above this point, filling the top third of the painting, is an area of purplish black. A few twinkling lights suggest distant habitations. On the right side of the painting, the trunks of trees growing above the shoreline are partially illuminated. Their branches extend up into the darkness. They are compositionally balanced by a telegraph pole on the left side of the painting at the level of the road on which the police car is parked. A man wearing black trousers, a white shirt and a narrow black tie (presumably a policeman) stands at the lakeshore looking out of the painting towards the viewer. His hands encircle his face and his mouth is an o-shape indicating that he is shouting out into the dark lake. The title suggests that nothing comes back to him but his own voice. The bottom half of the painting represents a blurry mirror image of the landscape above the shoreline. This mirrored reflection provides the visual version of an echo. Images reflected in water are common in Doig’s paintings. Doig has commented that ‘reflections function as entrances to other worlds’ (quoted in Bonaventura, p.15). His painting Ski Jacket 1994 (Tate T06962) consists of two abutting canvases bearing scenes which mirror each other as a compositional device. Doig makes his paintings from photographs derived from a variety of sources including family snapshots, books, newspapers, magazines, prints, postcards and film stills. The photographs are usually put through such processes as sketching or painting over, collage and repeated photocopying, before they reach the state from which the painting is derived. Doig frequently creates several versions of an image as both large and small paintings as well as more intimate works on paper using various media. Echo Lake is based on a still photograph Doig took from the cult horror film Friday the 13th (1980, director Sean S. Cunningham). He has made several paintings based on this image, including Canoe Lake 1997-8 (The Bailey Collection, Toronto), Untitled (Canoe Lake) 2000 (private collection) and Study for Echo Lake (Screaming Cop) 1999 (private collection, Florida). Related works on paper are Echo Lake (Reflection) 1999 (watercolour, sugar and ink on paper, private collection), Study for Echo Lake 1998 (colour photocopy on paper, private collection), Canoe Lake 1999 (oil and charcoal on paper, private collection) and Canoe Lake 1999 (watercolour on paper, private collection New York). The etching subtitled Canoe Lake (Tate P11545) in the portfolioGrasshopper 1997 also belongs to this series. Doig typically applies oil paint in a variety of consistencies, ranging from thin washes which seep into one another to areas of thick impasto. His paintings are about the sensuous materiality of paint as much as the figurative subjects which they portray. He has commented: 

People often say that my paintings remind them of particular scenes from films or certain passages from books, but I think it’s a different thing altogether. There is something more primal about painting. In terms of my own paintings, there is something quite basic about them, which inevitably is to do with their materiality. They are totally non-linguistic. There is no textual support to what you are seeing. Often I am trying to create a ‘numbness’. I am trying to create something that is questionable, something that is difficult, if not impossible, to put into words ... I often use heightened colours to create a sense of the experience, or mood or feeling of being there ... I think the paintings always refer back to a reality that we all have experience of ... I am using ... natural phenomena and amplifying them through the materiality of paint and the activity of painting.

(Quoted in Scott, pp.15 and 17.)

Doig has cited an early influence as the famous ‘zip’ paintings of American artist Barnett Newman (1905-70) in which a vertical band of light colour bisects the painting’s usually monochromatic ground. In Echo Lake the narrow strip of white paint representing the shoreline provides a horizontal version of Newman’s format. The figure of the policeman calling towards the viewer opens the picture plane out into a vast imaginary space beyond the painting. His shout recalls The Scream 1893 (National Gallery, Oslo) one of the best known paintings by Norwegian artist Edvard Munch (1863-1944). With its sinister atmosphere and dark emotional register, Echo Lake stages generic fear, distress and unease in a contemporary setting.

[annaroamer]

Examples of excellent and adequate social media posts

Jazmin (Jaz) Welch’s Instagram post is an example of an accessible, informative, educational and entertaining post. Jaz is a book designer, which means she organizes a manuscript’s text in a book format for printing, which could seem like a dry and tedious task. Jaz, however, has found ways to connect with her client base in a highly captivating way. The screenshot from her Instagram page features Jaz educating her followers and clients about progressive trends in graphic design. The comment shows that this is Episode #40, evidence that she posts regularly to engage readers. By featuring books by other authors, she successfully networks and attracts more followers. Her video includes live captions to accommodate people with hearing impairment, and the comments section features image descriptions for anyone with vision impairment. Being involved, posting often, and managing her image are important strategies for personal branding. Jaz features herself in the post, meaning she ‘promotes both ‘authenticity’ and business-targeted self-presentation.’ By being ‘purposeful about promoting and presenting herself’, she has garnered over 2000 followers for her one-person small freelance business FLECK.

@fleckcreative

On the other hand, the City of Toronto’s Facebook post does not fully fulfill the precept of ‘when in doubt, hire a (design) expert’ and follow their guidance. While using a large black font on a yellow background makes it easy to read for people with vision impairments, the combination of yellow and black traditionally signifies warning or danger [i].  Using black font on a white background would have been more pleasing to the eye. Additionally, the illustration at the bottom of the yellow square depicts people who appear older, leaving room for the assumption that the tax relief is only meant for older generations. Furthermore, the link to toronto.ca/taxandutilityrelief, leads to a broken page, which does not allow for ‘the greatest levels of participation possible.’

[i] Understanding safety signs and symbols in the workplace. (n.d.). Retrieved September 14, 2023, from https://www.bradycanada.ca/resources/safety-signs-symbols-standards

[stylusmarketings-blog]

[tradeprintstuff-blog]

Print Trader

Graphics and printing services are the indispensable part of any business. Those who value marketing would be peculiar about hiring print traders. Print media is a powerful marketing strategy. No matter what sort of marketing collateral needs to get printed, print traders are always in demand. There are certain elements that make one - The best print trader. They portray specific qualities to survive in the sector.

Let’s have a glance at the elements that distinguish best trade printers from the normal print traders:

1. Innovative designers:

Print media marketing is all about conveying eye catching message. It must be done in a really attractive manner. If the trade printers hire the most innovative designers, then definitely they will stand out of the crowd. A potential customer takes only few seconds to take the glimpse of the message on the billboard. If print traders will not hire creative designers who can guide the clients, then their work can never have the intended impact.

2. Advanced printing machinery setup:

Best machines bring best printing. Printing specifically comes up in different varieties having different functionalities.  The best trade printers always deploy advanced technology. They always stand out from others. Because they get a chance to bring more business than those who are still using 10 year old machines. Commercial as well as large format printers are the must for any business determined to grow.

3.  Value for money:

Another feature of the smart trade printer is that it values money. The professional trade printer will never cost unnecessarily. At TradePrint.Online, we assure you that we prefer mentioning genuine costs. If you are looking for a printing company with straightforward costing, then you are at the right place.

For more information visit our website

[near-vaughan-on-blog]

Near Vaughan ON

Vaughan, ON

Living in Vaughan, ON is getting the best from the world because of its location. It is found just right in the greater Toronto area. From Vaughan, it is only a short trip if you like to go to the major events in the city, such as Winterlicious or Summerlicious. It is also near the Air Canada Centre. You can go anytime to the major tourists' attractions. Some of these are Ripley's Aquarium, CN Tower, and The Ex. It is also a great location if you love to go to Canada's Wonderland. Plus, if you like shopping, you can always go to the biggest shopping centers in GTA, Vaughan Mills.

Vinyl Xpress

Vinyl Xpress offers large format printing, CNC routing, vinyl, laminating and mounting, tradeshow displays, graphic design, and installations. For large formatting, vinyl graphics, vinyl banners, posters, murals, backlit signs, canvas prints, and magnets are available. Everything that Vinyl Xpress does is bold. Prints are vivid and striking. The displays are stunning, and the cost is very affordable. Vinyl Xpress is devoted to keeping the costs low. It is the only printing service that gives incredible quality prints and fast turnaround time. The graphic design services are highly guaranteed to blow the clients to order and come back for more. If you aim to have an outstanding service, Vinyl Xpress is the best printing place to go.

No sympathy whatsoever for Shakib Al Hasan: Michael Vaughan on Bangladesh all-rounder's ban

Former England captain Michael Vaughan was fuming after he learnt of Shakib's ban and said that two years (1 of which is suspended) is nearly not enough for a cricketer of his stature. With a year of ban to be served, Shakib can return to international cricket only from October 29, 2020 -- meaning he will be out of Indian Premier League 2020 and T20 World Cup 2020. Read more here

India Today provides information about Shakib Al Hasan. He is a top-ranked all-rounder in ODI. He was handed a two-year ban by the ICC after failing to report multiple approaches of corrupt conduct. The news article highlights the two-year ban to Shakib Al Hasan. He will be free to resume international cricket by the 29th day of October 2020. It only means that he will not be able to join the Indian Primer League 2020 and the T20 World Cup 2020. Upon reading this news, I felt sad knowing that this all-rounder man got a suspension. On the other hand, he has to suffer the consequences of his failure.

Wet 'n' Wild Toronto in Vaughan, ON

Wet 'n' Wild Toronto in Vaughan, ON, is a 100-acre park that offers various attractions. Some of the attractions I like about are the water slides, wave pool, and lazy rivers. My kids love to swim in the kids' pool. I love the feeling of a resort-style experience. The private cabanas and the lounge chairs are fantastic. Wet 'n' Wild is a home of various bars and food outlets. The most things we enjoyed in Wet 'n' Wild are the rides. It was perfect. We also enjoyed the food at the court. My kids wanted to go back to this place after spending some time at the kids' pool.

Link to map

Driving Direction

15 min (18.0 km)

via ON-407 E

Fastest route, the usual traffic

This route has tolls.

Wet 'n' Wild Toronto

7855 Finch Ave W, Brampton, ON L6T 0B2, Canada

Get on ON-427 N in Etobicoke, Toronto from Finch Ave W/Peel Regional Rd 2

4 min (2.2 km)

Take Express Toll Route/ON-407 E to Keele St/York Regional Rd 6 in Vaughan. Take exit 69 from Express Toll Route/ON-407 E

8 min (13.6 km)

Continue on Keele St/York Regional Rd 6. Take Hwy 7/York Regional Rd 7 to Bowes Rd

5 min (2.2 km)

Vinyl Xpress

114 Bowes Rd #8

Vaughan, ON L4K 1J6

[micropainting]

Questions to Ask When Hiring a Printing Company in Toronto

Are you looking for a printing company in Toronto? Learn the key questions to ask to ensure that you choose the right one for your needs.

[365printandsigns]

The importance of Digital printing

In today’s life people are turning towards a Digital world, due to many reasons like it saves time, gives many option under one roof and many other things due to which people think of selecting digital market instead of the physical market. In such an era it is necessary to turn your business towards this world of digital market so that you can also make good profits out of your business. You can easily opt for many services like Business card printing Toronto, Custom Brochure printing online and any other services which will help you boost your business.

What are the advantages of Business Card printing?

If we talk about today’s generation then it is very clear that our business is almost digital from sending mails to signing contracts to attending meetings, and even networking. There are five main advantages of business card printing which are mentioned below:

Read full blog

[tradeprint01-blog]

Digital tradeprint is the modern printing methods that use digital files instead of printing plates. There are innumerable advantages to using Digital Imaging Services over more traditional printing. Digital tradeprint not only save time and resources without compromising quality or delivery times.

For more information visit our website

[signlandcanada]

Signland: Elevate Your Brand with Custom Print, Signage, and Digital Solutions

At Signland, we believe in the power of exceptional design to elevate your brand and make a lasting impact. With a wide array of services, from custom signage and vibrant canvas printing to sleek web design and professional photography, we offer everything you need to stand out. Proudly serving businesses across Toronto, Mississauga, Vaughan, and the Greater Toronto Area, we are your one-stop solution for all things design and print.

Custom Signage: Create a Lasting Impression

Signage plays a vital role in showcasing your brand and drawing in customers. At Signland, we specialize in creating high-quality, custom signage that perfectly reflects your business identity. From LED signs and illuminated channel letters to sleek acrylic designs, our custom signage solutions are designed to make a strong, professional impression for both indoor and outdoor use.

Large Format Printing: Boldly Communicate Your Message

Our large format printing services are ideal for impactful advertising materials like banners, posters, and billboards. Using high-grade materials and vivid inks, our prints are designed to last and capture attention. Whether you’re promoting a new product, event, or service, our large format prints help your message reach a wider audience with clarity and style.

Canvas Printing: Transform Your Space with Art

With our canvas printing services, you can turn favorite images, artwork, or brand visuals into high-quality canvas prints that bring life to any space. Ideal for offices, lobbies, or home décor, our canvas prints are crafted using durable materials and premium inks, ensuring that your art or photos are beautifully displayed and long-lasting.

Web Design: Build Your Digital Presence

In today’s digital world, an engaging and professional website is crucial for success. Signland’s web design services are tailored to create responsive, user-friendly websites that attract and retain visitors. Whether you’re launching an eCommerce platform or need a corporate site, our team ensures that your online presence aligns with your brand and business goals.

Marketing Materials: Stand Out with Quality Prints

From business cards to brochures and promotional flyers, our print services cover all your marketing needs. At Signland, we understand the importance of consistency in your brand’s messaging, which is why we ensure every piece of print material is designed to make a strong impression. Our high-quality printing adds a professional touch to your networking and marketing efforts.

Professional Photography: Showcase Your Brand in the Best Light

Great images can greatly enhance the way your brand is perceived. Signland offers professional photography services, including product shots, real estate listings, and corporate portraits, to make sure you have high-quality visuals that align with your brand. Our photographers work closely with you to capture the essence of your business.

CNC Cutting: Precision for Unique Projects

Our CNC cutting services provide custom solutions with high precision, enabling us to create intricate and unique designs. From custom signs to creative displays, our advanced CNC and laser cutting technology ensures that every detail is cut with accuracy and craftsmanship, allowing your brand to stand out in unique ways.

Why Signland?

At Signland, we prioritize quality, creativity, and customer satisfaction. With over 40 years of experience, we are dedicated to helping our clients succeed through custom solutions that are both innovative and effective. Whether you’re in Toronto, Mississauga, or the GTA, we’re here to help bring your vision to life with professional design, print, and digital services.

Contact Us

Interested in elevating your brand with our comprehensive services? Contact Signland at 905-760-5551 or info@signland.ca for a free consultation and estimate. Let us help you create the ideal print, signage, and digital solutions to make your business shine.

Find Printing Services in Areas Mentioned Below:

Printing Services Ajax

Printing Services Barrie

Printing Services Brampton

Printing Services Cambridge

Printing Services Concord

Printing Services Gta  Greater Toronto Area

Printing Services King City

Printing Services Kingston

Printing Services London

Printing Services Maple

Printing Services Milton

Printing Services Mississauga

Printing Services Montreal

Printing Services North York

Printing Services Oakville

Printing Services Oshawa

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Printing Services Richmond Hill

Printing Services Scarborough

Printing Services Toronto

Printing Services Vaughan

Printing Services Waterloo

Printing Services Windsor

Printing Services Woodbridge

Printing Services Woodstock

[parvuls]

fic: in the space between (2/2)

word count: 6.6k

rating: teen

tags: space, science fiction, enemies to friends to lovers, pre-relationship

notes: due to length and tumblr's formatting, reading on ao3 is recommended

(part 1 | part 2 | read on ao3)

-

    “Just a month till we’re home, boys,” Holster announces as he climbs into the bottom bunk across from Eric, addressing the dark room at large. Eric can hear him shift around in his bed, sheets rustling with his movements. “Can I get a hallelujah?”

“You can get pizza,” Ransom replies dreamily from the top bunk above him. “Because Holtzy -- The Real fucking Pep God. You and me, Matty Matheson pepperoni. One month.”

There’s one month left until landing back in Houston and disbanding for three weeks of leave. It’s been creeping up in conversations for weeks now, nestling itself in crew breakfasts and mission briefs and downtime. Shitty waxes poetry about things like dipping his toes into the ocean and breathing that sweet Terra air as often as he talks about smoking three joints at once the moment they set foot on the ground. Holster and Ransom talk about the heaps of food they’ll be shoveling to compensate for a year of outer space cuisine. Jack doesn’t talk about much other than the missions, and Eric thinks about organic chemistry and molecular modeling on good days, thinks about crying on bad ones. He talks about almost anything else to distract himself and hopes to Jesus that no one can tell.

The picture frame on the shelf by his bunk wobbles on its back stand as the ship tips into Krer orbit for the night. Krer itself is dim and murky, obscuring the shining lights of its neighboring planets and cloaking the crew quarters’ portal window in darkness. Jack said that the last mission of this tour should be coming in from Flight Director Hall sometime during the night.

Eric sighs quietly, turns onto his side, and stares blindly at the blank white of the wall as he mentally runs through the primary structure of proteins once more. Holster and Ransom are arguing about the best Toronto pizza in the background, the sound of their voices weaving in with the beeps of the ship’s machinery and the creaking noises of it when in motion.

“You gotta come too, Bittle,” Holster says, drawing Eric’s attention. He rolls his head to the other side, watches Holster’s blurred figure move in the dark to lean over the edge of his bunk. Eric must’ve missed a change of conversation. “Getting together over leave? We spend the last day before launch together, all of us. Y’know, hitting some bar, maybe watching a game, then catching the plane to Texas in the morning. Last time we went to Shitty’s -- man, that was fucking wild sauce.”

“And you gotta meet Lardo,” Ransom adds. “Crew bylaws. Sorry, rookie, everyone’s in.”

There are ten densely-printed pages about prokaryotes crumpled in the back of Eric’s personal locker, that he’s riffled through maybe twice. Eric chews his lip raw, tries to think of a carefully-masqueraded way of brushing the invitation off, but Holster grumbles lowly before he can. “Well, not everyone.”

“Right,” Ransom says, his enthusiastic tone turning slightly hesitant. “But. Us and Shitty and Lardo and probably her trainee Ford. It’s almost everyone.”

It’s almost everyone, plus ground team. “But not Jack,” Eric concludes, unintentionally dismayed. He should know better by now than to be disappointed, probably. He should, but doesn’t.

Holster sighs and throws himself back onto the mattress, bed springs groaning loudly. “Jack doesn’t really do social things. He’s too cool for them. Which -- whatever, man, who cares, it’s probably more fun for us that way. So you in?”

What Eric’s in for is a world of trouble. Eric’s in for the sweltering heat of the Texan desert, he’s in for submerging in textbooks all the way up to his ears, he’s in for never being quite enough for this world. He turns his head back to the other side, facing the wall, and stifles a sigh.

“I’ll think about it,” he promises, and knows that he will, also knows he’d never be able to say yes. He doesn’t leave them enough time to round up on him before he adds, “Now shut your pieholes, gentlemen, some people need their beauty sleep. And by some people I do mean y’all.”

“Really, he means you,” Ransom tells Holster, and there’s the distinct sound of Holster reaching up and whacking the top bunk with a pillow. Eric buries his face in his sheets and tries to think distracting thoughts loudly enough to drown out the constant screeching noise of his worries. That, at least, is something he’s an expert at.

.

Eric wishes he could say that he spent his entire life looking up to the stars. That would be a lie.

He spent most of his childhood looking at the ground, instead. At the toe picks beneath his feet; at the dough rising in the oven; at the floor of his school’s hallways, trying to avoid eye contact. The sky in Georgia was ordinarily clear, stars blinking in and out of view, but they’d never held much of Eric’s interest. He wouldn’t have known what to search for even if he’d tried.

Eric, aged eighteen, went to college mostly for the going and less for college. New England was as much an escape as it was a destination. He liked some of his classes, didn’t like others -- remained undeclared for most of junior year, bouncing around between classes about food and culture. He put off doing his work for too long and preferred baking to writing essays too often, but it was fine, most of the time. His days were filled with more people than papers and he found that it was exactly the way he liked it.

College was the point Eric realized that, once he’d stopped being too afraid to try, he was really good with people.

“You could charm mountains into moving for you,” his sophomore year roommate told him, not without a hint of exasperation, when Eric fretted about meeting his first boyfriend’s parents. “Literally everybody likes you.” 

And Eric laughed nervously, said, “Come on now, that is certainly not true,” because he couldn’t charm thirteen year old bullies out of forcing him across the state, couldn’t make small-town Georgia like him for who he really was. Those seemed a lot like immovable mountains to him.

But people flocked to his vlog, kept telling him he was so charismatic, and his hockey team kept turning to him for advice with their problems, and in November of junior year he reviewed his credits, expecting to see every food class his college had to offer, but found Populism and Norms and Deviance and Inequality and Social Change, instead.

He got his B.A. Got his master’s, too, not particularly fond of academia but not too keen on leaving the shelter it provided, either. He accepted an offer to work as a consultant for a big company right after grad school, spent a year expertly tailoring trade relations and marketing techniques to partners and customers from foreign cultures. He understood people, liked people, and people, apparently, liked him. It wasn’t the job of his dreams but it was a decent start, and once the one year mark came and went he began considering PR work, maybe putting his people skills to a smaller-scale use. He was twenty-five and definitely not unhappy and his eyes were, always, firmly on the ground.

And then -- well. Then, one day, NASA called.

.

Jack gathers the four of them outside the flight deck to inform them that their crew has been tasked with the last Human-Islik Intergalactic Treaty info exchange of the quarter, in time for the summit meeting at the end of August. He tells them Flight Director Hall is counting on them, tells them to wear clean suits, and when Holster and Ransom begin chanting last mission, last mission, last mission, he sternly reminds them that being assigned to the Treaty IE is an honor. Still, when they all scatter and the two of them practically skip down the bridge, Eric thinks he sees the corners of Jack’s mouth twitch.

The mission takes four days, requires a series of security checks before entering each room and short transmissions to Houston for green lights at every step. Islikaru has the largest concentration of humans outside of Earth, but protocol must be followed nevertheless. Eric shakes hands, shakes paws, shakes tentacles, makes pleasant small talk and smiles brightly and lets Ransom ramble about science and Jack deal with bureaucracy. It feels at last like a familiar dance, and Eric tries not to think about how much he doesn’t ever want to stop dancing.

By dusk of the fourth day Shitty convinces Jack to wrap it up at a local eatery, the crew crowded around a small table in a pressurized O2 pod with their helmets thrown on the seats by their thighs. Eric finds himself squeezed between Jack on one side and Shitty on the other, a cool syrupy drink emitting translucent wisps of steam in his hand. Holster orders for all of them in rusty Isli that may or may not actually result in food, but they’re all just too jubilant to care.

“Alright boys,” Shitty hollers, banging his coaster on the table several times for effect. The glass containers holding all of their drinks jiggle with its force, creating a cheerful ringing sound. “A toast to this fucking beaut of a year. Being stuck in a cramped metal case floating in nothing for three hundred sixty-five days has been a great pleasure with your rockin’ bods for company. Fucking cheers!”

Ransom whoops, Shitty pretends to wipe a tear, Holster belts out the chorus of Cheers’ theme song passionately. Eric watches them, helplessly indulgent, and thinks: he’s actually making a home here. 

On his other side, Jack shoves one of the food baskets towards Eric with his knuckles and says, “You should try the octo-bacon, if you haven’t.” His eyes meet Eric’s for a brief moment, make Eric’s lungs expand in his chest. He can’t remember the last time Jack spoke to him for no good reason. 

Jack’s face is uniquely relaxed, his jaw convulsing as he fruitlessly tries not to laugh at something Shitty says, and Eric’s former thought continues, completely unbidden: gracious, I’m going to miss these boys so much. Their bickering and their worst habits and their dumbest moments. Holster’s booming voice, Ransom’s midnight thesis writing, Shitty’s insistence on nudity, Jack’s continual ability to confuse him. 

“Holy shit, man,” Ransom says, slamming his emptied drink onto the table and staring at its last drops in awe. “What the fuck is this shit. I need another one ASAP.”

“Not it!” Holster calls, and then stretches his arm across the table, fingertip of his index finger pointed mere inches from Jack’s face. “But I just know our commander would love to buy his best crew another round. Right, Zimmermann?”

“You’re my only crew, Birkholtz,” Jack rolls his eyes, mostly good-natured. Holster’s wiggling finger and Shitty’s foot kicking at his shin beneath the table must goad him into action anyway, because he puts his helmet back on, disappears out of the pod and towards the service counter without further protest. 

While Eric watches him go, Shitty slides closer in the booth and flings his arm around Eric, tugs him right into the crook of Shitty’s body. 

“This is it, Bittle,” he sighs, eyes closing dramatically. “Once this tour ends, you will no longer hold the title of rookie. Finally, you will graduate to the same titles everybody else gets -- mainly bro, or fucker, or, if I’m spectacularly schwasted, yo, what’syourname. This is a monumental day for all. You might even get a nickname. Are you appropriately emotional?”

Eric is emotional about many things. He can't stop thinking about this crew and what they've come to mean to him, can't stop hating keeping secrets, can't stop dreading the moment they cross back into Earth. Eric is emotional about the possibility of seeing his mama again, and what it'll mean if he does; Eric is emotional about life in general, right now, so he says, “Sure thing, Shitty,” and shoves a ring of octo-bacon into his mouth. It seems, for lack of a better option, like the smartest response.

From above Ransom’s head, Eric spots Jack reappearing just beyond the glassy walls of the pod, carrying a tray with four containers between both hands. He then keeps watching, helpless and open-mouthed, as another astronaut rises from a nearby booth and slams into Jack shoulder-first, tipping the entire tray sideways and nearly knocking its contents over and to the floor.

“Oh shit, sorry mate!” the man exclaims, immediately reaching out to catch Jack’s hands and help stable the tray. His Australian accent is thick, the ASA pin decorating the shoulder that knocked into Jack glinting under artificial lights. The two of them grab the tray with three hands, containers sliding back into place still intact, before the man’s eyes flick up and catch on Jack’s face. He then jerks back, his eyes widening and his hands yanked away from Jack like he’s afraid to catch on fire. “Fuck, Zimmermann! I didn’t see it was you! Fuck my life, uh -- here, I’ll pay for the drinks --”

Eric watches, crestfallen, as Jack’s previously relaxed expression gradually darkens back into his usual scowl, lips disappearing between his teeth. “It’s fine, don’t --”

The other astronaut shakes his head vehemently, shoving his gloved hand into his utility pocket and fishing out some local coins that he then throws onto the tray haphazardly.

“Fuck no, mate, I’m not taking risks with you,” he hurries backwards, flat palms raised up, like he’s under some kind of threat Eric can’t read in Jack’s distressed body language. “For real, it was an accident, don’t get your dad to kick me off the program, yeah?”

The man backs off, scurrying back to his pod and to his whispering crewmates. Jack remains standing, shoulders rigid and tray held in clenched white knuckles, vacant stare fixed on the floor. Eric glances away from Jack for the first time since he saw him approach and notices that his whole table is silent and tense. He catches Shitty’s furrowed eyebrows and Ransom’s worried look, and becomes slowly conscious of the fact that unlike him, everybody else already know what just went on in front of them. 

Jack’s mood seems to fracture, then. He steps through the pod’s sliding sealing and sets the tray down on the table too forcibly, glass containers knocking together. He doesn’t sit back down. Shitty parts his mouth to say something, but Jack latches his helmet closed before he can, muttering, “I’m done for tonight. I’ll see you guys back on the ship.” 

His face is almost blank, valiantly trying for imperviousness, but Eric has never seen him look so decidedly miserable before. Instinctively, he reaches out to grab Jack’s wrist; he doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know what just happened, but he does know that Jack shouldn’t leave like that. He manages to stammer out, “...Jack --” before Jack tears his hand away from Eric’s grip with the same excessive aggression that rattled the drinks, and says curtly, “Excuse me.”

Eric stares at his back stalking off until he's entirely out of view, feels unjustly hurt and primarily very confused.

.

Jack Zimmermann is --

Jack Zimmermann is one of NASA’s Arctic Project’s best pilots and ship commanders, Eric learned his first year in the program. He’s exceptionally committed to his job, loyal to his crew, unwaveringly focused on the mission. He’s direct, sometimes brutally so. He’s good at following orders, makes tough decisions under pressure, and never takes the opportunity to rub elbows with the higher ups. He just loves what he does, and does it notably well.

The name and the legend is a lot to live up to, but when Eric met Jack he realized that the man is exactly as he’s advertised. Jack, in the role of Jack Zimmermann, is straightforwardly that: an amazing astronaut, an amazing ship commander, an amazing pilot.

It’s unfortunate, then, that Jack in the role of a human being is sometimes an enormous asshole.

.

The ship’s lights are all off when the boys straggle themselves back on board later in the evening, their boots dragging sluggishly against gravity. When Jack left, the celebratory mood followed his footsteps out the door; no one seemed the least bit inclined to talk about it, so Eric didn’t ask. Though the four of them did their best to recover, cracking halfhearted jokes and staying for another couple of rounds, even Shitty’s mustache seems to droop lower than normal by the time they finally find their way back to the ship. 

Shitty passes airlock and walks straight towards the pilots’ quarters without saying a thing, so Eric wordlessly follows Holster and Ransom into their own quarters, brow still creased with puzzlement. He watches as Holster starts stripping by the door and Ransom sits down on the bottom bunk to take off his gear, and waits, and waits, until the silence is just too strange to handle.

“Alright, can anyone tell me what in the deep-fried hell was that?”

Holster glowers, rips off his support strap with gusto. He doesn’t answer, so Eric turns his frown at Ransom, who sighs as he removes the tough overshoe off his boots. “Ignore him, Bittle. Jack just gets real bitchy when people mention his dad. Which happens pretty often because, you now, his dad.”

“His dad…?” Eric prompts, desperate, because it seems like he should know something that he doesn’t. It’s not in the least a foreign feeling these days, when concerning space and science and always, always Jack.

Ransom looks up at him, one boot dangling from his left hand. “Yeah, you know, his dad. It’s a lot of pressure, living up to that. It’s probably most of why Jack is how Jack is.”

Eric doesn’t believe daddy issues are any excuse to be so surly, and he thinks, rather bitterly, that he would know something about the matter. But he pushes, still, because it’s always one step forward and three steps back with Jack, and any scrap of information making his commander seem a little more human could go a long way right now. Or even not human; Lord knows Eric can figure out nonhums just fine. “What does he have to live up to?”

Holster pauses peeling off the suit’s hard upper torso to squint incredulously at Eric. The lower torso assembly of the suit pools around his thighs. “You don’t know who Mad Bob is?”

“Uh,” Eric deflates, taking a tentative step back, the crown of his head hitting the frame of the top bunk. The tone of conversation begins to sound a lot like the time he disclosed that he doesn’t really know the periodic table or has, at any point of time, known it at all. “No. I don’t.”

Ransom throws his other boot to the side and leans forward, elbows resting on his knees and face contorting into an expression that closely mirrors Holster’s; surprised, scandalized, disbelieving. “He’s like -- Mad Bob. He was the first commander in the original Avalanche Project. He was the first pilot to leave the Solar System and come back alive?” 

“They say he was the first to meet extraterrestrial life!” Holster gestures grandly with his hand, yanking off the EV glove to have free use of the other hand as well. 

“That’s actually not true,” Ransom clarifies, “No nonhum races were recorded until almost a decade later --”

“Not the point, dude,” Holster waves him off. “The point is, Mad Bob is a legend. His ship nearly burned on the way back to Earth and he totally saved everyone on board. Made the first round trip, you know? He’s a big fucking deal. Can’t believe you’ve never heard of him.”

Eric blanches, digs his nails into his skin to hold his instinctual reaction at bay. Eric spent the first twenty-five years of his life with his feet planted firmly on the ground, his eyes never straying upwards. Later, Eric spent every moment of his time at Houston scrambling to prove his worth in an environment so wholly alien to him that the irony in the metaphor was no longer funny. Eric wouldn’t be able to tell Neil Armstrong from Adam, just like Eric can never really remember the difference between Newton’s and Einstein's theories, doesn't know the primary structure of proteins even now. Eric doesn’t belong here, and he’s quickly running out of time to pretend like he does.

“Oh,” he says finally, weakly. Holster and Ransom haven’t looked away from him yet, so he averts his eyes, turns to face his bunk. “Must’ve just missed it somehow.”

He can almost hear Holster and Ransom hem and haw for a few long, silent moments, before the sound of nylon rustling resumes. Eric takes a deep breath, and does his very best not to regret ever asking. It’s made worse by the fact that this hasn't really helped him understand Jack any better than before.

.

So Jack had spent most of Eric’s first few months on the ship treating Eric like an inconvenience. That was okay -- it hadn’t been the first time he’d been perceived like that, and it wouldn’t be the last. He hadn’t been a fresh-faced teenager from the South in a long while; he’d been older, tougher. He’d been places and had met people, nicer people and smarter people and even meaner people than Jack Zimmermann. He hadn’t really needed a pat on the shoulder or an encouraging smile, just the opportunity to do his job, and do it well.

The real problem was that Eric had always been good at his job because he understood people. And Eric, despite his best begrudging efforts, cannot make sense of Jack.

Jack, who clearly had not understood Eric’s job at all until, suddenly and out of nowhere, there was Evor. Jack who, after Evor, told Eric good work and sounded like maybe he even meant it. Jack who, after Evor, was sat by Eric when Lardo radioed to tell them that Jack’s report had made the deputy administrator call to congratulate Eric specifically. 

Jack who, also after Evor, stopped meeting Eric’s eyes unless absolutely necessary. Jack, who Eric sometimes caught staring from the corner of his eye, looking lost in thoughts. Jack, who roughhoused with Shitty in the flight deck, and arranged Holster a private DSN connection for his mom’s birthday, and listened to Charlie Rich on late night piloting shifts -- but whose glimpses of personality disappeared the moment Eric tried to study them for too long.

Missions transformed into something different in the aftermath of Evor. A month after the crew’s return to action they were sent to do testing on the magnetic field of Pladora, and Jack put Eric in charge of communication with the local scientists without preambles. Eric choked, floundered, but grabbed the opportunity with both hands; he still couldn’t shake the weight of Jack’s gaze on his shoulders whenever he spoke with the Pladoran team.

Later, Jack pulled him aside and asked, “Are you capable of confidently explaining to me the exact kind of testing we’re doing here?”, stared at Eric until he was fidgeting uncomfortably in place. “It’s important that you can do that,” he added, like Eric didn’t already know, like Eric didn’t think about it every night before he fell asleep, like he needed Jack’s eyes on him for that, making the nape of his neck burn and his palms tingle with sweat. But Jack frowned at him, then, took a step back, like he didn’t understand why Eric was flushed with embarrassment. It almost seemed for a moment like he wasn’t actively gunning for humiliation.

And then it happened again. Two weeks after that they were helping ESA fix a satellite on a German space station, and Jack left Eric to discuss mission parameters unattended, but also ordered him to watch Shitty install a new GPS chip for three hours. During the strategy session for a recon mission in the Austra System, Jack insisted on hearing Eric’s opinion, but also accosted him after it to demand that Eric read about the complication with the wavelength disturbance. In a charged encounter with destitute merchants from a dead galaxy, Jack remained two steps behind Eric’s right shoulder and let him conciliate them, but when Eric later babbled about the civil turmoil caused by the demise of the galaxy, Jack asserted that he should understand the astrophysical process leading to such death.

So Eric generously thought: maybe Jack was trying, poorly. But three months after Evor the two of them returned to the ship frazzled and peeved, had spent most of the day wrangling with diplomats on Uzeru, and Eric scrubbed a hand over his face, resolved to try one more time. He offered Jack a friendly, tired smile, and said, “Wanna share bad coffee in the kitchen to drown our sorrows?”, but Jack only shook his head once, sharply, before immediately walking away.

The inability to make any sense of it consumes Eric's thoughts for much longer than he's comfortable with. Jack pushes and then pulls, hovers over Eric professionally but disappears the moment it’s interpersonal. A week before they're off for leave Eric looks up from his plate to see Jack taking his dinner into the flight deck, ignoring Shitty’s offer to join him, and thinks that maybe he can never peek past Jack's mask because Jack makes sure to turn away whenever it comes off. He thinks that maybe this is what loneliness looks like, thinks that he should still know better than to care, thinks for the first time that maybe Jack’s silent treatment is nothing more than not knowing what to say to Eric after Evor. Thinks that maybe Jack’s inept solution to not knowing what to say is to just say nothing at all.

.

The impact crater chipping Vylos’ surface is visible from two-hundred thousand miles out. It’s the nearest planet to the jumping point back to Earth, and its crater serves as a parking lot for all ships on their way to or from there. Its chaotic layout strongly reminds Eric of the QuikTrip station just north of Atlanta, but he bites his tongue and keeps that to himself. Jack and Shitty have probably never seen a QuikTrip, anyway.

Jack grumbles about finding a parking space on the night before leave, body curved over the control wheel and eyes squinted at the windowpane. Shitty leaves him to it, drapes his legs sideways on his armrest to tell Eric about the long claws of capitalism stretching into the cosmos, and how this has resulted in Vylosian beer being the best there is this side of the Milky Way, “Even though it’s like, totally not a real beer, dude, but -- marketing ploy!”, and how its atmosphere was chemically engineered, “To be breathable for all us Earthly suckers passing by ‘cause of the jump point. Filthy fucking marketing plot, I tell ya -- and the beer costs like my goddamn kidney.”

“Your goddamn kidney’s not worth much with the amount of Vylosian beer you regularly consume,” Jack interjects, lowering the ship into a vacant spot skillfully. Vylos’ terrain, reflected at Eric from the three surrounding windows in the flight deck, is grainy and blue.

The Vylosian bar Shitty buoyantly pushes them into is decorated in mismatched memorabilia, posters of Uma Thurman and Justin Bieber and a life-size stormtrooper suit personally signed by George Lucas looming by the wall. The AI pouring the drinks is a hologram in the shape of a Western saloon bartender, the beer is thick and neon green. Eric’s been outside the Kármán line for nearly a year and feels caught by surprise, still, almost daily; but tonight he gets to wear denim shorts instead of nylon spacesuits, gets to clink his glass against Ransom’s, gets to pretend that tomorrow isn’t possibly the end of it all. It has to be enough, he thinks, and takes a determined drink.

Their group starts out leaning against the wooden countertop, skin sticking to its surface. Later, Holster and Ransom chat their way into the table of two local girls, and Jack disappears from view. Eventually, their group winds up scattered across different corners of the bar, red-faced and loose. Eric catches himself repeatedly looking up from the bottom of his glass to the open door, at the pale glint of the sky just outside it, and after a thorough sweep around he takes his drink, gets up, and starts walking.

.

The bar overlooks the vast expanses of the crater sprawling beneath it, and Eric finds himself sitting outside at the edge of the cliff, thighs bare over the rough azure dirt and beer glass tilting in his hand. Vylos’ three moons are out of sync, rising and peaking and setting in a simultaneous cycle, and Eric is busy watching them when he hears heavy footsteps coming up behind him.

He’s surprised to find Jack standing there, suspended in motion with his hands deep in his pockets and his hair windswept, figure backlit by the lights of the bar twinkling behind him. He seems just as startled to see Eric; his expression wavers out of its usual stoic façade to betray some semblance of emoting.

“Oh, Bittle, I -- I thought you’re inside with the boys,” Jack blinks, a hint of a frown wrinkling his forehead. 

“No,” Eric blinks in turn, unsettled by this strange creature wearing the face of his commander. He looks so different in jeans and an AsCans training program t-shirt, out of the bulky spacesuits they spend most days in. “Uh -- no. I’m not.”

“Right.” Jack nods stiffly, glances at the ground and then at a spot somewhere over Eric’s shoulder. His body language is guarded, and he looks misplaced, painfully awkward. They still haven’t exchanged more than two or three sentences in private since Evor and Eric, typically the chatterbox, wouldn’t even know where to begin. “Well, uh, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll go.”

“You’re not interrupting,” Eric says, before he can think too carefully about why the heck he’d say such a thing. Before he can recall the snapshot memory of Jack turning to eat dinner in the flight deck, alone. “I mean. I’m just sitting here. Drinking alien beer,” he raises his glass, the bright green liquid sloshing around, leaving traces of neon on its rim. The ridiculousness of the situation may be slightly lost on Jack, but not on him. Space still is, and probably always will be, kind of weird.

“Right,” Jack repeats, the line of his back tightening and his eyes narrowing at Eric. “Be careful with that. Don’t want you to throw up during descent tomorrow.”

Dear Lord. One step forward and three steps back. “Yes, Commander,” Eric sighs, swallowing the chagrin out of his voice. His shoulders sag as his body curls towards the view, away from Jack. God forbid Jack Zimmermann think about anything other than the mission for a single flippin' moment. Eric should know better than to be disappointed, but the sour churn of his stomach is unmistakable. Eric should, but doesn’t.

The footsteps behind him pick up again, and he expects to hear Jack walking farther and farther away. Instead, he’s shocked into silence by Jack sliding into his peripheral view, sitting down beside him on the cliff. His shoulders are rigid, his mouth pressed thin. His expression looks like he’s as bewildered as Eric by his own actions.

“Are you excited to go back?” Jack asks after a long, uncomfortable minute, during which they both sit mutely and watch the pits of Vylos before them. Its second moon has finished a full rotation and is now shining down in soft lilac beams. Jack’s voice is tense, flat; this boy, Eric thinks almost pityingly, really is terrible at small talk.

He’s been asked this question a dozen times that month, but mustering his practiced fake enthusiasm now seems hard. Maybe it’s the alien alcohol; maybe it’s that Jack could regress into not speaking to him again at any moment. “I guess so. Home sweet home, ‘m I right?”

Jack shrugs one shoulder, a short and angular movement. “It doesn't feel like going home to me,” he says, honest and plain. “I spend most of my time out here. It’s more like -- a summer vacation. Some people go to the Caribbean and we go visit Earth.”

Eric nods, absently, unsure of how to respond. He brings his glass to his lips and takes a long swig of it, tastes green all the way to the back of his throat. It’s almost impossible to imagine that in twenty-four hours he could be drinking locally-produced white wine in the Washington Corridor. Earth feels so darn far away.

“What’ll you do on your vacation, then?” Eric asks after another long stretch of silence, mostly out of politeness that his mother persistently lectured into him over years. 

Jack’s attention is fixed on the moons, his profile sculpted by the sharp lines of his nose and cheekbones and chin. His eyes are so pale under the lilac moon -- big, slanted, annoyingly beautiful. He remains quiet for a moment, leans his weight on his palms and considers Eric’s question. His gaze is still flickering over the view when he says, finally, “I usually go see my parents. Read. Buy groceries.”

Eric snorts inelegantly. If he didn’t know any better, didn’t know Jack any better, that could almost be mistaken for a joke. “Buy groceries?”

“Yes,” Jack says, perfectly serious. His eyes flit over to meet Eric’s, and Eric holds them for only a moment before quickly looking away. His cheeks grow inexplicably warm. “I don’t really miss anything when I’m up here -- I mean, not really -- but I guess sometimes it’s nice to remember people. Stupid human stuff, eh? Supermarkets. Banks. I always think I'd catch a movie in the theatre but somehow I never do.”

He appears to be uncomfortable with his admission, face closing off once the words are out of his mouth. The sharp lines of his features twist back into a familiar scowl, but Eric watches them, him, thoroughly transfixed. The authentic snippet of personality cannot disappear under the reapplied mask this time; Jack has put something truthful on the table, a hint of something charmingly sentimental. A mundane humanity space can't recreate, newspapers and laundromats and coffee stands and taxes. Grocery shopping. Eric doesn’t know if the fast, erratic beating in his chest is at the sweet tinge of it, or the mere thought of Jack paying attention to such things.

“You should,” Eric finally finds his words somewhere in his strangled windpipe, slowly facing forward. Jack, and his continual ability to confuse. He can see Jack from the corner of his eye, turning his head to subtly raise both eyebrows at Eric. “Go to the movies. You should do it this time.”

“Yeah. Maybe I will,” Jack says after a long pause. “I'll tell you how it went when we’re back here.”

“If I come back,” Eric sighs before he can catch himself, and then freezes, fingers clenching around his glass. Dang it. Dang it all to hell.

“What?” Jack asks, confused, and when Eric refuses to meet his eyes, shoulders squaring and chin dropping to his chest, Jack’s voice sharpens and he repeats, “What? What do you mean? Bittle. What do you mean.”

Eric exhales unsteadily, rubbing his forehead with the back of his free hand. He thought he'd have more time. He thought -- like he always does, and is always wrong -- that he’d successfully outrun his problems by denying their existence. He could try shoving those four incriminating words back into his mouth, but Eric can feel Jack’s intense attention focused on the side of his face. Once Jack stepped back into the professional boots of Commander Zimmermann, no denial will make him let this go. 

“I’m spending all of my leave in Texas. I gotta pass evaluation for the clearance to come back here with y’all. These past six months were my test run -- I’ve never passed the written exam.” Eric drags his shoe through the sandy ground, watches as the grooves he makes are swept away. “Y’all know I’m no good at the sciency stuff, Jack, alright. I don't need to hear it from you as well. If I don't get an adequate score I'm off the program for good.”

Eric chews the inside of his cheek and chances a side glance. Jack looks outraged, his thick brows drawn down and his entire face devoid of color. Eric’s immediate reflex is to flinch away, but Jack speaks before he can make a move. “What subjects?”

“What?” Eric asks, thrown completely off-balance. He was expecting a thundering reprimand at worst, an indifferent dismissal at best. He doesn’t know what the quiet, heated response he's gotten even is. 

"What subjects are they testing you on?”

Eric hesitates, body still braced for the blow that isn't coming. “Uh. All of the introductory subjects. Basic physics, geobiology... mostly modern astronomy. But I swear --”

“Alright,” Jack cuts him off with a single sharp nod, his chin sticking out slightly, like Eric has somehow pushed him to make up his mind. His expression, typically impassive, is now staggeringly transparent. “I’ll help you study for the written exam.”

“What?" Eric blinks several times, glances down to see if he's had more to drink than he thought, but the glass is still half-full and Jack's figure is still corporeal by his side, intense expression still in place. He doesn't fade away like the hallucination Eric is so sure he must be. "Jack -- what --?”

Jack doesn't seem to pick up on the astonishment that has Eric stumbling over his words. “We’ve got two and a half weeks, right? You need entry level stuff to pass that exam. If we study hard, you can do it.”

Eric thinks he might be gaping, his mouth hanging open and growing dry in the arid air, but he apparently isn't capable of collecting his jaw off of Vylos’ ground. “But… what… but you’ll be in Canada…?”

“I’ll stay in Huston,” Jack looks determined. “Bittle, we're a team. You should’ve told us before and we would’ve helped you. You’re a strong crew member, you’re smart, you’ve got an edge that none of us has got. If that’s the only thing holding you back we’re going to get you over it. Study clinic, day and night.” He pauses, the self-assurances faltering for only a moment, and the lines of his mouth soften somewhat. “Just trust me, okay?”

Eric is absolutely floored. The only foolish thing that manages to leave his mouth is, “What about going to the movies?”

Jack almost smiles. Eric has spied that expression on rare occasions before, but never directed at him, and never from up close. It does something to Jack's face that Eric can't put in words. “I’ll catch one on the next leave. Which you’ll be taking as well, ‘cause you’re not leaving the program. We've got each other's backs, Bittle.”

Under the moonlight, purple shadows carving his face from marble and a mellow half-smile twisting the corners of his mouth upwards, Eric could almost let himself admit how handsome Jack is. Jack rubs the dirt off of one palm and slowly curls his fingers, holds them up in a silent offer. Eric can see the thin veins beneath the surface of his skin. He looks at the hand, looks up at Jack, and lets a tentative smile blossom on his face. He brings his clenched hand up to meet Jack’s, and bumps his fist.

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