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It begins, as it always does, with an itch at the base of Benthic’s neck. The irritation grows like a sprouting seed, sluggish but disruptive. As the nights pass, his appetite steadily dwindles. The plates of his exoskeleton loosen, their outermost layers dulling and deadening. In this, Benthic wishes he was more like his brother. Edrio always molts quickly and without incident. That has never been the case for himself.
Segra Milo is cold and oxygen-rich. It makes his chitin harder and prone to sticking. Few sensations are painful for a tognath—molting included—but it is a debilitating process. Benthic loses dexterity in his hands first, unable to properly grip and wield his rifle. Typing becomes difficult, and his reports begin to stack up. Though he knows a slow molt could be dangerous if left unchecked, the cause comes first. They lost several Partisans just before erecting this new base. There is too much to do, and not enough people to do it. Thanks to his species’s hardiness, he can perform the work of five or six men instead of the standard two or three, and the other operatives depend on him for it.
In the end, Benthic waits too long. This has only happened once before, when he was newly hatched. He often played near the lava flows on his homeworld, fascinated by the spewing colors and blinding heat, but that same dry heat had prematurely loosened his chitin. The trip back that day had been arduous, his limbs refusing to obey him. His mother-sire found him, limping and chirping pitifully, half a klick away from home. She scooped him up and carried him all the way to the base of their nursery tree. There, the rest of the grove had submerged him in the spring that pooled at its roots and gently eased the molt from his plates.
Stubborn, one of his father-sires had chittered at him. Cling to your chitin all you like, but the molt will always come. Benthic whimpered back that it wasn’t his fault; he hadn’t meant to keep it. The rest of the grove laughed and clicked goodnaturedly at his whining.
Only now, there is no warm, magma-heated spring to ease him, no nursery tree. No sires or siblings besides Edrio, who has been gone on mission for weeks, lightyears away. Benthic is alone, and he has failed to molt.
It is early morning, dreary and cool. The chill emanates through the caves, cold enough to set an ache twisting through his endoskeleton. That Benthic can feel it is a warning and a promise. He gets out of his cot and lumbers stiffly into central command. The only one at their station is Saw, already lost in work, mumbling through some communications under his breath.
“Tubes,” he says, without looking at him. “Speak.”
Benthic approaches as he considers his words. He hates to admit weakness and draw attention to himself. But it is worse to keep Saw waiting, to stir his ire unnecessarily.
“I need a day of rest. Maybe two.”
Saw looks up. Perhaps he is surprised; Benthic never asks for rest. Perhaps he is annoyed, for this is a problem he hasn’t anticipated. Human faces are hard for Benthic to read, even now. Saw’s eyes rove his body. Benthic is used to staring, but rarely does Saw actively study him.
“Are you sick?”
“No,” Benthic says. Then he reconsiders. “Perhaps. I must molt.”
“Now?” Saw replies.
Benthic nods.
“It is a good time for it. Quiet.”
Saw’s eyes travel over him again. To a tognath, Benthic would seem a mess. He is discolored, chitin patchy and translucent. Edrio would’ve forced him to rest days ago. Benthic wonders what Saw sees.
His commander reaches for his arm, stopping short of making contact. Benthic senses his soft-skinned warmth just out of reach. Another sign of something amiss.
“It looks… different… than when it happened to your brother.”
There is a part of Benthic that stirs at the comparison. New recruits struggle to tell the difference between him and his eggmate. Those that learn—keener, more observant—are the ones that usually survive as Partisans. Saw has never struggled to tell them apart, not even when they first met.
“It has always been so,” Benthic says. “Molts are harder for me.”
Saw smiles. The expression is enigmatic; his commander smiles at most things. His constant grinning unnerves others, but it doesn’t bother Benthic.
“I will keep that in mind,” Saw says. “Take one of the portable heaters and set it up in your quarters. It may help.”
One less heater in the command center means it would be that much colder for a day or two. It would put unnecessary discomfort on their operatives.
“That’s an order,” Saw says, as if reading Benthic’s mind. He gestures to one of the ceramic cubes nearby, then he returns to his work as if he had never been interrupted.
Benthic takes the cube without another word.
His room is small and cramped, but in this instance, it works in his favor. He seals the door and turns the heater on. There is no space to do this neatly, so he cuts his losses and lies naked on his cot. The warmth is comforting, though it is nothing compared to the heat of his homeworld. He doesn’t even notice when the heater reaches max temperature.
Another problem Benthic doesn’t anticipate is his own restlessness. He is busy every waking hour. There is always a pressing matter to handle, a mission to plan or recon to complete. They need to re-establish supply lines with the Cloud-Riders, disrupt the trafficking on Narkina-3—Benthic forces himself to relax. He stares at the crevices in the ceiling and begins to count them.
Hours upon hours pass like this.
Anxiety turns to anger, then to dreariness. Benthic doesn’t remember the last time he’s eaten or drank. The cave ceiling blurs in his vision. He misses Edrio. He could’ve done this with him. He is weaker—lesser—without his eggmate.
He chitters to himself, but it is an empty, hatchling comfort. Eventually, it loses its charm too, and the silence takes over.
Consciousness comes and goes in a haze, shallow and unpredictable. In this state, it is hard to tell reality from dreams.
His room, the cave and the Partisans beyond. His people, his new grove. The nursery tree, its boughs hanging heavy with cocoons. A father-sire picking him up, cradling him close like he is something precious.
Quiet now, he coos. His voice is wrong in a way Benthic can’t place, familiar and unfamiliar. I’m going to help you.
The voice is strange, but Benthic isn’t afraid. He is home. He dozes to the rhythm of his father-sire’s steps, of the beating of his heart as he presses his cheek against his soft chest. Another prickle of unease, a sense of wrongness without worry. It doesn’t matter. He is safe. His father-sire is speaking, but it’s too low to hear, too far away.
It gets warmer and warmer, not the heat of the lava flows but pleasant enough, a heat he can feel beneath his chitin. The pattern of walking ceases. His father-sire lowers him, and Benthic chitters at the loss of contact. One embrace is exchanged for another. Warmth encapsulates him, filling each crevice and curve along his plates. Submerged, finally, in the springs, steaming and blissful.
Benthic chitters, long and low. Cradled by the water, hot enough to burn. Finally, finally comfortable. He basks like the ash lizards by their lava pools, unmoving, relaxed.
“—ic. Yes, it’s just as you said... Think he’s coming out of it—”
The world is encased in mist, a blanket of grays and whites. Benthic finally places the voice. There is no sky above, no nursery tree. No father-sire. He startles badly. Not in a pool, but there is water. His sudden movement sloshes it onto the cave floor.
“Easy now. I got you.”
The words steady Benthic with an immediacy that staggers. His fingers curl over the sides of the container, and he stills, forcing himself to think. He’s submerged in one of their spare ammo crates, filled to the brim with near scalding water. He hadn’t even known there was water like this to spare. The wells in the caves are deep and hard to siphon from. The room is filled with steam, fogging up Benthic’s lenses slightly, but he can tell he’s in one of their storage rooms: bigger than his own room and easy enough to heat. It must’ve been emptied for this purpose. Not that they had much extra cargo these days. In front of him, his commander looms, his hands poised.
“What—” Bethnic begins to ask, then goes silent quickly. His voice has been augmented with amplifiers for years, but it sounds different now. With a sense of awe, he realizes his rebreather mask is gone. Would Saw be able to understand his language without it?
“Don’t worry. I pressurized the room. Edrio said the molt would stick to your mask, so I removed it. The situation’s not ideal, but when is it ever?”
Benthic’s face feels odd, and his speech sounds as naked as he is. The air is too close and fresh, warming his mouth and mandibles for the first time in years. He forces himself to focus, at last responding to his eggmate’s name.
“Is he…”
“No. Still on mission. He did fill me in when I found you unresponsive. You gave us quite a fright!” Through his transparent rebreather mask, Saw smiles. It is not an angry one, Benthic thinks, but it isn’t happy either.
“It has never been this bad before,” Benthic replies quietly.
“But you knew it could happen. Communication, Tubes. You know I need that from you.”
Benthic feels as chastened as a hatchling. Ignoring his health is as good as ignoring the cause. He knows that. “I’m sorry, Commander.”
“Good. Let us continue, then.”
Saw reaches out. Rarely does anyone try to touch Benthic with good intentions. Besides Edrio, the other Partisans are too wary of him to try. He remains still as Saw’s fingers descend, tracing the top of his chest ridge. The sensation catches Benthic off guard, stronger than he anticipated; he had forgotten how sensitive a molt made him.
He has never been ashamed of his nakedness. Tognaths wore next to nothing on their homeworld, and there is little privacy among the Partisans. But this… something about this is unlike the nudity of his grove or standing shoulder to shoulder with shivering humans in cramped, half-functional sonics. It sets his sluggish pulse quickening, and he lifts his hand, reaching for Saw’s wrist.
“Perhaps if I just soak…” he says quietly, trailing off.
Saw pauses, his fingers settling lightly on his chest ridge. Benthic holds his breath.
“Do you trust me, Benthic?”
Benthic is vulnerable, yet without fear. The answer comes easily.
“Always.”
Saw begins to move again, and slowly, the tension bleeds from Benthic’s body. His commander always wears gloves, but now his hands are naked, calloused but gentle. Benthic knows what those hands are capable of. Most of his shoulders and chest are already shiny with fresh, vibrant chitin. Saw finds what remains of his molt there and massages it softly. The sensation is one of weightlessness, a scratch itched, long sought release finally granted. Benthic chirps before his mind catches up with him. His commander laughs, a few, raspy notes muffled by his mask.
“No need to be shy. If it feels good, it feels good.”
Benthic doesn’t respond, tries to keep himself quiet anyway. He is not used to gentleness. He is not used to the building heat roused by his commander’s hands.
A tognath’s abdomen is softer than the rest of their body, unplated and weak. Even through the water, one could see the flesh is pale and faintly transparent, the organs a vague outline just beneath. Most of the molt along his belly is already shed, but Saw glides his hands along the most vulnerable part of him just the same. Benthic shivers, but Saw seems unbothered by the reaction or the heat of the water, resuming his work at mid-thigh. Sensations shift from warm and strange to increasingly pleasant. Saw is as thorough and meticulous in this as he is in anything he does. He barely displaces the water as he rubs down the line of Benthic’s legs, careful at the sections where his plates overlap with his feet. Touch there makes Benthic twist away for the first time, but Saw catches him by the ankle.
“Ticklish?” His smile is wide this time.
“...yes.”
Saw’s smile grows even wider. Happy. “That’s right. You wouldn’t lie to me.”
As he works, the water becomes murky with remnants of the molt, but Saw doesn’t seem to notice or care. He hasn’t commented on Benthic’s appearance at all, in fact.
“Does it disgust you?” Benthic asks, letting his fingers disrupt the sheen that’s floating on the water like oil. They rarely speak about their differences. What does it matter if one is human or tognath, if they can listen and plan and fight?
Saw shifts his palm along the middle of Benthic’s foot, shedding the last of the old chitin. “No,” he says simply. “I find it fascinating. And oddly satisfying.”
“Fascinating and satisfying…” Benthic repeats.
“Do you want me to be disgusted?” Saw releases his foot and leans back, inspecting him.
“You are a strange human.”
Saw blinks, pursing his lips, then he laughs, a rough, raucous bark. “Of course I am.” He leans in suddenly, his face so close to Benthic’s that he can smell him. Blaster oil, metal, and leather. Cloying, but not unpleasant. “Here,” Saw murmurs. “It’s the only place left to shed.”
Saw brushes his knuckles along Benthic’s mandibles. At rest, the pallid appendages clasp together over his mouth. Now, they twitch and shutter, responding to the gentle stimuli. They are starved for sensation after being locked behind a mask for so long.
Benthic’s nervousness resurfaces, irritating. His face has been on full display the entire time, but having it touched and studied… surely this would be the moment where Saw’s curiosity would falter and become disgust. Their species are too different, and even a man like Saw has limits.
Benthic finds himself stammering. Each word he speaks makes his mandibles flutter and catch against Saw’s fingers, pinpoints of warmth, buzzing, dizzying. “You’ve done more than enough. I can finish up myself.”
“Nonsense. I won’t have you injure yourself at the final juncture. Just hold still.”
Saw cups the side of his face as he caresses the other, working his thumb just beneath the ridge of his eye socket, then lower, over one mandible in full. It is the softest touch Benthic has felt so far, and the sensation shivers deep into his core. He relaxes a little as Saw switches sides, growing familiar with the strokes, the lifting of old for new. Once in a while, Saw cups water from the container and lets it run over Benthic’s face, draining the old chitin away in murky rivulets. There are moments of near pain, impossible to avoid at this stage, but each hurt is shushed away, buffed until the sensation neutralizes, or becomes pleasurable.
When his face is clean, Saw leans back and inspects his work. Then, without fanfare, he taps the seam of Benthic’s mandibles. “Open for me.”
“You’re sure?”
The weight of Saw’s hands are heavy against his face, muscles and chitin bowing in his grasp. The pressure is a comfort.
“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t.”
Benthic parts his mandibles. They are fragile, the tips small and sharp. Saw seems to know that somehow. Did he ask Edrio? Had he planned to do this the whole time, even the parts Benthic could surely do?
It is too kind. Too different from the touch of a friend, brother or sire. Saw buffs the molt from the plates around his mouth. Benthic feels the rawest here, that the slightest misstep could seriously injure. Perhaps the molt wasn’t quite ready to be lifted, and the extra sensitivity makes him chitter against Saw’s touch. Benthic is suddenly afraid to meet his eyes. He would not see what he wants to see. Saw would show him gentleness, pity, curiosity, maybe… but not heat. Benthic has given up on such things. There are so few tognath left, and even fewer species that would be open to engaging with ones like him.
“You’re thinking too hard, my friend,” Saw murmurs.
His molt, Benthic realizes, is complete. Every plate is bright and clean, save for what is submerged in filthy water. There is no reason for Saw to remain, no reason for him to do what he does anymore. Two fingers slide between his mandibles, blunt against the seam of his mouth. Benthic gasps, and they press deeper, onto his tongue. Salt, a strange bitterness, rough and warm.
Benthic bites down before he can think about it—not hard, but hard enough to make Saw go still. His tongue slithers alongside the underside of his fingers.
“Too much?” Saw asks. His tone is different. Deeper, raspier.
Benthic needs to let go. Needs to apologize to his commander and excuse himself. Instead, he shakes his head, a minute motion. He sucks his captured prize, unable to remember the last time he had living flesh inside him, anything but rations or drink.
“Good,” Saw says. He curls his fingers, increasing pressure on Benthic’s tongue. “Just lie back.”
Saw slides his free hand into the turbid water. He finds something hard and swollen between chitin and plates. Benthic groans, sinks his teeth harder into Saw’s flesh. Between the molt and the heat, he hadn’t realized he was presenting. Yet somehow, Saw had; perceptive to the point of eeriness. He touches Benthic like he does anything else: with fearless surety. He watches him closely as his hand plays over the ridges of his cock.
“I wish I could see it,” Saw whispers, sharp with his false geniality. “We are not so different, you and I.” His grip tightens, his fingers digging in, nudging at the seam of each ridge. Benthic can hardly stand it. He has to focus on not biting Saw’s fingers off. Pleasure has never felt so raw, so debilitating. “A man will always appreciate a tender touch.” He squeezes harder. “Or perhaps one not so tender.”
Benthic whimpers. His mandibles flex and clench around Saw’s knuckles, the rough underside of his hand. His body is normally so unresponsive, so unfeeling. At this moment, he is another creature entirely. Something messy, something hungry.
He doesn’t know why Saw is doing this, but he doesn’t want him to stop. The water becomes choppy, jostled with Saw’s motions, with Benthic’s thrashing.
“Easy,” Saw says. “Let it happen.” His eyes are bright, considering. It is not a command, but it is more than easy to obey. Benthic’s been doing it for years, hasn’t he? Following this crazy, passionate man on his quest to destroy the Empire once and for all.
Orgasm is confusing, startling. It is something he has so often ignored, never touching himself, never feeling the need for release. The water goes black with inky blooms. He groans and teethes at Saw’s hand, too hard—he can taste blood, but he can’t stop, and Saw doesn’t tell him to. He only watches as Benthic writhes and chirps, easing pleasure out of him with the impossibility of a man squeezing water from a stone.
Satisfaction settles deep. Benthic collapses against the edge of the crate. Dizzy. Weightless.
“There we go. Much better, yes?” Saw asks in a tone that brokers no argument. His touch remains featherlight as he drags his knuckles along Benthic’s flagging cock. It’s so oversensitive; even that gentle brush has Benthic angling his hips away. Saw chuckles again. “Similar refractory periods, too.” He lifts his hand out of the water. It’s wrinkly, spotted with Benthic’s seed—he lifts his rebreather mask for a moment, licks the mess on his hand. The sight makes Benthic hot and shivery. “Briney.”
Emptied and raw, his thoughts list into strange places. Saw touched him, tasted him. What would Saw look like, in his place? Would the rest of him taste like his fingers, vaguely salty and warm? Would Saw give him the chance to know, if he asks?
Benthic sucks in a breath as Saw withdraws his fingers. The sensation of emptiness lingers, enhances his want. Saw inspects the bite marks on his hand. It cools Benthic’s thoughts. At least they didn’t look deep.
“How do you feel?” Saw asks.
Benthic has been told that encounters like this between humans could be awkward, but this doesn’t feel awkward. It only feels different. Changed. He wonders when his chitin hardens if this feeling will fade along with the sensation of touch and heat.
“Better. Thank you,” Benthic replies.
Saw nods, pleased. “Rest, if you need it. I expect an update in the morning.”
“Of course.”
The human stands. Benthic inspects him sidelong. His armor hides his body well. There is nothing to hint that Saw is affected by what he has just done. Still, Benthic wonders… realizes he wants Saw to be affected. Wants him to be changed, like this has changed him. If Saw notices him staring, he says nothing.
Benthic listens to Saw’s light steps as he leaves, the quick open and close of the hatch door. He sighs, pulling his knees up to his chest. His gaze falls to the water. It’s opaque, blackened and filthy. He gingerly lifts himself out of the crate, pleased that it’s nearly as warm out of the water as it is in it.
He sits on the smaller crate that Saw had sat on. It’s smooth and hard and warm beneath him. The steam feels plush against his naked body, his oft hidden mandibles especially. He’s exhausted, but he feels good. Better than he’s felt in a long time. He looks down at his raw, partly translucent body. Some of the filth from the crate has come with him. He would need to use the sonic sooner rather than later.
No, he thinks. Saw said I could stay here.
He touches his thighs with both hands, shivers. Drags his fingers up. He takes his cock in one hand, not quite withdrawn yet. There is a pulse of heat, of desire, but it is a ghost compared to Saw’s touch.
His sensitivity will fade, but Benthic does not think that these strange thoughts will. He thinks he is glad for it.