They are his sun and his moon. One orbits him, and he orbits the other. Bright points of light in his sky, governing his days, his seasons:

Pale and fragile, she looks at him. Her eyes are dark, her mind a mystery. “You are my gravity,” she tells him seriously, as he places a bandage over the injection point. “You keep me from flying off into space.” Her voice trails off, her eyes drift closed. Goodnight, moon…

--

Sunlight and warmth, she beams at him. He can almost forget the moon when she smiles. Almost. He looks forward to those days when his sky is a bright blue, the sun unclouded, the moon a happy crescent. He enjoys those few hours when they can co-exist peacefully, though he knows it cannot last.

“She will wane,” the moon whispers.

“The sun doesn’t wane, silly,” he replies without thinking. She hears his thoughts so often now, he is almost used to it.

“This girl will wane,” she clarifies.

“You shouldn’t talk about yourself in the third person,” he admonishes, as he mentally reviews the infirmary’s supplies.

--

An eclipse , the thought springs to his mind, don’t look directly at it, it will damage your eyes .

The moon moves between him and the sun, blocking the sun’s warmth and transforming her own delicate beauty into something fiery and violent. He is the one who must calm her down, give her a smoother and get her to bed. The others try to help, but she is his moon. She is his responsibility. He can’t understand why she isn’t getting better.

“It will pass,” the sun whispers, warmth at his side again.

He wonders if all women read minds.

--

“Can she be a star?” the moon asks.

“Who would want to be a star?” he asks, unsurprised by the third person.

“Stars are suns,” she says, making a face. “Suns have satellites.”

“What would you do with a satellite?” he asks, amused. His hands are busy in preparation, his mind is busy with the math and the mixture.

The moon stills. She pulls herself to the forefront of her mind, dragging her shattered psyche