Chapter Text
"Are you sure you don't wanna go?" Tommy asks, and his voice comes out a little dampened, swallowed by the tight little maze of luggage around him.
With his back to Jake, he moves around the room with a focused, pre-flight restlessness. His shoulders look broad beneath the soft, faded Harvard t-shirt, a piece of clothing worn thin from countless washes. He meticulously checks every corner and rummages through his duffels, ensuring that each item is exactly where it should be packed.
Jake remains parked on the edge of the mattress. His eyes stay locked on the back of Tommy's head, waiting for when his brother finally turns around to give him a face to talk to.
"I'm serious, the program would accept you," Tommy offers again, and the line lands with that same stubborn hope he's been carrying around for a month straight—like if he says it enough times, it'll start sounding possible. "If you decided to join, they would absolutely make the arrangements." He finally straightens and pivots toward his brother.
Jake answers the way he always does. He throws his palms out in Tommy's line of sight to ensure that his meaning isn't lost. His fingers move in practiced gestures, all of it backed by that steady eye contact he holds.
This is a dream you worked for. I can't follow you into that world. He taps his own chest once before gesturing outward, toward the bags, the door, and the concept of Pandora itself. You know why.
Tommy drags in a slow breath. He stands there with one hand on the duffel zipper, shoulders tight, because he understands what he's saying.
Jake wanted to join the Marines not long ago, but his dream was crushed for the same reason he's excluded from everything else: his inability to speak. He never blamed the recruiters. A military team can't afford a gamble on "maybe," and they certainly can't pause a combat situation so someone can stop fighting to read his hands.
Pandora is all of that turned up to a level nobody on Earth really trains you for.
Tommy turns back to the floor and drags the zipper on the last duffel closed. He presses down on the bag, checking the seams like he expects it to split open and spill him back into this moment. "Maybe you're right," he says, voice lower now. He doesn't look at Jake when he adds, "Just... thought I'd try asking again. Another few times."
Jake's mouth lifts before he can stop it. A quiet laugh slips out—thin, wispy—more breath than sound. He appreciates the way Tommy keeps trying, even when the answer stays the same. His eyes drift to the analog clock on the nightstand. Jake pushes up from the mattress and stands. His feet hit the floor with a solid thud, heavy enough to make Tommy glance over.
He lifts his hands and signs. We need to get you to the shuttle pickup. He points toward the clock, then back to Tommy. You leave in a couple hours.
Tommy gives a quick nod. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."
Jake doesn't wait for the hesitation to creep back in. He steps to the duffels and takes two by the handles, testing the weight. Tommy grabs the third and slings it up with both hands, adjusting his grip when the strap bites.
They both pause in the doorway for a quick, last-second sweep of the room. Jake's eyes hit the obvious stuff first—wallet, keys, badge, whatever paperwork Tommy's keeping close. Tommy pats his pockets automatically, then glances toward the bathroom like he's mentally ticking off toothpaste, deodorant, the little things people forget until they're already gone.
Jake points once toward the nightstand, then the dresser. Tommy catches it and doubles back, snatching up a small sentimental thing he'd left behind, fingers closing around it like it matters more than anything in the bags. He gives Jake a look that says thanks without saying it.
Tommy goes first through the front door. Following him, Jake closes the door with a final click of the latch before they head down the hall together.
The drop-off point looks like a place built to move people fast, not comfort them. A wide strip of pavement boxed in by wire, a squat little check-in building, and buses lined up in rows with their lights on like they've been idling since dawn. It feels temporary and overused at the same time. For how many bodies they rotate toward Pandora, the setup feels thin.
They pull in and park, and the second Jake steps out, the air whacks him. The chemical bite from the mini ISV's engines hangs over everything, even from a couple miles out behind the fence.
Jake holds his breath for a second without meaning to, then forces himself to inhale through it anyway. He turns away from the open lot and heads around to the trunk. He pops it open and starts hauling the duffels out. When he turns, Tommy's right there—close enough that Jake has to check his step. Tommy's got a duffel in hand and that look on his face again, the one that tries to keep it together and fails around the eyes.
"Are you sure I can't convince you to come with me?" Tommy asks, and his voice wobbles in a way Jake rarely hears from him.
Jake's brow creases the second he sees tears collecting at the rims of Tommy's eyes, making them bright and glassy. Thomas. The way he uses it carries on like their mom used it when she needed them to look up and listen. What are you crying for?
Tommy huffs a laugh that breaks halfway through and turns into a sniff. He scrubs at his nose with the back of his wrist and wipes under his eyes. "It's just..." He swallows, looks off toward the buses, then back at Jake. "You're my brother, Jakey. My twin. We've been together for twenty-four years, and now—" his voice catches. He clears his throat like that'll fix it. "Now I'm gonna be without you for six years. You're gonna be without me for eighteen." His fingers tighten around the duffel strap. "You're my baby brother."
Jake's mouth twitches, and he lets the grin happen. He signs back quick. You're the one acting like the baby right now.
Tommy lets out a real laugh. "Stop trying to ruin the moment!" he says, and he bumps Jake's shoulder with a light punch that still carries that twin-energy familiarity. Then the laugh fades from his face. "I just... I don't want you alone. Ever since Mom died—"
Jake reaches out and clamps a hand around Tommy's shoulder, firm enough to cut the sentence off without being harsh. He holds Tommy's gaze so Tommy can't drift into the past and drown in it. Jake signs slowly. I'll be okay. He pauses, then adds the last part like a vow. I promise.
An RDA agent stands near the check-in building with a clipboard in one hand, calling out for the last people hanging back. His voice cuts through the lot like everyone here is already late. A couple stragglers jog forward with bags bouncing against their legs.
Tommy's shoulders tense. He looks back at Jake, swallowing hard. "I should get going."
Jake barely gets his hands up before Tommy steps in and wraps his arms around him. Tommy gives a tight, full-body hug as if he's trying to seal the moment. Jake's arms go around him in return, and he holds on. He feels Tommy's breath stutter against his shoulder. He feels the shake in him he's trying to hide.
Tommy lingers as long as he can, then pulls back like it hurts. He wipes his face fast, grabs his duffels, and hurries toward the gate with that frantic kind of speed people get when standing still feels impossible.
Jake stays by the car, leaning a hip against the trunk. He watches Tommy get checked in. He watches him disappear behind the gate line, swallowed by uniforms and luggage. He watches Tommy climb onto the bus with his bags, pausing at the top step long enough to look back. Jake raises a hand in a small wave. Simple. Clean. Enough.
The bus pulls away. Tires roll over gravel. The line of buses shifts forward like a conveyor. Tommy's bus merges into the rest, then disappears around the bend.
Jake stays anyway.
Minutes stretch into hours. The air keeps tasting like fuel. People keep moving, then thin out until the lot looks emptier than it should.
A countdown crackles over the megaphone.
He sees the ground crew scatter back. He sees lights blink. He hears the engines build into a roar that pushes into his ribs.
The ship lifts. The sound turns violent, and the air shudders. Dust and grit kick up across the pavement. Jake's shirt flutters against his skin. He tilts his head back, eyes tracking it as it rises, clawing its way into the sky until it becomes a bright, shrinking shape and then a smear of light.
When it's gone, the quiet feels wrong. Jake's chest goes heavy all at once. His eyes blur, and he blinks hard.
See you in eighteen years.