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Zeb insists it was Kallus. Years later, he still remembers everything about that night so clearly: the dark, cold cave; his suffocating fear; and the strange tug he felt from the universe, telling him to pay attention. He remembers all the details, because how could he not? It was one of the most important nights of his life.
You sat down, and two seconds later you were asleep, he says. Your eyes closed, and boom—you were out. I watched it all happen. I wanted to stay up until I knew you were asleep, ‘cause I was worried about you.
Kallus remembers differently.
My leg, he says. My leg hurt too much to sleep. It only seemed fair, though, that you got to rest. You got us out of the cave, so I kept watch—made sure we were safe from those creatures in the cave. I kept the transponder from freezing over.
No, no, no, Zeb insists. That’s not what happened. We settled into that crevice, out of the wind, and I wrapped the blanket around you—us, Kallus interjects, us—alright, fine, us, and then before I knew it, your head was on my shoulder, and you were fast asleep.
I was resting my eyes, Kallus says, and Zeb laughs until he realizes Kallus is being dead serious.
Oh, please, spare me. Resting your eyes, sleeping, whatever you want to call it—
It’s not the same, Kallus maintains. I was resting my eyes, and then I heard you start to snore, and suddenly your head was on my shoulder, and I didn’t move the rest of the night because I didn’t want to wake you up.
They lie in silence for a moment, and Kallus takes advantage of the pause to steal some of the blanket back from Zeb. To this day, he’s still a blanket hog.
Does it really matter? Zeb says, yawning.
You only say that when you know you’re wrong but you don’t want to admit it, Kallus says. Now it’s his turn to yawn. But no, I suppose it doesn’t.
He rolls over and clicks off the light, and a soft darkness fills the room. He stretches—sometimes thinking about his broken leg makes it hurt again—and leans back into Zeb, his eyelids heavy as a strong, hairy arm wraps around him.
Zeb’s breath is warm on his neck, and he likes that hand curled around his hip, and if he weren’t so tired, he might press himself closer against Zeb, guiding that hand from his hip to wherever he wanted it. He’s too tired, but he’s not worried; they have the morning for that. And Zeb’s right—it doesn’t matter who fell asleep first. The only thing that matters now is that they each have what they’ve been dreaming of ever since that night: each other.