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The first time he opened his eyes, he was little more than rubble. Weak, fragile. Shaking from echoes of something—something old, something violent.
Eyes glared down at him from every direction.
Horrified. Furious. Grieving.
He didn't know who they were, only that their silence made him feel alone. Judged. Like he did something wrong.
So he looked where the eyes didn't follow. Up.
A bright, massive light seared into his eyelids, impacting upon them the knowledge that he is here, and alive, and—
"You will be Earth."
Named.
Earth.
He said it over and over again, cradling the syllables like something fragile that might break if he stopped holding it so tightly.
Earth. Earth. Earth.
But no one else says it. Not like that. Not like it's his. Only "that planet," or if Venus—the name of the angry one—wanted to be cruel, "that thing."
He doesn't know why. He doesn't know anything. But he wants to know.
He wants to know why Venus glares at him, with fury and grief in equal measure. He wants to know why Mars won't look at him, only ever showing Earth his back. He wants to know why Mercury avoids him, zipping away before they can even lock eyes, caught in his endless orbit around Sol.
Sometimes Earth wonders if the debris around him remembers something he doesn’t. If it’s not just stone, but stories too shattered to tell.
He clutches a piece a little tighter. Then looks up. Sol still burns, curled in on himself like a sleeping god.
Earth feels his eyes water the longer he stares at him, but he doesn't look away.
Sol is bright. And loud. Too loud. But he looks at Earth. He sees him.
Even if that sight comes with the unbearable weight and heat of Sol's gaze, Earth thinks, desperately, achingly, that he would do anything to be seen for longer.
At least Sol's eyes are honest in their destruction. At least Sol doesn't look at him like he's a mistake.
He tries to talk to Sol sometimes. It doesn't often go well. He's too much. Too big. Too... too much of a star.
So Earth stops looking up, and looks around him again. Mercury is still running. Venus is still angry. Mars is still silent.
Earth stares at Mars. Silence is bad. Silence means stillness, and lips not moving, and—
Something. Something sharp. Red. Gone.
He shakes his head. What was he thinking about again?
Right. Mars.
He can do this. Just...talk. Be normal.
He drifts over to Mars before he can chicken out.
Mars doesn't look at him. He's still faced away from everyone else, towards the Asteroid Belt. Towards the big ones. Sol says they keep them safe. Judging by the sound of screams in the distance, that doesn't seem to be entirely true.
He awkwardly settles beside Mars. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Crumbles the rubble in his hand in frustration.
Mars still isn't looking at him. His shoulders are tight. There’s something trembling in the way he grips his own arms, like he's holding himself together with nothing but guilt.
Eventually, Earth says something.
"...Hello."
Mars flinches. Barely—but Earth sees it. His jaw shifts, clenches, unclenches. Like there’s something behind his teeth trying to crawl its way out. Earth smiles nervously and hopes it isn't a curse.
"I'm Earth," he blurts out. "I'm uh, your neighbor! Right next to ya."
He tries for a laugh. It comes out cracked and wobbly and makes Earth want to bury himself under the Belt.
Mars still doesn’t look at him.
"...I—I know that."
It’s quiet. Strangled.
Earth blinks. He’s vaguely aware he’s gaping, but Mars replied. He spoke! To him!
"Yeah?" he says dumbly. "I mean, of course you knew! Sol isn't exactly quiet, ahaha..."
Mars still won’t look at him. But now Earth notices his hands are shaking.
“…I d-don’t…”
He stops. Swallows hard. Breathes in like it hurts.
“I d-don’t hate you,” Mars says, barely above a whisper. “I j-just…”
His eyes squeeze shut.
“I c-can’t look at you. N-not yet.”
"Why?" Earth asks, a little harsher than he meant to.
Mars flinches back like struck. Earth instantly feels bad. But he has to know. Has to understand.
When Mars makes no move to answer, he inches closer, ignoring the way Mars trembled ever so slightly as he did.
"Like...what did I do? Why won't you look at me? You say you don't hate me, but why do you act like you do?"
Mars shrinks back with every word Earth says, still stubbornly facing away from him.
"I c-can't t-tell yo-ou," he finally says.
"Why not!?" Earth snaps. Mars doesn't reply, only shaking.
Earth takes a deep breath. Okay. Calm down. Think good thoughts. Happy thoughts. Don't—
“Is it because I’m—what, too young? Too loud? Too… weird-looking?” The laugh breaks out of him, thin and wobbly. “Because I can fix that, probably. I—I don’t know, I can try, if you tell me why you look at me like I'm a monster.”
That seems to catch Mars's attention, as he whips around and, for the first time, shows Earth his face. Earth...falters.
Mars’s eyes are wide—red-rimmed, wet, and terrified. His whole face looks raw, like someone tore away a mask he wasn’t ready to lose. His mouth twitches like he's about to cry or scream. Maybe both.
“You’re not—no. You’re n-not a monster,” he chokes out. “You j-just… you—”
His voice cracks. His breath shudders
“You j-just w-weren’t… s-supposed to exist.”
The silence after feels like it splits the vacuum open.
Mars’s eyes widen as soon as he hears himself. “W-wait, that’s n-not—! I d-didn’t m-mean—”
But Earth’s already reeling.
The words echo like static in his mind, bouncing, distorting—weren’t supposed to exist, weren’t supposed to exist.
Mars’s mouth opens, closes. His voice stutters, tangled, broken. His hands rise halfway, like he wants to reach out, then fall uselessly to his sides.
Earth watches him—messy, shaking, unable to look him in the eye—and his chest tightens. That’s all the answer he needs, isn't it?
He thinks, distantly, that it would have hurt less if Mars had just hit him.
“Oh,” he says softly.
Mars’s head jerks up a little, but he doesn’t speak. His mouth moves—no sound.
"I see, I see. So you think I'm a—what, a mistake? Is that it? Did I get that right?"
Mars shakes his head quickly, tears streaking down his face, like the motion itself could erase what he said. But he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t do anything.
And to Earth, silence feels like agreement.
"Oh," Earth repeats.
Okay. He's done here.
"Thanks for telling me, I guess," Earth says. He tries for a smile and settles for a twitch of his lips. "I'm... I'm gonna go back to my orbit. Sorry for bothering you."
He turns away before Mars can say anything else that will make his world crack into pieces again.
Earth spends the next few rotations in a daze. He doesn't try to talk to Mars again. Instead, he just stares up at Sol, his harsh light almost comforting in its omnipresence.
Sometimes, when the light flares too bright, he almost thinks he can hear Mars’s voice again—you weren’t supposed to exist—echoing between his layers until it’s part of the hum of his own orbit.
He blinks, and the debris around him shifts. Not the usual aimless drifting, but something more... intentional. Like they're gathering together. Slow and deliberate, like something remembering how to be whole.
He blinks again, and the shape becomes round. Grey. Vaguely planet-shaped, but smaller. Quieter.
Earth stares at it a moment longer. When the grey satellite blinks, Earth jerks—because it’s looking back.
He lurches away from it, shrieking. Loudly. Loud enough that Venus turns and shouts for him to shut up. Earth just apologizes and turns back to the grey satellite still floating silently, having been pulled along with him when Earth had moved back.
Earth pokes it—him(?). Gently. The satellite doesn't do anything except blink again.
“Can you…speak?” Earth asks awkwardly.
Silence. Only two round eyes staring back at him. Earth suddenly feels uncomfortable.
“Uh…okay then,” Earth says eloquently. “Are you…like, a moon? Or something? ‘cause you're orbiting me, and only debris or moons do that.”
Still no reply. Earth tried not to let that discourage him.
“If you just formed, you… probably don’t have a name either, right?”
His voice sounds too loud in the silence, like it’s afraid of being ignored again. He smiles anyway, brittle and hopeful. “What about Luna, then?”
This time, the grey satellite’s (moon’s?) head tilts a little, as if thinking. Then, just as Earth starts getting anxious again, he nods in agreement. Earth brightens.
“Luna it is!” Earth declares cheerfully. He points a thumb at himself, puffing up proudly. “I’m Earth! You’re probably a moon—my moon!—but… it’s okay if you don’t want to be. We can just… stay near each other for a while.”
Before Luna replies (if he even can... he hasn't said anything yet—maybe he can't speak?), a wave of bright sunlight washes over them.
“Who are you talking to, Earth?” A booming voice echoes from above. Earth jumps, turning his head to look up—at Sol.
Those bright eyes stare down at him, accompanied by a curious, vaguely unsettling smile.
“Oh—uh.” Earth hesitates. For a heartbeat, his pulse stutters. What if Sol sees the same mistake Mars did?
But…maybe he won't?
Earth hesitates again, then steps aside, revealing Luna, who had hidden behind his back in fright. Earth laughs awkwardly when the little moon just retreats further behind him once he meets Sol’s burning gaze, either too shy or too scared. Sol doesn't laugh back, just continues staring.
Earth gestures at Luna, who's still half-hidden, trying to hide how nervous he is behind a smile. “This is Luna! My moon!”
He hopes Sol didn't mind Earth naming Luna. Usually Sol does the naming around here, after all. Though Luna’s a moon, not a planet, so maybe it's different?
“A moon?” Sol muses. “Hm, I see!”
And… that’s all he says. The light moves on, leaving only its warmth behind.
Huh. Okay then.
Earth looks at Luna again. The little one blinks, still orbiting. Still staying.
For a moment, Earth doesn’t quite trust it. He half-expects Luna to drift away too, like everything else that ever looked at him for too long.
But Luna doesn’t. He just keeps circling—quiet, steady, patient.
Earth’s throat tightens.
He smiles, a small, shaky thing that doesn’t reach his eyes but wants to. “Guess it’s just us, huh?”
Luna blinks. Then—almost too slight to notice—he smiles back.
And something in Earth’s chest cracks open, but not in the bad way this time. More like a window, letting a little warmth in.
The ache doesn’t go away. Mars’s words still hum faintly under his surface, quiet but constant—you weren’t supposed to exist.
But when Luna drifts closer, close enough that his faint light brushes Earth’s side, it softens the echo a little.
Yeah, Earth thinks. Maybe that’s enough for now.
He looks up, just once, at Sol’s burning gaze. Then back at Luna.
And for the first time, the silence doesn’t hurt. It just feels… peaceful.