Grown Men

only Andromeda when I’m back there looking up at here.”
    Out before them, the black water and the black night glittered and shifted. None of the moons had risen. The only sound was the murmur of the breakers licking the manmade sand.
    “But living in Andromeda, everything’s different. Not a story. We aren’t, I mean, which seems stupid because we’re the jamhandles living here.”
    Behind thick lashes, Ox’s eyes stayed on Runt’s mouth making the words.
    “What does Andromeda have to do with eels or farming or anything? Nothing. Plus the constellations are all different anyhow.”
    Ox shook his head and took a breath that filled his massive chest, a half smile on his lips.
    Runt shifted into a crouch by the smoky fire and rubbed his hands on his thighs. He sat back, planting his butt in the chilly sand between the snapping flames and Ox’s solid warmth.
    “Do you know the story, then? The Andromeda one.”
    Behind him, Ox pressed his broad palm to Runt’s back. A few glowing bee-moths hovered near the fire, tracking mauve streaks.
     “In this old advert, a Greek company. Like—” Runt squinted at the stars again trying to remember. He knew he was stalling so they could stay out a bit longer, muttering old nonsense between the sea and sky. “Andromeda was this executive’s daughter and they made her marry a sea monster. Just shipped her off like a crate of soy. See? Sounds pretty crap to me. But then she might’ve been a cheap clone and didn’t know any better. Dunno. You tired?”
    Ox shook his head and patted Runt’s thigh with an eel-torn hand, inviting him to sit closer against the cold.
    “Then this boy-wonder from a rival company sees her. He’s coming back from some headhunting interview-whatsit. He sees this daughter chained up, retires the family monster. Like that!” Runt snapped his fingers. “Steals her contract and marries her. Crazy. Then he becomes an executive.”
    Runt leaned against that shoulder, their weight pleasantly teepeed together, then turned to nod, as if Ox had asked a question.
    Ox seemed to be holding his breath; his damp lips parted as if ready to agree.
    The smoky mango and eel grease on them both still smelled starchy-delicious in the salt air.
     “You imagine! Some slave-wife? All she did was get transported and shackled to some rock by the sea and they named a whole pile of stars after her. Hundreds of suns. Yeah? Corporate propaganda, probably. Or someone’s mistress.” Runt chuckled. “Andromeda didn’t even build anything or manage anything or terminate anything. Seems like a shite reason to label all these solar systems. Or this place.”
    Behind him, he felt Ox nod once, like always. Felt the breath swell Ox’s ribcage where it pressed against his own.
    “And she’s got nothing to do with us, has she? Like maybe she was the old-time sponsor of clone wives or something . . . Or crates . . . Or monsters.” He bumped Ox’s big shoulder lightly with his own, making them both grin. “But only if you’re near Earth. They aren’t her stars really.”
    Ox chuffed in agreement or pleasure or interest.
    Runt felt a huge smile split his face before he knew it was coming. He nodded to himself, eyes on the sky.
    “Then again, Andromeda only owns the stars if you’re standing in one place in the whole universe, otherwise she’s not here at all, is she? Except in our heads, yeah? Everything belongs somewhere else ’cause the place is different. No maps. New dragons.”
    Something big splashed in the dark waves about a half-kilometer out. Eel romance, probably . The dome of stars shimmered overhead as if a breeze were stirring a field of bright blossoms with midnight leaves.
    “Nothing lost.” Runt sighed and hunted for patterns in the unfamiliar skyscape. New constellations. “Ox . . . What do you reckon clone wives dream about?”
    Ox shrugged and shook his head, once.
    Runt thought about the family he’d be able to have once they’d tamed this place. “Fresh food probably. No fists.” He smiled to himself, and imagined Ox was too. “Free stars.”
    As if in response, Ox lifted his hand, slowly pointing, and Runt turned to look— Asteroid? Lightning? —only he wasn’t pointing . His hulking cofarmer held very still, his muscular arm extended, as a velvety bee-moth walked along his scarred finger.
    Runt smiled at the almost paternal affection on Ox’s bulldog face and kept silent and still so he wouldn’t startle their luminous