Grown Men

it?
    What is it?
    For that one moment, Runt felt his hot soles on Ox’s burnished shoulders, the curl of Ox’s long fingers holding the bottom of his bunched calves, the sunlight shattered on the sea below. The wordless certainty spiraled into him.
    Ox wants me. As a wife would. As a husband should. Runt grappled with the slippery idea and felt himself losing.
    The rest of the workday, Ox stayed close and stood guard over him. Ox stood aside on jobs where Runt was better suited. What vat-grown wife would ever match him this way?
    We orbit each other . The way the two suns burning overhead made daylight.
    Ox laughed silently at something then, and the goofy non-sound stole Runt’s breath.
    They sent my mate after all.
    More than once during that endless, horny day, Runt tried to remember the person he’d thought he was, the life he’d thought he had. He tried to find his imaginary vat-grown wife in his mind’s eye, to conjure up her lush bottom, her sweet skin, her blank smile, but she melted like a cobweb. His lust kept turning to the hairy beast beside him, salty and scarred. He couldn’t control his desire and he found he didn’t want to try. Ox’s hammering heat hung over him like those suns.
    Lunch was quick, and afterward Ox insisted on checking the large sea traps by himself, leaving Runt to send a request for meat pickup.
    As he drafted the message for the incoming transport vessel, Runt ran the totals and realized they’d processed twice the meat and soy he’d managed the month prior. At this insane rate, the farm would turn a profit within a year.
    Runt smiled to himself.
    If HardCell could sculpt and mold this toxic knuckle of rock and gas into paradise, maybe life could happen anywhere. Maybe people came together the way deserts become jungles, the way seeds reach out-out-out toward a flower: by steady millimeters.
    Ox is a miracle. My miracle.
    Ox had poured himself into the farm, into Runt, filling the space waiting for him. If he had come to this island to hide from something, he’d found something here as well.
    We both did .
    Then Ox came back after dark, bleeding and naked.

 
    Runt went to the door and saw his partner’s gigantic worksuit crumpled and split on the ground just outside.
    Runt almost had a heart attack. His panic froze him there in the doorway while the gore drip-drip-dripped from Ox’s fingers onto the sand. His mouth dried, his breath stopped, and his chest seized. “Eel bite?”
    Ox nodded, his face tight with pain. He was squeezing his upper arm tightly. Blood pooled between his rough fingers.
    “Let’s have a look.” Runt said, peeling the big hand loose.
    Fresh blood welled between Ox’s knuckles, which he kept pressed firmly to slow the flow. Gore smeared all down Ox’s side, spattered across his corded thighs and on top of one wide foot.
    For some reason, Ox kept his eyes on the ground as if apologizing for bleeding so close to the habitat.
    Runt nodded, keeping his voice low and soothing. “They’re only defending the pups. You must’ve gotten too close to the nest. C’mon in.”
    Ox refused to enter the habitat and make a mess. Beyond him, bright scraps fluttered in the dark distance over the crop terraces and kudzu racks; the glowing moths he’d hatched that first week were pollinating their fields.
    Thlip-thlip. The blood peppered the sand.
    Runt’s dry tongue licked drier lips. His pulse slowed to a painful thud that made him queasy. “I need to patch that skin. Come inside before you bleed out.”
    Staring at Runt in apology and grimacing at the red-spattered threshold, Ox shook his head once, as if embarrassed that some dumb eel had gotten the better of him.
    Runt knew the bite probably looked worse than it was, but he hated seeing Ox’s pain.
    He’s fine.
    “Don’t be stupid, ya fucking ogre. C’mon. Odd’s Gods! You think I mind walking in your gravy?” Runt gripped the thick arm, his own hand red and slippery. “Else I’m gonna have to do a fucking amputation right here on the doorstep!”
    Ox relented. Nodded once and let Runt tug him inside. His hand pressed against the wound itself and he didn’t seem able to move his hand. A slow dark seep slid from under the clenched knuckles.
    “It’s just blood. I’ll wipe it up. Quit moaning.” Despite the large man’s protests, Runt sat him on their bed.
    “Stay put. ’Til I can— Hang on.” Runt swallowed his terror and tried to stay logical, calm, competent. They only had each