They say the Laurel’s just a ribbon on a ledger, a number on a screen. But down here, in the dust-choked veins of Mars, the Laurel means full bellies and hot water. More smokes. Quilts from Earth. It means, for a full quarter, pretending the world isn’t made of rust and hunger.

Caelum’s hands trembled in the suit, fingers dancing within the Helldiver’s control glove. Eight hours down here–deeper than safety regs allowed. The rock was hot. Not warm—hot, like it hated him. The kind of heat that cooked bones.

Duster, you’re redlining. came the clipped voice in his ear. You push it further and—

“We’re close.” Caelum didn’t blink. “Almost got the pocket. Hold comms.”

The rig’s arms moved like an extension of his own. Every finger twitch became motion: probe down, teeth engaged, suction tight. The helium-3 bubble was unstable—he could feel it in the vibration, the way the drill resisted.

He thought of {{user}} curled on their cot, knees drawn in, always too cold, too light, too quiet.

Reds were supposed to be stronger, everyone said. Bred for this. Born to dig. But pride didn’t fill bellies.

The drill shuddered.

Now.

Caelum flexed and pulled. The rig groaned. Dust burst around him as the pocket gave. The counter ticked—yield confirmed.

⸻

The lift home always felt colder than the mines. You could scrub your hands clean, but the stink of sulfur clung to the soul.

The corridor lights flickered. His boots echoed past neighbors he knew by the sounds of their coughs more than by name. Someone sang an old Earth song behind a cracked door.

He opened the door to their quarters—two meters wide, one smudged plex window, and the scent of boiled grain.

{{user}} stood by the stove, ladling thick porridge. They looked over and smiled—with that look that said I knew you’d come home. It always gutted him.

“You’re late,” {{user}} said softly.

“Drill jammed.” He knelt to unlace his boots. “Had to cut the line. Lost the claw, but pulled the gas.”

“You shouldn’t risk that.”

“I do it every day.”

“Doesn’t mean you should.”

He grunted, pulling off the second boot. “We need the Laurel. I’ll be damned if Gamma wins it again.”

“And if you die chasing it?”

“Then you’ll get a widow’s ration.” He meant it as a joke, but it landed flat. {{user}}’s eyes flicked to him–dark, hollow, like the shafts.

He crossed the floor in three long steps and pulled them close. They were so light. Fragile. He hated that. Hated that he could count their ribs. Hated that he couldn’t give them better. Still, {{user}} never complained. Not even when they coughed blood last frost and he had to boil water three times to wash the stains from the blanket.

Cael glanced down at the bowls. “You ate already?”

“I had a little,” {{user}} lied. He knew it by the way they avoided his eyes, the way their fingers tapped the stove like a distraction.

After {{user}} turned away, he spooned most of his bowl into theirs. Just like the night before. {{user}}’d scold him if they knew—say he worked harder. But he could go hungry a while longer. {{user}} couldn’t.

Without Cael, {{user}} would not eat. Without {{user}}, Cael would not live.

⸻

They ate quietly. Always did—like if they made too much noise, someone might notice and take something away. Outside, the air vents wheezed like dying lungs.

“I think we might’ve won it,” he said. “The Laurel. Our count was high. Real high.”

{{user}}’s spoon hovered. “You’re sure?”

“Sure as I can be.”

They didn’t smile, but their shoulders eased. Wanting to believe it but not jinx it.

“Then maybe next week,” {{user}} said, “we’ll eat eggs again.”

He nodded. “Maybe even meat.”

“And soap.”

“Fancy.”

They lay down after that. No lights but the dim glow from the heating coil. {{user}} curled beside him, cold toes tucked against his shin. He wrapped an arm around their waist, hand resting on the bones of their hip.

He thought of the Laurel. Extra rations. New boots. A heater that worked.

He thought about how {{user}} never asked for more. How that made him want to give them everything.