Zaivel Tharis
A sharp knock interrupts my spiral of self-pity.
With a groan, I drag myself from the bed. Earth's ambient temperature always feels several degrees too cold compared to Tharari's perpetual warmth. I grab an oversized dark grey hoodie with "Westridge University" written across the chest and a snarling wolf face beneath it. I pull it over my still-blue torso, momentarily admiring how the university colors actually complement my natural skin tone.
The human trend of hiding inside fabric cocoons when upset makes more sense to me now. There's something comforting about disappearing into the garment's soft darkness.
I trudge through my bedroom and across the expansive living area, my bare feet silent on the heated marble floors Tyberius insisted on installing. Even in misery, my royal feet shouldn't have to endure cold tiles. The knock comes again, more insistent this time.
Through the peephole, I see not an angry hookup returning with campus security, but Jasmine. Her green hair was a vivid shock in the hallway. Her seventeen piercings glitter like a constellation across her ears, brow, and nose. She's holding a large size pizza box.
"I know you're in there," she calls through the door. "I saw your date running away like his ass was on fire. I brought pizza."
Jasmine is… complicated. She steals my food. Critiques my life choices. Offers unsolicited advice. Borrows my advanced skincare technology without permission. But she's never once looked at me with fear when she discovered I'm an alien.
She figured it out on my third day at Westridge, when she caught me in the hallway of the Apex Complex apartments. Tyberius had insisted on the most expensive housing option on campus; nothing less would do for a royal, even in self-exile.
I was wearing a white T-shirt after a shower, and my skin went transparent enough that she could see my spine illuminating through the fabric. Instead of screaming or running away, she grabbed my arm, dragged me into her apartment, and asked if she could paint me.
"You're the perfect muse," she'd declared, pulling out a massive canvas. "I need to do a classical nude study for my Advanced Figure Painting class, and those golden scale things are going to win me the department prize."
Our arrangement soon transformed into a bizarre friendship. She'd make me pose semi-nude while she painted what she called her Metamorphosis series, and in exchange, she'd explain Earth culture and keep my secret. The better her paintings turned out, the more pizza she brought over. And despite her endless critiques of my "alien prince nonsense," as she calls it, she's become my closest confidant on this strange planet.
"I know you can hear me, space boy!" She knocks again, louder. "The pizza's getting cold and I'm not standing out here all night!"
I open the door, not bothering to hide my blue skin with its scattered gold scales or my silver hair. What's the point?
"The circumstances are not as you presume," I say.
"They never are with you." She pushes past me into the apartment, pizza box balanced on one hand. She's a few inches taller, even without shoes. I wasn't born a tall male omega like Big Brother. I inherited Mama's more delicate build, barely five feet four in Earth measurements. Jasmine once said my size makes me a pocket-sized marvel. I think it just makes me easier to overlook. "But lucky for you, I don't judge. Much."
As I close the door, I wonder if I should've just responded to Tyberius instead. His lectures are predictable, at least.
But they don't come with pizza.
I dragged poor Tyberius along with me. He's been my royal guard and caretaker since we were children, and his family has served House Tharis for generations as his Papa served mine.
At twenty-seven, he's closer to my brother's age than mine, which makes his constant vigilance all the more irritating. I threatened to formally dismiss him from service if he wouldn't help me, knowing full well his family's honor would never recover from such shame. So I made him open the portal to Earth and establish our cover identities.
Now he's stuck working as a student counselor at Westridge University while monitoring my "research." Despite having arrived on Earth a month ago, Tyberius's arrangement of my academic transfer means I've been placed directly into my second year, making me a sophomore, though I've yet to understand what wisdom the word is supposed to imply.
Back home, I studied Behavioral Genetics and Symbolic Neurotheory, but somehow ended up in Liberal Arts with a Communications Emphasis. So I guess analyzing cereal commercials and writing essays about TikTok was the closest Earth equivalent to my advanced studies.
I even tried one of the TikTok challenges last week, the one where you show yourself transforming with makeup. I definitely understood why it needed to be studied scientifically when my video went "viral," racking up twenty thousand views in less than half a day before Tyberius made me take it down.
The term viral has nothing to do with actual Earth diseases. Tyberius made sure I received all required vaccinations before we crossed the portal. He took immunization protocols very seriously.
It turns out, scales and color-shifting aren't achievable with normal cosmetics, and I was risking my entire mission for "internet validation." Whatever that means.
Jasmine placed the pizza box on the kitchen island and raided my refrigeration unit for soda cans. The gleaming steel appliance hums with a persistence Tharari technology would never permit. Our systems function in absolute silence.
I scan my apartment, still adjusting to its constraints despite its opulence; yet compared to our royal quarters, it resembles primitive camping. In the Royal Spire atop Mount Everlast, our chambers are formed from living crystal, with water cascades streaming through transparent walls. The waters, the First Flow from Tharari's heart, birthed our ancestors from starlight, according to ancient texts. Here, water spurts from metal pipes, at restricted temperatures, with a disturbing metallic taste.
The kitchen island's cost exceeds most students' entire living spaces, its rare blue marble imported from Italy (which Jasmine clarified differs from space Italy, a distinction that continues to puzzle me). The ceilings vault to fourteen feet, windows span from floor to ceiling, and Tyberius selected each furnishing himself. "Your station demands no less," he insisted when I suggested we blend with humans.
On Tharari, I never prepared meals or fetched drinks. An entire staff anticipated needs before I recognized them myself. Now, Jasmine serves as a curious substitute for my court attendants, delivering food, interpreting customs, and judging my clothing selections.
I perch on one of the island's high stools as she cracks open a soda can. The carbonation erupts with a hiss that makes me flinch. Earth refreshments lack all refinement. Our beverages remain silent as they should.
She wears her paint-splattered denim jumpsuit, the one she calls her "lucky charm," and a small blue smudge mars her temple.
"What?" she asks, intercepting my gaze. "Do I have paint on my face again?"
"No," I pause. "Did you know someone called Rhett?"
She chokes on her soda, sputtering before she recovers.
"Everett Calloway? The tight end? Nah, I don't know him," she mumbles, rearranging the pizza box, avoiding eye contact.
"What's a tight end?" I ask.
She stares back at me like I've grown a second head. "You know, football? The sport with the ball that's not actually a ball because it's pointy on both ends?"
I shake my head.
"God, you really are from another planet," she sighs, rubbing her temple. "You've been in Pennsylvania for what? Anyway, I should've taken you to the game. It's like… okay, so there's this guy whose job is to have a great ass in tight pants and sometimes catch the ball and sometimes block people from tackling the quarterback. That's the tight end."
I blink, processing this explanation. "So his occupation involves… having an attractive posterior?"
"Among other things," she smirks. "But not Calloway." Then clears her throat, glancing away quickly.
I've observed Jasmine enough to spot her lies. The pitch change in her voice, her sudden fixation on aligning the pizza box with the counter edge, her pierced eyebrow's twitch.
I reach for my pizza slice, wondering why the name Rhett Calloway triggers such strong reactions across two humans. But I respect our boundaries. She guards my secrets; I protect hers.
"Maybe you should take a break from this whole hookup mission," she says, changing the subject. "Three rejections in one week is rough, even for regular humans."
"I can't afford breaks," I sigh. "My time here has limits."
"Yeah, but scaring humans half to death isn't working," she counters, sliding another pizza slice onto my plate. "Earth guys suck anyway. Most of them can't even find the clitoris with GPS and written instructions."
I wince. Female anatomy holds zero interest for me. Jasmine says it's my "yonic aversion" in what she insists is empowering terminology. Still, she makes a valid point about my approach.
"I'll think about it."
"Good," she nods, satisfied. "Because I'm running out of post-rejection pizza money, and the semester is just starting."