I’m Here For The Laughter

Grace nearly beamed at the fact that Simon was letting him help. It had been a rocky road getting Simon to trust him. He still couldn’t wrap his head around what possible science could’ve led Simon to appear in his airlock, mutations and all, covered in blood. From what he’d managed to piece together, it’s clear that the two men came from very different universes. 

Grace bumbled over and kneeled next to Simon. He gave the younger man the benefit of the doubt as Simon fidgeted nervously at the proximity. He could tell Simon was not used to care, medical or otherwise. Grace carefully unwrapped the bandages on Simon’s amputated arm and inspected the wound.

Simon had never felt this clean before. He’d ardently refused when Grace offered to help him wash (“Are you out of your fucking mind?!”), but had cooled down when Grace showed him the sponge bath area and given him privacy. His body was clean. He smelled decent. He was even wearing clean clothes—Grace’s. 

A lot of laundry had been done on the Hail Mary since Simon appeared—he’d bloodied a lot of sheets. Grace seemed to have endless patience. Simon didn’t understand it.

Grace made quick work of the injury originally. Simon hadn’t trusted Armando, so the robot had given verbal instructions while Grace tended to Simon’s wounds. 

Simon watched as Grace hummed something to himself and re-bandaged the wound. It felt strange to Simon that Grace was the one kneeling. He thought it should be him, prostrating himself for his sandy-haired savior. He didn’t really believe he was alive, still. He felt that some part of him had been transported to an alternate reality—Heaven, maybe—while his true self died an infinite death in the blood ocean. He felt grateful that his soul, his consciousness, was here in this bright and quiet place. 

Grace patted Simon’s shoulder gently. “All done,” he said, face sunny and open. Grace couldn’t believe there was another human with him. He asked Rocky about a million times if his alien friend was seeing Simon too, worried he had finally lost it.

“Thanks,” Simon said gruffly. Grace’s eyebrows raised before he could school his expression into neutrality. Simon had seemed grateful from his body language, but was wary of him and hadn’t spoken much, not even to say thank you. He’d only asked questions with a fearful undercurrent in his voice. 

“It’s no problem,” Grace said. “Really. I’m happy to do all of it. I’m just glad to have company.”

Simon nodded. A moment of silence passed before Simon spoke up again. “Can I show you something?”

Grace perked up. “Of course.” 

Simon used his free hand to pull his borrowed t-shirt over his head. It was a bit of a struggle, and Grace almost intervened, but he didn’t want to embarrass or rush Simon, so he waited patiently. He glanced away for a second when Simon’s chest was revealed, not wanting to make him uncomfortable, but looked back when he understood it was a medical question.

Simon lifted his amputated arm and used his good arm to point to something just below his armpit. It seemed to be a growth, but not like the tooth mutation on Simon’s face. It was a brownish mutation with tendrils spreading across Simon’s upper ribs. 

“I think it’s the thing that was grabbing at me back in the sub,” Simon said. “I- I wasn’t sure what it was, so I don’t know how to explain it. But I don’t think it’s part of my body.” 

Grace nodded. “Do you want me to try to remove it?”

Simon hesitated. “I just… I don’t want to touch it myself,” he said anxiously.

Grace’s brows furrowed. He could tell there was some trauma there. “Okay,” he said. “I can try.” 

Grace reached up and skimmed his fingers gently over the substance. It didn’t grab onto him or move in any way, so Grace assumed it was stable. He grabbed a pair of tweezers and started to gently pry it off. Simon winced a few times, but ultimately the substance came off cleanly, leaving only a small patch of irritation on Simon’s ribcage. 

“See? All better,” Grace said warmly, relieved himself that it came off without a struggle. 

Simon’s torso sagged in relief. “Thanks,” he said again. 

Grace grinned. Two thank yous! Take that, trauma therapists. Maybe one molecular biologist is enough to cure PTSD. 

Well, maybe I’m getting ahead of myself a little.

Simon’s expression turned slightly puzzled at the big smile, but he dismissed it as another Grace quirk. Grace wasn’t like anyone he ever met. He lowered his amputated arm slowly. 

“Hold on, I want to put something on the rash,” Grace said. He grabbed a tube of something or other and propped up Simon’s arm gently. 

Grace squeezed a dollop of the cream onto his finger and dabbed it gently onto the rash. Simon twitched. 

Grace paused. “Does it hurt?”

Simon shook his head. Grace continued. Simon shifted again.

“Are you sure?” Grace asked.

“Yeah, I- it just feels weird,” Simon stammered.

“Weird how?” Grace murmured, finishing up with the rash cream as quickly as possible to limit discomfort. 

Simon lowered his arm. “Like, itchy? But not like usual. It makes me feel kind of…warm.”

Grace frowned. “Hmm. Can I try something?”

Simon shrugged. 

Grace ran his fingers gently around the rash. Simon shivered. 

Grace chuckled. “Oh, I know what it is,” he said. “You’re ticklish.”

“I’m what?”

“You don’t know what that is?” Grace said in a shocked tone.

“No,” Simon said self-consciously. 

“Huh,” Grace said, sitting back on his heels. “Tickling. It’s a nervous system response to protect vital organs. There are places on the human body that are more sensitive. If someone else touches them gently, you feel kind of tingly and often it will make you laugh. Different people are ticklish in different places.”

“Why…why would you do that? It sounds dumb,” Simon grumbled.

Grace smiled. “It’s like play. Kids do it. Sometimes people do it when they’re adults too. I don’t know, it’s just to be silly.”

“Oh,” Simon said, a punched-out sort of noise. Play. Not much time for that in Eden. That explains why he hadn’t heard of it. 

Grace waited patiently for any further reaction. He started to pack up the medical supplies he’d used, giving Simon space.

“Can I try?” Simon spoke up.

Grace turned around. ”Hmm?”

“Can I try the tickling thing?”

“Oh,” Grace said, blushing slightly. He shifted to sit next to Simon instead of kneeling in front of him. “Yeah. Sure.”

Simon waited patiently, if a little apprehensively. There was a moment of silence. “Are you going to… do anything?” Simon asked. “Never mind, this is so fucking stupid, I—“

“No, hold on, it’s not stupid,” Grace said gently. “I just didn’t want to overwhelm you.”

“Okay,” Simon said. His voice was unusually small.

Grace ran his fingers gently on the same spot he had before, just on the side without the rash. Simon’s good hand instantly batted Grace’s hand away. 

Grace paused, withdrawing his hand. “You good?”

“Sorry, instinct,” Simon muttered. Grace swore he could see a hint of red on Simon’s cheeks. 

“All good,” Grace said cheerfully. He lowered his hand back to Simon’s side and squeezed gently. 

Simon let out a choked sound, twisting away from Grace’s hand. “Wh- why does it feel like that?” Simon said, his voice a bit higher pitched than usual. 

Grace chuckled. “It tickles,” he replied. “Weird, huh?”

Simon’s frown deepened, but so did his light blush. Grace took this as a sign to continue, knowing Simon was much stronger than him and could stop him if necessary. 

Grace squeezed gently up Simon’s side again before landing a few pokes on Simon’s belly. Simon didn’t laugh, but a few more grunts and choked noises escaped his mouth. 

“You’re not gonna laugh?” Grace asked, an endeared smile on his face. “You’re allowed, you know.” 

“A-allowed?”

“Yeah,” Grace said gently, sensing that there was more behind this request than Simon was letting on. 

It was quiet for a moment. Simon jerked again as Grace’s fingers played around his bellybutton, a blunt “hah” noise forcing its way out of his mouth. 

“You say I’m allowed,” Simon grunted, “but don’t you gotta actually make me laugh first?”

Grace squinted, unable to discern if that was humor or a genuine question. He settled for humor, based on the set of Simon’s eyebrows. “Wha- are you saying I’m not doing a good job?” Grace exclaimed. 

Simon looked up into Grace’s eyes with an expression of mild mischief. 

“Wooow,” Grace said, a smirk spreading across his face. Internally, he was delighted that Simon was opening up and not being afraid to push back at him a little. “I can’t believe this. Mr. Big Scary Blood Ocean is provoking me for tickles.” 

“No I am fucking not—“ Simon protested, but he was cut off by honest-to-God giggles as Grace squeezed up his ribs. 

“Such a mouth on you, Si,” Grace scolded lightly. He dug a thumb into Simon’s pectoral muscle in retaliation. 

“Ahaha- Si?” Simon grunted, squirming away and trying not to smack Grace’s arm with his good hand. 

“You don’t like it?” 

A few breathless laughs later, Simon replied, “It’s fine, I guehehess…”

Grace tormented Simon’s top ribs until the man was shaking and huffing with silent chuckles. He was impressed Simon hadn’t pushed him away yet. 

“You‘ll tell me when you’ve had enough, yeah?” Grace asked.

“Y-yeah,” Simon said through gritted teeth. 

“Hmm,” Grace hummed, switching it up to try scribbling down Simon’s neck. He immediately tried to protect it with his shoulder, making a hissing noise followed by a few nervous giggles.

“It’s funny, you’re making noises like you’re in pain but you’re laughing,” Grace observed in a murmured tone.

Simon flushed at being scrutinized. “No, it’s cute,” Grace assured him. This did not help with Simon’s raging blush. 

Grace’s fingers migrated around the curve of Simon’s shoulder and snuck under his good arm, scritching gently along the soft hairs there. Simon jerked with a startled laugh, trapping Grace’s hand inside. 

“Aww, man,” Grace said playfully. “I’m stuck.” He pouted comically, wiggling his fingers around. 

Simon was beyond giggly. “Noho you’re not- gehet the fuck outta there- ahaha…”

“I’m 100 percent stuck and I can’t possibly get out,” Grace insisted with a cheeky grin. “Tickle tickle, Si…” 

“What- why would you fuhucking sahay that?!” Simon exclaimed through a few snort-laughs. 

“Ohoho, did you just snort?” Grace chuckled in adoration. “Uh- It’s like a thing you say. To tease the person getting tickled.” 

“Why does it make it so much worse…” Simon whined. 

Grace lifted his extra arm and found Simon’s other armpit, giving it the same treatment. “Because it’s silly, and it tickle tickle tickles!” He said in a goofy voice. 

Simon endured about another minute of being tickled under both arms, doubled over as if in pain but giggling towards the floor of the ship. When he finally had enough, he twisted his torso sharply and essentially shoved Grace away. 

Grace backed off instantly, his smile fading. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Simon said gruffly. 

Grace nodded slowly. “You know, if you say ‘stop’ verbally, I will stop,” he said gently. 

Simon looked up. “Really?” He hated how needy his voice sounded.

“Yeah,” Grace said. “Pinky promise.” 

Simon looked at the proffered pinky, and then down in his lap. He seemed to think for a second. Then, he made a decision. 

He offered Grace his amputated arm to meet the pinky in the middle, making Grace burst into amused giggles. “Sorry,” Grace chuckled. “I offered a one-armed man a pinky promise. Not my finest.”

Simon smiled despite himself at Grace’s laughter. A proud feeling expanded in his chest at having made him laugh. 

“Thank you,” Simon said for the third time that day before he could stop himself. Grace just smiled.

He watched Grace collect himself, and he let Grace help him put his shirt back on. He felt warm inside. If this was Heaven, he didn’t want to come back to life. 

He shook his head slightly to dismiss the feeling. He cleared his throat, smoothing his face into his usual serious expression. Simon trailed after Grace as he made his way to the lab—a part of the ship he hadn’t explored yet. 

Grace looked back, surprised but glad that Simon was following. He continued walking, a new bounce in his step.

“So,” Simon said eventually when he was seated across from Grace, watching him fix a broken piece of lab equipment. “Do you talk to everyone like they’re a child, or just me?”

There was a look you shared, sometimes, whenever you successfully provoked him into tickling you - although you didn't always need to provoke him. Sometimes, you'd just look at him pleadingly, and he'd know. And after, you'd wipe tears of laughter from your eyes, and he'd adjust his glasses, and it would be there on his face. A knowing.

It was why you felt comfortable asking without asking, when the wanting arrived - you’d hide Ryland’s things, act extra snarky, squeeze his knee under the table - and if he didn’t tickle you, he still usually gave you some similar form of playful affection. It nearly always worked. 

Nearly.

This time, though, was different. Despite your best efforts to drop hints all week, it appeared Grace was too engrossed in his work to pick up on any. You’d prodded his ribs, thrown in plenty of sarcastic jibes - and, though you were loathe to admit it, deliberately stretched for high shelves a few times within tickling distance. All that, and Dr. PhD still hadn’t gotten the message.

So…no, he wasn’t helping at all. 

You'd looked into the science of it, once. Hugs released plenty of endorphins. It stood to reason touch-starved individuals might feel drawn to affection that caused laughter, which would release an extra kick of dopamine. It wasn't unfathomable that some people enjoyed being tickled.

So you knew you wanted it. And you could take a reasonable guess at why.

Didn’t make it any less humiliating to think about, though.

And now, after hours trying and failing to shut it out, there's a stubborn, giddy flutter settled between your heart and stomach. Your brain runs circles around the recent lack of touch, helpfully providing you with visions of hugs, playfights, cuddles, tickles, tickles, tickles-

This is bad.

You tap your pen furiously against your notepad, berating yourself for getting distracted again. A simple dilution calculation sits unfinished, abandoned in favour of your oddly specific yearnings.

C₁V₁ = C₂V₂.

The formula stares at you. It's simple: just plug in the values, make the needed solution. You’ve done it a million times by now.

Across the room, Ryland drums his fingers on the bench, his glasses habitually crooked as he contemplates his own data. It's only in your peripheral, but it's enough to scatter any possibility of concentrating. Your eyes linger a nanosecond too long on his hand, and you absolutely, totally do not contemplate his fingers tapping one-by-one like that against your ribs, so it's fine. You're fine.

Fuck.

Perhaps something more visual will help. You nudge the chair back, and grab a sample for the confocal microscope.

It's a more complex setup than the little desktop ones. Takes an eternity to switch the thing on - a million buttons, and loading screens, and safety checks.

You pass the time gazing intently at the desk.

Finally, it's ready. Taking a seat, you slot the sample in, and your hand drifts to the coarse focus dial, the sample shifting up and down with each movement. You will your eyes to stay locked on the viewport.

Your elbows bump against the desk as you hunch over the eyepiece. It's not comfortable, but you're used to it at this point, and it leaves your torso rather open to - nope. stop it.

Too late. The thought of hands, squeezing suddenly at your sides, flashes through your mind. Kneading. Poking. Teasing. A person, no one in particular, crowding closer to trap you against the bench, laughing low near your ear, his glasses bumping your neck-

God.

The fine focus does not make things any clearer.

"I can hear you thinking." A voice nearby. You nearly fall out your chair. Grace is stood over his laptop, hands propped against the table, glasses slid down his nose. Just…watching, apparently.

You steady your breathing. “Uh- what?”

“You’re distracted.” He steps closer.

“No, I’m not.”

“So…you meant to do that?” He points to the sample, which you have elegantly smushed against the microscope lens during your adjustments. Great. You rest your brow against the eyepiece in defeat.

“How many cover slips are we gonna lose to you, hm?” Ryland mutters, guiding you off the chair with a hand on your shoulder. 

You nudge him. “Shut up.”

He nudges you back. “Hey, I’m looking out for our equipment, here.”

You reach over, adjusting his glasses for him. “You’re dragging me away from my work.”

He grins. “Work? What work?”

“Rude.” It’s too easy, really, to swipe your fingers over his neck – your hands are already there, and your brain has been screaming affection affection affection for hours now. 

Grace, of course, leaps back with a squeak, half a giggle escaping before he regains his composure, hand held to his neck.

Mischief flashes through his features, for a moment. But he doesn’t take the bait. 

“Alright, alright, sorry.” He folds his arms. “What’s going on?”

You huff. “Nothing, just…”

“Bored? Tired?” Ryland supplies. Your gaze drifts inexorably to his hands, which trace idle patterns over his own arms. 

You are not going to get any work done like this.

“Kinda.”

You stride over, placing your hands on his shoulders, expression dour.

He tilts his head, frowning slightly.

“What, you need a hug?” His arms open wide, and you take the offer, even if it’s not quite what you’re after. It helps.

You spend a moment gathering your thoughts, Ryland giving you a brief but tight squeeze. It gives you the confidence to draw back and face him again.

“All good now?”

Heat crawls up your neck. For the fifth time in as many days, you give him The Look - the one that usually says everything you need it to. 

He raises his eyebrows, uncertain.

“Okay, so…not all good, then?”

“Grace.” Your voice nearly cracks. Delirious, you wonder if he’s doing it on purpose - but…no, there’s not a glint of malice in his eyes.

“What, what do you need?” He’s completely oblivious.

 “I want-” The rest of the words won’t come out. You give him one last pleading stare, hoping he’ll know the look in your eyes this time.

“What, what is it?”

Shit. You’re going to have to spell it out for him. 

“Um- it’s been a while since- uh.” The next few seconds are filled with your various stutters. Grace sits through it all patiently.

Okay, deep breath. You place your hands together, and brute-force the words out.

“I, um. I want you to tickle me.”

Silence. 

He leans back against the counter, eyes narrowing in the way they do when he finds something interesting.

And then, slowly…he smiles.

“...So you can ask for it.” His voice carries that familiar teasing lilt.

“You-You knew?”

“You are not subtle.” Grace doesn’t give you time to process the betrayal - just lunges forwards, scooping you into a hug from behind like it's nothing. His hands latch onto your hips, squeezing rapidly, and he laughs at the way you instantly start sinking downwards. 

“That was so hard for you, wasn’t it?” He muses, spidering his fingers over your stomach, following you towards the floor. “You were thinking about it for days!” 

That fluttering, hopeful thing from earlier does somersaults inside your chest, revelling at the familiar electricity running through your veins. The giddiness and joy at being held this way, despite Grace’s teasing, puts a silly grin on your face. You put your head in your hands, legs flailing wildly as you reach the ground. But Ryland’s not having it - he grabs your wrists, and slots out from behind you, choosing instead to sit over your legs. He pins your hands over your head, leaning closer.

You refuse to meet his gaze - and in your defence, it would be hard to - Grace’s free hand walks two fingers along the inside of your bicep, moving steadily towards your underarm. It’s rather distracting.

“Grahace-”

You risk a glance at him.

Bad idea. That grin is evil.

“You really missed this, didn’t you?” His hand swirls a tiny circle over your tricep, and your giggling stops being anticipatory. You frantically shake your head. 

“Yea, you did.” He laughs, a sing-song tone to his voice. His fingers creep lower, slowly tracing around your navel. Your breath hitches in your chest, delicate laughter stuttering out.

“You missed being tickled.”

The heat rising to your cheeks is mortifying - you let out a noise somewhere between a giggle and a whine. 

“Aw. Sorry, am I embarrassing you?”

“Yes-!” His hand abruptly claws at your side, and you tip your head back, lost in laughter. “No! Nonono-”

“Yes? No? Which is it?” Grace laughs. It’s a wicked noise. Horrible, even. You vow to yourself that you’ll tickle that laugh out of him once you’re free.

“FUCK you-” 

“Tsk. That’s rude.” He stills his fingers, leaning in to look you in the eye. “I won’t tickle you then.”

…If the ship’s hull somehow breached, right now, and you fell through the laboratory floor into the frigid vacuum of space, you would spend your last moments grateful for the feeling of the cold against your raging blush. 

Grace is attentively watching your reaction - which consists mostly of hiding your face against your pinned arms, and giggling through residual laughter. There may have been a very embarrassing flustered groan, but you don’t dwell on it.

“...Well?” He hovers a clawed hand over your tummy. “You owe me an apology.”

“Sorry, sorry-” You manage to squeak out, eyes closed tight once you see what he’s doing.

“...And?”

“And what?”

“And, what would you like me to do?” Grace looks at you expectantly. 

Oh no.

He’s waiting for you to ask him again.

“Absolutely not.” You open your eyes. His hand is closer. 

“...I just think it would help to practice asking, is all.”

“Ryland.”

“Ryland, now, huh? Must be bad.” He wriggles his fingers in the air, just a bit. Just an inch away. You can’t help it - you laugh a little.

“Plehease!”

He considers this - observes the shade of red your ears have turned - and snorts.

“...Alright, fine, be dramatic.” 

His hand makes contact with your torso, sliding your shirt out the way as he spiders a pattern across your skin. Then, hand still poking along your side, he leans down, and blows a raspberry.

You forget most of the English language for a moment, back arching in a useless attempt to throw him off, your focus completely consumed by the playful, buzzy feeling under your skin. At one point, you make either a snort or a hiccup, you’re not sure, and Ryland laughs against your belly, which tickles even more. Once he runs out of air, he pulls back, and pays attention to your ribs, his fingers climbing up each one with horrible, ticklish accuracy.

“...Two…” he mutters. You furrow your eyebrows between giggles, confused by the lack of context.

“GRACE-!” You manage to shout, unable to form a sentence through the combination of laughter and utter mortification. Pulling at your arms does nothing.

“Shush, now, you’ll make me lose count.”

His hand shifts to the next rib, one finger positioned above and the other below as he digs lightly into the space between the bones, and keeps counting.

“Three-”

Ok, now you actively wish there was a hull breach. 

“Four-” He continues, picking up his pace slightly to observe how your legs kick out more in response. “Only twenty ribs to go, you’re doing great.”

“Screhew you-!” You’re careful to leave the profanities out this time.

Grace smiles. “On second thought, this is going too slow. Fivesixseven-” 

His hand crawls rapidly upwards, slightly trailing towards your spine as it does so. At long last, he lets your hands go, so he can have both of his back. The freedom doesn’t do you much good - you feel like a puddle. Your limbs can barely move from the laughter. You hold onto Grace’s wrists loosely - but don’t push them away.

“You gonna let me go?” By now, he’s got both hands jammed under your arms, barely moving. He doesn’t need to move them, really - you keep squirming and laughing yourself into an infinite feedback loop with them stuck there like that.

“Plehease-” You can’t think through the giggles.

“I’m not doing anything! I’m not moving!” Grace is laughing along with you at this point, apparently highly entertained by your predicament. “Oho, you’re adorable.”

By some miracle, you finally manage to lift your arms enough for him to draw back. He doesn’t touch you again - just sits back, watching as you flop your arms over your face and ride out the tsunami of residual giggles he’s caused. 

After ten seconds of this, he leans forwards again, poking at your wrist. 

“You ok under there? Did I break you?”

If you hadn’t just been tickled to pieces, you probably wouldn’t have grabbed his shoulder and pulled him into a hug. But you have, so that’s what you do.

“Hey,” He laughs, stroking your hair. “Happy now?”

And despite the mischief in his tone - despite the stomach-flipping embarrassment you feel - despite the fact he’d known what you wanted the whole time - you nod. 

Ryland grins wider. “Good.”

Then, he leans over to catch your eye, his voice a tad smug. 

the first time ryland notices, it's subtle.

you're reaching for something on the shelves. out of the corner of his eye, a silver of skin peeks out at him under your shirt. he can't help it: it's right there, all smooth and soft and ticklish.

you were basically begging for it.

that's what justifies the frankly, quite cruel action in ryland's head. he simply couldn't resist- the thought of your body squirming and bright laughter pouring out of you is more than enough to sway his judgement. his hands creep towards you and land a series of rapid squeezes over your bare sides.

"a-ahAHA," you burst into giggles, horrified to find that the element of surprise has made the sensation ten times worse. ryland picks up on it- of course he does. he makes a mental note to sneak up on you more often. his fingers follow you, tickling as you slowly go limp, curling up on the floor.

evidenced by his crinkling smile, ryland finds this ordeal immensely hilarious. he reaches up, easily grabbing the jumpsuit off the locker shelf and handing it to you.

you glare at him, pouting petulantly on the floor, refusing to accept his olive branch. ryland's eyebrow twitches upward. you want more? he seems to question. his hands form claws, opening and closing.

you blush and grab the jumpsuit from his hands, refusing to meet his eyes.

ryland doesn't miss the way you stare at his teasing hands for far too long, nor the ghost of a crestfallen face as you leave to change into your jumpsuit.

the second time ryland notices.

there is something about ryland's hands. they are mesmerizing in a way that makes you stare.

your eyes can't help but trace the outlines of his soft fingers as they shuffle with paperwork, the crevices folding and unfolding. his left hand runs across his blonde hair, carving a path of runes.

his fingers tap, tap, tap across the surface of the table as he ponders over something, and you squirm, almost imperceptible. your brain envisions unholy things- his digits running across your skin. scratching. scribbling. tickling.

what the hell.

ryland's head turns in your direction, ever so slightly. you panic, and occupy yourself with stacking random papers on your desk. out of your peripheral, you can sense the corner of ryland's lip twitch in amusement.

it doesn't help your case at all when your trembling hands knock pieces of paper away from your messy pile, floating and cascading across the room. one lands directly next to ryland. he quirks an eyebrow.

"fuck." you murmur under your breath as you scoot down to pick it up. ryland raises his other brow.

"language.” he emphasises with a quick, gentle scribble at the back of your neck and you fold with a yelp, clutching the floorboards as though you could melt through them if you tried hard enough.

you pick up your piece of paper. the white gleams at you. pointedly. the fluttering traces of ryland’s fingers linger on your neck, teasing but not quite there.

ryland's already turned back to his work: you gawk at him. then back at the piece of paper- a desperate manifestation of your need.

"please tickle me. more." the words are slipping off the tip of your tongue, but your embarrassment swallows them down, down, down your throat and into your stomach until nothing remains.

you miss the entertained spark present in ryland's eye in your tickle-less misery.

the third time, ryland doesn't notice. he confronts.

"you like it."

"hmm?" you can't recall what you're doing, but something in his tone makes you glance up, curious.

"the tickling."

it's abrupt, the splutter that explodes out of you. your insides churn. you open your mouth to protest. then close it. you're half-convinced you look like a gaping fish.

ryland's scrutinising you like he's watching a puppy chase her tail in circles. his eyes are all wide and doting, catching your every miniscule movement.

"that- that wasn't a question." you manage to say.

"that wasn't an answer."

a pause. one that you don't trust. if it were anyone else, you would've thought that they had already let it go. but ryland grace doesn't just let things go. he starts intrigued: then he pushes, and he shoves, until every single one of his hypotheses are proved.

and you've just become his newest experiment.

"noho, look at me."

your eyes flicker hesitantly to meet his lens-covered ones, and to his delight, your cheeks tint a rosy pink.

"so you agree then."

"what?" your voice comes out squeakier than intended.

"you want," ryland whispers tauntingly. "to be tickled by me."

a string of stutters and protests pour out of your mouth. that doesn't deter ryland in the slightest. the way he looks at you, all fond and teasing, is too much to bear.

"okay,” his voice is factual. serious. “i won't tickle you, then."

and you know him well enough- ryland will follow through. a whine of frustration builds up in your throat.

"ryland." you clear your throat. you attempt to bargain with your pleading gaze.

"yes?"

you sigh.

"please." the walls suddenly look very interesting to you.

"please what?" you can practically feel the mischief radiating off of him.

"...please tickle me."

it comes out as a garble of syllables, the dreaded word spreading heat across your face. but despite the incoherency, this just about satisfies ryland. in a split second, he’s already making his way towards you.

oh, fuck.

you scamper across the room, ryland and his smirk swiftly following.

"w-wahait!" your hands are held in front of you as a weak means of defence.

"wait for what?" ryland laughs at the absurdity.

you struggle to find a proper response. instead, you dance around the room, evading his every step. ryland's circling you like prey and you can't help it- an anticipatory giggle bubbles up your throat.

"noho, back off!"

"but if i back off," the cocky grin on ryland's face is contagious. "how will i tickle you?"

he reaches for you and a gasp erupts from your mouth.

"bad grace!" you must be picking up rocky's vocabulary.

"did you just scold me," ryland snorts. "like a dog? you are so dead."

you whimper when ryland lunges for you, managing to duck past his arm. but when he grabs a handful of your shirt and reels you into his chest, a pair of strong arms wrapping around your stomach, you realise that ryland is always right- you are so dead.

"hi," he whispers into your ear for dramatic effect, laughing at your whimper as you glance back at him.

ryland drums his fingers, gently against your waistline. your hands circle his wrists, tugging them away but they don't budge an inch. even now, you can't help but stare at his fingers. intoxicating. calculating. tickling.

ryland notices, flexing them intentionally.

"where should i tickle, baby?"

oh god.

"noho- nohowhehre," your voice breaks off into helpless giggles when he claws gently around your stomach.

"i thought you wanted this!" ryland has the audacity to pout at you.

"shuhut uhp!"

"did you just shush me? hmm?" he vibrates his hands into your ribcage and a squeal escapes from you. "that was pretty rude of you."

you try and fail to pry his wrists away from your torso. ryland conveniently decides to ignore the way you're slowly going limp in his arms, landing stray scribbles over your sides as he holds you upright.

"had enough?"

you look back, mirth-coated eyes meeting his.

"oh my god." ryland laughs, a loud, genuine sound. like this is the funniest fuckin' sight he's ever come across. "oh my god, you really like this."

you forget how to talk.

in your embarrassed state, you spin in his grasp to face him, before your own hands skitter up his sides and into the hollows of his armpits. the result is instantaneous- ryland folds, breaking into tiny, wheezy giggles. you can't help but laugh along with him.

he grabs your wrists in a panicked frenzy and now, you're panicking.

you're pretty sure they could've heard you back down on earth.