“Wahait—WAHAHAIT!! ROHOCKY—!!!” I startle at the loud, shrill laughter coming from Ryland across the lab. I glance up from the laptop I’m currently reading from before I can stop myself. 

Rocky has him half-folded over on the lab floor, three claws digging into his sides while Ryland tries and fails to curl around them. His glasses are crooked, laughing so hard that his whole face has already gone pink.

I stare for longer than I should, then immediately look back down at the laptop in front of me, heat creeping up my neck. I shift on the stool, uncomfortably, suddenly aware of my own body in a way I don't like.

The same sentence sits on the screen. I read it. Nothing. I read it again—still nothing.

“Grace need break! Work too much!” Rocky warbles happily, sounding delighted with himself as he keeps up his assault.

Why do they have to do that so often? Why around me?

“Rohohocky! Noho mohOHORE—NAHAHT THEHEHERE—!!” A soft thud comes from their direction. Probably Ryland losing whatever little advantage he thought he had.

A tight, unpleasant feeling settles in my chest. No anger, I don't think. Just… something sharp and wrong. Irritation, maybe, except I'm not even sure who I'm irritated with. I try to ignore it.

I can't, though.

My gaze drifts back to them anyway. Rocky’s claws have moved lower now, squeezing into his stomach. Ryland is desperately trying to catch his arms, but he's laughing too hard to do much of anything, shoulders shaking, hair falling into his face.

My skin prickles. Goosebumps race down my arm at the sight, and a strange little phantom sensation sparks beneath my left ribs.

That same spot.

I slam the laptop shut. The crack of it echoes through the lab, and the room goes quiet. Out of the corner of my eye, I see them freeze. Ryland's head whips in my direction with a lopsided smile while Rocky’s claws freeze in their place against his tummy.

For one awful second, both of them just stare as I try my best to avoid their eyes.

“So fucking loud,” I mutter under my breath, eyebrows turned down. Ryland's smile slips, and Rocky pulls his claws anyway. Good…that should make me feel better. 

It doesn’t.

I stand before either of them can say anything and head for the corridor, leaving the laptop behind. Not like I’d get much more reading done now anyway.

When I first got here on the Hail Mary, Ryland spent what felt like half of my waking hours poking, scanning, and asking questions—once I actually started letting him touch me anyway. Most of it was medical, checking wounds. Looking over things my body had decided to grow without asking me first. Making sure nothing was infected, rotting, bleeding, or otherwise trying to kill me.

During one of these exams, his fingers grazed over my gills. It was barely anything. Barely even contact. And I screamed. Not in pain—I think that would have been easier to explain. I jerked out of his hands so hard I nearly fell off the bed, scrambling backward, leaving Ryland in shock and worry, looking at me like he’d just accidentally stabbed me.

His gloved hands flew up in defense immediately. Concern flashed across his face as he leaned in, then stopped himself before getting any closer.

“Sorry! Sorry, I didn’t—did I hurt you?!” He yelped out, clearly wanting to check me over again, to make sure he hadn’t made anything worse than it already was.

I couldn’t find any words. What could I say anyway? My side felt like it was electrocuted, and my face was hot with confused embarrassment. 

And for some reason, I still don’t understand; I’d wanted him to do it again. 

So, naturally, I told him ‘no’. Then I spent the rest of the exam avoiding his eyes, only talking when he asked me something directly.

I intend to go to the dormitory but only make it maybe ten steps down the corridor before Ryland starts laughing again. It's different this time. A second later, Rocky’s high-pitched squeaky trills join in, and I realize Ryland must’ve turned the tables.

I stop, just for a second. So they aren’t upset…good. Obviously good. It's not their fault.

Then why does hearing them again make something twist even tighter in my chest?

I stand there longer than I should, listening as their laughter bounces off the metal walls until the whole ship feels lighter than it did a minute ago.

My side tingles.

The exact same spot Ryland had brushed all the months ago. It’s never anywhere else but that one spot.

Clenching my fist, I keep walking.

Christ.

I’m so fucking stupid. 

After everything I’ve gone through, this is what my brain decides to fixate on? This tiny stupid touch? 

I can barely remember the last time somebody touched me like that.

…

That's not true. Mom used to scratch my back sometimes and run her fingers through my hair. Usually, when I couldn't sleep. I'd lie on my stomach, and she’d drag her nails up and down through my shirt until I finally stopped squirming. Sometimes she’d complain her hand was getting tired, but in that fake teasing voice, like she was threatening to stop just to make me beg to keep going. I always made her keep going.

I stare at the floor. 

Fuck.

No.

I'm not doing this. That was years ago. I was a kid. I'm not a kid anymore. I shouldn’t still want—

Whatever.

My side tingles again.

I mutter to myself under my breath, annoyed at my own stupid thoughts, and I force myself to keep walking to the dorm, still hearing their loud laughter in the distance. 

When I get there, I close the door behind me and head for the bed Ryland had decided was mine. I sit in silence, hand bunching in the blanket while my tail flicks against the mattress. I force it still. Within fifteen seconds, it starts again anyway. Why do I even fucking try?

It’s not like Ryland hasn't touched me after that point. They're few and far between, small, casual touches—a hand on my shoulder when he passes, fingers brushing mine when he hands me something, sometimes he leans against me if we’re both trying to look at the same screen.

Touches he can claim are accidental—I think it's bullshit.

So why was that one little touch so different from all those others? He had been closer before. Leaning on me, crowding my space, pressing against me in a way that should have counted more, ways that I hated…but that tiny brush—barely anything at all—is the one that's enough to mess with my brain in a way a simple touch shouldn’t.

I furrow my brows, staring down at the blanket, fidgeting with the hem of my shirt. 

Then, because apparently I’ve completely lost whatever dignity prison left me with, I slip a hand beneath my shirt. My fingers find the spot beneath my lowest gill, right on the edge of the seam.

I pinch.

Nothing. 

Again. 

Still nothing.

I cringe at myself while looking down at my own hand.

Seriously? This is what you're doing now? Is this what I’ve come to? Sitting alone in a spaceship trying to make myself laugh—to tickle myself? 

…

Pathetic.

I drag my hand out from under my shirt and scrub it over my face like I'm trying to wipe away all my emotions. A muffled laugh carries through the wall, and my stomach twists in return.

Of course they can do that. Ryland is kind; he’s been gentle with me, and Rocky is clingy but in the most comforting way possible, petting, hugging, and cuddling—even if I’m not the one experiencing it, I almost wish I was.

Shit—they saved two whole races of people, two whole planets. They can and deserve to do whatever the hell they want with each other.

My hand finds its way to my side again, rubbing up and down slightly, trying to imagine the weird tingling feeling even though I hate it and want to forget about the whole exam to begin with.

They…fit. Rocky reaches for Ryland, and Ryland reaches back.

That’s them.

I’m…

My thumb catches on one of the raised scars along my side. 

I stop.

I’m me.

That’s all the explanation I really need.

…

“Hey, Si?” 

I jolt, quickly ripping my hand from my side as my head snaps up to the door, my heart suddenly jumping in my chest.

“Shit.” I let out a rough breath, trying to settle back into the bed, glancing at him. His face still looks a little red, and his shirt is bunched up slightly like he didn’t completely pull it back down after Rocky’s attack.

“Oh—sorry, sorry.” He winces. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” 

He gives an awkward little laugh, pushing his glasses up his nose. He climbs down the ladder but stays put at the bottom, shifting left to right awkwardly, pursing his lips.

Of course, he followed me. Now he has to deal with me too. Just another problem I’ve caused.

I hide my face behind my hair, peeking at him through the strands, as the tip of my ear starts to get hot. Maybe he didn’t see.

His eyes drop to my side immediately.

Of course he fucking saw.

“Is your arm bothering you? Or your ribs?” He gestures vaguely towards me while slowly inching closer to the bed. “I can give you something. You know, phantom pain is normal, and with everything going on around your gills—”

“M’fine,” I grumble. He stops in his tracks, his hands dropping to his sides, and a small frown flickers across his face for a moment.

“Okay.” He doesn’t sound convinced. He moves a little closer but not by much, like he thinks I won’t notice if he does it slow enough. “Look, uh…” he scratches the back of his neck, glancing away, “I wanted to say sorry.”

“For what?” I raise an eyebrow, tilting my head to the side. 

“For Rocky and me.” He states simply, like that explained everything to me.

I stare at him, then look away and back again in confusion.

“The wrestling. Tickling. Whatever you want to call it.” His mouth twists awkwardly. “I didn’t realize it was bothering you that much.” His face takes on a slightly worried look.

My eyes go wide for a moment. I wasn’t exactly expecting a whole apology for something he shouldn’t be sorry for.

“It wasn’t.” His eyebrows rise in response.

“Simon.” He’s using his ‘teacher voice’ now. I think I hate it.

“I said it wasn’t.” His face falters. Maybe that came out a little too…mean.

“You slammed the laptop.” He argues back, which I don’t really have a good excuse for at the moment, or I would definitely be arguing it.

I half-heartedly shrug and frown. “You were loud?” 

“Okaaaay...” he drags the word out, clearly waiting for more.

“That’s all,” I reply flatly.

He watches me for a second, then frowns. “Then why’d you look so pissed?” He points at me, his foot tapping on the floor. He kinda looks like Rocky doing that. I wonder who picked that up from whom.

“I wasn’t pissed."

“You looked pissed.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Okay, fine. Upset?”

“No.”

“Uncomfortable?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

I don’t answer, looking away from him. Ryland sighs softly, “We can just not do it around you.” My stomach drops as he smiles that oh-so-sweet grin at me, like that’s the solution I want.

“No.” The word comes tumbling out before I can catch it.

He blinks at me. “No?”

“Don’t do that.” God, I sound desperate.

“Do what?” he asks, head cocked to one side.

“S-stop because I’m there.” I force the words out, clenching my fist into the blanket more. Great, another thing to burden them with—another way for me to ruin something that isn't even mine. I feel myself getting angry, but mostly at myself.

His expression shifts, uncertain now, like he doesn't fully understand but knows enough to be careful. “Simon, if it bothers you—”

“It doesn’t.”

“Then why do you leave?”

There it is. The question I was really fucking hoping he wouldn’t ask. What, I’m just supposed to tell him it makes my side buzz, and my brain goes stupid, and I can’t think straight when they do that? Yeah, I’d rather fucking not.

I squint my eyes at him and shrug again. “Because I do,” 

“Fantastic answer." He rolls his eyes with a huff. He doesn't sound upset; really, more annoyance than anything. I guess that's better than him being angry at me.

“Just fuck off.” I shoot back. He goes quiet

“You don’t hate it?” Ryland asks more carefully.

“I didn’t say that I did,” I argue; that's technically not a lie.

“You kinda implied it.” A hand gestures to me.

 I roll my eyes this time. “Well, you assumed.”

“Because you looked miserable,” He points back at me with another frown.

I let out a hollow laugh, “Yeah.”

He frowns more, crossing his arms. “But not because we’re doing it?”

I say nothing.

“Oh,” he lets out quietly. I hate that sound.

“Don’t.” I lift a finger between us. I don't want to hear whatever conclusion he's drawing—I didn’t want to talk about this at all.

“I didn’t say anything,” he claims, hands up in defense.

“You were about to.”

“I actually wasn’t.” His mouth twitches, and I shoot him a glare. His eyes drift toward my hand that has drifted back to my side without me noticing. “And your side?”

I immediately pull my hand to my lap. “What about it?” I avert my eyes. 

“You keep touching that same spot.”

“So? I can't touch my own fucking side?” I'm trying so hard to keep the defensiveness out of the voice, but it leaks through anyway,

He hesitates, and I can’t help but feel my anxiety rise more at what he’s about to say, at what he’s thinking.

“Was that where I…” he trails off. I know exactly what he means, too. My face feels hot again, and I don't answer. After a few tense seconds, he just says, “Simon.” 

“Stop.” I try to stop his train of thought again.

“Where you trying to—”

“What?” His blue eyes flick to my side again, then to my face.

Oh, fuck him.

“Not—not in a bad way—I mean it’s not a bad thing!” He starts backpedaling immediately. “I just saw your hand in that spot, and then you looked like you wanted to jump out of the airlock, and I thought maybe—“

“Stop talking.” I groan, and he does. We sit in silence. My heart beats in my ears as I go between looking at him and looking everywhere else.

Ryland runs his palms against his pants, then very hesitantly tries again, “Are you trying to tickle yourself?”

I seriously fucking am considering the airlock now.

“No.” I try to say it as smoothly as possible, but the ridiculousness of the question makes it come out almost scared rather than the confident tone I was looking for.

He gives me a look. “No?” 

“No,” I mutter, staring over his shoulder at the wall.

Another stupid look is shot in my direction, but I pretend not to notice.

“Okay.” He relents softly, and I let out a deep breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

I glance at him. He isn’t smiling or teasing, and he's not looking at me like I’m an idiot, though I really feel like one right now. He’s just standing there and waiting for me. I hate it.

“You're so fucking annoying.” I scowl at him with a huff.

“I know.” A small smirk comes to his face, like he's almost proud of that.

“Stop being so nice.” I frown more that he’s smiling at my comment.

“I don’t know how.” His smile grows only to be replaced by fake sadness. “I'm just too nice for my own good.”

“That’s a lie. ‘Staggering waste of carbon’ rings any bells?”

He snorts. “Maybe it’s a little lie.”

Despite myself, the corner of my mouth twitches. Ryland definitely saw it, but he says nothing. Thank god.

He clicks his tongue. “You know you're not as unreadable as you think, right?” 

That catches me off guard, and I go back to scowling. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You’ve got a great poker face—very intimidating. Ten outta ten.” He points with another smirk. “But you also do this thing where you stop looking at me when you're upset.” 

I immediately look away and curse at myself for proving his point.

“See?” He snickers.

“Fuck off, Ryland.”

“And you’ve done this before. Rocky starts tickling me, you sit there pretending you're not paying attention, and eventually you disappear.” 

I pull my knees to my chest, my tail curling up around me tight. It's not like I can really argue with that. 

Was I really that obvious? I wince at all the times I’ve run away from their tickle fights I wasn’t even a part of, and now Ryland has apparently been noticing the whole time.

His voice softens. “Look, I’m not gonna make you tell me anything.”

Good.

“But…”

Of course there’s a but.

“If you're trying to figure something out…” he shrugs. “You don’t have to do it alone”

I stare at him, lips pressed into a line. This time, he looks away; it’s like he knows even his stare is suffocating me. It helps—a little. My fingers start to pick at a loose thread, trying to distract myself from this whole conversation.

I take a deep breath. “...You really don’t have to stop because of me.”

Ryland looks back at me and nods, “Okay.”

“I mean it,” I grumble.

“Okay.”

“You're still going to.” I already know.

“Well, yeah, if I think you're miserable.” He half-smiles.

“I’m not miserable because of that.” My words come out a little too fast, fast enough that the ending slipped out before I realized what I’m implying. Ryland goes still, raising an eyebrow.

Fuck.

“Because of what?”

“Nothing,” I say too quickly.

“Simon.”

“Ryland.”

He studies me for a second. Then, slowly, “You want us to keep going.”

I feel my face getting hot. “That isn’t what I said.”

“But you don’t want us to stop,” I say nothing, biting my tongue hard. “And you keep touching the spot where I accidentally tickled you.”

“I hate you.” My hand comes up to cover my face. I don’t want to see him, or for him to see me.

“No, you don’t~” He teases lightly, finally moving from his spot in the middle of the room to walk over to the side of my bed.

I glare at him through my fingers; his smile is small, not smug, though. Just soft. It somehow makes me feel worse. I can deal with people treating me and my feelings terribly. I know how to handle that. This? I don't know what to do with this.

“Can I sit next to you?” he asks, placing a hand on the mattress.

I should say no. Instead, I nod.

He moves slowly enough to be annoying about it and lowers himself onto my right side of the mattress like one wrong move, and I’ll bolt. The bed dips beneath his weight, and his arm brushes mine. It’s warm. I inch away from it. Just that little tap felt like too much.

For a while, neither of us talked. The silence is worse than the conversation somehow, filled only with the soft ambient hum of the ship. My fingers tighten in my shorts as my anxiety climbs again.

Then Ryland cuts through the quiet, “Can I ask you something?”

“You already are.” I let out a tiered breath and try to steady myself.

“Smartaleck.” He pauses for a moment. “Do you want me to touch you?” I feel every muscle in my body lock up. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Ryland stays still, sitting quietly. “I mean normally—that came out really wrong,” he adds quickly with a nervous smile. “Not anything you don’t want. I just…you keep watching us when we do it.”

I stare at my knees. 

Ryland calls it ‘touch starved’. I've never understood that. Prison wasn't exactly lacking in touch. Hands grabbing your wrists. Someone's shoving past you. Guards patting you down. Cuffs biting into your skin while somebody pulls you wherever they decided you needed to go. 

Plenty of touching. I hated all of it. I got pretty good at making sure people didn't try unless they had to.

But Ryland isn't asking about that. He's sitting beside me without touching me at all, just waiting. That's different. I don't know what to call it.

“I don’t know.” That’s probably the most honest thing I’ve said to him all day.

Ryland nods once. “Okay.”

I expect another question, but he says nothing. Instead, he sits there close enough that I can feel his heat but far enough away that he’s not touching. The silence stretches, and I can’t help but fidget more. 

My side tingles again.

Stupid.

I grit my teeth and glance at him. Then before I can stop myself—

“…can you do something?”

Ryland turns towards me. “What?”

I hate this. I hate how difficult it is to say the simplest thing.

My hand moves before my mouth does. I reach across myself and press my fingers against the spot beneath my lowest gill. Ryland's eyes follow, leaning forward slightly to see to the other side of me, understanding flicking across his face. His expression seems to soften, and I immediately regret saying anything.

“Y-you don’t have to.” My words come out low and small, and that makes me feel even more pathetic. 

“I know.” He replies like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“I mean it.” I try to force a bit more sternly.

“I know.” he smiles, lids falling low.

“You're not doing it because…” I trail off.

“Because what?” I shrug, and he waits again. Fuck him and his waiting.

“Because I asked.” I avoid his gentle gaze that feels like I’m being picked apart.

His eyebrows knit together. “I mean…yeah? You asked.”

“No, I mean—“ I stop with a sigh. I don’t know how to explain it without sounding completely ridiculous. 

If I ask, he'll do it because I asked. That's not the same. I'd be making him.

I'm already eating their food. Drinking their water. Sleeping in one of their beds. Ryland keeps insisting none of that matters because there's enough, but enough isn't the same as infinite. 

Everything I use is something they would've had if I wasn't here. Food. Water. Space. Time. Now I want this too?

I want him to sit here and touch me because apparently being alive isn't enough anymore. Apparently, I need to be fucking entertained. 

Fucking Christ.

“Never mind.” I pull my hand away from my side, feeling the ever-present burning sensation under my ribs. Ryland doesn't grab my wrists or try to stop me.

“Si.” I reluctantly look at him. “I like making people laugh.” Of course he does. That's what good people like to do. “I like making Rocky laugh. Rocky likes making me laugh.” His shoulders lift. “If you want in, I'm not exactly making a sacrifice here.” 

Want in—like there's room for me in that.

“You’d do it if I hadn’t asked?”

Ryland blinks.” What?”

Fuck. Wrong question.

“Nothing.” 

“No, hang on—” he tries.

“Forget it,” I murmur.

“Simon.” He pauses. “Are you asking if I want to?” 

I don't answer because, apparently, yes, that's exactly what I'm asking.

A smile tugs at his lips. “Yeah, Si. I think it’d be fun.” I don’t say anything, staring at the wall in front of us. 

“Look,” he says more quietly. “You haven’t exactly seemed all that open to the concept of touch in general since you got here. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, and that’s why I told you that I need you to come to me if you're struggling with something like this.” His words are light, but there's something sad underneath it, like maybe he thinks I don't trust him.

My chest tightens, and I look to his own bed, a mess of blankets and pillows, but not at him. “It's stupid.”

“What is?”

“This.” It comes out almost as a whisper. I stay quiet as I swallow the lump in my throat. “It's just…” My fingers knot themselves in the blanket again. “I don't know why I keep thinking about it.”

There. The issue. My whole stupid issue.

“The tickling?” He questions, and I nod once, barely.

I wait for him to laugh or smirk—to make me feel even smaller.

He doesn't.

Instead, he just looks at me, steady and calm, which somehow makes it easier to keep going.

“It only happened once,” I mutter. Just one touch, and my brain has felt scrambled ever since.

“The exam?” My head snaps towards him. I wasn’t ready for him to acknowledge it out loud. I cringe at the memory and the thought that Ryland is probably picturing it too. He gives me a small smile, “You didn't look hurt afterward, even though I didn't believe you at first.”

“No, I wasn't hurt.” 

“You looked…” he squints, searching for the word. “Confused.”

“That's one word,” I mumble more to myself than him.

“And then you refused to look at me for two whole days.”

“I was…busy.” That has got to be my worst lie yet.

“Sure. Very busy.” I glare at him again as he laughs softly. Then his expression settles again. “You liked it?” My stomach knots at that question. 

I shrug.

Coward.

Ryland doesn't let me off that easily. “That's not a bad thing, Si.”

“I-I didn't say it was.” I meekly answer.

“No.” His eyes stay on mine. “You just definitely seem like you think that way.” I look away again. His voice drops. “Why?”

There it is—the actual question. I don't have an answer that doesn't make me sound pathetic. So I don't answer. So Ryland waits in return.

Eventually I mutter, “It's different for you.”

“How?”

I shrug. “You and Rocky just…” I wave vaguely toward the lab. “You do that.”

“Very descriptive,” he titters.

“You know what I mean.”

“I genuinely don't.” Of course he doesn't. “Help me.”

“You're…” I stop. Normal almost stumbles from my lips. I hate the word before I even say it. I hate what it would mean if I admitted it. “You.”

Ryland frowns. “What an excellent explanation.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“No, seriously.” His voice still stays soft even as he teases me, the sarcasm helping me keep talking. “What about you makes it different?”

I stare down at myself. Scars. Gills. One arm where there used to be two. A body that hasn't felt like mine in a long time…a convict.

My mouth goes dry. “I don't know.”

He watches me carefully; I can tell he knows I'm lying, but he lets me. After a few seconds, he asks. “Can I try something?”

My eyes shoot to his, then immediately down to his hands. They're still in his lap; he hasn't moved any closer, but I know what his question means anyway. Nothing has changed, not really, but my body reacts like it has.

I nod.

Ryland doesn't move. I glance back at him, looking at the freckles scattered across his cheeks instead of his eyes.

“Out loud, Si.”

Oh, for fucks sake.

I groan softly, side-eyeing him. His eyebrows lift expectantly, like he has all the time in the universe to sit here and make me say humiliating things.

“Y-you're serious?”

“Very.” Fucking hell, Ryland and his stupid rules.

“Yes, okay.” I concede, gripping onto the bed sheets like they're the only thing keeping me from running away.

Only then does he slowly shift closer, the mattress dipping slightly. His side presses into mine, warm even through our clothes, and I feel his arm snake behind me. Not fast or grabbing…just there, sliding into the space I can’t see. My entire spine straightens up.

“Here, okay?”

“Yes.” My answer comes out shaky.

Then I feel five warm fingers worm their way under my shirt. 

Every muscle in my body locks up. My skin suddenly feels tight against my body, and an almost gross feeling creeps in. There is a hand under my shirt. Behind me, where I can't see it. My brain lights up with every alarm it has, all at once. 

Everything in my body tells me to move, to get the hand out. Don't let someone where you can't—

His fingers stop, barely beneath the hem of my shirt. They haven't even reached my side yet, but Ryland waits. I stare straight ahead, breathing a little too hard.

He could hurt me. Easily.

I can't see what he's doing; I can't watch his hand. I can't predict the shape of the touch before it happens. Can’t—

Still nothing. His fingers stay exactly where they are, waiting for me. Something in my chest loosens, just a little. Not trust, exactly. Not yet. More like my body realizing it hasn’t been forced to move before it's ready.

Slowly, Ryland drags his fingertips from my back to my left side. Then his fingers stop, just below my ribs, just below my gills, like he's waiting for me. My entire body feels awake, like it's buzzing. My skin tingles again, and a shiver rips through me. 

Ryland doesn't do anything, though; he just rests his fingers there. 

“You okay?” Slight worry rings out in his voice.

I finally look back at him. He's watching my face intently, looking past my mutations, my scars—just me.

I don't answer; I'm not sure I can. My throat feels too tight for words. Ryland waits another few seconds. 

“Still want me too?”

I swallow the lump in my throat, “Y-yeah.” 

One fingertip moves, just a little. A tiny brush beneath my lowest gill. My entire body jolts.

There.

That.

Exactly that feeling.

It flows through me fast, not painful, not exactly pleasant either—at least not in any normal way. It sparks under my skin, bright and electric, followed immediately by a fluttering pressure in my stomach that makes me want to curl inward and lean closer at the same time.

I suck in a sharp breath, and Ryland freezes. “Still okay?”

I nod, but he stays quiet and still. Right. Out loud.

“Yeah.”

His finger starts to move again, slowly tracing the same little patch of skin back and forth, barely enough pressure to even call it touching. My mouth twitches before I can stop it. 

No. I press my lips together.

His fingertip does another pass on the spot, and a stupid noise escapes my nose. 

Ryland starts smiling, eyes crinkling at the corners. It's not smug; he's not laughing at me; it's just…warm.

His fingers curl and give my side one careful squeeze. I jerk with a squeak, my hand flying over my mouth as heat floods my face for what feels like the hundredth time today.

Ryland stops immediately. I look at him. His hand stays exactly where it is under my shirt—not moving but not leaving either. Just waiting.

“Well?” he asks gently.

I breathe hard through my nose, trying to stifle the smile behind my hand. Instead, my tail thumps once against the mattress in response. Ryland's eyes flick down as I stare at it in horror. He sees it—of course he sees it—but doesn't say a fucking word. Somehow that’s worse.

I slowly lower my hand “...c-could you um…” 

Christ. 

“Do it again?”

The words are out. Fuck. I actually asked.

Ryland doesn’t laugh, doesn’t look surprised. Doesn’t give me that look people give when you’ve asked for something you shouldn’t have.

His smile just softens. “Okay.” 

That’s it. Just okay.

His fingers squeeze again; this time I know it's coming, but it doesn't help.

A laugh slips out before I can choke it down, embarrassingly high and breathy and completely unlike anything I would willingly let another person hear.

Fuck. I clamp my mouth shut, and Ryland squeezes again, but another laugh breaks through. I curl forward, grabbing blindly at Ryland's wrists but not actually pulling away. I think he notices that too. 

“You want me to stop?”

“Noho,” I say way too fast. Way too fucking fast. Both of us freeze at my answer. My face ignites in embarrassment, but Ryland's face doesn’t change much, just that same sweet smile.

“Okay,” and he starts again.

One pinch. Then another. Another. 

My shoulder jumps with each one, little bursts of laughter forcing their way through no matter how hard I bite my lip. I twist sideways, trying to reach across myself with my only hand. I only manage to graze his fingertips before his fingers skitter away.

“Rylahand! I-I cahahan’t—hehaha—!” Can’t what? No idea. My brain feels scattered, like it doesn’t know what to do with the situation I’m putting it in.

His fingertips lightly trace up my side, and I fold inward with an embarrassing sound. A hum is the only warning I get before his hand drops to my hip. I squeak and arch straight up.

“Fuhuck!”

God, he’s barely doing anything, and I already feel like a mess. I try desperately to get my nerves under control. Every muscle keeps jumping between move and stay, teetering between laughter and panic at the same time. Whether this is danger or softness ot if I'm supposed to push or pull him away.

Then the thought that maybe I’m broken when it comes to physical touch starts to creep its way in. This is what I wanted. So why does my body feel like—

Ryland stops, his palm settles flat against my hip.

“Hey.” I blink at him. “How about we use a safe word?” 

His hand stays still, just resting there as I glance over to him. His face still holds that small comforting smile, but it seems to grow when he gets a good look at my own, making me want to hide even more.

My breathing starts slowing. “The moment you say it, I stop. Right away. No ifs, ands, or buts, nothing starts again unless you say so.” His thumb rubs one slow circle against my hip. “Sound good?”

“Okahay.” I reply, trying to force down my giggles.

“How aboooout…” His thumb moves again, and I start to wiggle side to side with a snort. “Alien. Seems pretty fitting.” 

His fingers knead gently into my hip, and I wiggle harder. “Is that okay?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to stop the laughter rising in my chest. When he doesn’t get an answer, he squeezes a little harder, drilling firmly but roughly into the bone. I nod frantically, grabbing at his hand.

“Come on, Si~” his voice takes on that infuriating patient tone. “Out loud, remember?” 

I take back what I said about Ryalnd being kind; he's evil. 

“Pfft—okahahay okaHAHAY! YEHEHES!” My face burns more, and I squeal as he pinches back up my side. 

“Good.” he grins, but his hand stops before reaching my ribs.

I hate the tiny drop in my stomach when it does. Seriously? It's been, what, five minutes? Apparently, that isn't enough now. 

Ryland tilts his head. “Can I touch your gills?”

My embarrassment disappears beneath a completely different kind of nervousness.

My gills. A tiny accidental brush against them had made me scream and nearly throw myself off an exam table. His hand is still underneath my shirt, and I can't see it. Ryland must see something change on my face.

“Simon, you can say no.” His voice loses the teasing immediately. “It's okay. Seems like I've got plenty of other options.”

His fingers give my hip another tiny squeeze, and I twitch. He's such an asshole.

I finally turn enough to fully look at him. “It's okay.” He waits. “Just…” My throat feels dry. “Be gentle. Please.”

“Of course.” No hesitation in his answer. He smiles, though that smile turns more into a smirk as I feel his fingers move. 

I flinch as his hand creeps back up my side. Higher and higher. I can't see them. My breath hitches, and then they stop. Again, he waits. I let out a breath. His fingertip brushes the seam of my lowest gill, and I arch with a shriek.

Ryland's eyes go wide. Mine probably do too. Neither of us moves for half a second, then his mouth quirks up.

“Ohohoo, this is a really bad spot, huh?” he snickers. 

I look away, flustered. “Shuhut up.”

His fingers scratch lightly all over the three seams.

“AH-wahaHAIT! NAHAHOHOOO!! R-RYLAHAHAND—IEEHEHAHA—!!!” Cackles erupt from me as I twist away from his hand and somehow end up pressing closer against his side.

It's like tiny expositions running through my skin. The little phantom tingle that has been haunting me for months doesn't even compare. 

He hums for a moment while trying to keep his hand latched to my side. “They closed, I think?” he stops using his nails and rubs his palm over the area instead, warm and soothing enough that I feel my body almost lean into the touch. “I can't feel the filaments, just the edges.” His fingers sweep gently over the three little bumps. “You should definitely open them for me.”

Absolutely fucking not. I vigorously shake my head, curling over again as I rotate my back towards him.

“I-I CAHAhan’t!!” My legs kick out, pushing me further from his fingers that I can't properly defend myself from. 

“Aw, why not?” His hand suddenly shoots up beneath my arm, fingernails scratching over the scarred skin. I yelp and kick back hard enough to throw myself backward and land sideways in his lap, his stomach pressed into my left side while his legs come out from under me on my right.

Everything stops.

Oh. Oh fuck.

“Shit—sorry!” I blurted it out, face hot. I try to get my arm to cooperate and push me back up, but it feels weak, wobbling under me. “I-I didn’t mean—I—“

“Hey.” I glance up at him, but he’s just beaming a smile back down to me. “It’s okay. I’m okay.” 

His right hand appears from behind my head and comes towards my face. I flinch before I can stop myself. I wasn’t ready for it. Ryland pauses, then waits. I stare at his hand, breathing shallowly, and slowly let my head fall back against his thigh.

He hums as his fingers brush my hair away from my forehead, looping a lock behind my ear.

“Are you sure?” I ask, feeling him press further into my side.

He’s above me. Too closed, too boxed in. My chest starts to feel tight, and I shift. Both of his hands immediately lift away. Nothing touching me, and nothing holding me there. 

“It’s all okay as long as you're okay with it too.” Right. It's Ryland. I breathe.

His hand returns only when I stop moving away. This time, he holds his hand out in my line of sight before coming towards me, his fingertips slipping into my hair and lightly scratching my scalp.

Oh.

My eyes flutter shut. That's…nice. Really nice. The feeling is gentler than the tickling, softer. My head tilts further into his hand before I realize I'm doing it.

“I think this is okay,” I mumble with a sigh. 

He chuckles. “Yeah?”

“Mhm,” I respond lazily.

“Sorry,” Ryland says. “That was kinda an intense start. Why don’t I slow down for you?” I nod as he lightly tugs at my hair. “Here, scoot up a bit.”

I try to shimmy across his lap but don't make it very far. He offers his other hand. I stare at it for a second before pushing against his palm and shifting myself over more.

“There you go. Right there.” Then, softer, ”That's perfect, Simon.” That small bit of praise makes something stupid swirl in my head. I try to ignore it.

“Now…” His smile turns dangerous, “...I can get to this adorable tummy.” With my stomach centered with him rather than my head and shoulders, he flips my shirt up. Cool air washes over my skin, making every muscle twitch.

Ryland’s hands hover over the area. I know they're coming. I feel a trembling smile fight its way to my face before he even touches me. Both his hands descend, but instead of digging in, his fingertips glide lightly over my stomach. 

Tracing slow lines, shapes, and circles into my abs. I reach for him but falter only for my arm to reach again. Eventually I give up and fist my hand into the bedsheets.

“I-It thihicKLES *snrk* NAHohooo!” I shake my head side to side as a finger traces slow circles around my belly button.

“Oh, really?”

“Shuhuhut UP!”

“Does it now?” His fingers spider down my stomach, towards the waistband of my shorts. My eyes fly open as his fingers slip beneath the waistband and pinch the skin there. 

“AH-YEHEhes!” I squeak out, jerking my hips. “Nohot theheHER—ehehahAHAHH—!!” I squirm below him, butterflies in my stomach, making the whole sensation so much worse.

“Where? Here? Is it riiiiiight here you're talking about?” His fingers spread, covering the area between my hips and lower tummy, and lightly tasers his nails in.

“FUHUHUCK—YEHES RIHIhight *snrk* thehehere!” My head flings back against the bed as I arch slightly off his lap, my hand finally flying up and catching one of his wrists.

Ryland stops immediately. His fingers leave my waistband, and both palms settle flat over my stomach instead. I gulp down air, his hand still beneath mine. He isn't trying to pull it away.

“How’re you doin', bud?” He asks with a grin.

“Im fihine.” I try to grit my teeth. One finger traces down my side closest to him, and I start to squirm again.

“That's not an answer.”

“IhI’m okahay!”

“Better.”

I reach across myself when his finger loops back upward, but his other hand catches mine. Our fingers lace together, trapping my hand. I pull once, and his grip loosens immediately. I could take my hand back if I wanted. I don't. He gives my fingers a tiny squeeze. Fuck, I hate him so much.

“Cahan yohohou—“ A pinch to my hip again. “AHA-STOHOP THAhahat!” His finger traces upward and hooks lightly beneath my ribs, and I buck. “Cahan you-hah-cahan you do I-it a lihittle…” I stop, and Ryland waits. “...harder?”

There. Another thing I asked for. Ryland lights up in response.

“Of course, I’d love to even!” 

Love to. 

Not fine. 

Not if you really want. 

He wants to.

He finally releases my hand back to me and places both of his hands back on my middle. Then he digs in.

“SHIHIT—!!” His fingertips scratch and knead into my muscles, pushing firmly enough to make my whole stomach jump beneath his hands. “RYLAHahand!! ACK-AHAHEHEHEE!!!” 

I twist, trying to curl upwards, but fall right back down. His legs beneath my lower back only push my stomach up more, leaving me open to every horrible squeeze and scratch.

His fingers keep going, scratching, massaging, squeezing, and it tickles like hell. But underneath it—something warm. Soft. Gooey. My head feels—I don't know. Good. Just good.

Then his hands stop, and I immediately hate how disappointed I am. Fucking Christ. Apparently, I need more already. Of course I do…give me one nice thing and—

“Ohhh.” Ryland's voice cuts straight through the thought with an amused smile.

I glare up at him. “Whahat?” 

His grin widens. “This your favorite spot?”

“W-whahat?” I-I…how the hell did he—?

“Your tail. It's wagging harder.” I look, and my tail is, in fact, thumping hard against the mattress consistently. Ryland points at it like I somehow haven't noticed. “Actually, that's the hardest it's been going since we started.”

Oh. My god.

My hand flies over my face. “Fuck.” Why must my body insist on announcing everything? 

I try to force it still, and it just wags again. 

“Oh, come on. Don’t hide from me.” I feel a soft tug at my wrist.

“Shut up, Ryland,” I mutter from under my hand.

“It's fine if it's your favorite.”

“I hate you.”

“You're such a liar.” Another wag from my tail and Ryland's smile turns unbearably fond. “It's cute.”

“Don't.”

“You're like a puppy.”

“Ryland—”

“Except you purr.”

…

What?

My hand slowly lowers. “Huh?”

Ryland blinks. “You didn't know?”

Know what?

I press my palm against my chest. There. Deep beneath my ribs. A rumble vibrating against my ribs. It's soft and consistent, only audible now that I’ve stopped laughing. My eyes widen. Ryland stares at me, and I stare at Ryland.

How the fuck did he even hear that over my laughing? Apparently, he reads my mind. 

“I could feel it through your back, like in my legs.” He explains, while wiggling his legs under me, and I grab his knee to steady myself, “I didn't know you could do that.”

An embarrassing whine comes from me. I didn’t know either.

“This is humiliating,” I murmur.

He giggles at me, “Well, I’ll keep the other thing to myself then.”

My hand drops instantly. “The WHAT?”

His eyebrow rises. “Nope. You're embarrassed.”

“Ryland.”

“You sure you wanna know?”

“Yes, just fucking tell me.”

“Your hand.” 

I stare at him. “What about it?”

“You make biscuits—like, you knead…like a kitten.”

…

I look down. My hand is resting against his thigh. My fingers slowly curl into the fabric of his shorts and skin.

Release. Curl. Release.

Oh. He's right. I didn't want to know. I groan and turn my face away, ripping my hand from his skin like it burned me. How did I not notice? I just put my hand back down to keep myself still.

“You were doing it while I was tickling you too,” Ryland says. “Squeezing my leg.”

“I—”

I stare at my hand. Another thing my body just does without asking me first. 

Usually, those discoveries involve blood. Or pain. Or Ryland making a worried noise and reaching for the medical kit. 

But these ones apparently mean I'm happy.

…

I don't know what to do with that.

“I-I didn't know.” I look quickly at his leg. “Sorry, did I hurt you?” I frantically ask.

“What? No.” My hand immediately moves back over to his leg anyway, searching for scratches. 

“Did my claws—”

“Simon.” I look up. “You didn't hurt me.” His hand grabs mine and flips my palm upward. “It was more like this.”

He curls his fingers against my palm.

Clench. Release. Clench. Release. Gentle.

I stare. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

My face feels hot again. Ryland is quiet for a moment, then his smile fades just slightly.

“You know…that kinda makes me feel bad.”

I look at him with confusion. “What?”

He shrugs, “You've been here for months, Si.” I wait. “If that's what you do when you're happy and neither Rocky, you, or I knew…” his mouth twists. “I don't know. Feels like maybe we should have been trying to make you happier harder.”

Something tight catches in my throat. “Why are you sorry?”

“I'm not exactly sorry, I just—”

“Ryland, I didn't know either.” he goes quiet, his hands resting on either side of him rather than on me. “ I didn't know I wanted…” I gesture uselessly between us. 

This.

Whatever this is.

“I didn't know touch could be so…”

Nice? Safe? Neither sounds right.

“...lovely.” The word hangs there. Lovely.

What an odd fucking word for my brain to pick, but it still feels like the right one. 

Ryland's expression softens; a fond smile comes to his face. For a second, neither of us says anything. 

I look away first. Of course I do.

“You know,” he says eventually, “I’m having fun too.”

I glance back at him. “What?”

“You keep looking at me like I just performed community service and don't know how to thank me.” His head tilts to the side. “I wanted to do this.”

“You wanted to torture me?” I smirk.

“So what if I did?” he grins back, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“Psychopath.” He laughs, but his expression stays soft.

“I mean it, Si. You're not making me do anything.” I stare at him. That's considerably harder to argue with.

Rocky and Ryland have each other. They have things to do. Work, repairs, food, and a million different things that matter more than sitting around entertaining me because apparently I've decided I need—attention. I hate that word.

“You don't have to feel bad for letting us make you happy,” Ryland adds.

I glare at him, “Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?” “Whatever this is.”

“Talking?”

“Yeah.”

Then his hands suddenly latch onto my stomach. I narrow my eyes.

“Ryland.” “Making up for lost time,” he smiles.

“Wha—”

“This is supposed to be about you.” His thumbs drill into my tummy.

“AHAHEHE-FUHUCK!!!” My legs kick out as the warm, gooey feeling rushes right back through me. “HOHOW DOHOho *snrk* yohou leheht RoHOHOCKY DOHOHO THIHIS?!?!” I ask through my laughter. 

Although Rocky is ticklish, Ryland is definitely on the receiving end most of the time. Rocky is constantly poking or prodding at him, multiple times a day—bugging me multiple times a day from a distance.

Ryland laughs. “I wouldn't say I let him!” His fingers slow, rubbing instead of scratching, pulling a stupid, helpless little giggle out of me. “I do try to fight back! He's just ridiculously strong and has too many arms,” he gives my sides a few quick squeezes, and I jerk in response. “He just knows when to stop.”

That catches somewhere in my brain. Ryland's hands continue moving lazily over my stomach. “He knows when enough is enough.”

Oh. I look back at him through teary eyes.

Ryland grins, but there's something deliberate underneath. “And speaking of Rocky—”

No.

“You knoooow, he'd probably love to join—”

“Rylahand.”

“HEY ROCKY!” He yells towards the lab.

“RYLAND.”

“I THINK SIMON WANTS YOU TO GIVE HIM SOME ATTENTION!”

“RYLAND!”

Heavy thumping immediately echoes down the corridor as Rocky barrels through the ship.

Oh fuck him.

Ryland laughs and pulls me upward. “W-what are you—” He twists me so my back is towards him, pressing into his chest. He lets his legs come apart to rest on either side of me and pushes me down so my head and shoulders rest in his lap.

This feels so much closer than before. His legs on either side of me, with his chest and stomach behind my head all the while, Rocky's footsteps getting closer. My chest starts to feel tight again, and my stomach twists.

“Simon wants attention, question?” Rocky appears by the door. 

Ryland beams, “Oh, he really wants attention from you. You know his favorite spot is his tummy?” 

“I hate you,” I murmur while trying to scramble to a sitting position, any position to feel less trapped.

“Yes, hear all conversation,” he replies, waving a claw. 

Of course he fucking did.

Rocky climbs onto the bed, the mattress sinking under his immense weight. He settles between my legs. Heavy, strong, and five claws. Ryland behind me and Rocky in front. Nowhere obvious to go. My breath catches. 

Ryland’s hands settle against my shoulders. Not holding, just there. I peer up at him. He’s already watching me; the teasing expression is gone. 

“You still remember our safe word, right?”

He noticed my unease. Of course he fucking noticed. He seems to notice everything, apparently.

I swallow. “Y-yeah.”

His thumbs rub soft circles against my shoulders. “And?”

I know what he's asking. 

Do I still want this?

Rocky waits too; neither of them moves. 

I could say it—alien—and everything would stop. Rocky would move; Ryland would let go. No arguing, no disappointment. That would be it. Nobody would sigh, or tell me to hold out another minute, or ask me to explain why. I know that now, and it makes whatever the tight feeling in my chest loosen.

“Yeah,” I repeat, this time steadier. Ryland smiles and Rocky chirps happily. Stupid anxious giggles start to fall from my lips as every nerve in my body lights up. They haven't even fucking touched me yet.

And then three claws immediately dig into my stomach.

“EEHEHAHOHOHOH FUHUHUCK!” I collapse backward into Ryland with a shriek. Rocky squeezes and massages, his extra limbs covering most of my stomach at once. My tail starts wagging again, and my hand grabs blindly at Ryland's thigh. 

Then Ryland’s hands find my ears, lightly scratching behind the fin while tracing the shell of my normal ear. My brain goes pleasantly blank, a fuzzy feeling washing over my mind.

My head lulls into his hand further, and he seems to take this as a sign to press in a little firmer.

He looks down at my cackling face as I peek my eyes up at him through tears.

“You know,” he says, looking much too pleased with himself, “I’ve wanted to do this for a while.”

I shake my head vigorously “NohohOHO—”

“Tickle that scowl off your face.” He smiles down at me. Whatever sentient part of my brain that was left seems to melt at his words as something in my chest goes horribly soft.

I shake my head harder, trying to escape the light fluttering of his fingertips “NAHAHOHOO!!” 

“Yes~” His smile widens. “Look at you~” I am not looking at me; I don't want to. “I wanted to see you laugh and be happy with me and Rocky and—”

One of Rocky's claws finds my belly button.

“SHIHIT—ROHOCKY!! GEHeht ohout o-of theheHEHERE—AHA!!!” 

“Simon very sensitive.” He states simply, all three of his claws coming together to squeeze, poke, and dig around my navel. I arch with a screech, my hand finally coming over to push uselessly at his claws.

It does nothing, obviously. I can't keep track of where all their hands and claws are moving. Can't tell what's where anymore.

Grace laughs above me, his nails drifting from my ears towards the gills along my neck. “Yes, he is.” I twist and turn in his lap, “Aren't you Simon?”

His fingertips trace around the edges, scratching lightly. My shoulder shoots up defensively “F-FUHUCK OHOHOFF!”

“There he is!” One hand curls under my jaw, scratching lightly at my chin. I try to shove my chin down against my chest. “Nope, get that head back up!”

His other hand slips behind my head and squeezes the back of my neck. My head snaps right back up.

“AH-STOHOHOP *snrk* I-I CAHAN’T!” I kick my legs out on either side of Rocky as two of his claws move to my hips and squeeze while the other continues to poke at my belly button. I buck up as hard as I can, only managing an inch or two under Rocky's weight.

“Hey, Rock, you think Simon likes raspberries?” Grace asks from above me.

What? Like the fruit?

“Yes. Rocky think Simon love raspberries!” He trills excitedly from my lap

I feel Rocky shift back and remove his claws, moving most of his weight off me. The sudden absence gives me half a second to breathe before Ryland hooks his arms under mine and pulls me upright against his chest. I sag there, residual giggles spilling out. Rocky settles back into the mattress as Ryland pulls my hair away from my neck. I hear him take a huge breath beside my ear.

Raspberries?

“Whahat—heh—are you—?”

He presses into the side of my neck, right against my gills. Then he blows.

“OHOHO GOHOD—RYLAHAhahand!!” His beard, breath, and lips right against my fucking gills. It's awful, horrible even. I kick my legs out. Another inhale.

“Wahait—WAIT NONONHOHO—!!!”

He does it again.

“AH-IHIHIEHEHEHAHA!!!”

I try to wiggle out of his hold, but he just keeps me tucked against his chest. His head lifts. Thank fucking god—another inhale.

“Yohou BAHAHASTARD—!!”

He shifts to the other side.

“NOHOHOHOO—!!!”

Another “raspberry”. Then another, higher, right behind my ear.

“RYLAHAHAND!!!”

What a fucking asshole. My arms stop working as he presses another, making his way around to the nape of my neck. Then my legs stop kicking—everything feels like jelly.

“ROHOCK—RYLAHAHAND!!! ALIEN ALIHIHIEN—HEHEHAHAHA—!!!”

Everything stops, not slows, but stops. Rocky’s claws disappear, and Ryland pulls his face away from my neck, the cold air of the ship replacing his warmth.

For a few seconds, the only sound in the room is me trying to breathe like a normal fucking person and the now loud purring rumbling from me. Ryland's arms are still around me, but loose now. I could leave them.

“You okay?” His voice is close to my ear, not teasing anymore.

I nod, tiredly.

“Simon.”

“Yehehesss.” I drag in another breath, “Yeheah. I'm okahay.”

Rocky lets out a worried little chirp from between my legs. “Too much. Question?”

“Noho.” I think my body disagrees. “I-I mean—yes. That's why I sahaid it.”

Rylands snorts as his chin settles carefully against my shoulder. That's it. No disappointment. No come on. No asking why. I said stop, and they stopped. I feel my body unclench and relax into his body.

“Good job.” I turn my head slightly against his.

“What?” He presses his cheek into mine.

“Good job telling us.” 

I stare ahead at the wall, “What am I, five?”

He huffs next to my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “That's not what I meant.”

“You're congratulating me for saying a word, Ry.”

“I'm saying I'm glad you told us when you were done.”

“You don't have to congratulate me for that,” I grumble, pulling my cheek slightly away from his.

“I know.” One of his hands slides up my chest, settling on my sternum. I think he's feeling my purring. “Still glad you did.”

Something uncomfortable moves around in my stomach. I turn my head away from his. “Whatever.” He doesn't push.

Instead, he loosens his arms enough that I slowly slide back down until my head is resting against his stomach again. Ryland's fingers brush sweaty hair away from my forehead. Rocky immediately moves closer, settling half across my legs, warm and heavy, one claw resting over my stomach.

Not tickling. Just…there.

“Rocky proud of Simon also, statement.”

Oh for fucks sake. “Don't you start.”

“Simon did good, good, good,” he coos at me. I roll my eyes. 

“You're both incredibly annoying,” I murmur, looking away from both of them, flustered.

“Yes,” he almost answered proudly.

Ryland laughs quietly, his fingers return to my hair. Slowly, he scratches over my scalp. Rocky's body heat radiates through my clothes. 

For a while, nobody said anything. Unfortunately, the laughter dies, and even more unfortunately, my brain comes back with it. I'm lying in Ryland's lap with Rocky half on top of me. I just screamed a safe word because two idiots tickled me until I couldn't breathe.

I'm a grown man, shirt halfway up my stomach. My hair is probably a fucking mess. And my tail is still—I glance down—still wagging; I'm still purring too. Ryland follows my eyes; the corner of his mouth twitches upward. 

“Not a word, Ryland.” 

I dihidn’t even say anythihing!” he exclaims, chuckling, one hand gesturing out above me.

“You were going too.” I squint at him.

“I was just thinking.”

“Well, think quieter.”

Rocky chirps, “Rocky thinks tail, purring, hand movement very cute!”

“Both of you can go fuck yourselves.” Neither of them moves, and neither seems particularly offended. 

Ryland leans over me and tugs my shirt back into place. Such a stupid little action. He pulls the fabric down over my stomach, smooths it out where Rocky bunched it up, then brushes his palms over my sides, like it's nothing. Like taking care of me afterward was always part of it. For some reason, that's the thing I can't look at, so I close my eyes. His fingers go back to my hair.

I should move. There are things that need doing. Ryland has work, and Rocky always has something to fix. Food or repairs. A million things more useful than lying around because apparently I wanted attention.

“Simon happy, question?” Rocky asks, a soft hum emanating from him.

I bit my lip. “Unfortunately.”

“Good good good!” He presses closer into me, heavy and warm.

“... You're crushing me.”

“Yes.”

“That wasn't a compliment, Rock.”

“Simon like it.” he slumps deeper into my legs. 

I open my eyes just long enough to glare at him. He just lets out a chord of amusement. I don't try to move him away. Ryland scratches behind my ear, and my eyes fall shut again.

And then, because apparently lying here quietly isn’t humiliating enough, my brain decided to remind me of something. I'm an adult. I fucking adult lying in another grown man's lap after asking him to tickle me. Not just letting him, but asking. What's worse is that I liked it. A lot. My tail gives another slow thump against the mattress. 

I cringe.

Ryland's fingers stop. “You okay?”

“M’fine.”

He waits. I can feel him looking at me. “Simon.”

“Stop saying my name like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you're waiting for me to admit something.”

He pauses. “I mean…”

I open my eyes. He's making that face again. That stupid patient face. I hate that face.

“What?” I ask, looking away.

“You got all tense again.”

“I did not.”

“Simon muscle contract,” Rocky chirps.

“Thanks, Rock,” I grumble.

“Is truth,” he replies simply.

Ryland's fingers resume their slow path through my hair. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” I huff.

“Okay.” 

I wait for another question, but none comes. Just his fingers in my hair and Rocky's weight over my legs.

It’s warm, quiet…safe.

Fuck.

“It's weird,” I mutter.

Ryland's hand slows. “What is?”

I gesture vaguely at myself, at him, at Rocky.

All of it.

“This.” I finally say.

“The cuddling?”

“No.”

“The petting?”

“No.”

“The part where Rocky is crushing your femurs?” He points to the alien.

“Maybe.” I chuckle.

“Simon bones intact.” A claw taps lightly against the bed.

I groan. “The fucking tickling, Ryland.”

“Oh.”

My face is already burning. I stare at the ceiling. “I shouldn't like that.”

He doesn't answer immediately. I risk glancing up. His eyebrows are pulled together but not in disgust. In confusion.

“Why?” His voice gets soft.

I frown. “What do you mean, why?”

“Why shouldn't you?”

“Because I'm not a fucking kid.”

The words sit there between us.

Mom flashes through my head before I can stop it. Fingers through my hair or nails scratching lightly over my back when I couldn't sleep.

Kid stuff.

I shove the memory back down. Not doing that right now.

Ryland's thumb brushes once behind my ear. “You think tickling is only for kids?”

“I think asking someone to do it because apparently it makes me—” My eyes flick toward my tail, and it’s still fucking wagging. “—that happy, is a little pathetic.”

“…Si.”

“Don't.”

His mouth closes. Good. I stare back at the ceiling.

“I've been in prison. I've been through…” I gesture vaguely at my body. “All of this. I'm an adult. I should be past needing somebody to sit around and make me laugh like I'm fucking five.”

He stays quiet. I immediately wish I hadn't said it.

Then Ryland says, “Okay.”

I look up at him. “Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means maybe it is childish.” My stomach drops, and I look away, but he shrugs. “So what?”

I stare at him.

“Rocky like childish things.” Adds from my lap.

“Not helping.” I frown looking at him.

“Rocky very helpful.”

Ryland snorts. Then his hand settles lightly against the side of my head, just cupping my cheek. I want to move away.

“Si, you're allowed to like dumb things.”

A word catches in my brain. Allowed. What a stupid fucking word to get stuck on.

I look away. “It still feels weird.”

“Okay.”

“And embarrassing.”

“That's okay too.”

“You keep saying okay.”

“Because you keep telling me things that aren't a problem.” I don't have an answer for that. Annoying. Ryland’s other hand comes to cup my other cheek, covering the mutated teeth running up the side. “You don't have to suddenly stop being embarrassed because I said so.”

“Good, because that wasn't happening.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” I glare as he grins down, glasses slipping slightly.

“But you liked it?” Oh, fuck him. I look away. “Simon.”

“I said stop doing that.”

“Doing what?” 

“That.”

“Saying your name?” He quirks an eyebrow up.

“Yes.”

“Simon.” He snickers.

“Fuck you.”

“Simon likes very much.” 

“I hate you both so much.” I hide my face in my hand again.

Ryland laughs. I can feel it through his leg beneath my head.

“You're allowed to like it, Si.” He says it more quietly.

I peek at the ceiling through my fingers.

My face is hot. My tail wags once. I hate that fucking thing.

“…I know.” The words feel strange coming out. Not entirely true; maybe just a little bit true. True enough.

Ryland doesn't make a big deal out of it. Thank God. His fingers just go back to my hair.

A few seconds pass. “You know you can ask again, right?”

My eyes open and I drop my hand back down. “For what?”

He flicks his head up slightly at this entire humiliating situation. “This.”

Oh.

“You don't have to wait until you're miserable enough that we have to drag it out of you.” His focus takes on a slightly firmer tone.

“I wasn't miserable.” I lie. Again.

“Simon.”

“I wasn't.”

Rocky taps one claw against my stomach. I flinch.

“Simon mope around ship. Could hear.”

“How do I keep forgetting that?” I groan, my eyes avoiding both of them.

Ryland chuckles above me. “You get used to it.” His fingers continue moving through my hair. “You can just want things, Si.”

That shuts me up. I stare at Rocky.

I don't know what I'm supposed to do with that.

You can just want things.

That's not—things don't work like that. You need things. You earn things. You take things. Wanting something doesn't mean everybody else has to—

“I wanted to,” Ryland says quietly.

I look up. He's watching me again.

Fuck.

“And Rocky obviously wanted to.” His eyes glance at Rocky.

“Very much,” Rocky trills. “Play and take care of Simon.”

“See?” He looks back down at me. Ryland's thumbs start to move in circles along the base of my neck, along my hairline. “You didn't take anything from us.”

I don't answer, and he continues.

“You didn't make us do anything. And you don't owe us anything because we had fun with you.”

Something tight presses against the back of my throat. I swallow it.

“Stop talking.”

Ryland's mouth stays the same. The same soft smile.

“Okay.” And he does. No argument. No, trying to make me say I understand.

His fingers slide forward and start to lightly scratch at my jaw, and as much as I hate it, my body melts at the touch.

Rocky settles more comfortably against me, arms pressing in against my sides. The pressure is nice.

I lie there. Maybe Ryland's right, which is annoying.

The thought about Mom tries to creep in somewhere around the edges again. That I'm too old for this. That I shouldn't still want—no. 

Maybe wanting something soft doesn't mean I'm trying to be a kid again, or I’m weird. Maybe liking something stupid doesn't mean anything at all. That thought feels dangerously reasonable. I don't trust it.

Ryland's nails scratch at my beard, and Rocky's claw rests warm against my stomach. Neither of them seems particularly concerned about all the time and attention I'm stealing.

I close my eyes, sleep tugging at them. 

After a while, Ryland speaks again.

“So...” I grunt. “How was it?”

I crack one eye open. He's looking down at me. Not grinning this time. Just looking.

I could say fine.

Could say weird.

Could remind him that he's an asshole and Rocky cheats by having too many arms. Could pretend I'm still deciding whether I'm allowed to have liked it at all.

Instead, the same stupid word comes back.

“…Lovely.”

Ryland goes still while Rocky makes a soft, happy chirp. Heat immediately crawls up my face.

“Don't…make it weird.” I cringe back at him.

Ryland's head dips and presses his smile into my hair.

“Wouldn't dream of it.”

He’s a liar too.

Grace felt so guilty.

He was currently sitting at one of several workstations aboard the Hail Mary, observing the newly-discovered Taumoeba as he introduced them to different elements (making sure his plan was airtight, and all of that), when he looked over at his alien companion who was on the floor next to him.

Rocky was within his xenonite ball, currently fabricating what looked to be another suit—though this one looked more intricate than the ball Rocky was currently confined to, and it looked nearly done. Grace wasn’t looking at his suit, though. His eyes were drawn to the silver marks that now were strewn about Rocky’s body. He assumed they were something like fresh scars, or maybe scabs, considering he’d seen the silver stuff on the floor where Rocky had dragged himself back to his suit after bringing Grace to safety.

Grace felt absolutely terrible. His only friend had risked his life to save him, and now he had wounds all over his body… Grace couldn’t help but feel like it was his fault. Surely there was something he could do to repay Rocky for it, but… how could someone repay such a massive debt?

Between being lost in thought and making sure his Taumoeba didn’t die, Rocky had already finished up his work and dashed off into another room with loud clangs of his xenonite ball.

Grace gave a soft chuckle, turning back toward his work for a few minutes, trying to keep his mind off the guilt he felt.

Only a short while later, Rocky returned, now wearing the new suit he’d fabricated. He stomped his feet to get Grace’s attention, his translated voice coming through the laptop nearby.

“Grace, look! Rocky make new suit! Much more flexible! Can walk normal now!”

Grace looked over, surprised at what he saw. Rocky’s body was covered in xenonite plating as opposed to the entire thing being confined to a ball, with a dedicated space for Rocky’s body and each respective leg. He could stand and walk properly, as opposed to rolling around like a hamster.

“Wow… that’s impressive, bud. What gave you that idea?” Grace said, leaning forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Rocky wanted more dexterity. More control. Better mobility. And easier to grab Grace.”

Grace immediately felt his guilt punch him in the gut once again. Rocky fabricated an entirely new suit with him in mind? To be able to get to him more easily if he needed help?

The scientist sighed, getting down on the floor to sit and be next to Rocky.

“That’s really sweet of you, Rock. But… god, I feel awful. Here, can you at least let me look at your wounds, now that I can? With your new suit?”

Rocky shifted, as though confused by Grace’s words.

“Why Grace want to, question? Rocky no longer hurt. They no hurt no more.”

Grace rubbed at his temples, underneath his glasses. Of course not. Rocky probably healed up while he was in his deep slumber—that was probably why he’d slept for so long, Grace thought. Duh.

But he couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt. He felt like he owed himself to Rocky, now.

“Okay, well… even if they are healed, will you just let me make sure? I feel horrible.” Grace said, letting out a sigh, scratching at the back of his neck. He hoped his friend wouldn’t be as stubborn about this as he was other things.

Rocky tilted his body to one side in response. “If Grace want to so bad,” he said, relenting mostly because he heard the distress in Grace’s voice. “Grace no feel horrible. Rocky watch crew die. Rocky not want to watch Grace die. Rocky fix.”

Grace squeezed his eyes shut. Rocky had a knack for making him teary-eyed.

“Just get over here.”

Rocky clambered over, into Grace’s lap, and folded the bottom halves of his legs underneath him. Grace sat criss-cross around Rocky’s body, leaning forward to inspect the silvery marks he could see on the top of Rocky’s carapace. He still wasn’t entirely sure what his friend’s blood was made of—based on the fact that it was so silver and shiny, he guessed that it was liquid mercury. As if Rocky’s species couldn’t get any more dangerous to humans.

Grace gently ran his fingers over Rocky’s xenonite suit, where the most prominent wound was. Half of it was on top of Rocky’s body, near his vents, and the other half was on the side, near the joint where one of his legs connected to his carapace.

Based on the solidity of Rocky’s body around the wound, Rocky’s earlier statement was correct—his wounds had already healed, they just hadn’t faded away yet. To see it tangibly made Grace feel the slightest bit better.

Driven more by curiosity than remorse now, Grace gently laced his fingers around the joint where Rocky’s leg met his body, moving his leg cautiously to one side to get a better look at the scar. To his surprise, Rocky reacted in a way he’d never seen before.

Rocky jumped a little when Grace pressed his fingertips into the joint, making a high-pitched musical noise that the translator wasn’t able to pick up—if Rocky had said something, it was something Grace hadn’t entered into the translator yet.

“What’s wrong?” Grace said, mildly alarmed. He pulled his hands back, letting them hover in midair while he tried to assess what happened. “I’m sorry, did I hurt you?”

Rocky settled back into his lap after a moment or two. “No hurt. Funny feeling. Need word.”

Grace’s brows lifted. It wasn’t too often now that Rocky needed a new word for something.

“Okay. What word do you need, bud?” He asked, reaching over to grab his laptop and preparing to type.

“Feeling that… make Eridians laugh. Jump. Feels funny.”

Grace blinked, slowly trying to process what Rocky was describing. It took a minute before it finally dawned on him, and he took a second to enter the new word into the translator.

“Oh my god, Rock. You’re ticklish?”

Rocky didn’t seem surprised by Grace’s revelation. “Yes. Most Eridians ticklish.”

Grace, on the contrary, was very surprised by this news. He hadn’t expected a species like Rocky’s to have the same reflexive responses that humans did—their entire bodies were made of hard rock, after all. He didn’t even see a logical reason for why Eridians might have evolved to have such a reflex.

“I mean… wow. Do you know why? Y’know, humans are ticklish, too, where we have vital organs or other places that are vulnerable to attack… but you’re… rock.”

Rocky held up one leg then, moving it back and forth and bending the middle joint as well.

“Eridians ticklish where joints are. Most vulnerable. Small bad things can enter.”

Grace blinked. Small bad things. “Like parasites?”

Rocky ‘nodded’ his carapace, making an affirmative chirping noise.

Grace made an intrigued sound, leaning forward again to look at Rocky’s joints more closely. It made sense, he supposed—they were both ticklish in their most vulnerable areas.

Now Grace suddenly felt playful with his newfound knowledge. He’d heard Rocky chirp with amusement and mimic the sound of Grace’s chuckles, but he’d never heard Rocky laugh for real. He was incredibly curious as to what it would sound like… and he was about to find out.

Carefully, Grace curled his fingers around Rocky’s ‘elbow’ joint, like he had before. Except this time, he gently dug his fingertips in, doing his best not to hurt him.

Rocky jolted once more, making the same high-pitched brief tune.

“What Grace doing, question…?” He asked, his translated voice now sounding suspicious. He tried to move out of Grace’s lap, but he held him in with one hand and his legs.

“Experimenting,” Grace replied cheerfully. “Testing a hypothesis, if you will.”

Grace continued to gently dig his fingers into the joint where Rocky’s leg bent, wiggling his fingertips in as best he could without being too harsh. Rocky started moving around in Grace’s lap, trying to shake his leg out of the scientist’s grip. The noises he was making was unlike anything Grace had heard out of him—lots of whistles and musical chords with chirps throughout, though they sounded much shakier and less sensical than Rocky’s normal speech.

He was laughing.

It was adorable.

“This is the best thing ever. I can’t believe you’re actually ticklish.” Grace said, his voice filled with both amusement and awe. Rocky’s squirming and laughter was both incredibly cute and incredibly fascinating—Grace had been wondering if Rocky even had the ability to properly laugh.

“Grace—!” Rocky managed to say through his trilling giggles, one of his arms moving to push at Grace’s shoulder. The man, however, was not deterred in the slightest. He wanted to hear more, but more than anything, he wanted to make Rocky feel happy.

“Is this okay, Rock? It’s not too much, is it?” Grace asked, slowing his fingers down so the translator could make sense of Rocky’s speech.

Rocky was silent for a moment, and Grace noticed tiny puffs of steam leaving his vents. He’d never seen that happen before—was he embarrassed?

“…Is not… too much. Has been many years since last time.”

Grace paused, his eyebrows lifting slightly with curiosity and intrigue.

“Last time?” He echoed. “Who was tickling you?”

“Adrian,” Rocky answered, settling back against Grace’s legs again, allowing himself to relax a bit now that Grace seemed distracted.

“Thought I was too tense. Wanted to… ‘make Rocky feel better.’”

Grace paused, allowing himself to imagine the scenario Rocky described—Adrian, who Rocky had described as a little bigger than him and a green-blue color, tickling their mate. It was quite an adorable thought.

He returned to reality and looked back down at Rocky, who was still in his lap.

“That’s really sweet.”

Rocky gave an affirmative trill, but there was a layer of sadness in it. Grace furrowed his brows, just a little.

“What’s wrong?” He asked. “You… you miss them, don’t you?”

Rocky gave another affirmative noise, though this one definitely sounded sadder.

“I’m sorry, Rock,” Grace said, feeling a little stab of empathy. Rocky had been away from home for so long—of course he probably missed his mate like hell.

He let out a breath, chewing his lip, when Rocky spoke again.

“Is okay. We will save stars, save Earth, save Erid. Then I will see Adrian again.”

Grace smiled softly, still feeling bad for his friend. There had to be some way he could make him feel bett—

Aha.

“Yeah, you will,” Grace affirmed, pulling Rocky closer to him once more, his voice tinged with mischief now. “For the time being, I’ll make up for it.”

Rocky, confused, didn’t have time to protest. Only a couple seconds went by before Grace’s fingertips started digging into the underside of the joints that connected Rocky’s legs to his carapace, to which Rocky immediately started laughing and squealing once more.

Grace smiled as he dug his fingers in, watching as Rocky squirmed around in his lap, whistling out nonsensical laughs and giggles. Grace had never heard or seen Rocky so uncomposed—it was both hilarious and endearing.

He continued for another minute before he decided to let up, and give Rocky a second to recover.

“You okay, bud?”

Rocky stopped squirming, more small puffs of steam leaving his vents as he recovered his composure. He made a grumbling sort of noise that the translator couldn’t pick up on—honestly, it was probably some sort of expletive.

“Yes. Rocky fine.”

“Alright, good.” Grace nodded and smiled, giving a fond and firm pat to the side of Rocky’s carapace.

And once again, Grace was surprised.

Rocky jolted and squirmed away from Grace, stumbling out of his lap and making another noise of protest.

Grace, startled, lifted his hands up and stared at Rocky with confusion.

“Are you okay? What was that? Did I hurt you?”

Rocky shifted back and forth on his legs, suddenly looking sheepish.

“No, didn’t hurt,” Rocky replied quietly, fidgeting with his claws. “…One more thing that tickles Eridians. Vibrations, on carapace. Vibrations reach inside… makes tickle.”

Grace raised his eyebrows at that, surprised for a moment, but it made sense when he thought about it. Rocky’s carapace was thick and tough, so it would make sense that they wouldn’t be able to feel lighter touches like humans could.

Vibrations. Interesting…

Grace reached forward, more curious than anything, to knock on Rocky’s xenonite suit a bit harder than he normally would on a door, trying to ensure Rocky actually felt it through his suit and his carapace.

He definitely felt it.

Rocky squeaked and jerked away from Grace’s hand, warily backing away from his friend.

Mischief filled Grace’s mind, and an almost evil-looking grin spread across his face. He simply had to try this out. He knew just the thing that would produce a heck of a lot of vibrations.

He lunged with as much agility and speed as he could, knocking Rocky off-balance and onto his side. Before Rocky had time to get back up or fight him off, Grace grabbed onto the sides of Rocky’s carapace, drew in the biggest breath his lungs could hold, and planted a huge raspberry on one of the flat planes of Rocky’s body.

And sweet cheese and crackers, did it work.

Rocky let out a loud, obnoxious sound that almost sounded like a trumpet being blown before dissolving into wild laughter, grabbing at Grace’s shirt and shoulders with his free legs. The chords he was producing made zero sense and all clashed with each other, but Grace found it both amazing and hilarious.

“GrACE—!” Rocky managed, pushing at Grace’s shoulder, and Grace could tell he was doing his best not to hurt him with his strength. “🎶🎵—TickLES—!!”

“Yeah? That’s the point, pal!”

Grace snickered, incredibly enamored by the sound of what he assumed to be Rocky’s cackling. He didn’t even know Rocky was capable of laughing this hard, but now that he’d heard it, he wanted to hear more of it. So, he planted another raspberry on Rocky’s body, and another, and another.

Rocky continued to make the most discordant chords Grace had ever heard him produce, belting out those trumpet-like sounds every now and again when Grace blew into what seemed to be a particularly sensitive spot. When Rocky let out a shrill sound that sounded almost like a screech as he tickled over his vents, Grace decided his friend had probably had enough.

He let go of Rocky’s carapace and placed his hands on the floor on either side of him, watching with great amusement as the alien collapsed onto the ground with exhaustion and residual giggles.

“You okay, there, Rock?” Grace asked with a giggle of his own, reaching forward to give him an affectionate and reassuring pat, only to laugh more when Rocky squeaked and shied away from his hand.

“…Rocky regrets telling Grace about Eridian tickles.” Rocky grumbled when he’d collected himself, muttering another expletive that the translator didn’t recognize, nor did Grace. He found it funny anyway.

“Oh, lighten up. You had fun, didn’t you? You’re so much stronger than me, you could’ve shoved me off anytime you wanted.”

Rocky didn’t answer that. He shifted back and forth on his legs, still making grumbling sounds of embarrassed frustration.

Admittedly… yes. Rocky did have fun. But who could blame him? If anyone else had been stranded in space alone for decades with no contact with anyone, they would have loved being tickled silly too.

Grace chuckled to himself again as he stood up, heading back over to the desk he was originally sitting at to start back on his work that he had initially been doing.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” he said, leaning forward to sort out some petri dishes. “You’re not the only one.”

Rocky went still for a second at that. Slowly, his carapace lifted.

“Humans ticklish too, question?”

Grace paused too. Of course his big mouth had let that tidbit slip.

Rocky noticed the pause.

“…Grace ticklish… question?” He asked, slower, his translated voice tinged with mild mischief, his legs ever so slowly carrying him closer to Grace.

Fudge. He should have known revenge was going to be on Rocky’s mind.

"Exercise. In my house," March continued flatly.

"What's so fucking crazy about that?" Healy flustered. 

March raised his hands and gestured wildly at the space around them. "It's the goddamn March household! The most well-adjusted thing that ever happens here is when Holly does her homework for school."

"It's the March-Healy household," Healy grumbled, going into his next set of oblique crunches. 

Holland giggled. "Wife guy," he teased.

"Asshole," Healy grunted. 

March grinned and squatted down next to Healy, decidedly in his personal space. 

"You gotta sit so close?" Healy huffed. 

March ignored the question, blatantly ogling Healy's strong arms. "Why're you doing this shit anyway?"

"I'm— trying to live longer—" Healy was out of breath. He finished his set and crumpled to the ground to rest.

"Why?" March teased. "Because you loooove me?"

"So I can beat up annoying little shits like you for as long as possible," Healy replied gruffly. 

Healy flipped over and got into a plank position, ready to start his push-up's again. "And for Holly," he added, more quietly. 

March went quiet too and Healy gave him the grace of not making eye contact. March cleared his throat. "Well, guess I better help you out," he declared, standing up. 

Healy paused before his first push-up. "Wha- how do you want to do that?"

March threw a leg over Healy's back and straddled him like a horse. Healy grunted in surprise and faltered in his plank position. "Like this!" March said happily. "Go on, tough guy, can't you do push-ups with me on top?"

A vein in Healy's neck popped out from effort as he slowly lowered himself down with March on his back. "Can do a— lotta things— with you on top," he grunted slyly, his voice labored.

It was a shame he was looking at the ground, because he missed the pretty flush down March's cheeks and neck. 

March scoffed as Healy managed to grind out a second push-up with the entire weight of March on top of him. "Not fuckin' fair," he muttered under his breath. 

"You could be exercising too instead of sitting on me," Healy remarked. He went down for a third push-up. 

"No, I think I gotta make it harder for you," March chuckled, an idea coming to mind. He poked gently at the muscle at the top of Healy's ribs. 

Healy stiffened instantly. "March," he practically barked. "Don't fucking do that."

"Or what? You'll drop me? It's not a very long fall," March giggled, prodding gently along Healy's ribs as the older man attempted to go down for a fourth push-up. 

Healy made a tortured noise. 

"Oh no," March said in a theatrical voice, "Are you too ticklish for this?" 

"Shut the fuck up," Healy growled. He jolted up from the bottom of his push-up as March scratched at his ribs a little harder. 

"You know, I think the quality of your push-ups is deteriorating," March mused innocently. "They're getting shallower," he added, squeezing at Healy's pecs. "You might wanna watch that."

As Healy went down for his fifth push-up, March snuck his hands under Healy's body and clawed lightly at Healy's tummy. Healy squeaked and finally fell to the ground. March snorted with laughter. 

"Ohhh, not so tough, are ya?" March giggled. 

Healy pressed his forehead to the carpet and took a breath, mostly for his sanity. Then, he flipped his body over, pinning March down under him. March yelped as Healy trapped him on his back, quickly ensnaring his wrists and capturing them under his knees. 

"Wait! Come on, I was just messing around," March whined. 

"Too late," Healy grumbled, digging harshly into March's hips. He massaged the soft tissue there with deep pulses of his thumbs. March shrieked, thrashing and bucking his hips uselessly. 

"OKAYOKAY—okahay okay wait!" March squealed. "Can't we—cahan't we talk about this?!"

Just then, Holly came skidding around the corner into the room, looking for the source of the loud noise. Healy noticed the slight panic on her face and put his arms out immediately to reassure her. "I was just handing out some divine punishment," he explained.

Holly relaxed and scoffed lightly at the color of her dad's face. "You look like a tomato."

"Some help?!" March exclaimed. "I'm dying!"

Holly grinned. "Flip him over," she said simply, and turned and left. 

"Traitor!" March shouted after her. 

"Flip you over?" Healy mused. 

"Don't listen to her," March flustered. "She's…uh, hormonal. Teenagers, y'know."

"She's thirteen," Healy muttered, rolling his eyes. 

"Yeah, thirteen ends in 'teen,' so—"

Healy flipped March onto his stomach fairly easily, pinning him again.

March pressed his face against the rug with a whiny noise. "I said don't listen to her!" March whined. Healy smirked.

"I think she's onto something," Healy snickered. He let March's arms free—the younger man couldn't do much to him from this position anyway. "Is this why you flipped the fuck out when I broke your arm?"

"NnnnNO!" March shouted. "I was not—that was not—"

"Are you sure?" Healy chuckled, latching firmly onto March's ribs and squeezing up and down. March wailed with laughter and squirmed around like a trapped insect. 

"Ohh, it's so much worse for you like this," Healy mused.

"Stop—TAHALKING!" 

"No, I don't think I will," Healy said calmly. 

March groaned out a giggly "fuck you" as Healy crawled his large hands all the way up under March's arms, drawing firm circles into March's armpits with one finger on each side. 

"What was that?" Healy prodded. "I couldn't hear over the sound of you screaming like a girl."

March was too focused on trying to army-crawl away from Healy to reply. Healy watched him escape for a minute, letting him make it a foot farther on the floor, before digging into March's hips and yanking him right back to where he was before. March let out a giggly screech mixed with a chorus of desperate "no no no"s.

Healy felt one of March's feet kick him in the back from all of his flailing. Healy turned around to face March's thighs. "You know, the word of the day today was 'hysterical,'" Healy mused. 

"I dohon't CAHARE!" 

Healy massaged into the backs of March's thighs. March screamed with laughter and pounded his fists against the ground. "You don't? I think it's quite fitting," Healy replied. 

March was too lost in his laughter to reply.

"Are you ready to apologize now?" Healy asked, skittering his fingers into the backs of March's knees. March felt sparks of ticklish agony shooting up his legs at the feeling—even through his pants, that spot always killed him. 

"YES! Yes—STOHOHOP!" March cried. 

Healy stopped tickling and listened as March gasped out a breathless apology. He turned around again to sit on March's hips and rubbed the younger man's back soothingly as he caught his breath. 

"Did you do that on purpose?" Healy asked. "Pissing me off for attention?" 

March didn't reply. Healy prodded him in the side. "Hey."

March suddenly snored loudly under Healy. The older man sat still for a second, and then chuckled softly. He patted March's back and stood up.

In all your years as a private investigator, you’d never had a case quite like this most recent one. What began as a typical ‘I think my husband is cheating on me’ case, ended up spiralling into the discovery of some shady secret society bullshit. It was a tough case, and just when you’d been about to drown under the weight of it all, your path crossed with Healy and March, who were working the same case as you. It was a relief to have a team of three heads rather than one, and both parties had information the other hadn’t yet discovered, leading to bright new insights and refueled momentum. 

Throughout the case, there had been multiple missteps and turn-arounds and plot-twists and shoot-outs that could have really ended terribly (well, could have ended terribly for the three of you, and did end quite terribly for the guys on the other side of the fight). But you all pulled through, and closed the case earlier this evening.

Now, the three of you are celebrating at some hole-in-the-wall bar that somehow manages to feel quite homey. You’re sitting on the middle barstool between Healy and March. At this hour, there aren’t many other patrons scattered about the small bar: Some guy’s passed out on the table across the room (but he’s fine). A couple have been canoodling in a back booth for who knows how long.

Holland’s been animatedly retelling the story of his standoff with one of the goons he’d encountered and fought off while you and Healy were separated from him. His story wraps up and your shared laughter peters out. A swell of silence takes over the moment.

“Well,” Healy’s gruff voice says from your left, as he taps his empty whiskey glass on the bar. “I’m gonna call it for tonight.” 

It’s late. It’s a very reasonable time to leave. You understand. But there’s a sad twist to the smile you give him as you nod. You’ve been through so much together and you’re not sure when you’ll get to see him again. 

He rises from his stool, pulling out his wallet. He slips out a few bills and places them on the bartop. Then slips out a business card and hands it to you, holding your gaze. “Call anytime, understand? For anything.” 

The gesture, coming from someone else, might leave room for you to wonder if they were making a pass at you. But from Healy it’s clear there’s nothing beyond a platonic sense of care and protection in the offer. 

You stand, blinking preemptively to keep your eyes from misting, and wrap your arms in a strong hug around Healy’s shoulders. “Thank you for everything,” you say as you squeeze.

He seems caught off guard for just a moment, then softens, returning the hug. “Our pleasure,” he says, his gruff voice softening in an almost avuncular way. 

As you mutually withdraw from the hug, he locks eyes with March, who’s slouched so far sideways over the bar his whole arm from armpit to elbow is flush against it, holding him up. His head’s propped on his hand. Beer bottle hanging limply from the fingers of his second hand. 

“‘Night, March,” Healy says, quick and casual.

March lifts his bottle, two fingers raised in some sort of wave-salute hybrid. 

“Get home safe, yeah?” Healy says, eyes back on you as he shrugs on his stormy blue leather jacket. 

You nod. “‘Course. G’night, Healy,” you say. 

And he nods, then heads out.

The interaction had been tender. You’d been through a lot these past few weeks. And it was the kind of goodbye that honoured that.

Holland, though, to your right, has been watching the interaction through squinted eyes. 

Was there something going on between Healy and you? You’d all gotten close over the course of the case. Spent a lot of time together. He wouldn’t put it past Healy to be interested. Who wouldn’t be? You’re wonderful. And brave. And stunning. And smart and delightful and funny and fierce and everything else that is good. 

Okay, so. Holland’s taken with you. He’d gone from interested to smitten after spending less than a week in your company. And smitten had fermented into pining and then into yearning over the remainder of the case. 

He huffed. 

Healy was his partner. And if something was going on there… With you… With Healy and you… That… would be a good thing. For Healy. And for you, probably. 

Not for March, though. Very very bad for March. 

He couldn’t help the bitterness that rose up his throat. 

He could be good for you. If you’d let him. If you wanted that. 

You could do much better, though. He pouts, peering down the dark neck of his beer bottle.

Healy would be better. Someone in a much safer line of business would be even better. 

But God he wanted to be the one to be good for you. 

You miss all signs of his rumination as you settle back into your seat. When you turn back to March with a small smile, you find him closed off. He’s swiveled the angle of his stool to face the bar. He’s hunched over slightly as he fiddles with the label of his beer bottle, the sticker wet and flimsy with condensation. A hint of a petulant little sulk hides behind his ‘stache. 

He removed his suit jacket on arrival, draped it over the backrest of his seat. Throughout the night his tie’s gotten looser. Sleeves of his white shirt rolled up his forearms. You try not to let your eyes linger on the way the blonde dusting of hair on his arms glitter in the warm light.

You draw in a breath and release it audibly. He says nothing.

“So,” you start, inviting him into conversation. Just a word to acknowledge the changed dynamic of the night. No longer a group outing. Just you and March. March is prompted out of the bubble of his thoughts by your voice, but only somewhat. He turns his face to you, squints at you, as if trying to figure you out. Finally he points the lip of his bottle toward you, and asks, “Who d’you think would win in a fight? Me or Healy?”

You raise your eyebrows in surprise at the question but play along. “Uh, Healy.”

“Wh–?” his face crunches into a petulant frown. He dismisses the notion with a little pff. “Name one good reason.”

“Well, you’re quite drunk,” you say, grinning.

He’s not that drunk. He’s only had, what, three drinks more than Healy? So, like, five drinks more than you. And he’s off the hard stuff for the night. Switched to beer! But then, he’d arrived at the bar on the buzz he’d been stoking all day. He isn’t incoherent, by any means. He’s lucid. He’s on the looser, swimmy-minded side of lucid. But lucid enough.

He tips the beer bottle again, as if pointing at you, as if it’s a natural extension of his hand. He’s got a lifted look to his features, like he’s just cracked some sort of code. “But if I wasn’t drunk,” he prompts.

“Healy.”

He deflates with a little grunt. “Could at least pretend to think about it,” he mumbles, and takes a dejected swig of his beer.

“Mm, sorry. You’re right,” you say, playing along. “Let me think.” You lean back in the bar stool, eyes closed, like you’re really mulling it over. “And if… oh, but if… mm… aaand, carry the one…” You open your eyes. “Still Healy.”

Despite himself, he scoffs his way into a laugh and you follow.

“Okay, what about…” His tongue darts out to wet his lip, then swivels his stool to face you more directly, leans back, arm draped languidly along the bar, chest unsubtly puffed. “A fight between me and your boyfriend. Who’d win then?” he asks, shrugging one shoulder, trying and failing at nonchalance. 

Oh. Your heart flutters.

You hold his gaze and assure him, “Don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Mm.” He nods in a slow, serious way, brows pinched in concentration as he considers this. “What about Healy or your boyfriend?”

You blink at the question and sputter out a chuckle. “... Still don’t have a boyfriend.” 

You see the moment his mind properly processes this, the inner machinations of his mind projected clearly through his features. 

“Oh,” he huffs out with a breathy laugh at his blunder and flushes, tries and fails to bury the blush as he sweeps a hand over his face. But his demeanor changes, no longer puffed-up but light and lifted and open. He’s got the dusting of a grin on his lips as he crooks the elbow of the arm on the bar and leans his head back onto his hand.

When his eyes find you again, there’s something simmering behind them. 

“What about you and me then?” his tone tips flirtatious. 

Your heart flips. Finally. 

The case is over, and he’s finally making a move.

“You and me?” you ask with a smile, eyes wide and glittering with interest.

“Yeah,” he affirms with a nod. Your lips just manage to part around a pleased response, when he follows up with, “Who’d win that fight?”

Oh…. The air punches out of your chest.

He’s not asking you out. He’s still doing his little bit. 

But he’s looking at you. He’s flirting. Progress is progress, you suppose.

“Me,” you reply, brushing your disappointment aside and relenting into a grin.

His eyes do a quick sweep of your frame. The look isn’t suggestive in nature. He’s taking stock. Pointing out your stature compared to his. “Really?”

“Oh yeah,” you say, nodding. “For sure.”

He makes a baffled, amused face. He’s no martial artist, by any means, but he can hold his own. And you can too. It’s necessary for the job, and you’re both good at what you do. It should be a relatively even match. His confusion’s clear on his face.

“You wouldn’t hurt me,” you add, to explain your reasoning, letting the tone of the moment turn tender.

Holland flushes warm pink. “Ah.” He doesn’t argue. Saves himself from his own bashfulness with another swig of beer.

“What about another kind of fight, then?” he suggests, voice playful and definitely flirty now. He leans in closer by a fraction. “Who’d win in a battle of wits?” He waggles his eyebrows. “Me.”

He barks out another baffled grunt of defeat at your immediate confident reply, jerking his entire form in a dramatic show of dismay. The movement has his seat swivelling beneath him, sending partway around in a circle, and he makes these twisting thrusts of his hips and knees to manoeuvre the seat back in place to face you.

You’ve always been one to turn giggly after a few drinks, and tonight, it seems, is no different. His reaction, followed by the awkward hip swivels, tips you into such a spell of laughter, you completely miss the way he lights up at the sound. 

And Holland March is nothing if not a dog with a bone. 

He’s been single-mindedly focused on this thing he’s been doing, trying to find any angle, any chain of events, any possible world where he comes out victorious over others, in your eyes. But then you laugh, and he preens and immediately flings that old goal into the dumpster in the back of his mind. 

New goal: More pretty laughter, please.

“Whattabout a pillow fight?” he asks, having landed back in place. He leans his head on his hand again, the gesture warm as he watches you.

“Me,” you reply through your slightly waning giggles. 

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Snakes and ladders?”

You sputter into a fresh bout of laughter at the suggestion. Snakes and ladders is a game of chance. But still, you point to yourself.

“Dammit!” he shrieks, his voice high and piercing. 

You startle at the sound and cast a quick glance around the bar. With wide eyes, you shush him as well as you can while you’re being swept away in the fresh rapids of your laughter, but he’s undeterred.

“Dominoes?” 

You point to yourself.

“Hopscotch?”

You wheeze at the mental image and point to yourself.

“Tiddlywinks?”

Your laughter goes silent. You fold at the waist and drop your forehead against the bar, cushioned by the back of your hand. You bang a closed fist against the bar once before pointing toward yourself again.

Holland’s gone warm all over. Must be blushing to high heavens. Eyes have maybe been replaced with thumping cartoon hearts. But he can’t find it within him to care.

“Tickle fight?”

You’re not thinking. It’s not a conscious decision you make. You’ve gone so giggle-drunk your wrist pivots of its own volition. Your finger points toward him. 

His eyes widen with surprise and delight, brows elevating near into his hairline. Because this is not only an absolutely adorable turn of events, but also quite a promising lead. You mean he can get you giggling and he doesn’t even need to be funny or clever to earn it? The goal-oriented part of his brain starts chiming like a slot machine that’s hit the jackpot. 

Your brain catches up with your hand a moment too late. A soft gasp interrupts your laughter and you sit up a bit. Your eyes go wide at your own hand, and you sharply close the traitorous finger into the rest of your fist, as if a statement you could retract. 

Holland sputters out a laugh. “Ah, I’ve got a chance there, do I?” he teases, reaching out to poke at your ribs, exposed by your leaning forward against the bar. 

You squeak at the touch and shake your head. “I didn’t mean that!” you insist, though a helpless reinvigoration of giggles are already sweeping you away, and your whole torso’s jolting sideways with every prod of his finger. Your elbow tucks in protectively but Holland works around it.

“No?” Holland chuckles. Lands another few pokes. “I’unno. Seems like you might be really sensitive. Told on yourself pretty good there, didn’t you?”

“Fuck off,” you say through snickers, batting at his hand. Your face has flushed hot and your abdomen’s beginning to ache from the exertion of sustained laughter. “‘S not fair. I’m already laughing! Ow.” You pout, an overdramatic bid for mercy.

“Mm,” Holland hums, the tone of it disbelieving. But he relents, withdrawing his hand. “Fair eno—AUGH!” He spasms at a fizzy burst of sensation between his ribs.

You both freeze at his response, even as you’re still fighting to recover from your giggle attack. Your hand stills in place where it had darted out to prod at him. Mischievous glee spreads slow across your face. 

His widened eyes meet your eager ones. The nervous anticipation fizzling within him is shoddingly masked by an attempt at a warning glare. 

“Think about what you’re doing,” he cautions, his pointer finger raised in a show of sternness, but it trembles. 

“I am,” you assure him, voice laced in innocence. “‘M thinkin’ this’ll be really fun.” 

You waste no time digging back in, and your touch sends Holland’s already thready composure crumbling.

Where Holland’s approach had been a step above timid, just a few pokes, yours is unbridled. 

Your clawed fingers have latched into the intercostal spaces of his ribcage and squeeze away with lethal precision. 

He fights it for half a moment, tensing and stammering out a fitful stream of shit’s and fuck’s before biology takes over. He dissolves with a wheeze into reluctant laughter, his body curling around the site of your attack. 

You’ve never seen him this way. His face all flushed and scrunched with merriment is, perhaps, the most adorable sight of your life. You can’t help melting a little, and chuckling along with him.

“Oh no. Seems like you might be really ticklish,” you parrot his own words back to him.

He shakes his head and eeks out a wheezy Shuddup, cheeks blooming rose red.

You turn your ear toward him. “Hm? What was that?”

As soon as he starts trying to form the words again, you dart your hand to his leg, squeezing just above the knee. A shrill yelp replaces any attempt at a response. He folds over, bumbling hands trying to reach for yours, blocked by the bar. 

“Oh, nothing?” you say, uber-casual. “Strange. Thought you had something to say.”

“God, shit,” he squeaks, one weakened hand finally finding yours, trying and failing to pry at your fingers.

“No, you’re right. That was cruel of me. This any better?” you ask, shifting your hand higher to squeeze at his mid-thigh.

He snorts, squawking through his laughter. His legs shift and kick aimlessly under your hand. The toe of his shoe bashes against the lower wall of the bar and, though Holland carries on unharmed, the bang reverberates through the space. “Shhh. Jeez, would you behave?” you tease, but don’t let up. You glance around the bar but nobody’s paying you any mind. The canoodling couple has left (or snuck into the bathroom). The passed-out guy’s snoring on the table. “People are trying to have a quiet evening here.”

He whines at your words but doesn’t retort. Just lets himself laugh as he reaches clumsily under the bar, across his lap, for your hand with his free one—the one not concerned with keeping the beer bottle dangling between his fingers from getting smashed or spilled in the fray. 

You leave his leg alone and take advantage of his exposed underarm, prodding into the hollow. His arm slams down to his side, punctuated by a surprised bark of laughter. And thank god these barstools have backrests or Holland would’ve ended up on the floor, with the way he throws himself backward in a fruitless attempt to evade your touch. 

You let yourself admire the way his hair bounces in the bar’s low light, his head thrown back, crow’s feet crinkling as he’s wracked with desperate, defiant cackles. His free hand finally finds its bumbling way across his chest to your forearm, but doesn’t wrench at you or push you away. Just grabs onto you as if for an anchor, grip strong but not too tight. His palm is warm.

“Uh oh, bad there?” you tease with a helpless, besotted grin. He’s too far gone to respond, poor thing. 

You let up a little, opting for light fluttery fingertips and nails where you’ve been deep-tissue wriggling. 

He sucks in a quick breath and curses, but it’s a paltry show of distress. With his shoulder jerked upward, ear angled down protectively, he disintegrates into giggles so bubbly you want to bottle them. You wonder, for one too-hopeful second, if he might curl so far to the side his head comes to rest on your shoulder, but he remains relatively upright.

When his curled-in stance proves to be ineffective protection, his head tips back again, and he slips down in his seat, revealing features that are undeniably mirthful. He looks so free and boyish a fresh wave of affection crashes over you. Your hand freezes in place.

He blinks his eyes open through the lingering giggles and the glimmer in the blue of them is far too reminiscent of the way a sun glitters on a lake. 

He’s had his eyes scrunched shut all this time, giving you the luxury of getting away with doing absolutely nothing to rein in the blatant adoration on your face. But eyes-open means he can see you now, and some alarm goes off in your mind: Shit, too vulnerable. Abort abort abort.

Your face flushes hot, and you slip your hand from the crease of his armpit, dropping it to your lap. You run your palms along your thighs as you turn back to the bar, clearing your throat, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

You manage a glance back at him, and any notion that you’d been caught ogling him are quelled. He’s completely occupied with recuperating. Melted back in his seat, one arm crossed lazily over his middle, the other thrown over his eyes. His grin seems like it may be permanently stained across his face. 

You have to remind yourself, quite pointedly, not to watch the way his chest fills and falls as he heaves his way back to even breath. You bury your compounding blush by taking a sip of your long forgotten drink. 

“Y’okay over there?” you quip gently, grinning.

His shoulders shake with the remnants of breathy snickers. He doesn’t look over, but gives you the finger.

You snort. “It wasn’t that bad.”

He sputters, squinted eyes peeking out from under the crook of his elbow to fix you with an affronted look. 

“Oh, it wasn’t?” he quips with a wavering, slightly hoarse voice. I’m sorry, were you the one being tickled within an inch of your life? 

You roll your eyes and fix him with a dismissive look of your own in return. “Please, it was, like, two seconds.”

He scoffs, shakes his head, running a palm over his face. He sits up a little, righting himself in his seat, still grinning stupidly and failing to suppress it. 

“It was an eternity, actually,” he insists, all sass. He’s back to tipping the pointed end of his beer bottle at you, punctuating his point. It’s a wonder he managed not to drop the thing through the entire ordeal.

“Mm, was it? Oh, wow,” you mutter through a grin, and take another sip of your drink. 

His brow scrunches. He leans to get a look at you. “What? What’s ‘wow’ mean?”

You shrug. “Nothing. Just can’t believe you were tickled for a whole eternity and it never once occurred to you to, like…” You flick your eyes to the row of empty stools to his right “... move.” 

His eyes widen and his head whips to the side. 

Oh. Okay, yeah, he totally, very easily could’ve shifted over, out of your reach. Fuck. 

His face flushes red. 

He spins back to you, defiant and overly gesticulative. “Well forgive me for not being of sound mind, okay? Maybe I was a little too busy to formulate an escape plan while you were, fuckin’…” he trails off, lifting his elbow and plucking his fingers in the air between his arm and side.

You hold his gaze, brows raised, for a moment, to see if he’ll finish his sentence. And he does not. You chuckle into the lip of your drink. “Hm. Right. Fair enough.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, fair enough,” Holland mutters, playing at indignance, swiping a hand through his mussed hair. He brings the beer bottle back to his lips, chin tipped back as he downs the last of it.

You allow yourself a long, slow sip, and swallow, before glancing back his way. “Didn’t occur to you to say ‘stop’, either?” 

He sputters into his drink, reddening. Glares at you.

“You had fun,” you declare, holding his gaze, admittedly smug.

He swallows. Scoffs. “You had fun,” he deflects, snarky. 

“I did,” you agree, shameless and beaming. 

He rolls his eyes, slumps back into his seat. Goes even pinker. 

You chuckle softly and sit back in your seat, attention back on your drink, letting the moment cool to a simmer.

After a moment, you glance over—just to check in, just to make sure he’s not combusting under the force of his embarrassment—and find him shaking his head, toying with the now-empty bottle where it rests on the bar, failing to hide the aching fondness on his face. His attention turns, eyes catching yours, and you exchange a twin set of bashful grins.

Another best passes. 

You swallow the last of your drink and set the empty glass back on the bar. “So, guess I was wrong before,” you admit.

He looks at you, confused.

“Tickle fight,” you clarify. “Turns out I’d win that one, too.”