to slay or not to slay

What you’ve got with him is neither here nor there. It’s perfectly middle-ground, and really, you're satisfied with it. Grace is a decent roommate; he’s observant—knows what ticks you off, what pleases you, avoids the former and tries for the latter. You can already tell that he’s a little bit sweet on you, just by the way that he looks at you with soft blue eyes—corners of his eyes crinkling as he busies his hands with whatever prop he decides to pick up. Glass beakers, microscopes, xenonite models, you name it. It’s always the same.

And you’re always staring at him with your chin propped up on your palm, at once amused and enamored. You’d known you would feel a certain way about Grace ever since you’d both woken up on the Hail Mary. You’re attracted to him, of course, but there’s also something else. Even without a whole memory, your mind lingers on him longer than need be. It’s something like love, if not exactly that. “Well, we haven’t talked about it, but we’re as good as mates,” you decide to tell Rocky.

“Is unclear,” he mumbles. Aloud, it does sound like very strange terms to be referring to the current circumstances. A very human arrangement, you think. Rocky concurs with a stamp of his arm down on the plated floor.

“We live together, we eat together. I can tell I want to kiss him and he wants to kiss me,” you list off, counting on one hand. “We cohabitate in the same space like two mates would, but we haven’t had the opportunity to… have it out. It’s mission-first thinking.”

Rocky begins to roll towards a batch of glass propped up on the wall, a wordless sign for you to pick it up for him. Break’s over. Begrudgingly, you follow along, lifting the trapezoidal glass pane up with both arms. As you swing it into a more secure grip, he seems to speak more softly. “More Eridian than human.”

“Who? Me?” you say half-heartedly, still very focused toward your grip on the xenonite glass. It’s more difficult for you than it is for Rocky to carry the whole thing through the hatch door of the Hail Mary. Still, it sounds like a high compliment.

“Yes. Is Eridian thinking to view Grace in definite terms. Grace as mate, inevitable. Is beautiful!” Rocky raises a claw up, wiggling his little rugged fingers in a gentle sweep across the empty space in front of him. It’s reassuring, certainly, that Rocky views you in high regard. Even though you’re breaking a sweat trying to carry this weighted pane for your new shipmate, you still make a concerted effort to give him a wide grin.

“Thanks, Rocky.”

—

There’s a good mood going between you and Rocky after all the talking. Grace picks up on it quickly after his long nap, when he sees the both of you huddled in the lab working on one of the larger dry-erase boards. There’s a bunch of calculations scrawled neatly in black across the whole white surface, alongside a larger diagram of the ship’s engines. While he’s been sleeping, it’s clear the two of you have been wading through the more complex engineering issues. Hearing Grace’s footsteps approach, you turn to face him over your shoulder with a grin, “Morning.”

Grace looks straight out of bed, with his punny tee and his sweatpants—blonde hair sticking up in random directions. He seems to be stretching his back out as you greet him, eyelids heavy. “It seems like someone ignored the memo to pack light,” Grace grumbles, nudging his mug towards the corridor behind him. The stack of xenonite crates and glass you two amassed is generous, to say the least.

“Hey, I’m just the mover,” you hum, “You’re gonna have to take it up with the big guy.” You jut your index finger out towards Rocky, who’s tapping one side claw against the glass.

He merely buzzes, “Rocky need equipment to save Earth Erid stars. Don’t mind.” He rolls closer to the center of the room to get a better scan of the corridor, before returning to your side at the white board. “Same volume of mess as before Rocky arrival.” Rude. When you look back over at Grace, he doesn’t seem to have any major objections. It is true; the two of you were maybe a little bit slobbish before Rocky came along.

The three of you seem to fall back into routine easily. Grace is still trying to wake himself up with generous gulps of black coffee. You and Rocky continue on with your calculations and diagram. You’re trying your best to stay focused on the work—but the two of you have been working on these problems for the past hour and now, Grace is in front of you with his entirely sleep-ridden appearance. He just looks… perfect. And, out of the blue, Rocky shoots out an abrupt: “Why choose Grace for mate, question?” There’s a clatter to your left. Grace’s grip loosens on the handle of his mug, a sizable drop of coffee splashing onto the steel counter beside you both. He decides, at once, to place the mug down and away from himself, before wiping the mess up with the sleeve of his navy-blue hoodie.

Grace sputters, “What? Mate—we're not—that would require at least kind of—" He’s speaking so intermittently that he can barely get a full sentence out. You raise a brow just watching Grace mesh his hands together, fingers interlocking and coming apart. He’s not making it any better for himself.

The wide-eyed look that you give Rocky isn’t nearly as mortified as Grace’s. While it’s accompanied by shock, you’re very intrigued by the nature of Rocky’s question. You have no idea what he’s shooting for, but it’s clearly working. Grace is talking to himself, dazed as he fixates on soaking the coffee up with his sleeve. Rocky stays silent in his xenonite casing. He’s anticipating an answer out of you, and so you’re going to have to give it to him. With a rather astute tone, analytical in nature, you offer up, “Well, he’s passionate. That’s a plus.”

Grace’s brows furrow together. “Sorry?” He’s floored. You can’t possibly be talking about him, but Rocky’s asking and you’re answering. It’s really not adding up. Grace is looking at you over the frame of his glasses, eyes squinted in perplexity.

“The molecular biology, the teaching,” you note, “Gold stars all around.”

“Dedication valuable for Earth mate selection,” Rocky nods along. It isn’t anything he doesn’t already know. While Grace has been asleep and the two of you have gotten to talking, Rocky knows practically all the minute details of why you’ve “chosen” Grace. The point of hashing it out in front of him now is unclear—aside from the potential entertainment value. That makes sense.

“Okay. He learned humor while I was napping. I’m not offended at all.” Though he tries to laugh it off, Grace doesn’t sound at all sure of himself. He’s very close to pacing back and forth, not sure whether he should try to change out of his now coffee-soaked hoodie or question the two of you further. When you and Rocky turn straight back to work unaffected, you at the front of the board and him tracing his claw across the glass with a sort of contemplative silence, Grace is shell-shocked. He’s muttering under his breath, “I don’t think I get the joke.” Both of your backs are turned to Grace; he can’t see the growing smirk that’s cropping up on your face.

It’s a quick pivot back to work. “I have a feeling that we should make a few minor adjustments to the rear fuselage. There’s going to be a lot of strain on engines when we get to Tau Ceti-E.” You click your tongue, circling the lower right quadrant of the diagram in a red dry-erase ink. Once your little annotation is completed, you tuck the marker in your back pocket.

“Agree, agree, agree,” Rocky tips his body towards the white board. His texture monitor is showing a complex, grayscale copy of the board to a T. It’s as if neither of you have tried to tease Grace to death just seconds prior. He’s glued to the ground with a weary kind of expression on his face. Grace is frowning, truly and deeply, with his palm squeezing the back of his neck. You could almost feel bad if you weren’t so pleased to see Grace like this; rarely is he speechless.

A few minutes pass. Then, Rocky approaches the same question from a different vantage point. “Grace attractive by human standard, question?”

“Well, he's handsome by my standard, and I’m pretty sure a lot of humans would agree,” you admit. “He is a bit dorky, but I like ‘em that way. That’s preference, though. Not all humans are into dorky.”

Rocky returns your statement with a rushed out, “Yes, yes, yes—preference. Understand.”

“Okay. Hello?” Grace speaks outward towards the lab. His voice carries throughout the hull of the ship, and the two of you are still non-reactive. “We’re doing it again. I am in the room.” His old teacher’s voice is coming out again—one hand shot up in the air, trying to flag your attention.

You look at him over your shoulder with a soft “What was that, Ry?” You’re very pleased to see that his cheeks are glowing red underneath the white-gold frames of his glasses. You drag your gaze up and down his raised arm, with a particularly sharp grin hanging off your face. So toned. “Didn’t hear you,” you tilt your head. Grace lowers his arm slowly, turning back around to pick up his mug.

“Ha-ha,” Grace punches out. He’s trying to seem unbothered by this whole situation, but it really is bothering him. No matter how hard he’s trying to maintain his composure, Grace is flushed. You can practically see the steam rising off the top of his head. It’s an illogical conversation playing out in front of him and the effort’s no use. You and Rocky are absolutely impossible. “I’m going to go for a metaphorical breath of fresh air. I will… see you both shortly.” Grace is too nervous to push it any further, and it seems like he’s leaving you both to do a cool-off lap around the ship.

You can hear him talking to himself as he leaves the lab, as if possessed by his own confusion. “Handsome…? Is it April Fool’s? Mary, can you pull up a UTC calendar for me, please? What month is it back home?” Louder, the ship’s computer rings out a staticky, “The month is: June.” Grace’s muffled groan rings out towards the two of you..

You turn towards Rocky with a slow shake of your head. “You’re really mean. Did you know that?” you ask Rocky. He pushes closer to you. Like you’re any better.

“Grace not know you are mates when obvious. Grace fault,” Rocky says, with both claws pointed in the air. You think it’s supposed to be a sort of shrug.

—

After Grace’s little cooldown period, he’s back on his feet and wanting to teach you how to sample astrophage. Even though you’ll both be out there at the same time, spacewalking side by side, he wants you to be prepared. It’s best that you both know how to handle the equipment. You’re not completely convinced that he’s over your little bit with Rocky earlier, but he seems altogether unoffended enough to talk to you. While you and Grace are running through the sampler together, Rocky’s not far away. He sits in the corridor, sifting through his things—no doubt listening to the two of you working together.

Grace's fingers trace over the orange lining of the box before he slides it towards you. “You’re going to have this whole sampler rig attached to your suit. It’s supposed to be portable, so it shouldn’t be too much of a hassle for us to bring it out and set it up on the topside of the deck,” he explains. You’re nodding along; something tells you that you’ve heard this entire lecture before—that Grace is using the words that he might’ve before your launch—but it’s altogether pointless to point it out now.

You’re watching as his hands surround either side of the sampler; he pulls out, simultaneously, two metal grated plates. “Okay. These plates are supposed to intake the astrophage going towards Tau Ceti-E.” Grace closes the one set and opens another. “And these are supposed to grab the astrophage that’s leaving. We’ll grab input first. Then, output.”

Mindlessly, Grace grabs the off-white masking tape off the counter beside you, nearly brushing your waist; he tries to ignore the minimal contact, pressing the bar of tape onto the first set of plates. Then, the second. Grace discards the roll on the counter, before picking the dry-erase marker out of your pocket and presses it into the palm of your dominant hand. Grace flinches as his fingertips graze the surface of your palm. He’s still trying to keep a fair distance after your little debacle with Rocky earlier, but he just can’t help it.

“You want me to label it?” you laugh.

“It’s lab standard,” he insists. “If we mix them up, we’ll have to sample all over again—and that would mean we’d have to clean the plates. And if we do that poorly…” Grace makes a big show of making a miniature explosion with his hands. It’s difficult not to scoff at him. You know it’s lab standard, but he could easily label them himself. The apprehension worn on your face makes Grace sigh. You’re able to read him too easily, and he surrenders over, “And I like your handwriting more than I like mine.”

There—the root of the issue. You shake your head, “You’re a teacher, Grace. Legibility is, like, a job requirement.”

“If that were true, the staff at Grover Cleveland Middle would’ve been chopped in half,” he chuckles. As far as you’ve seen, his handwriting isn’t bad at all. To each their own, you suppose. You lean down to write on the open panels of the sampler, Grace watching carefully over your shoulder.

“See? This is part of the mating ritual, too, Rock.” It barely comes out as a whisper as you’re writing down “a1. input” and “a2. output” neatly across the tape for either panel. It’s sarcasm really, but you realize much too late that Rocky might not interpret it as such. Grace, somehow, is much more occupied at watching over your labeling technique; he murmurs back a distracted “Hm?” before furrowing his brows. He stands straight up, eyebrows furrowed. It might have taken a second to register, but Grace is fully aware of what you’ve said—

And suddenly, Rocky is practically shouting down the corridor with a hurried, “wait, wait wait!” You can hear the successive rapid thunks of him sliding into his xenonite ball, sealing it, and rolling back towards the both of you. The Eridian practically comes barreling in through the doorway, running into the white metal shelves of the Hail Mary with a childlike ardor. “Is initiating kiss, question?”

“Again?” Grace groans, pulling his glasses off and rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. When he lowers his hand, you can see the blush spreading across his face, from the tips of his ears to his cheeks. “Okay. That’s it,” Grace huffs. “This has to end now. No more bits.”

“Graaace. Do not be mad,” Rocky whines in a low tone, “Is only kiss. Partial threshold for human relations.” Grace is tugging his hoodie off in a desperate attempt to keep a regular temperature. There’s a shelf hook close enough for him to toss up the garment haphazardly. Once it’s out of the way, he turns toward Rocky.

“You didn’t even know that word an hour ago.” Grace’s voice raises in tone and volume all at once, crackling with embarrassment. It’s unintentionally accusatory. Grace certainly didn’t code in <kiss>, and it’s not like Rocky can type into his own vocabulary bank. And Grace can’t seem to figure out why you’d code it aside from entertainment value.

“Kiss not bad word, Grace. Is normal,” Rocky explains calmly. “Now, do kiss. Please.” The begging tone that Rocky dishes out to Grace only makes him more and more impatient. Meanwhile, you’re simply watching the two of them bicker with one another—not interested in the slightest to stop the argument. Shamefully, you do want Grace to be pushed to his limit. And this happens much quicker than you would anticipate. Right about now, Grace has his hands locked together and resting just over his head. His face is still flushed, and he’s got his glasses hanging off his face.

Grace is trying to stay as calm as he can and failing. Every time the word is used, he’s getting deeply distracted by the thought of your lips on his. He can’t help the way his mind drifts to that very, very vivid fantasy of your hands balancing flat on his chest. Finally, he breathes out a heavy and burdened sigh: “No more kiss talk. We aren’t together, end of story.”

“I mean, we kind of are,” you say to Grace, who turns sharply mid-speaking to tilt his head at you.

“What?” he stammers softly. You’re not helping his case, especially with that tone.

Hands held behind your back, you repeat for Grace, “We are.” It's a matter of fact. Any semblance of sternness Grace was attempting prior crumbles at the drop of a dime. He’s pointing at you with his index finger, then at himself, then you again. “No, we’re not.”

You grab for Grace’s wrist, just over the red-band of his wristwatch. “Okay. Come on, we’re going up to screens.” Grace, still stunned, lets you drag him out of the lab and towards the corridor. As you look over your shoulder, you can see that Rocky is shooting you a strong thumbs-down.

—

The empty, numbered panels of the projection deck flicker to life into the backdrop of the river Seine. You’ve asked Mary to put on music—really, anything would do—and she decides to ring out some folk-rock song that you’ve never heard before. Something older, not too much ruckus when played loud. It’s a decent way to guarantee yourself a bit of privacy with your new, sound-attuned roommate. You’ll be lucky if Rocky can’t hear the two of you finally having this talk. Over the sound of the soft strumming guitars, you stretch your shoulders back. “I might have had a bit too fun teasing you. Sorry.”

“Well, I thought you were just… doing a bit. Like, ha-ha, ‘Ryland Grace dies alone in space,’” Grace mumbles. “Is it still a bit? You’re sending a whole lot of signals, and I don’t think I’m receiving—” Grace seems to quiet down as soon as you plant your hand down on his chest. He’s tracing his eyes from your hand, down your arm, and straight up to your face with his lips parted. “Or, I am receiving. A little bit.”

“Okay,” you decide, “You’ve thought about it, haven’t you? I have. We’ve been living together for the equivalent of… what, a few months now? I’m comfortable with you, and you’re comfortable with me. It’s been like that ever since we got sent up. Maybe even before. I don’t remember. But we like each other.” Your fingers are dancing soft on his chest, and his breath is hitching.

“We?” Grace echoes. “I was under the impression that you were, you know, kind of uninterested in me. Besides, you know, as a co-habitant. Mission-wise, it’s crucial for us to get along.” He’s clueless, clearly, because it hasn’t been like that at all—for you, at least.

You’re trying to stir up another line of reasoning for him. You have to meet Grace at his level.  “There’s the, uh, Einstein quote. I know you know it, just… let me think.” You massage your temples with your fingers, trying to wrack your brain for it. It’s perfect. What is it, again?

It’s easy for Grace—the middle-school science teacher that he is—to pick up what you’re putting down. "When you sit with a nice girl for two hours, you think it's only a minute. But when you sit on a hot stove for a minute, you think it's two hours. That's relativity,” Grace nods, “But that’s a very crude explanation of the concept, and I don’t really—”

You shush him with a shake of your head. “Right. Eridians don’t have a conception of relativity. It isn’t necessary for them, because things are just… what they are. They’re literal and exact, and there isn’t any dancing around the facts.” you explain to Grace hurriedly. “So… you’re my boyfriend. You’ve been my boyfriend.”

It takes a moment for him to process your argument. It’s very… forward. He seems to look past you towards one of the panel-screens. The projected river is still glittering behind you, and you’re not going anywhere. Mary even put in the effort of mixing this ambient watery sound—boats and people, back on Earth whenever ago—with the music track. Somehow, your traveling abode in space has made the absolute perfect atmosphere for this. You and Grace.

“Well, that’s just…” Grace nods slowly, “peachy.” He drops his head down in absolute disappointment of his own incapability to speak. What is he saying?

“Peachy?” you repeat quietly. You’re astounded that that’s the choice of word he’s selected for this entire ordeal. It’s so like him. You can feel yourself shuddering out a breath. Your cheeks are already sore enough as is—and you don’t think you can take another hard laugh.

“Don’t,” Grace says, “I have had a long and emotionally tumultuous couple of hours.”

“Are you mad about the teasing?” you ask, stepping closer to Grace. He’s barely paying attention, eyes glazed-over in a dazed fashion. He’s having trouble focusing on your words. Too occupied with you.

“No. Never,” he murmurs, eyebrows knitted together. You’re reaching for Grace next, hands swinging around his neck in an effort to pull him in. He’s fumbling with his hands, unsure exactly where to place them. They’re steady only when they find grounding on your midsection. You give him one peck on the lips. Then, another. He leans into the contact, the rims of your glasses brushing against the surface of your cheeks. It’s casual, comfortable—as if it’s not the first time. You’re his, and he’s yours. It’s effortless. Grace seems to finally ease up.

There’s a few loud thuds down the hall—presumably, your Eridian counterpart. The folk-rock is no use. Rocky has obviously been listening through the entirety of your back-and-forth. “Finally, Grace act like real mate. Congratulate, congratulate, congratulate.” His voice rings out loudly towards the projection deck. Grace is muttering under his breath again, something about those boundaries. At least now, you’re both on the same page.

you’re kind and funny and warm in a way that makes every room feel brighter. people naturally gravitate towards you. conversations seem to find you wherever you go. meanwhile lars spends most days hoping nobody notices him sitting quietly at his desk.

so no, he doesn’t think he’s jealous.

until your coworker, jim, starting to rest his elbow on your desk every morning.

then suddenly he discovers that maybe he is a jealous person.

it starts innocently enough. at least that’s what everybody else seems to think. you and jim have one of those friendships that develops naturally between coworkers. constant teasing. inside jokes. playful bickering that makes everyone around you roll their eyes.

you’re always laughing, and lars likes hearing you laugh. probably a little too much. sometimes he’ll be focused on paperwork across the room when he hears that sound and immediately finds himself looking up before he can stop himself. every single time without fail.

and unfortunately your coworker seems to be responsible for a lot of those laughs. lars hates the feeling almost immediately.

not because it’s jealousy, because it’s ugly. at least that’s what he tells himself. every morning he arrives at the office and promises himself he isn’t going to pay attention. he’s going to focus on work, he’s going to stop looking across the room every time you laugh, he’s going to stop noticing who you’re talking to.

he’s going to stop thinking about you altogether, then you walk through the door, and suddenly none of those promises matter anymore. because there you are. smiling at everybody, carrying your coffee, tucking your hair behind your ear while you laugh at something one of your coworkers says, and lars’ entire day rearranges itself around your existence before he’s even sat down at his desk.

it happens so naturally now that he barely notices it. the way his eyes search for you whenever he enters a room, the way his mood improves whenever you stop by his desk, the way he remembers tiny things about you without even trying. your coffee order, your favourite cookies from the break room, the fact you always hum quietly when you’re concentrating. none of it is deliberate, it just happens. the same way breathing happens, the same way the sun rises.

loving you has become such a natural part of his life that he doesn’t even know when it started anymore. he only knows it did.

the problem is that everyone loves you, because of course they do. you’re easy to love. and normally that isn’t something that bothers him.

until jim.

the coworker.

the one who’s always making you laugh.

always finding reasons to stop by your desk.

always somehow ending up beside you during lunch breaks.

lars notices it all, he notices everything. he doesn’t want to, he really doesn’t. but every time he hears your laugh, his eyes automatically find you. and somehow that jim guy is always there, leaning against your desk, smiling and talking and existing.

what makes it worse is that jim is actually nice. lars can’t even hate him properly. he’s friendly, he’s helpful, funny from what he hears. the sort of person people naturally enjoy being around. which creates an entirely different problem.

because whenever lars watches the two of you together, he doesn’t think: why him?

he thinks: why wouldn’t it be him?

and that’s so much worse, because jim is everything lars isn’t. comfortable around people, confident, effortlessly charming. able to walk up to you and start a conversation without spending three days rehearsing beforehand.

meanwhile lars still sometimes gets nervous when you smile at him unexpectedly. sometimes you ask him a question and his brain simply stops working. sometimes you touch his arm while talking and he spends the next twenty minutes staring blankly at spreadsheets because all his thoughts have evaporated.

how exactly is he supposed to compete with somebody like that?

one afternoon he catches himself watching the two of you through the office window. you’re outside during lunch, jim says something and you laugh. then you lightly shove his shoulder, jim laughs too.

and suddenly lars feels this strange ache in his chest. it’s sharp and unpleasant. it’s scarily unfamiliar. he stares at the screen in front of him afterwards and can’t focus on a single word. because all he can think about is how easy it looked. how natural it seemed. how comfortable you seemed together. and beneath the jealousy is something far worse.

fear.

because for the first time, lars starts imagining what happens if somebody else gets there first. what happens if one day you walk into work smiling differently. what happens if somebody asks how your weekend was and you casually mention a date. what happens if eventually you fall in love with someone. build a life with someone, and it isn’t him.

the thought physically hurts.

he hates how dramatic that sounds, but it really does.

that night he lies awake staring at the ceiling, thinking about you like always. thinking about losing you. because suddenly he realises something. he’s been treating his feelings like they’ll wait forever, like there’s no rush, like eventually he’ll find the courage. eventually he’ll say something. eventually he’ll ask you out. but eventually isn’t a real thing.

eventually is how opportunities disappear.

and somewhere across town, you’re living your life completely unaware that a quiet man is lying awake having an existential crisis because you laughed at another guy’s joke.

it’s so unfair. you’re his friend, his best friend. with other people, there was always kindness and an unspoken pity. it was different with you. yes, you were kind to him, but you treated him like he’s normal. you weren’t overly careful, you didn’t have that reserved politeness, you smiled and laughed with him normally. you were patient with him when he struggled with his words, you’d sit with him in silence when he just wanted to be in your presence, you’d include him in conversations when people flat out ignored him. you were the love of his life.

it’s so unfuckingfair.

by the following week, lars is miserable. not visibly. lars is too anxious to be visibly miserable. but everyone who knows him can tell something’s wrong. he’s even quieter, more distracted, he keeps making mistakes. small ones. the kind he normally never makes.

and every time he catches sight of you, the same thought repeats itself.

say something.

say something.

say something.

except then you smile at him and he forgets how language works.

one afternoon things finally reach their breaking point. it’s over something that isn’t even that serious, that’s the ridiculous part.

you’re standing near the photocopier. jim says something. you laugh. then, without thinking, you shove his shoulder lightly. he shoves yours back. you both start arguing about something completely stupid.

lars can’t stand it.

he spends the next twenty minutes trying to focus on his work and failing miserably. his stomach feels tight, his chest feels weird, he doesn’t like it, he doesn’t like any of it.

most of all, he doesn’t like the possibility that somebody else might realise how wonderful you are before he figures out how to tell you himself.

the thought follows him all day.

it follows him home.

it follows him through dinner.

that green eyed monster is haunting his dreams.

it follows him right into the next morning.

by lunch, lars is a disaster. he’s barely spoken, he’s made three separate mistakes entering data, and he accidentally walked into a door. twice.

eventually he sees you heading towards the break room alone. before he can talk himself out of it, he’s standing, his legs move before his brain catches up. which is honestly the only reason this conversation happens at all, because if he’d had another thirty seconds to think about it, he’d have backed out immediately.

“hey.”

you turn, instantly smiling when you see him, and somehow that makes everything worse. or better. probably both.

“hey, lars.” your smile softens slightly. “you okay?” the concern in your voice nearly kills him. “yeah.” he lies. “actually no.” he corrects himself. you blink. lars never does this.

lars barely volunteers information about what he had for breakfast. the fact he’s voluntarily initiating a conversation is already alarming. the fact he looks nervous enough to pass out is even worse.

“do you want to sit down?”

he nods immediately. the two of you settle into a quiet corner of the break room. and suddenly every ounce of courage he’d managed to gather evaporates. gone. you wait patiently, because you’re nice like that, because you’ve always been nice to him.

eventually lars speaks, “i don’t really know how to say this.” you immediately feel your heart start beating faster. something about his expression, something about the way he’s looking at the table instead of you.“that’s okay.”

he takes a breath, then another, and then another. he might as well have been preparing for surgery.

“i don’t like him.”

“who?”

“jim.”

lars closes his eyes briefly, embarrassed. realisation dawns instantly, and suddenly you’re fighting very hard not to smile. “oh.”

“yeah.”

he’s still looking at the table, still refusing to meet your eyes. which means he doesn’t see the expression spreading across your face.

“i don’t think he’s a bad person,” lars rushes out. “he seems nice. i mean, he’s probably very nice. people like him. and that’s good. i don’t want anything bad to happen to him.”

“that’s very charitable.”

“thank you.”

“but?”

lars swallows, “but i don’t like how much time he spends with you.” he continues before you can say anything. once he starts talking, the words seem impossible to stop. months of feelings spilling out all at once.

“and i know that sounds ridiculous because you’re allowed to spend time with whoever you want. obviously. i know that. i understand that. i don’t actually have any right to be upset about it and i’ve been trying very hard not to be but every time he comes over to your desk i get distracted and then i can’t focus and yesterday i entered the wrong information three times because you were laughing at something he said and—”

he finally pauses to breathe, you are now actively trying not to laugh. not because it’s funny, because it’s adorable.

“lars.”

he immediately stops and slowly lifts his eyes, and for the first time you see it. all of it. every feeling he’s been trying desperately to hide. every nervous glance, every shy smile, every moment of quiet affection. suddenly it all makes sense.

“are you jealous?”

the poor man looks horrified. absolutely horrified, like you’ve accused him of a crime.

“yes!”

the honesty nearly knocks the wind out of you. “oh.”

“i know it’s stupid.”

“it isn’t.”

“it is.”

“lars.”

he finally looks at you properly, and whatever he sees in your expression seems to give him just enough courage to keep going. just enough. and if lars was going to do it, he was going to do it scared.

“i like you.” the words arrive quietly and simply. completely sincere. “i’ve liked you for a long time.”

your heart melts completely, because he sounds so earnest and so vulnerable. like he’s handing you something precious. “and i know i’m not very good at this.” an understatement.

“and i know i probably should’ve said something sooner, but every time i tried, i got nervous.”

you smile softly, “i noticed.” his face immediately turns pink. “yeah?”

“yeah.”

for a moment neither of you speaks, the silence isn’t awkward though. just warm and gentle. the kind of silence that only happens when two people finally understand each other. eventually you reach across the table and place your hand over his.

lars doesn’t freeze and shrink like he would with other people. you’re the only one who’s touch doesn’t make him feel like his skin is burning.

“for the record,” you say softly, “he’s just my friend.”

the relief that floods his face is almost comical. it’s immediate and overwhelming. “really?”

“really.”

“also, i’ve kind of been waiting for you to ask me out.”

this time lars actually stops functioning entirely. you watch approximately seven different emotions pass across his face in under three seconds. shock, disbelief, panic and hope. and finally pure happiness. he smiles.

you think it might be the sweetest smile you’ve ever seen.

“oh.”

“oh?”

“that’s… good.”

you laugh. there it is again, that laugh he loves so much. except this time, when he hears it, the jealousy is gone. all that’s left is you sitting across from him. holding his hand. smiling at him like he’s something worth choosing.

the relief on his face might be even sweeter than the confession itself. because for the first time in months, lars isn’t imagining a future where somebody else gets the girl.

RYLAND’s hands are long. He can reach and massage parts of you that you can’t reach on your own. He’s able to curl his fingers and press against your walls in such a way that you swear he’s slowly rearranging your guts to mold perfectly to his digits. If you plead enough, he’ll even stick those fingers in your mouth, pressing firmly on your tongue to make you drool. His precise control over his hands means he’s methodical in the bedroom. He knows just where to touch you, when to touch you and how to touch you so you’re able to get the most out of your time with him. With patience and practice, he knows your body better than his own. Basically, Ryland can play you like a fiddle. One specific thing he does that drives you crazy is use those long fingers of his to push the extra droplets of cum that drip out of you back into your heat, coaxing it deeper where it’ll stay. He’s always mesmerized when he does it and frankly, you enjoy it too much to bother asking why

HOLLAND’s hands like to wander and he’s not ashamed to hide it. Keep this man on a tight leash when you’re out because he can and will touch you in ways most would find insanely inappropriate for the public eye. You’re at a restaurant sitting side-by-side at a table that has a long tablecloth? His hand is already on your knee and winding between your thighs within minutes of ordering your drinks, right in front of your waiter. Walking down the street? His hand is in your back pocket. Driving him to meet one of his clients? He’s leaning over the center console to unbutton your pants/pull your skirt up or do whatever it takes to reach what’s underneath. His hands are always moving when you’re alone too- sliding under your shirt when you’re trying to brush your teeth or tugging your towel loose when you’ve just stepped out of the shower. You occasionally get your revenge by pinning his hands above his head when you ride him to oblivion, not letting him touch you like he wants as punishment

LARS’ hands are huge. He’s hesitant to really use his hands to their full potential at first; for whatever reason, he’s terrified he might hurt you. Only after you’re able to reassure Lars that he couldn’t hurt a fly, much less hurt you, then he gets a little bolder. His hands dwarf every part of you he touches. Palming your chest, cupping your cheek, splaying between your legs all has you weak at how much surface area his hands cover. The aching stretch that his fingers provide have your eyes rolling back into your skull. It’s only a matter of time before Lars realizes just how easy it is to make you squirm and becomes confident enough to use that to his advantage. He’ll even hold a palm to your throat once he’s comfortable, not squeezing hard enough to cut off your air but just enough so he can feel your neck bob under his hand.

COLT’s hands are rough. As mentioned before, his hands are a little worse for wear but it only makes things all the more enjoyable for you. The scrape of his callouses against your flesh- when he trails his fingers down your sides, smooths his thumbs over your nipples or slipping his middle finger into your heat- the scuffs are enough to have your back arching off the bed. He’s teasing both in and out of the bedroom. Colt’s hands will edge you until you’re seeing white before he’ll pull away, just to see you beg for more. Once, he had you straddling his hips and riding his hand to pleasure yourself, barely able to find relief while being impaled on only one of his fingers, so worked up your eyes were lined with tears. He was so turned on by the sight that he came untouched and shot ropes of cum all over himself.

RYLAND’s hands are steady. Long and precise, several hours in labs and handling delicate microscopic life means he has a lot of control over his movements- until he gets flustered. When you do something that gets his heart racing, his concentration gets shot and he gets uncoordinated. Its so endearing. Fumbling fingers, unsure touch. He talks with his hands, sometimes communicating with them even more so than his mouth. One of your favorite things to do is to lay next to him and listen to him ramble about something or other while his hands wave in the air. Ryland has veiny hands and ooooh how you love mapping the raised bumps they make in his skin, following their trails up his arms before they disappear. After his dance with death when he saved Rocky, Ryland’s right hand and arm are very tender and stay overly sensitive to touch for a long time thanks to his slowly healing skin. You both have doubts it’ll ever truly heal, leaving his raw skin vulnerable and raggedy. It becomes a daily ritual for you to carefully apply burn cream to the puckered scar. Ryland says your touch alone ebbs the pain more than any medicine (he’s sappy like that).

HOLLAND has shaky hands. At the beginning of your acquaintance, they shake because he’s drunk. Clumsy and fumbling thanks to the whisky in his system. His hands are shaking when he tries to woo you the first time you meet, attempting to smoothly brush an eyelash off your cheek which ends with a thumb in your eye, an angry you and a frantic apology from him. He tries not to drink around you after that. But then, his hands would shake because he’s nervous. You terrify him. Something about you calls to him- more than the fleeting attraction he’d have towards those he might want a fling with. He actually wants to try with you, which scares him. Holland both hates and craves the way you make him feel and his hands reflect that. He’s so unsure and cautious around you, dying to touch you but too worried about what you might think. Why would someone like you want a screwup like him? On multiple occasions does he reach out to graze your arm or hold your thigh before he second guesses himself and pulls back. Only when you reach out to him first- grabbing his wrists to bring his hands to your hips so you can kiss him stupid- do his hands stop shaking around you.

LARS’ hands are hidden- at least for a good several months after you first meet. Always covered by thick gloves, even when the weather gets a little warmer. You weren’t sure why but never pried for answers- if Lars wanted you to know, he’d tell you. It was rare that you ever touched at all, the inly contact being the occasional brush of his hand against yours while you’re walking together which he’d pull away from like you were a hot pan. It should’ve hurt you, that he seemed so averse to touching you, but it didn’t. That’s just how Lars was. The first time you actually saw his hands, you weren’t at all surprised by what they looked like. They were strong- thick fingers, meaty palms- hands to match the rest of him. When Lars started experimenting with touch, carefully dusting his fingers over your skin to see if it hurt, you found Lars’ hands to be extremely soft: both physically and in the way he kissed them over you. Once he’s comfortable enough, Lars LOVES holding your hand. While his trumps yours in size, he feels like your hand is protecting his- a lifeline when he gets overwhelmed while around other people. He relies on that tether and has a hard time letting go when you’re alone again.

COLT’s hands are rough. As a stunt man, especially one who’s been around the block as many times as he has, his hands have roughened up over the years. Small scars, callouses, fingers that have been broken more times than he can count and fingernails that have seen better days. Despite that, his touch couldn’t be more gentle. The way he cradles you, cupping the back of your head to hold you close- not once has his toughened hands hurt. He’s maybe a little self conscious of them? Not too much, he’s overall very confident with his body, but when you point out the light catch of his skin against yours when he rubs a thumb along your neck or slides a hand down your bare spine, he gets worried the roughness bothers you. That couldn’t be farther from the truth of course and you spend ample time kissing his palm and fingers to get your point across. His hands are also very teasing; poking your soft spots to get you to laugh, flicking your ear to get your attention or swiping something out of your back pocket so you’d come to him later begging for his help because somehow, Colt was always able to find your misplaced things.