don't forget...

he wants to burst out laughing, barely held back by a pressed together mouth that still quivers regardless. this conversation has taken a turn from the surreal into the downright absurd, and ryland isn't sure if he's talking to an alien pretending to be human or just . . . well, a weird guy — from one weird guy to another. the remark about his expression is one of the few compliments he'll take, regardless of whether or not it was meant as such : ryland has been told one too many times that his thoughts are written all over his face, and if he's judging someone he wants them to know.

❛ i don't smoke, no. so what, does that mean you're gonna 'sweat' more ? ❜ the quotations are audible, mirth painting his cheeks with a warm flush as his posture relaxes, arms folded in some form of challenge. ❛ 'cause with the way this is going, you might start flooding the place. we'll need a wet floor sign, minimum. ❜

long gone are the days of me bumbling along to smoke breaks at my first job : any excuse for a small social between stacking shelves and serving idiots. sorry, customers.

He misses his friends.

He misses the sea.

“It'll be fine,” Finn says, and if it ends up coming out kind of wobbly, a little too emotional, then, well, hopefully Ryland won't be the type to point it out. “Just don't slip. Since this is a medical condition, I'm not liable for whatever injury you may or may not get.” That's what the internet lawyer told him to say anyway, if anyone ever tried anything. Which they did. Pretty often.

the first sentence he takes as a compliment, taking a strange ownership of his differentiation that doesn't quite reach pride. the second despite being objectively more complimentary is a tougher nut to crack, a small and taken aback laugh breathing out of him, eye contact immediate in its shying away. he doesn't shrink or wilt under the observation, instead finds uncertain footing on how to comment and therefore doesn't, focuses on keeping the heat from rising to his cheeks, moves on rapidly. he'd cross his arms if he didn't have an inkling it might amplify the situation. the comment on taste is an easy reprieve that he lets transfer the warmth into his smile, gleam of his gaze returning to her without discomfort.

❛ didn't take you for a space nut. ❜ the intrigue is hard to hide, uplifting his sentence and hunching his posture forward now, instead of the more risky leaning back in his chair that he so adamantly tells students not to replicate. do as i say, not as i do.

i realise i don't know much about kriti's interests at all, swallow a small stone of guilt that maybe that means i've spoken too much at leisure about my stuff, and not enough about hers. better late than never, i suppose, and work at remedying it.

“Not exactly a space nut. Let's just say it's bigger in here than it looks.” She taps a finger against her temple. Rather than a mind like a library, hers feels more like a fridge. Everything in their own compartments, their own shelves. Some more overlooked than others. Some things rotting. Molding. Expired. “Oh, the birthing's part of it, I'm afraid. Used to have a... healthy interest in embryology, see. Became somethin' of a pastime... in another life.” Or in another body, more like. “Though my uh, expertise was in genetics.” She does another slow spin in her chair, and when she comes to a stop, she makes this face at him like she's saying, or was it?

It should be a lie. She's recounting a life she never lived, after all. But it's truer than a real lie would be. More basis in reality than a fabrication ought to have. If Kriti has the memories but not the experience, doesn't that still make it hers? Either way, Manshvi's not around to contest it anymore. Besides, Kriti makes a much better mad scientist than Manshvi ever did. It's a role she was born made to play.

“'S all in the past now. 'Cuz I realised my best friend was a petri dish.” Here, she laughs. She imagines her own face across from her frowning at the slight. “'N as a little girl all I ever dreamed about was havin' real flesh-meat friends and not spendin' the rest of my life talkin' to the walls in a lab.”

Sleazy is better. Sleazy she can do.

She tugs her collar open and looks down, like she's double checking. “Ohhhh, nothing you could handle, I bet.” There might be an emergency ciggy stuffed in there.