“The thing about the chips.”

17 stops, his right boot still half-unlaced. He looks at Fox on the bed.

“What?”

Fox isn’t looking at him but at the ceiling, his eyes flat. He has a hand tucked under his head, under the pillow--he’s grabbed the deecee 17 knows he keeps there. 

He doesn’t take it personally.

“The chips. They’re real.”

17 turns to look at him properly. Fox is still naked and dripping sweat, his too-long hair curling over his eyes. He’s still not looking at 17, and 17 scowls, leans over the narrow cot. He tugs at Fox’s chin until he lets himself be moved and he looks at 17, his jaw clenched.

“Of course they’re real, Fox’ika,” 17 tells him slowly. He knows he sounds condescending--he can’t help it. Fox blinks at him, slow and almost insolent. His face’s empty. “I don’t know what you want me to do about it.”

Fox’s mouth ticks upwards. He jerks his face out of 17’s hold and looks away again. 

Something drops to the floor on the other side of the door. Fox’s little room in the barracks is so quiet they can hear whatever it is rattle and roll, someone cursing under their breath.

Fox doesn’t speak again until the noise is gone. 

He shrugs. 17 hates the way he’s smiling at nothing, his eyes very far away. 17’s come is still drying on his stomach but it feels as if Fox were on the other side of the galaxy.

17 feels something sharp and bitter settle in his stomach. He looks away.