I don’t have a plan here. I’ve never done this before. All I know is I’mtired of skirting around all the broken things between us. I’m tired of hiding my feelings, of pretending like this doesn’t matter, like Lament doesn’t matter. I need to be strong enough to ask for what I want. Even if it opens me up to rejection. Even if it’s really, really hard.
“Hey,” Lament says, apparently registering the conflict on my face. His voice is soft, concerned. “Hey, come on.”
The last time we were this close, we’d been about to kiss. Which is suddenly all I can think about: the shock and vulnerability and the taste of Lament on my lips.
His expression gentles further, which makes me feel a little like running away. He reaches out, brushes the tips of his fingers against my shoulder. “What’s this about?”
“I don’t regret the—what we did,” I croak, fumbling over the wordkiss. “I’m sorry about the rest of it. So, so sorry. I hate that my mother turned out to be a Determinist. I hate that she dragged me into her schemes, and that I’ve draggedyou. And I really, really hate what happened to Bast. He was innocent, and so were you, and none of us deserved any of this. But us, you and me—I need you to know how I feel. And maybe it’s the wrong time, maybe you’re not ready to hear this, but I don’t regret it. The kiss,” I finally make myself say. “I can’t regret it.”
Lament’s mouth has sort of fallen open, and he’s blinking at me like I’ve caught him completely off guard. “Do you mean that?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re not just saying all this because…”
“Because we might soon die a painful death in a fiery eruption of poisonous murder gas?”
“I wouldn’t have put it quite like that.”
“No,” I say. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
Now he’s shooting me a look of incredulity. “Hartman.”
“I like it better,” I say in a breathless rush, “when you call me Keller.”
His eyes soften again. “Keller.”
Something changes at that. I feel it, and Lament must too, because hiseyelids drop to half mast, his pupils blowing wide. Before I can talk myself out of it, I slide closer, get my hand around the back of his neck. My mouth is dry and my pulse is wild and I’m watching his face, hunting for any hint that he doesn’t want this, that I’m somehow still getting it wrong. I move slowly enough that he could pull away if he wanted. But he doesn’t.
I mean to be gentle about this. To make it better than last time. Only, the moment Lament’s mouth brushes mine, time slams to a halt. Fire roars through me, and all I can think ismore.
I rock forward, crashing into him like I’ve lost the ability to do anything else. One of my hands goes for his hair while the other grips his shirt, dragging him closer, hot and wanting and desperate. Lament responds with a shudder, brings one arm around my shoulders, the other angling himself up on the thin mattress. His eyes flutter closed. His breath goes ragged. He’s shaking—like, actually shaking—and for a moment, the universe is nothing but the feel and smell and taste of Lament, the rough slide of our tongues, the sheer, heady thrill of being this close, getting to do this again.
And then we’re just kissing. And it’s good. And the world drifts for a while.
When we finally break apart, it takes a minute for the room to stop spinning. My knees are throbbing where they’ve been pressing into the floor. Lament grips my wrists with strong, light fingers and murmurs, “Come here.”
He pulls me up under the blanket. Gets me on top of him, hip to hip, his knees bending up to bracket my sides. His hand is bleached white in the semidarkness as he reaches up, runs his thumb over my cheek. “I don’t regret it, either,” he says.
I don’t know why I suddenly feel like crying. Or maybe I do know. Because I’m messy and vulnerable and just—Iwantthis. I drop my head to the place where his neck meets his shoulder, kiss the skin there. My world has condensed to the press of Lament’s knees into my sides, the tickle of his hair against my face. I let my hand drift to his night shorts, toy with the waistband. He makes a soft sound, his head falling back.
“Is this—?” I ask, sliding my hand under the fabric.
His fingertips dig into my shoulders. “Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
I capture his mouth under mine.
We stop talking for a while.
When Lament and I make our way back into The Bargainer’s control center some indeterminate number of hours later, everyone else is up and ready. Dawn pours through the front windscreen in a swath of pinkish orange, Purvuva’s sandy landscape glowing golden behind the glass. Vera takes one look at Lament and me (both of us rumpled but surprisingly well rested) and closes her eyes, like she’s pressing the image into her memory. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look so happy.
No one talks much as Avi passes out a round of PPMs. (I end up with a vegan one. Lament rolls his eyes at the horror on my face and switches with me). We all know the plan today. We’ve been over it a thousand times. To cut Doc Min’s legs out from under him (figuratively speaking—I think), we’ll need to steal his neutralizer from the deployer ship, and to dothat, we’ll have to catch him and his cronies off guard. But we’ve all been watching the news. We know his cargo ship is heavily protected. Our plan is a good one, but it doesn’t come with any contingencies. For today to work, everything has to go exactly right.
Lament finishes his food, then lets himself sink back into the cushion of our love seat. His shoulder presses into mine. So does his thigh. The feel of Lament like this—relaxed and within reach, touching me, letting me touch him—is still so foreign. Heady and good and right.
