He’s gripping the syringe like he wants to strangle it. “How many tries did it take you?”
“One.”
That only makes him more determined, but at last I take pity on the poor syringe (the tip is now savagely bent) and pluck the items from his hands. “I’m staging an intervention.”
He looks more put off than the situation warrants. “I was almost there.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“I think I can poke a bit of plastic through another bit of plastic.”
“I definitely believe you.”
He runs a hand down his face. “I’m embarrassed.”
“It’s all right,” I say (and why am I suddenly noticing how good he manages to look, even under the harsh kitchen lights?). “I’ve embarrassed myself in front of you plenty of times.”
Lament doesn’t seem impressed by this line of reasoning. “Yes, but when you do it, it’s all helpless and endearing. Like a baby deer. When it’s me, it’s pathetic.”
“Did you just call me endearing?”
He throws me a look. “You must have misheard.”
I focus on the syringe, inserting the crooked tip into the beaker, pulling back the plunge to draw up the alcohol, holding it up. Lament obligingly opens his mouth, and I realize how perfectly quiet it is in here. I can hear the shuffle of his shoes on the aropolymer floor. I can hear myself breathing, a little fast, a little loud. Our faces are close, and I notice a freckle beside his nose, the long sweep of his eyelashes, that shallow cut over his brow. I release the gelatin, which splashes green onto his tongue before he pulls away, covering his mouth with his hand.
“Well?” I manage. “Not bad, right?”
He glances up at me, and something… catches. Like thread on a nail. “Not at all.”
We trade a second round of shots, then a third, and by the time we flop side by side onto my couch, my muscles have loosened, my thoughtspulling out of their breakneck pace. I’m mercifully buzzed and—maybe for the first time ever—at ease in Lament’s company.
“Vera would be so proud of us,” Lament mutters.
I laugh. “She does seem determined to make us friends.”
“She can be like that sometimes. She gets an idea in her head and it’s like—” He pretends to squeeze the air. “You can’t shake it out of her.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s the romance novels. She reads too many. Her sister sends them by the crateful. It’s excessive.”
“Is that common? Families sending stuff?”
He nods. “Skyhub has plenty to offer—you’ve seen that—but sometimes fleet members just want reminders of home. Jester’s mom sends his favorite sour gummies—careful if he ever offers you one, they’re potent—and Vera’s sister sends novels by their favorite author, and Avi’s parents ship these little hair ties shaped like the main character from this show she loves. Everyone has their thing.”
“And you?” I ask tentatively, because I’m imagining Lament has some tragic family backstory. “Does your family send anything?”
“My mom sends condoms.”
I choke on my own spit and begin coughing convulsively.
“She thinks it’s funny,” he sighs, talking over me as if I’m not asphyxiating. “She’ll send six hundred at a time, always in a clear container so there’s no hiding the contents, and in big red letters on the top she’ll write,Be safe.”
“No,” I croak. “Is that apun?”
“It’s irredeemable.” But his expression is wistful. “I don’t see my parents much. We’re from Planet Urporator, which is about as far away from Skyhub as you can get. But we keep in touch.”
“With condoms,” I manage.
