“Sounds nice. Kys kinda did that for me when we were on the ship.”
The mention of the ship rattles me a little, but my ears perk up from how he described Kys’ impact on him. “Could you elaborate on what Kys did for your sleep?”
Nil keeps pace beside me as we walk, close enough that our arms touch. The idea of holding his hand is rather tempting forsome reason. I sip more of my tea to calm my mind. Clearly, I’ve been feeling lonely without Idris here, and perhaps being in close proximity to Nil and Stan has affected my mind to consider such scenarios.
He doesn’t look at me while he speaks, his gaze trained forward. “Kys helped me sleep,” he says. “On the ship, I mean. It quieted things. That sorta surprised me.”
“That was part of the original intention,” I reply. “Stabilization without cognitive dulling. I’m glad it did that for you.”
He nods, then frowns slightly. “There’s something else.”
I turn my head. “Go on.”
“I’ve been remembering more,” he says. “Lately.”
“That’s wonderful news,” I say without reservation. “That suggests recovery beyond predicted projections.”
His ears redden. I notice immediately. The color blooms fast, concentrated at the tips. Heat response, perhaps. Possibly exertion, though we aren’t moving quickly.
“Are you feeling alright?” I ask. “Your face is flushed.”
He clears his throat. “I’m fine. Just warm.”
The hallway temperature is consistent, but I don’t press.
“Could I tell you more in private?” he asks.
I nod, trying to blame my blush on the tea I’ve been drinking, but it’s quite chilled by now.
We slow near a cluster of doors. Nil reaches out to test the handle of the first, then the second. Both are locked. At the third, the door opens into a quiet room lined with shelves and a wide desk. There’s a bubble-wrapped computer, along with other equipment, appearing new and recently arranged.
“This room should work,” he says.
He steps aside and pulls a chair out for me. He waits until I’m seated before easing the chair forward. His fingers brush my back lightly, then withdraw.
I set my mug down on the desk. He moves it a few inches farther from the edge, precise and considerate.
Nil leans against the desk in front of me, posture relaxed but attentive. His hands rest on the edge, fingers gripping.
“My stepdad talked about Kys often,” he says. “More as rambles of his observations. He treated it as a tool to…‘stabilize mood swings’ and something about getting through crises.”
“That was his early philosophy,” I think out loud. “I recall reading his research articles. He resisted framing it as enhancement.”
Nil nods. “He believed the brain knew how to ‘regulate’ itself but needed ‘clarity’ to do it,” he continues. “Kys was meant to make that clarity.”
I listen closely, committing each word to memory, aware of how carefully he speaks about his late stepfather’s work.
“He warned about holding on to the drug for too long,” Nil adds. “Anything that stayed past its purpose caused harm, he said.”
“That would explain the delayed degradation and digestion we observed in the more recent reiterations of Kysergic Synesthesine,” I remark.
He glances at me then, quick and uncertain, and looks away again. The color along his ears deepens in a shade of red. It makes the gold earring pierced into his left lobe stand out.
“I meant what I said yesterday, Em. You’re doing important work,” he says. “Trying to fix it.”
“Thank you,” I reply. “Your insight, as well as this conversation, has helped.”
His smile returns, restrained yet sincere. He reaches for my mug and turns it so the handle faces me.
