Work Text:
Dreams are not uncommon for me. Even before the mission or before the end of the world. In fact, quite the opposite. I would call myself an avid dreamer. All those rumors about dreams only lasting a few seconds and never being in color are complete bullpuckey, and I am living proof.
I had a journal back in San Francisco where I would write down the ones that really affected me, both positively and negatively.
There are pros and cons to having such vivid dreams. The good ones are transformative. They set the mood for my whole day. Sometimes, even a week. My whole life in San Francisco revolved around the children. I spent most, if not all, of my time devoted to them, to planning for them, to caring for them. I did not live an extraordinary life. Do not get me wrong, I loved it. I loved my job and my duty to my students, but I wasn’t catching waves off the shores of Waikiki or scaling Mount Everest. I was a junior high teacher. ‘Was’ being the operative word here, considering I’m now 11.9 light-years from home, but I digress. My life was not, to the average person, interesting. I woke up, went to school, came home, worked, ate dinner alone, and went right back to sleep. I was living in most children’s nightmare.
Dreams are a place where I can travel to the islands of Hawai’i or reach the summit of one of the seven natural wonders of the world. Granted, I can’t control them. I’m not lucid or anything. However, I can be anyone, anything, anywhere, when I am asleep. I can experience things I’ve only seen on television or read in books. I can do things no other human can do. So when I would wake up on a good day, fresh from a lovely experience while I slept, I would thank the stars for my overactive imagination. But with great highs come devastating lows.
The night terrors are far and few between, but they exist nonetheless. Horrors that usually make me cover my eyes in films. Cruelties that make me skip a few pages in novels. All of them happening to me, or so my brain makes me think as much. I wake up heavy with the weight of the fictional trauma. Most bring me to tears or keep me from sleeping the next night. Some drag on into the day and leave me paranoid and skittish. For a few moments after jolting awake feverishly, I use whatever brainpower I have left to distinguish figment from reality. They are disorienting to say the least.
I spoke with a therapist about these once. She told me I was a fearful man, that I was running from something other than these false monstrosities. I brushed her off. What was there to fear in my life back then? Nothing compared to the present. So why weren’t the nightmares more common now?
I attribute it to the fact that my brain is so exhausted from the punishment I put it through while awake that it doesn’t even try to scare me anymore. I’ve tamed it. It cowers from me now!
Kidding. I would never hurt you, brainy. On purpose, that is.
Right now, my head is killing me. I’m sure grey smoke from the overworked cogs in my skull pours from my ears. Between the headache and the prickling burn of my scarred arm, I cannot choose what to complain about first.
I blink oddly, one eyelid before the other. Rocky had just scolded me for what felt like eternity about taking painkillers and attempting to handle the taumoeba. Those magic pills are beginning to wear off, or at least their positive side effects are. The grogginess and overall ability to detach myself from reality are still very much there. Rocky sighs; he’s upset. I’m upset. With myself, I suppose. With the situation. With the mission. I feel the sting of tears in my eyes.
“What is that, question? Liquid on face,” Rocky asks. He doesn’t seem disappointed anymore, just inquisitive as usual. He’s tinkering on a device that will allow us to retrieve the taumoeba from the boxes I put them in.
“Nothing. Human response,” I brought my good arm up and used my sleeve to wipe my eyes.
“Not nothing. No happen before.”
“Happens sometimes for different reasons. Mostly to … get things out. To clean our eyes. But occasionally, it … is an expression of extreme emotion,” I explain. Hopefully, this is a sufficient enough answer, and he will leave it alone.
“Grace have extreme emotion now, question?” He prods. Darn it. Should’ve known.
“Uh. Yeah. Maybe. Just tired. My arm hurts. I … messed up the experiment. I put both of us in danger. I almost lost you. I made you upset-”
“Not know last word,” he interrupts
“Sad. Mad. I made you feel negatively towards me.”
“This not true. Rocky feel negative towards actions. Rocky not feel negative towards Grace. Not ever.”
I cry more. I don’t even know why. It isn’t like a sob or anything, but I cannot stop the tears from flowing down my cheeks. I really should sleep.
“What extreme emotion you feel, question? Negative, question?”
I shake my head quickly and dry my face with my sleeve again. I chuckle away any remaining disappointment in myself. How silly of me to think so little of him.
“You sleep, I watch,” he demands.
It’s hard to resist. Despite the silliness of my life these past months, this particular moment feels incredibly weird, off-putting, disorienting. It’s the pills; I’m sure of it.
Without protest, I make my way to my bunk. I watch him work from afar. I wonder if he can tell that I’m watching.
“Computer, quarterdose painkillers,” I whisper only for peace of mind; I know he can hear me loud and clear. I watch, but he does not turn to reprimand me. “And water. Lots of it.”
The arms extend a small cup with a sliver of the pills and a large-sized pouch. The pouches normally only make an appearance in zero gravity. Perhaps they don’t have bigger cups than the ones I usually receive. All this science equipment, but no large cups.
I sit up in bed and take my pill. I slurp down the water slowly without prying my eyes from Rocky.
All five of his appendages are hard at work. He’s so slick with his movements that it almost feels like watching a ballet. Every motion is deliberate and calculated. How can he balance so many things at once? I am down to one functioning arm, and he has five. Perhaps I am jealous. I wish I could move as he does. I sink lower into my bed, still sipping from the pouch. The water is cold down my throat. It soothes my headache for now. As a baby watches a mobile, I can feel my eyes getting heavy from Rocky’s hypnotic fiddling. I could watch him work all day.
“Elevated heart rate,” the computer shouts. It breaks my concentration and causes me to choke on the last few drops of my water pouch. Rocky stalls for a few seconds while I cough. I punch my chest to get the last of the mucus from my system. “Elevated heart rate,” it repeats.
“Okay, question?” Rocky mumbles from his workstation.
“Yeah. All good,” I wheeze before clearing my throat. I tear my gaze from Rocky after he resumes work. I glare at the panel in the ceiling where the arms come out from and mentally curse them. Nothing too harsh; they were just doing their job.
Elevated heart rate. Infection, perhaps? No. There would be other symptoms. Maybe leftover anxiety from the last few days. The alert seems to go away on its own, so I scrap the thought as well.
I dip under my blankets, still glaring at the panel.
“Goodnight,” I mumble sarcastically to it.
“Good night,” came Rocky’s song.
My glower turned into a smile before my eyes fell shut entirely.
—
Glimpses of dim light through a window. Flashes of pink skin: blushing cheeks, a flushed and bare chest, a freckled forearm; all my own, it seems. Glasses fogged. Parted red lips. A quivering exhale.
I feel my sheets, but not the Hail Mary’s sheets. My sheets. My bed. My room. A singular gasp. My left hand curls into the white sheets in anticipation. The right one travels up my rib cage, tenderly grabbing hold of my … oh dear. My thumb brushes a very sensitive spot.
A spike of adrenaline courses through my veins. My grip on the sheets tightens to one that’s white-knuckled. My eyes flutter shut for many reasons, I suppose. It’s easier to feel smaller touches that way. Perhaps that twisted feeling in my chest is due in part to shame. I attempt to shake the feeling.
My fingertips barely graze the exposed skin of my stomach. The lower I get, the more excited I feel. I pause for a moment, letting my fingers dance impatiently around my hip bone. Who is this show for? I am alone. ‘It feels better this way,’ I tell myself. I then slide my hand fully under the waistband of my boxers, pushing them with my wrist so they bunched at my knees.
My eyes fly open, cortisol rearing its ugly head. I feel exposed. I feel ashamed. I feel gross. I feel amazing.
I release my intense hold on my sheets to pull my blanket over my body. Maybe the cloth divide will make this less embarrassing. This is a rare occasion for me. I never usually need to release steam in this way. Friends told me it would help me relax, maybe loosen me up, but I have yet to see where any part of this could be relaxing. I’m filled to the brim with want and need and expectancy. My muscles are tensed, my breathing is uneven, and my skin is burning every time I touch it.
I squeeze my eyes shut again and dig my teeth into my lip. My hand drags along my inner thigh, closer and closer and- ‘Elevated Heart Rate,’ I say, rather plainly. Excuse me?
“Elevated Heat Rate,” the computer chimes again.
I jolt awake, scrambling in my blanket. I’m sitting up now. Everything is disorienting. I’m still dazed from the pain pills and half asleep from my nap.
“Huh- Wha-?” I look around. My throat is dry. I must’ve been sleeping with my mouth open. “What the-?”
“Okay, question?” Rocky chirps. He is not at his workstation, but rather right next to my bunk in his ball. This startles me and causes me to jump. I grab the blanket as if it were going to anchor me. It does not, and I fall flat on the ground off my bunk. Thank goodness it isn’t on my bad arm. “Apologize. Not meant to scare.”
“Apologies,” I correct him, out of breath. I lay in a starfish pose on the floor. It cools my apparently very hot and sweaty body. I close my eyes, attempting to chase that feeling of sleep again; I’m still exhausted. He repeats the word back to me.
“Grace okay, question? Computer warn.” He rolls an inch closer to see me better.
“I’m okay… I’m okay,” I whisper. I put both hands over my face to rub. My cheeks are incredibly warm. I feel my forehead for a fever. It’s a normal temperature. Cheeks, not. Forehead, fine. Hm.
“You make noise in sleep. Human noise. Not words. Not really sleep, question?”
Oh jeez. Forgot to explain the concept of dreaming. But I fear there’s a far more pressing issue:
What the hell was that dream?!
“Noise?” I croak out. “W-What noise?”
“Sound like pain. Sound like distress. But … soft.”
“Oh.” I clear my throat. “It’s okay. Human brains work like … like a machine. They have electrical currents zapping back and forth all the time, even when we’re sleeping. Sometimes, we get signals in our sleep, and we try to make sense of them, so our brains put together a sort of movie in our sleep. It’s called a dream. Different from a memory. Memories really happened. Dreams pull from memories to make something new.”
“You watch dream now, question?” He asked.
“You don’t watch them. You have them. It’s like you’re really there, experiencing these things happening. But to answer your question, y- … yes I had a dream.”
Suddenly, my faculties come back to me, and I remember exactly what I was dreaming about.
“What Grace see in dream, question?”
I swallow the thick amount of saliva in my mouth. I shake my head.
“Nothing, really. I forgot already.”
“I know not true. Too long to respond.”
Crap. Why can he read me so well?
“Just- It was just- I dunno. Human … stuff.”
“What stuff, question?”
“... Mating… stuff.” The heat rises to my cheeks. My starfish pose suddenly feels a little too vulnerable, so I drop my arms and close my legs. This is when I make a horrific discovery.
I’m, for lack of a better word, erect.
Both hands fly to my legs, shoving as much of the blanket between them as I could. I’m not entirely hard, but the dream sure left something behind. I usually wear roomy boxers, but right now, the fabric was unusually tight. I don’t know how I didn’t notice it before. Crap!
“Dream of mating. You have mate, question? You not talk about mate.”
“N-No.” I shake my head vigorously, wanting to be anywhere but right here, having this conversation. “I mean yes I dreamt of a human mating… ritual? Ugh, it’s hard to explain.”
“How you mate with no mate, question?” He seems genuinely confused and totally blind to the paralyzing embarrassment I was experiencing.
“We can- Humans can sort of simulate mating … with … themselves. Only.”
This gives him pause. I hate this silence. I close my eyes so tightly in an attempt to divert all my willpower to getting rid of my hard-on. It really isn’t working, and the friction from the blanket is only making it worse.
“What, question?”
“Hard to explain-”
“Must. Must explain. Eridians not have this. Have to know.” This is why the cat is dead. Curiosity murdered it. And me. Except it’s Rocky’s curiosity. I don’t know. My brain is at a fraction of its normal operating parameters.
“Really? Must I really?”
“Yes. Why scared, question?”
“I’m not… scared. I just feel like it’s unnecessary.”
“You ask same thing if it was me.” He’s got me there. I exhale and awkwardly sit up. My back presses against the wall, so I’m finally looking at him straight on. I keep the blanket pooled in my lap; this conversation isn’t helping my situation down south either.
“We … stimulate our reproductive organ. Usually with our hands. Or a machine or toy made for that purpose.”
“You mate with hand, question? You mate with machine, question, question, question???”
“No, it’s not- It’s not real mating. Simulation. Just feels really, really good. The brain rewards the body for attempting to reproduce. It does not know the difference if you were successful or not. It just knows you did your part.”
He pauses again. An arm comes up to his carapace. He’s thinking.
“What it feel like, question?”
Christ, Rocky. You’re going to kill me.
“I don’t know how to describe it. It’s a release of oxytocin that makes you really happy, I guess.”
“Humans mate often, question?” He attempts a scratch of his carapace. He picked that up from me when I’m deep in thought.
“Kinda. Sorta. But fake. Doesn’t create offspring. Just doing it for the oxytocin. I wasn’t really like that. It didn’t really interest me all too much.”
“But you mate with self.”
I hit my head back on the wall multiple times. “I don’t think all of this is particularly necessary to discuss.”
“Why so much shame around mating if all humans do, question?”
Huh. Good question.
“It’s a private … ritual, I suppose.”
“Like eating for me.”
“Exactly-”
“And I allow you watch.”
My eyes lock onto his rough body. He was facing me head-on, I could tell. His attention was all on me. I know where this is going.
“... Rocky…” My voice dropped low as I pressed the blanket closer to me.
“You…”
“You don’t want to…”
“...allow me…”
“It’s quite the boring process,” I squirmed.
“...to watch…”
My breath caught in my throat. Unfortunately, I would want him to do the same if the roles were reversed … if humans didn’t have masturbation. What am I saying??
All of this is new to both of us. It’s incredibly exciting. If this is your first contact with an extraterrestrial species, you would want to know everything about them. Everything.
“...question?”
My eyes have never drawn away from him. He did allow me to watch him eat. He has a point, and when I consult my conscience … I am not entirely … averse to it.
CHRIST!
I bring both hands up to my face to cover it. The heat emanating from my cheeks is concerning. The blanket slips down my hips but stays over my thighs.
“If no, understand.”
I take a moment to really think about it. The only reason I feel bad is that I’ve been trained to feel bad about it. He would never judge me. He is strictly curious. And perhaps … that excites me.
“Shame comes from those around us. Some believe that self-mating, or in our language, masturbation, makes you an impure person.” One hand comes to the collar of my jumpsuit and twirls the zipper. He stays silent and motionless; he’s paying attention. “They believe we mate to reproduce and only to reproduce. This is … an old, outdated way of thinking. Yet… the shame remains.”
The purr of the zipper being dragged down fills the otherwise silent room. My good arm pushes the jumpsuit cloth off my shoulder. My fingertips slid across the skin there. I had nothing on underneath.
“You talk during mating, question?”
Slightly embarrassed (I didn’t think it was possible to be more sheepish than I already am), I nod gently. It was a fair question. He equated this practice to his eating. They don’t talk at all while eating. The jumpsuit slides down both shoulders, exposing my bandages.
“Sometimes. Depends on the person.” I gingerly remove my injured arm from the sleeve, and the other follows suit. The fabric bunches at my hips. This is the most Rocky has ever seen of me. His carapace tilts slightly, up and down. He’s taking me all in. I feel … bashful. The social programming in my brain wants to hear his opinion of my half-naked body, but he has nothing to compare it to, just as I have no other Eridians to compare Rocky to. He could be the most handsome rock on Erid for all I know. I like to think so.
“What you talk about, question? You explain process every time, question?” He’s back to his quizzical self. I have to remind myself that this is purely for scientific research.
“Well. Some talk about the process, yes. They tell their mate that they’re doing a good job. Or some … like the opposite.”
“They enjoy bad mating, question?”
Why did I bring that up? I don’t have time to explain degradation right now; my dick is pulsating, begging to be touched.
Jeez. The crudeness of the thought even throws me off guard, and it’s my own brain.
I shake my head and leave it at that. I can tell he’s confused, but he can’t seem to find the words for a follow-up question. Silence again.
My breathing picks up as my right hand slides inside the remaining fabric of my jumpsuit. It’s a bit awkward, but with an inelegant shimmy of my hips, the jumpsuit is removed from under my butt.
Oh God.
The unusual tightness of my boxers wasn’t just the erection.
I wasn’t wearing my boxers at all.
Listen. It has been a rough couple of weeks.
Yes, I have set up a washing system for my clothes. But it’s rigorous and, in terms of priority, pales in comparison to the other things on our agenda.
So I may have… borrowed some underwear.
I went through the ones packed for me. I went through the ones packed for Yao. But those were all unwashed, sitting in a bag somewhere.
I felt the soft cotton of the unfamiliar underwear before I saw them, and I knew instantly I was sitting in a pair of Ilyukhina’s.
Is it possible to perish from absolute mortification?
Now with the jumpsuit at my ankles, I brought both arms, with a wince, to cover my crotch. I was back to timid (Had I ever left?). Of course, Rocky doesn’t know the difference between undergarments; he doesn’t even wear any, but I just cannot help but squirm. A small whimper escapes my lips.
“You feel shame, question? We stop.”
“No-” I say, a little too quickly. I can tell he wasn’t expecting that either. He rolls his ball a bit closer.
“What Grace feel, question?”
“I feel … nervous.”
A large pause.
“♩♫♪♩♬” He sings quietly.
“What’s that?” My chest rises and falls heavily. My heart was pounding.
“Eridian praise. Encouragement. You say humans like good words when mating.”
My eyes widen. A spike of cortisol shoots from my chest and infects my entire body. My dick throbs once in my palm. This is the first time I moan. I cannot control it anymore. I start rubbing myself through the fabric.
“Grace like this, question? Can say more like human.”
“That’s-” I say, already close to being exasperated. I wasn’t expecting that much of a physical reaction to what he just said. If my filter wasn’t clouded by the painkillers and hormones, I would not have said this:
“I like it. A lot.”
I’m done being shocked by what comes out of my mouth. Alarms are blaring in my head, and all I can see is the word NEED. Need. Need.
“Grace do well. Grace do good job.” His tone is flat. He’s never had to talk dirty, so of course, the delivery is the same as always. But I like it. Because it’s his delivery.
I nod fervently while my hand makes its way under the waistband of the bikini-cut underwear. I push it over and wiggle it down to my thighs. I wrap my palm around the base.
“There are the most nerve endings … here.” I drag my hand up to the tip. It makes my back arch a bit involuntarily. It had been a while since I’ve done this, and in this moment, I wish I had sooner. I inhale sharply through my teeth. “They feel best. But it can get overstimulating if they are constantly touched. Makes all the muscles tense. So we …” I begin the back and forth motion of my arm. “D-do this to stimulate the whole organ.”
“Why you no call organ by name, question? You say before that organ is penis. You shame is a lot. Deep, deep, deep.”
“S-sorry-”
“No,” he flutes in a demanding tone that makes the hairs on my arm stand on end. I stroke faster. “No apologies. I no think Grace impure person. I think Grace ♬♪♩♬♫♪♪.”
I’ve heard that word before, but for the life of me, I can’t remember it. I glance over at my laptops on the counter. The word comes up as immaculate.
Another pathetic wail. My speed increases as my head slams back on the dormitory wall. I hear his body shifting slightly, the gentle crunching of his joints rubbing together.
“Is good noise, question?” His voice is an octave lower now. He is catching on to what I respond to.
I nod so fast my glasses slide down on my nose. He goes quiet again. All that’s left is the mild slap of my hand hitting my groin on every downstroke.
“Is fast…”
“Can’t … help it…” I fold one leg up to open myself more to him.
“Elevated Heart Rate,” the computer says.
“Shut up!” I cry out.
Rocky takes a step back as I yell.
“Grace stress, question?”
“Say it again. The uh the word.”
“Immaculate, question?”
I shake my head.
“No the uh- Eridian praise- Just-”
I’m out of breath. The skin-to-skin contact is becoming a little too rough, but I don’t want to stop.
“Anything, Rocky. Just keep talking.”
He pauses to think, the fingers on his front hand clacking together.
“♩♫♪♩♬. Grace do good showing to Rocky. Proud. No shame. Rocky never shame Grace. Like Grace not shame Rocky eat.”
I listen to his song and do my best to match my pace to his flow. I feel every word he says. Tiny grunts fall from my lips, and my legs twitch restlessly.
“I’m good?” I whisper, forgetting that he can hear me at any volume.
“Grace so good.”
“Rocky-” I gasp out. I can barely think. Everything is a blur, but blissful. I feel relief culminating in my gut, but I’m not ready. I slow my pace and allow my fingers to dance around my entire groin area. If my memory serves me right, I remember enjoying…
My injured arm bends slowly. I hiss in protest but know it’ll be worth it.
“Grace all done, question?”
“Close. When we finish, we ejaculate. Or uh- Fuck-” I slap my mouth with my good arm as soon as the profanity slips out. I forgot I don’t have to watch my language.
“Many words not know.”
“I explained this to you before. When the white stuff comes out-”
“Yes, yes. Sperm. Like unfertilized eggs on Erid. Need other egg to make offspring.”
I nod absentmindedly. I’m not really thinking about what he’s saying; I’m just listening to his melody. The notes he makes in such harmony. It’s like a beautiful and unique symphony that only multiple instruments could make. But he is one. He is all.
My bandaged hand comes to my chest, grabbing a hold of the opposite pectoral muscle. I massage it gently.
“What doing, question?”
“This…” My thumb brushes my nipple. “Lot of nerve endings… more oxytocin…” I can barely form sentences at this point. “D-Does it feel good? When you l-lay- y-your eggs?”
“Yes, yes, yes. Same thing as humans. Reward for procreation.”
“Mmf.” I spit in my good hand, letting it fall from my pursed lips. Rocky purrs some soft notes that I remembered as an Eridian phrase of shock, equivalent to Woah.
I look up at him, making as much eye contact as I can with his faceless body. He had taken a step back.
“What?”
“That make Rocky feel … different.”
“Good different?” I bring my moistened hand to my dick again. His carapace shutters. I think he just got chills.
“You are imagining how you feel when you mate?”
“Yes.”
“Do you miss mating?”
“Yes.”
His answers are quick and curt. I think I’m riling him up. Oh, this excites me. I gingerly push up from the dormitory wall with my injured arm. I tuck my legs under me, jumpsuit still at my ankles. Now, on my knees, I am on full display for Rocky.
“That’s why we do this,” I grunt. My hips start twitching into my hand impatiently.
“Rocky would if Rocky could. Rocky would show Grace. Rocky would do good job for Grace. Promise.”
I whine pathetically loud and toss my head back. My glasses slide back up my nose due to my entire face being drenched in sweat.
“Good noise. Rocky like noise.”
I can’t stop now. I give him a full array of noises. Deep grunts and high-pitched moans. He rolls closer; not that he needs to. He just does it to … actually I don’t know. He just does it. Instinctively, I lean closer too. We’re centimeters apart.
“Rocky I’m- Can I-?”
“Can Grace what, question?”
“Finish-” I strain out. My eyes shut tightly. I’m close to the point of no return. Hurry, Rocky. Answer me.
“Yes. Grace be good. Grace finish for Rocky.”
And that’s all I need. I let out a thundering cry as my hips buck forward in irregular jerks. I didn’t mean to paint his ball, but he is just too close and gets caught in the crosshairs. He watches as the white liquid splatters on his xenonite, then brings his attention back to me.
I emit a few more gentle stammering gasps as the last of the wave hits me. I collapse backwards, sitting against the wall again. My eyes stay closed as I attempt to cling to the afterglow. I haven’t felt this good in ages.
He asks a question. I can barely hear him. My heartbeat pounds in my ears.
“Huh?” I say exhaustedly.
“Is sperm, question?”
I open my eyes. My senses are slowly returning, as is my grip on reality.
Did I really just do that?!
I see the mess I left on his ball, and suddenly, the post ejaculation clarity and shame hit me like a freight train.
“Oh god. Sorry-” I quickly fumble with Ilyukhina’s underwear and put them back on. I pull the jumpsuit up to just my waist and tie off the arms there as a makeshift belt. “I’m so sorry.”
“No apologize. No shame, remember?”
I don’t respond but rather scramble for the nearest wash rag. I kneel by his ball and feverishly start wiping it.
“Grace.”
I clean faster.
“Grace!” He flutes.
I stop, panting from my efforts. I hadn’t even noticed the stray tears on my cheeks. I can’t bring myself to look at him.
“Rocky grateful Grace show. Rocky no think Grace impure.”
I gulp and sit back on my heels. I fiddle with the dirty rag.
“Grace should enjoy feeling. Grace do so good.”
“Thanks…” I whisper and finally glance at him diffidently.
He puts a hand up to his side of the ball. He waits for me to do the same. I press my palm to his.
“Promise no more shame. Promise Grace let Grace feel good.”
I smile at this. Did he just fix years of catholic guilt in 20 minutes?
“I promise.”
“Good, good, good.” He puts his hand down and rolls away towards the lab. “Maybe next mate dream have Rocky in it.”
I laugh at this and feel a blush come to my cheeks. I glance down at the rag and rub my thumb over it. “Hopefully.”