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"Ryland."
And there it is.
Not Grace. Not Dr. Grace.
Ryland.
On this boat, laden with souls working towards a single cause they all know would result in a group of living, breathing people sent to their doom, Ryland Grace is expendable.
He is Dr. Grace to most of them—the school teacher sent into a room full of argon just to find out what the space dots are made of. The failed scientist who got lucky he managed to figure out how to breed astrophage in a plywood box. The idiot who accidentally became important at work and is currently the lead astrophage scientist.
But to her?
He's just...Ryland. Just him. Just human.
"Ryland, you know the song," she adds. She has that smile on her face he only ever sees whenever she gets to eat the purple or red sour Skittles (he saves them for her; he only likes the green and yellow ones anyway).
Then she holds out her hand. The one not holding the mic. And the look in her eyes says Please clearer than any words could have expressed.
Grace can't leave her hanging. He knows this because his body is already doing the calculations for him, already reaching forward and taking her hand while his mind catches up.
Okay. He's really taking her hand. He's stepping up to the center of the room, right in front of the TV screen where the song title and artist are displayed in bright blue. The opening chords echo throughout the room, fighting with the din of clinking bottles and cheers and laughter and the blinding sight of DuBois and Shapiro eating each other's faces off in the corner like no one can see them—
"Ryland?"
Fudge. That voice again. Soft and sure and wondering why he's staring at the two scientists making out in the corner when the one he wants to make out with is already staring at him.
"I'll do the first verse," she says, laughing a little when he looks back at her. Like she just knows he needs a moment—to recalibrate, to pull himself together, to remember the lyrics even though they're displayed on the screen. Who the hell knows? He surely doesn't.
When she starts to sing, Ryland's world goes quiet. Not literally. No, he can still very much hear the boisterous laughter of Ilyukhina trying to get Yao to drink more than he's able to at their table to his left. But a part of himself, of his loud, nagging mind, starts to quiet down as he focuses on her voice.
She told him she's not a great singer.
Liar.
She looks at him as she slowly eases into the chorus, and in that very second he realizes he never let go of her hand. He had taken it, taken the other mic in his other hand, and still held onto her.
His mind conjures the image of the Petrova line heading to Venus. A little red string in space; a fate bestowed upon their shoulders to observe and to solve and to mix their lives into its very orbit. He once read about the red string of fate because he'd overheard one of his students tell a girl he liked about it in the school hallway and Grace just had to google it immediately afterwards (not quite the topic he wanted his 6th grade students to talk about, but interesting).
Now he stares at their hands.
She squeezes his. He squeezes back.
An arch of her brow, and he realizes he has to sing now. Double fudge. Okay. He knows the melody. He had a college roommate who used to blast this song at seven in the morning as a pick-me-up before class. Strange behavior, but Grace has never been normal about anything his whole life either so who is he to judge?
Grace glances at the screen and starts singing. Honestly, he doesn't sound half bad. But the thing is, he would rather look at her. And so he does, and then he realizes he doesn't actually remember the lyrics. So now he's singing gibberish, making up words as he goes just so he can watch her reaction the entire time—
The way she scrunches her nose when he gets the first word wrong. Her laughter that blends with the cheers around them since everyone's watching now because Dr. Grace. Is. Singing!
But she catches on, because she's the smartest person he knows, and Grace is not looking away. So she sings with him. Their voices don't really fit well in the chorus. Grace blames himself. She sounds great. It's just him and his inability to get the lyrics right.
He moves closer, still holding her hand, still looking at her.
The room is in zero gravity and they are in the air. Floating. Crappy music notes trying to imitate the original become the very particles in the air that hold their bodies up in the atmosphere. Their feet hit the wall, and they bounce slowly to the other side of the room. It's just the two of them now. Ryland Grace and the one woman he's been finding himself gravitating towards ever since she was assigned to his station to help him monitor the astrophage breeding levels.
God.
Did he believe in God?
Well, at this moment, he does.
This brilliant mind before him—one of the people he meant when he told the kids in his class that the best minds on earth are working on saving the sun—is singing with him. A song about taking the long way home and enjoying the scenic view instead of a mundane shortcut everyone is accustomed to. Melancholic lyrics that confuse him because the song is upbeat but the message is so sad.
The song is only three minutes long, but this feels way longer. Are they still suspended in the air? Yes. Very much so. She shifts her hand, moving to intertwine their fingers properly, and Grace might just get a stomachache now.
Suddenly the feel of her palm against his, her nimble fingers between his—they become too prominent. Gravity pours back into the room, a mirror of Ilyukhina tipping more vodka into her glass. Grace is back on the ground, feet slowly descending towards reality with her hand in his.
Slowly, then all at once.
The song ends. The cheers erupt. He just sang the whole song staring at her because he cannot, for the life of him, be subtle about anything.
"See?" She beams at him. Beams. "Wasn't so hard, was it, Ry?"
Oh.
His knees turn to jelly. His lips part but no words come tumbling out this time. He wants to ask if she felt like she was in 0g too, but he shoves it down deep where the sun doesn't shine (it's about to literally not shine if they don't find the solution to get rid of the astrophage anyway).
Ryland Grace is at a loss for words.
She doesn't seem bothered by it, though.
"You did great, Ryland," she says when his silence answers her. She leans in, and the alarm in his head goes off.
ABORT. ABORT MISSION.
WAIT WHAT MISSION?
She presses a kiss to Grace's cheek and give his hand one last squeeze before pulling away. The loss of warmth from her palm leaves Grace's tingling with need. The ghost of her lips against his cheek dumbs him down to the man standing in the middle of the karaoke room in his fox cardigan with a dazed look in his eyes.
"I—" Grace doesn't even know what he's trying to say.
He looks up and his gaze comes into focus. She's a few steps ahead, looking at him. Head tilted to one side, waiting. He calls her name but it sounds more like a question.
"Come on, silly. Let's go get some fresh air. You look like you need it." She's already walking away, glancing back at Grace over her shoulder to make sure he's following her.
COME ON, BRAIN. WORK.
"Yes. Fresh air. Yep. Big fan of that. Okay."
Yeah. Not a great string of words but thankfully, still words.
Grace fixes his glasses back on his face—the pair was hanging beneath his chin the entire time—and trails after her. He feels like a chunk of metal in her magnetic field and he has zero complaints.
Outside, overlooking the ocean, she stands near the railing. The wind ruffles her hair. Her forearms are crossed on the railing as she looks out at the sea around them. In the distance, the sun is setting. A part of Grace whispers to it: Please don't dim just yet. I've only just found her.
"I've always loved the ocean," she says without turning around.
Grace mimics her stature, leaning against the railing beside her. He leaves little space between them, one he can close with just a step forward. Not that he's brave enough to do it.
"Yeah?" he says, looks around at the sea, then back at her, shrugging. "Me too but...I do get sea sick. Or car sick. Don't get sick on my bike though. Also, I don't like boat rides and I live on a boat now and you would think I'd get better at dealing with it right?" He huffs. "You know I got sick after the jet ride when they first brought me in? I think I just have motion sickness. You know I threw up in a cone?"
She's looking at him now instead of the sea.
"I'm doing it again, huh?" Grace smiles, a little embarrassed. She's smiling, too, at least. Amused. "I wish I could be like Stratt," he blurts out. "All mysterious, you know? Get you questioning me a bit. But that's the problem. I talk too much. Sorry."
She shakes her head. "No. Sorry for what?" She steps closer, and their shoulders touch. Grace stiffens slightly, but she doesn't seem to notice. "I don't think you could be mysterious even if you tried but...I like it."
Grace scoffs, trying to play it cool, but his gaze is already pulled towards her again. "Like what?"
"Your rambling." She turns her face towards him, just a little, glancing at Grace with a glint in her eyes that he rarely sees. "I like listening to you talk, Ryland. That's what I'm getting at."
"No, I know. I just—" Grace scratches the back of his head, messing his hair even further (it's already a mess to begin with; he suspects people assume he doesn't own a comb). "I talk a lot. I'm aware. I'm also aware that not everyone is a big fan of it, so..."
"Well, I just told you I like it so do with that info what you will."
That shuts Grace up for a full minute.
He smiles sadly to himself.
One time, in college, Grace had rambled about his findings during a group discussion because what else was he supposed to do? He couldn't help that he found thinking out loud more effective. He couldn't help that talking about a problem made him understand it better, that voicing out the facts made them retain in his head more.
But on that day Grace rambled on and on about gel electrophoresis with his glasses hanging beneath his chin and a pen slid over his ear—he forgot about it and only remembered later when he laid down in bed and it poked his temple—and that dude who joined their group last minute turned to look at him dead in the eye and said:
"Do you ever shut up?"
Grace blinks, and he's back before the ocean.
Jared. That dude's name was Jared. Grace never joined another group discussion with him after that. His classmates used to call him, though with a lack of creativity on their part, Big Mouth.
"Hey," comes the soft voice Grace is afraid he's getting used to a little too much. "Earth to Ryland Grace? What's going on in there?"
She's closer now. There's not enough air. Surely being this close calls for a warrant? This is more than a kiss on the cheek. This is her, in his personal space, shoulders touching, face inches away.
"Just thinking," Grace mutters. His hands tremble a little and he tries to hide them in the pocket of his fox cardigan.
"Dangerous," she says. "Don't hurt yourself."
Grace laughs. She makes it so easy for him to laugh now.
It feels like he's in school again, laughing with those kids whose future were once so bright but right now, not even promised. His laughter dies down then, at the thought of his students and how their future rests on the success of Project Hail Mary and to ensure that success they need to breed enough astrophage and to do that he needs to make sure everything is in order and—
"Ryland." Hands on his shoulders. A hand on his face, cupping his cheek. He leans into it. "Hey, it's okay. Breathe." Warm palm. Nimble fingers. A reassuring touch. He leans further into it. Holds the palm to his cheek with his own hand. "You went somewhere else there," the voice whispers. "Come back to me."
Grace exhales, long and deep. He breathes some more, inhaling till his chest constricts and letting it all out through his mouth.
"Yeah, that's good. Keep doing that."
The palm on his cheek is soft. A thumb brushes beneath his eye, careful of his glasses.
"Ryland?"
Grace opens his eyes and is immediately met with hers. His heart thuds. Rattles, even. Because in this light her eyes are the shade of the ocean that blurs behind her like a carefully painted backdrop. His favorite color, he thinks—that specific shade of dark-blue-almost-purple gram positive bacteria has when stained for a microscope viewing.
"There you are," she murmurs.
He's a full head taller than her and yet he feels so, so small. He stands there, and all that runs through his mind now is the sound of waves crashing against the side of the boat and his pulse beating on his eardrums. But he also hears her quiet but sure breathing. Feels the palm that still cradles his cheek, an anchor to the present.
"Wanna talk about it?" she asks.
God, when was the last time someone had asked him that?
"Not really."
She nods. "That's okay."
Grace places his hand fully over hers. The one cupping his face. He leans into it more, closes his eyes for a brief moment because for once he isn't ashamed to admit to himself that he wants this. For once he understands why the people in that karaoke room are so jovial and optimistic and hooking up even though their future isn't promised anymore, and several of them are literally being sent to die.
"I get it now," Grace says.
He is at a loss for words again. That doesn't happen a lot, but things have changed ever since the Petrova line. Ever since living on a boat. Ever since her. Because despite everything Ryland Grace has to say about science and astrophage and his lack of bravery to understand the sacrifices the people around him are making, this time he doesn't have enough words in his vocabulary to describe just what he feels.
"Get what?"
"Why they're all so...positive despite knowing where this ends."
"Yeah?" She smiles. Her gaze never leaves his and he's scared his rattling heart would break through his rib cage and that wouldn't be a pretty sight.
"Yeah," he says. "I think I do."
Grace leans in then, slowly, because he's not sure this is what she wants. But her eyes on him are so addicting and they have hope reflected in them, as if he's the solution to a thousand problems. Stop looking at him that way. He doesn't deserve this, does he? Does she even want this? Want him? He's not even sure he remembers how to kiss someone properly. What if he does it wrong and she pulls away and he loses his chance to—
She grabs his face with both hands now, and meets him halfway. Grace lets himself be pulled forward. Their lips meet, gentle and lingering and quieting all the useless words in Grace's head.
His shoulders sag. His hands come up to rest on her nape, threading through her hair.
She pulls back first. "That's what you were gonna do, right?" She asks, breathless. "I wasn't jumping to conclusions—"
Grace shakes his head, desperate.
"You should leave the overthinking to me." He dives in, so sure this time, and kisses her again. She's so soft, tastes like cherries. He's always wanted to taste her lip balm anyway. Now he knows. "I don't wanna let go," he whispers against her lips, hands sliding down to rest around her waist. "Please."
"You don't have to," she whispers back.
Her lips are on his, her arms wrapping loosely around his shoulders before her fingers run so soothingly through his hair that Grace has to swallow whatever sound threatening to escape his throat. She's leaning into him, and he catches her, arms wrapped around her in return.
The sky dims, but neither of them makes a move to part. Just tender, lingering kisses witnessed by the dimming, setting sun in the distance and the rolls of sea foam below.
"Can we do this more often?" Grace blurts in between kisses before he can think better of it.
She chuckles, and he swears he wants to bottle up that sound and study it beneath a microscope for the way it speeds up the beat of his heart. She brushes her nose against his and Grace thinks his heart might just be doing somersaults in his chest. He can't even do somersaults himself. This isn't going to be healthy for him. He might just go into cardiac arrest.
"We can do this as much as you want, Ry."
Ry again. Yep. His left arm is going numb, isn't it? He's having a heart attack. Abort mission. ABORT.
"Even in the lab?"
She laughs properly this time, covering her mouth with one hand like she always does when she gets like this, only for Grace to gently pull her hand away because he wants to see her when she's herself—without constraints, without a lab coat and a microscope and great expectations.
Her gaze softens then, staring up at him like he has all the answers to the universe even though he's not even brave enough to sacrifice himself to save their planet like the other people singing off-key in the karaoke room.
"Yeah." She nods, leaning in for another kiss. "Even in the lab, as long as Carl minds his own business."
Grace laughs. "I'm sure he won't."
"I know."
A beat of silence. Just two people staring at each other in the middle of nowhere with the weight of the world pressing heavily on their shoulders. But laughter is medicine, and Grace's cheeks hurt. He would do it all again if it meant he got to hold her like this for a little longer than whatever time they have left.
Grace tightens his hold on her, just a little.
"Even when I talk too much?" he asks quietly.
"Especially when you talk too much."
"Ha. You're just saying that, aren't you? You just want to shut me up—"
And then she's on her toes, mouth on his, and he holds her close, wrapping her up in his cardigan as the cold evening breeze whip through their hair. Because in this moment, Ryland Grace doesn't need to pretend to be brave or heroic or smart enough to provide a solution for their dying sun.
Right now, kissed by sea salt and the woman who eats all the purple and red sour Skittles, Grace can be completely, and utterly, himself.
And that's all he needs.