Chapter Text
Tom was offended—revealingly so. It was perfectly human and quite expected. After the crash-out, during which he'd smashed the walls and kicked Ryland's scattered things in impotent rage, and then sat for a long time listening to a YouTube playlist of calming mantras, he'd fallen suspiciously silent. The stream of questions, each with varying degrees of stupidity, had ceased. Ryland found it difficult to understand whether Tom was using his silence as a means of manipulation, or whether he was genuinely offended, or whether he was genuinely unhappy... but he himself, despite his inner convictions, wasn't entirely pleased. Ruining his relationship with the only person in the area—it had taken some effort, and he'd managed it perfectly.
Despite the silence sessions, Tom was physically within reach. Which was good. Grace wasn't too keen on the idea of being alone in space.
"Want an interesting fact?" Ryland asked out loud, knowing Tom would definitely hear him, even from across the room, where he was crouched with his laptop, furiously typing away. The sounds faded slightly. He hears, "We have a coma-resistance gene. You'll ask what that is. It's... hmm, basically a set of genes that allow us to easily survive a long coma. Here's another interesting fact: these genes are found in only one in seven thousand people."
A few seconds of silence. He remembered the class trying to hold back their resentment when their trip to the paleontology museum fell through, but Grace managed to interest them in going to the Minions movie, and they pretended to be completely uninterested for a few seconds before screaming joyfully.
"I don't remember taking any coma tests," Tom replied after a moment of silence.
"Me neither. But maybe they took them from us later, since something made us wait a while to join."
Tom chuckled.
Ryland decided to break the silence:
"Another interesting fact: our mechanical friend Armando was designed specifically for us."
"Mm... Tony Stark came up with that much earlier."
"Tony Stark is a fictional character."
"But the concept is similar. Maybe they fucking snatched it."
"Is it in your contract to be the lawyer for all the Marvel characters?"
Tom snorted. An emotional reaction is a good thing:
"First of all, screw you. Secondly, I was supposed to be filming it it, so yeah."
"So, filming, Marvel... five-year contract, right?"
Ryder paused, clearly searching his memory:
"Actually, six, with the option to extend. But have to sign the extension in person, so…"
Ryland decided it was time for another interesting fact:
"Then I have good news for you: about thirteen years have passed on Earth, so your contract no longer binds you."
Tom's hysterical outburst about withheld facts had taught him that perhaps it was best to share memories in a timely manner.
Thomas sighed:
"Jean-Claude is already dead."
"Who?"
"My dog. I remembered. I took him back after filming, but I was always short on time, and he hardly lived with me."
Ryland pursed his lips—it sounded sad:
"I'm sorry."
"Yes, me too," Tom replied inaudibly.
"And, Tom..."
"If you say 'interesting fact' again, I'll do something really bad," he warned sullenly.
"Ugh. Okay, I won't. It's just a fact: we'll soon be in orbit, which means gravity will disappear. In simple terms: zero gravity."
A loud, drawn-out sigh was the answer.
***
The next three days were devoted to minimal preparation for weightlessness. Oddly enough, Tom was in charge this time. Judging by his, um, physical condition, one could conclude that he understood exercise far more than Ryland. But there was a caveat: their indecently close friend Armando not only maintained his physical condition, but Ryland's condition had even improved considerably during his coma. But mentally, he still felt like his old self. Moreover, his developed muscles hadn't affected his vestibular system at all. He managed to gather all the corners and stumble on level ground.
"Maybe you'll be more careful in zero gravity," Tom teased him while they were doing exercises, and Ryland stumbled again, trying to balance on one leg.
"No. I gonna throw up right next to your bunk, and you'll suffer," Grace replied sarcastically, rising and returning to his original position.
"Amazing. I'll ask Armando not to give you any food."
"I'm the captain, not you."
"I'm cooler."
"Debatable."
"Whoever can stand on one leg the longest is cooler."
"That's unfair."
"I know. I could also suggest doing a plank. It won't help you develop your coordination, but it will allow you to lose less humiliatingly."
Ryland rolled his eyes:
"I haven't been teased like that since freshman year."
"Do you feel young again?"
"I feel like you're three years old," Ryland chuckled quietly, carefully disguising the gesture. "Your exercises aren't working. I have flat feet!"
Tom exhaled petulantly, glancing at Ryland:
"Okay, Bambi."
***
"...just like Bambi!" his partner laughed, not bothering to offer him a hand to help him up. He simply giggled as Ryland struggled to gather his legs together and scrambled up the railings, rising from the slippery ice.
Ryland himself blushed awkwardly, and it wasn't pleasant embarrassment, but a feeling close to shame.
"Ha-ha, I thought all teachers had built-in grace! But you're probably too cool for that."
"More like too much of a loser," Ryland replied angrily, adjusting his glasses. His mood had vanished, his hurt pride irritably demanding he leave the date right then and there. "And anyway, why would I have to? I teach science, not physical education, so it's logical that I, like anyone else, might not be perfect in some ways."
"True. But you started waving your arms so funny!" his partner mimed these movements, so exaggerated and uncomfortable that I wanted to rip his arms off and throw them in the trash.
"Oh my god. You're never going to let this go?"
"No," he smiled toothily, "I'll tell about it to our kids."
Ryland wanted to disappear. Why had he even missed every red flag this man had raised and agreed to the meeting?
"I'd rather you didn't make fun of me, even in front of me."
"Gracie, don't make it complicated, okay? We're having a great time, I'm just joking."
"A joke is when we both find it funny."
***
A sudden memory made Ryland sink down onto the mat he'd been practicing on, pretending he knew what he was doing.
Tom watched him slowly sit up, his expression distant.
"Are you okay?" he asked, frowning slightly.
"Yes," Ryland replied, "Just had a flashback. No more 'Bambi' for me. I think it's irritating me."
Later, sitting over a cup of coffee, Grace immersed himself in thought about what had happened. About the memory, about the events, and about Tom's reaction. Well, now it was becoming clear that he was at least part of the LGBT community. The news wasn't stunning or frightening. That was fine. But if all his dates with men were that bad, then maybe it was a good thing he wasn't returning to Earth—less likely to die from cringe on the spot. As for Tom's reaction, he found it... acceptable. Ryland's clumsiness wasn't news; it was only natural that they'd make fun of it. And the bickering with Ryder didn't irritate him as such; on the contrary, it somehow restored a sense of normalcy—as much as was possible in their situation.
He then asked if everything was okay, nodded at the order not to call him like that anymore, and continued his intricate exercises, targeting completely unexpected muscle areas. Even in the cool of the ship, it felt warm — because of their exercises.
Thomas sat down next to him, sipping plain water instead of coffee because he didn't like regular Americano, and there was no lactose-free milk on the ship. Although, Grace could try diluting powdered milk and adding lactase... but that would require producing the lactase itself. Ryland could have done that, but in the looming zero-gravity environment, it didn't seem like a high priority task.
Tom was still wearing his T-shirt from their semblance of a workout, and, idly, Ryland began to examine his undeniably developed muscles.
"What kind of movies have you been in?" he finally asked, thinking that it certainly wasn't teen dramas. Although, who knows these teenagers...
"Action. Sci-fi. A couple of thrillers."
"Well, of course," Ryland nodded. Expectation met reality.
Tom looked at him with amusement.
"And what's that supposed to mean?"
"Your physical fitness betrayed your genres. I doubt you've played teachers or coffee shop baristas."
"I'll take that as a compliment," Tom replied easily, drawing himself up. "When I was younger, I played romantic films, I'm not hiding it. But always playing the classic handsome guy gets old quickly. That's my burden."
Ryland snorted:
"Poor you. Poor your Wikipedia page."
***
Among other things, Tom had developed a habit of filming. Not only did he film, but he also deleted some "shots," as he called his takes, without even rewatching them, citing the wrong vibe and his voice not being good enough. Very demanding.
"I think it was pretty good," Ryland tried to defend that take.
Tom looked at him seriously:
"Imagine you're explaining something to your student. For example... I don't know, some smallpox thing or something. But instead of saying sadly, 'Yeah, man, smallpox sucks,' you cheerfully say, nah 'It's a little complicated but no prob bruh.' And that's the wrong message, right?"
Wow.
"It's hard to argue with that," Ryland sighed. "Okay, let's reshoot it again."
"Let's let you do the talking this time, I've already lost the meaning of words."
"Did they have one?" Ryland teased out of habit, feeling comfortable enough to do it often. Luckily, Tom had a stable self-esteem.
"Considering that you proofread the text, I suppose so."
"Well, I don't know, I'm not an actor, and certainly not a blogger. And this is literally the weirdest blog in history."
"Its unique. Come on, Captain Grace. By the way, you've already appeared on a so-called blog, so I thought I'd confront you."
"This violates US law."
Tom chuckled contentedly:
"We're in a different solar system, I don't think US law applies here. Well, you looked pretty good there. Not better than me, of course, but pretty passable."
Ryland was about to say something, but then another thought interrupted him: he wouldn't even see any reactions to this blog. They could share the views between themselves. Then they'd send him back to Earth—as a final hello to humanity—and they'd disappear into the depths of space. What a vibe. That's why Grace decided to remain silent and walked into the frame:
"Well, hello, Earth. You won't believe who my cameraman is. If you're standing, you better sit down."
And turned the camera on Tom, who instantly composed himself, losing his relaxed gentleness (which, it turned out, had already manifested itself physically) and flashed a smile:
"Tom Ryder! The greatest actor, playboy, philanthropist, winner of the 'Sexiest Man Alive' award, and simply handsome—and a fucking incredible cameraman, too."
Ryland automatically protested:
"Tom, kids will be watching this!"
"So, you think kids don't know what swearing is? At least, even in the movie PG-13, you can say 'fuck' once."
"This is my blog," Ryland snapped, quickly chuckling at the absurdity of this conversation, and pulled the camera back to himself. Tom quickly checked that everything was in order and gave a thumbs-up. He, too, was smiling, watching the miniature screen. "Sorry for my rude colleague. So, we only have 24 hours left until we enter Tao Ceti orbit. If you ask me my opinion on this, I'm intrigued. If you ask me what it means to enter orbit, let me explain. First, gravity."
***
After several weeks of intensive preparation and immersion, Tom was ready to begin filming. And he began—in fact, he had begun even earlier, rehearsing in his cabin, swaggering in a respectable shirt, formulating what needed to be conveyed to the public.
He immediately copied particularly successful formulations into notes.
Then he showed them to Grace, who at first nodded absentmindedly, barely glancing at them, and then turned sharply and ran over to Tom to correct something. That's why he got used to not straying far.
Filming began one day. Tom was given a uniform with the Project Hail Mary logo for the occasion, so he stood in the frame already wearing a bomber jacket. Calling the place a professional filming location would have been blatant flattery. It was one of the labs where Grace himself worked, and he wasn't exactly pleased about it. He was distracted from his work, brazenly interfered with. The powerful lamps made the temperature unbearably hot. And he was already accustomed to constantly freezing.
All in all, it was a nightmare. Tom also capriciously corrected the cameraman, who had barely managed to film a few seconds:
"Don't you see? There's not enough light here! And there's already a lot of it. Dude, have you even heard anything about white balance? Come on, come on, I almost believe in you!"
When Ryder was satisfied with the image, “got into the flow" and began speaking, Ryland no longer allowed him to do so calmly: sleep-deprived, tired, and angry, he spitefully corrected Ryder every other word and snorted at his every phrase.
"That's unbearable," Tom protested briefly, with obvious effort holding back stronger words. "Doctor Grace, if you're not satisfied with what I'm saying, please set an example and keep me company."
Dr. Grace, angry and disheveled (the disheveled look wasn't surprising, the angry look was just a little), surprisingly obeyed and stood in frame next to Tom. A gigantic professional camera stood directly in front of him. A cameraman sat there, nervously glancing at the screen displaying the camera feed. A fluffy microphone loomed over him. It was all somehow disconcerting. Ryland ran a hand through his hair, rubbing the back of his neck. Okay, maybe it was more difficult than it looked.
Tom quipped, "What's wrong, Dr. Grace? Keep your chin up and try to relax. But not too much, or I'll have to correct you."
Eventually, Tom returned to frame, proudly adjusting his bomber jacket. Ryland rolled his eyes. His glasses migrated to his chin, and he took his place among the observers.
It was a creaking noise, but the work began. Ryder was now completely focused on his work, casting quick glances at Ryland, as if asking, "Is this okay? Is it credible enough?" In response, Ryland either nodded briefly or tried to objectively point out the inaccuracies. Sometimes they were taken into account, sometimes not.
"I understand," Tom sighed when corrected yet again, "but if you correct that, the whole analogy breaks."
"But calling astrophags 'bad guys' is wrong. They're not 'bad'. They're... just guys."
"That's very sweet. If I’ll say 'astrophags are an ecologically neutral life form that implements a natural survival strategy,' people would turn me off and open TikTok."
"Well... I guess I would too. Or maybe not.”
"You're the interested party. And on the other side, a hundred-year-old grandmother and her twelve-year-old great-granddaughter will be watching."
The answer was silence, in which Tom could smell the agreement.