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Orson tried to get Galen to stay.
It didn’t work.
With only a couple months until graduation, the farewell dorm parties and back-to-back bar hopping and nightclub carousing had really begun to stack up. Well, for some, at least. There definitely were those who preferred to spend their last days in the Futures Program finishing up their studies and preparing for a career in the Republic. Galen Erso was one of them. Orson Krennic was not.
Somehow Orson had managed to drag Galen away from his thesis on kyber crystals and energy enhancement to some bar in Brentaal’s main district, where a host of students from the architecture department were getting completely and utterly wasted.
Galen had reluctantly obliged, more for the sake of his friend’s amusement than his own desires, Orson had pleasantly discovered. When they got to the bar, several humans as well as humanoids shouted their greeting to Orson, sloshing their drinks in too-full glasses as they reached over the writhing mass of drunken bodies to shake his hand or clap his shoulder. Galen, mostly ignored and ungreeted, watched as his friend shot everyone a flash of his brilliant white teeth with the slickest of grins, how his sharp blue eyes glistened naturally each time some new companion of his said hello. Without even speaking he had brought an entire room of people to his attention, as drunk and buzzed as they were.
They finally made it to the counter, miraculously finding two open seats next to one another amidst the dizzying, blundering crowd. And Galen wondered, now studying the drunken students who had seemed so happy to see Orson, why, out of all of these people who were most definitely much more keen on neglecting studies for partying, who would probably all go willingly to bars and nightclubs and gatherings every night with Orson if they could, who would absolutely abandon their thesis on kyber crystals for a chance to get drunk with him, why, out of all these people, did Orson choose him?
The younger man plopped down on the bar stool before him. Galen slid into his more elegantly, and folded his arms over the counter in silence. A more than disgruntled-looking bartender came over to ask them what they wanted. Orson glanced over at Galen, unable to stop himself from getting mesmerized by his thick dark hair, his tired thoughtful eyes, his naked lips…
He ordered a soda. That should’ve been the first sign.
Once Galen had returned to his continued reserved examining of the crowd, Orson ordered a beer. The worker grunted and retreated further behind the counter to get their drinks, tossing them on the tabletop none too lightly before skulking away into the back to probably drown his own miseries.
Orson launched a hand at his drink and downed a third of the glass before saying, “Really, Galen? I bring you to the best local bar in Brentaal and you order a soda?”
“Lots of caffeine,” was all he responded.
“And a complete lack of alcohol.”
“Precisely the point.”
Orson frowned, “I was almost certain I had you hooked.”
“Oh, you do,” he took a sip of his soda, “just not tonight.”
“And why ever could that be?” Orson already had an idea.
“You already know I’m not fond of...crowds like this.”
He gestured to the scene before him, but Orson noticed his eyes lingering on a group of rowdy humans tussling with each other, nearly knocking a table over. For a man who preached pacifism, Galen seemed equally as entranced by fighting. Probably, Orson assumed, because he didn’t understand it, and everyone knew Galen Erso’s aching hunger to solve every quantifiable mystery in the galaxy needed to be satisfied. One of the young men slugged his opponent just under the jaw and sent him reeling backwards.
I can do that too, Galen.
Orson drew his gaze back to Galen’s. Saw his tired, thoughtful eyes…
“Yes, but I know something here that you are fond of.”
“And what’s that?”
“Me.”
Orson stared at Galen’s lips, waited for them to curve upwards like they used to, to bend in that crooked sort of way they did. Did. They twitched. He breathed out a noise that was almost a laugh. And Orson tried not to let his face fall.
“I suppose you’re right. Only Orson Krennic could somehow manage to get me out of my dorm two months before final exams.”
“See, listen to yourself Galen. Two months before finals! You have plenty of time, I don’t know what you’re so worried about.”
I know what you’re so worried about.
Orson drank some of his beer.
“You’re not the one graduating in a couple months, Orson.”
The alcohol slid down his throat slowly. It was heavy, and cold.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, “No, I’m not. But even if I was, I would still make time to have a bit of fun before I left.”
Galen didn’t say anything afterwards. Orson searched his friend’s face for some sign of agreement or conceding look. But per usual, his friend’s face was as solemn and expressionless as ever. He was failing.
Looking off to the side, Orson continued, “What are your plans for after you graduate, Galen?”
“I’ve been looking into some advanced studies programs off-world. Research expeditions.”
“Crystal research?”
“Yes.”
A fresh swell of what might have been panic or animosity spread over Orson’s body. His breathing hitched a bit, his chest and neck overtaking an overwhelming sensation of tightness. He needed to combat this. He drank his beer, eager to feel the cold harsh liquid slide down his throat, anything to ignore the tightness. He tipped the glass up, tilting his head as far back as it could go before realizing his cup was empty. He ordered another.
“You know, I hear Brentaal is in need of some geology professors. Crystallography maybe. I’m sure you could even land a gig back in the Futures Program.”
Galen made a face as he sipped his soda, and Orson wondered if he could hear through his hopeful lies.
“I can’t be a professor, Orson. I will have only just graduated from the Futures Program myself.”
“An internship, then. There-”
“No. After I graduate, I know I have to leave. There will be nothing for me anymore on Brentaal.”
Orson swallowed hard, his mouth having gone dry despite him just taking a large swig of beer. He set the glass down with tense fingers and turned to look at Galen. He had swung his stool around to face the direction of the huddled students on the makeshift dance floor. Following his gaze, Orson traced it back to the same group of rowdy boys, still shoving and pushing each other drunkenly. The confrontation didn't look serious or hostile, more like a group of buzzed friends getting a little rough with one another. Nonetheless they had captured Galen’s attention, him gulping his soda as he studied their movements, flailing arms and fists in slow motion.
I’m right next to you, Galen. I can go down there with them. I can go down.
In a small voice, surely the beer talking more than he, Orson Krennic who never let anyone see him as less than he made himself out to be, said, “Well...you will come visit, won’t you?”
Galen turned to look at him, wearing something on his face that might have been the closest thing to a smile that night. And with something shining in his eyes, but a dull shine, a sad one.
“Of course, Orson,” he placed a hand on Orson’s own, stiff upon the countertop, “Always.”
He felt his hand relax against the cool surface of the bar, relishing in the warmth of Galen’s palm pressing softly against his skin. He wanted to stay like that, wanted Galen’s hand to melt into his own so that way he could never let go, but his friend soon pulled away and stood up from his seat. He downed the rest of his soda and placed the empty can back onto the counter.
“Well, I’m going to go work on my thesis. I know I’m not your preferred company when it comes to settings like this.”
“No, you’re--well, maybe. But I invited you here for a reason, Galen.”
“And that reason was definitely not to hear me worry about finals.”
“I don’t mind. I--” Orson couldn’t stop himself from glancing at the group of boys wrestling around. Glancing almost desperately.
“Don’t worry, Orson. I see you keep looking over at those people. Go dance with them. Have fun. I will see you back at the dorm. Don’t come back too late.”
And with that, he disappeared out the door into the darkening night of the rock planet, leaving Orson alone in a bar that suddenly seemed much darker than the blackness outside. The tightness returned to his neck and chest, and he hurriedly reached for his drink once more. Empty. Again. He impatiently flagged down the disgruntled bartender, this time ordering a flight of Corellian shots. He finished each before he even knew he had put the glass to his aching lips and stood up recklessly from his seat at the counter. The tightness in his muscles gradually being replaced with a hollow, woozy feeling in his stomach and head, Orson staggered to the makeshift dance floor, paying no mind to the people he ran into on the way over.
Once in the very midst of the pulsing body heat of sweaty strangers and twenty-something year olds grinding against each other, Orson let his mind go. Go to Galen, of course. He barely felt the foreign caresses upon his arms and neck, the slight tugs at his hair and shirt collar. Everyone wanted to engage Orson Krennic but his attention was simply engaged to someone else. He danced, he moved, he swayed, to no beat in particular, only seeing Galen before him. Galen’s face with his sharp features and dark hair and tan skin. He saw his face, and its lack of a smile. He saw Galen insisting on going to work on his thesis instead of spending his last few moments in the Futures Program with Orson. He saw Galen graduating in two months, coming out with top honors in all of his classes, with no family or relatives in the audience to be proud of him, just Orson, smiling and waving and breaking as he walked away. He saw Galen leave Brentaal on some rundown ship going on a research expedition to another backwater planet that could offer him nothing. He saw Galen forgetting about him. Leaving him here for nothing. For some stupid crystals. And he could not have that.
After an unknown amount of time, Orson happened to gaze up from the stranger’s neck he found his head corked into and looked in between two wavering bodies to see the group of human males from earlier, laughing too loudly and stumbling out the door. He peeled himself away from the huddle of bodies he had immersed himself in and began pushing past the crowd towards the exit. His head felt heavy and his vision blurry, limbs hanging loosely at his sides, yet he forced his shaking legs to carry him forward until he reached the door.
I’ll do it for you Galen. I can go down.
He fell through the door, catching himself as it swung open rapidly. The men, three of them, were leaning against the side of the building, some standing around, all passing a lighter between themselves, cigarettes in their mouths. None looked startled when Orson burst through the door, just lazily, mildly turned their heads towards him.
The one with the lighter spoke, “Hey, Orson. What’s up mate?”
Orson drew his head to the side slowly; his body felt like it was trying to work its way through sludge. He looked the man who greeted him up and down through half open eyelids, and gave a slanted smile when he didn’t recognize him. It could have been the booze. Or it could have been the fact that everyone in the Architecture Department seemed to know him, while he barely gave any of his peers a passing glance.
He nodded at him, “Mind if I snatch a cigarette? And borrow your light?”
“Sure,” the boy mumbled around his own.
One of the others held out a slightly worn box. Orson plucked one out in his fingers and placed it in between his teeth. The one who spoke to him tossed him his lighter, which Orson caught and flicked on with his thumb. When the cigarette was lit Orson took one puff and then held it out in front of him, savoring the smoke-filled air. Then he flicked the cigarette onto one of the men, it’s lit stub landing on his chest, leaving a small spark stain on his shirt.
“What the kriff, man?”
Orson was laughing, trying to hold it in as best as he could.
“Sorry, sorry, flew out of my hands. It was an accident,” he snickered.
The other humans began glancing skeptically amongst one another, their earlier aura of lazy drunkenness slowly fading.
“Can I have another?”
The man with the box reluctantly held it out once more, and Orson lit up another one, still softly chuckling to himself. He took another puff, inhaled deeply, and then flicked the cigarette away again, this time straight at the eyes of the one who greeted him.
“What the kriff, asshole?”
This one got them moving, the man brushing ash and sparks off his face furiously, his two companions closing in on Orson. He laughed.
“You really didn’t see that coming? How dense are you?”
He shoved Orson into the wall, hard enough so that he had to repress a groan of pain as his spine collided with the bricks. What he could not repress, however, was a smile.
“You think this is funny?”
“You could say I find your stupidity amusing,” he slurred blissfully, “or is that too many words for you to understand?”
Orson did not have time to blink before a flying fist connected with his nose, sending a pulsing wave of pain across his face. He felt wetness at his nostrils and smiled deeper.
“This kriffing idiot’s asking for more,” another spat.
Soon someone’s knuckles slammed into his gut, causing him to cough and splutter, alcohol-tainted saliva building up at his lips. His stance faltered, legs giving out slightly from under him so that he was slumping along the wall. Orson could have fought back, by all means. He and anyone else who happened to challenge one of his ideas knew all too well the damage the rich boy from Lexrul could deal, physically and socially. This was different, though. It wasn’t just because there were three of them; Orson knew he could have taken them on with time to spare for another drink if he wanted to (years of experience had gotten him to that point). And it wasn’t because of the alcohol running through his veins. Though he did have to admit his arms and legs were beginning to feel heavier and heavier by the second, pain as well as the shots rendering him immobile. But no, this was a choice. His choice.
An immeasurable amount of punches later, Orson found himself draped across the wall, halfway on the ground sitting up. Countless flashes of pain throbbed upon his face, where he was sure the skin had been split open in more places than one. He could feel the spots on his jaw and stomach where he might find an abundance of purple-green bruising later. But then again, he wouldn’t find it. Galen would.
The group of men were beginning to leave, muttering angry curses to each other and Orson, who looked all but about to fall unconscious on the dirt floor before them.
His head lolling sideways, he called out, “Come on, that’s all you got?”
He wiped under his nose because he could feel the blood, could feel it dripping down onto his teeth, staining his laughing grin red. He looked at the blotch on his hand to see a small smudge of stickiness across his fingers. He needed more. More blood, more scars to bring back to the dorm.
I am almost down, Galen.
Snorting and flicking the blood off his fingers, Orson said, “That’s nothing. I bet your mum bleeds more than this on menopause.”
And just as he had hoped, all three men came hurtling back and began repeatedly pummeling him in the ribs with their kicking feet. He went down, hitting the floor hard, but not as hard as the boots and fists coming down on his body, leaving fissures and cuts and bruises that would take weeks to heal. Orson coughed and groaned, curled up on the ground where they left him, feeling a screaming pain in every bone of his body. But also feeling something like relief. Something like hope. He turned over with great effort to stare up at the stars, a slight curve to his lips.
***
Galen had never been one to struggle with writing. According to his peers, that’s all he ever occupied his time with anyways, besides Orson Krennic, of course. Writing instead of socializing, reading instead of speaking. After all, it was much easier to communicate with individuals through written words rather than actually having to, well, communicate with them. Passing him in the hallways, the common rooms, the dining hall, he always had out that grubby little notebook of his. When he first arrived at the Futures Program, most of them insisted quite harshly that the only reason he wrote in a small, tattered notebook was because his family must have been too poor to afford him a personal datapad, like all the other kids had. Which was, for the most part, true. But as time wore on in the Futures Program and each of the students were provided with their own datapads by the school, people still found Galen stumbling through the hallways with his nose half-shoved in that tiny notebook, constantly mapping out ideas and notes and research in that terribly illegible scrawl of his. Then of course people insisted that he continued to do so simply to conceal any and every new piece of knowledge he could muster up so that none of the other students ever had a chance of surpassing him in class. Those who preached that rumor around campus were almost always the lowest of their classes, Galen being the highest. But few, including Orson, truly knew why Galen insisted on writing with pen and paper: it reminded him of home. Working with one’s hands instead of with a machine. Tending to his parents’ needs back on Grange always called for some form of physical labor. They really were too poor to afford the newest tech and droid models. So Galen learned how to use his hands. And he never stopped using them.
But now, sitting in his darkening dorm room being forced to type up his thesis on a datapad at his professor’s insistence that he receive a digital copy, Galen found that he indeed was struggling to write. It didn’t have anything to do with the science. His notebook was right there next to him, wide open and overflowing to the brim with theories and equations and test results he knew were correct. All he had to do was type them out. Yet every time he flexed his fingers, laid each one out carefully upon the keyboard, all thought vanished from his mind. Except one. A single, familiar face lingered. Orson.
Galen exhaled through his nose and sat back in his chair. He rubbed his eyes. Orson Krennic. The rich kid from Lexrul. The kid in the architecture department you didn’t want to pick a fight with. The one professors said had potential for the program if he stopped screwing around so much. The kid who never left that freak Galen Erso’s side.
Galen was well aware of the things people said behind his back about the two of them. They were not particularly bad things, granted. But they weren’t all that good either. People thought Galen was only friends with Orson for protection. People thought Orson was only friends with Galen for answers to their homework. Because who else would willingly offer to spend their free time, to share a dorm, with Galen? And, of course, neither were true (Galen hoped).
He rapped his finger tips insistently on the desk. What was he thinking? Of course he knew they weren’t true. No matter how many times his classmates had to pull him aside in the halls to implore otherwise. After all, confrontations like that usually ended with Orson chasing them away with either threats to their pride or threats to their safety. He had always been there for Galen. Even in the beginning when he spent the night at other boys’ dorms and Galen would stay up until the early hours of the morning waiting for him, pretending to be doing assignments he had finished hours ago. Orson would pretend like nothing had happened and Galen would play oblivious and that’s just the way it was. Because soon enough Orson had stopped visiting anyone else’s dorm and sometimes they would both share Galen’s bed, pressing so close to one another under the covers as if they needed each other’s warmth, as if they were the only two people left in the galaxy, and at the time, maybe they were. But now…
His blank datapad screen stared at him. That empty space of darkness was just like him, he realized. Alone, incomplete. Missing something. And for a while he thought he knew what that something was. He thought that he had gotten it, miraculously, impossibly. But his thesis was still unfinished. The black screen was still black, it needed something else, something more. And he had the power to fill it. He knew exactly what he needed to do. What he wanted to do? No, what he needed to do...yes. At least that’s what he believed.
He stared at his blank datapad screen. He saw himself in it, saw the reflection of his hollowed out face, his deep eye bags, the solemn gleam in his pupils, and wondered if he had always looked this exhausted.
All he had to do was fill the space. Fill the space and he would disappear. But maybe if he finished his thesis there would never be a time when his features didn’t get lost in the data, buried by numbers and codes. They would become as much a part of him as Orson had become. And maybe if he finished his thesis, he wouldn’t just be making himself disappear. He would be making Orson disappear too.
Galen clenched his hands into fists against his keyboard because he knew, just somehow knew that Orson realized, as soon as he finished his thesis, it would be the beginning of their end.
And maybe Orson was right...
Galen shuddered in his seat, got up to close the window that was letting all the cold air into the dorm. When he sat back down he continued to shiver. It was still cold.
He blinked at the glowing characters on his datapad, then the empty space under them, waiting. With another heavy sigh, and a nauseous feeling growing like a deep chasm at the bottom of his stomach, Galen decided that his thesis would look like that for the entire rest of the night. He was right.
There was a knocking at his door, though not a normal one, more like one heavy thud followed by a volley of smaller knocks, each one divided by slow, uneven intervals. He quickly glanced at his datapad for the time: 0349. If the numbers on his screen weren’t indicators enough, he could tell he had been sitting at his desk for hours without moving by the stiffness in his legs as he heaved himself off of his chair, dragged his feet to the door.
When he opened it, Orson practically fell into his arms, reeking of hard liquor and something metallic. Galen gripped him by the shoulders, noticing with something a little less than a start that the younger man was almost entirely immersed in cuts and bruises. Blood stained his skin, semi-dry and clumped in places like his drenched strands of hair, sticking to his forehead.
He held Orson firmly in his hands, could feel the man’s warmth seeping through his palms. Soothing. Or maybe it was the heat radiating from his wounds. Either way, he didn’t want to let go.
“Orson. What happened?”
His head swayed back and forth slowly and a long, red grin crept its way onto his face, “I went down...I told you I could do it, Galen. Look at me.”
“I am looking,” Galen responded, “and you are not looking too good.”
“That’s…” he slurred, his slight lisp even more prominent now with the alcohol tainting his breath, “...good.”
He giggled and hiccupped.
“I’m going to take you to your bed. Then I’ll get the spare medpac from the refresher.”
Galen draped one arm around Orson’s shoulder’s and used his free arm to clutch onto Orson’s, the drunk man barely managing to land his on the back of Galen’s neck.
“Galen…”
“Help me walk you.”
Together, they half-stumbled to Orson’s bed, Galen doing his best to set him down carefully. He didn’t need to tell Orson to stay sitting up; the man seemed eager already to show off his wounds by keeping a straight back and puffing out his chest, as if he had accomplished something here tonight. Galen left briskly to the fresher, fished their last medpac out of the cabinet and returned to his roommate. Their others had all been used up already in situations similar to this one. The point being, Orson had yet to use one of their medpacs on Galen.
Galen knelt down on his knees before Krennic, a position that reminded him of times long past, and began undoing the collar of his uniform.
“Who did this to you?” He asked when he had removed Orson’s shirt, revealing a plethora of dark splotching bruises that had begun to grow purple already. His toned stomach quivered with every inhale, and Galen pleaded that he did not have any broken ribs. He took a wipe and began dabbing over the areas that had the most blood, not too many on his chest and stomach. The bruising had mostly collected there. The blood had made its home upon Orson’s cheeks, his forehead, his lips.
“It’s been a long time since you’ve taken off my shirt, Galen. Hasn’t it?” Orson purred, avoiding the question.
It had been a long time. Too long.
“Was it people from the architecture department?” Galen asked as if he was planning on hunting them down--something Orson would do to those kids who made fun of Galen back when they were younger. Something he might have done now. Maybe something he did tonight.
False hope littered Galen’s mind. He knew that wasn’t why Orson had returned here so late in the night looking like this. Just like he knew no matter how many times he tried to probe Orson into revealing who did this to him, he was not really going to do anything about it. He only kept asking as a way to convince himself that it was not the reason he thought it was, That it was not Orson who had done this to himself…
Clearing his throat, or clearing his thoughts, Galen said when Orson didn’t respond, “I do wish you hadn’t made it a habit coming back here at 0300 every morning bleeding from more places than I can count.”
Orson let his head swing to one side, as if the weight of his thoughts, the layer of beer and shots pressing down on them, seeping into them, was too heavy for him to carry.
“Well...how does the expression go? The more the merrier?”
Galen made a face as Orson laughed bitterly at his own joke. He continued to swab his chest and cheeks for that red stickiness.
“Er, what does it matter anyway,” he continued, “you’re Galen Erso! You love counting. Numbers, test results...crystals.”
He spat out that last word like he couldn’t hold its sour taste in his mouth any longer.
Something shifted inside Galen. Something behind his ribs.
“How long until you run out of crystals Galen? No more pretty gems to count...Crystals are temporary. I…”
He looked as if he were about to say something else, his gaze tightened, his expression sobered, but whatever those words were died on his tongue. He allowed himself to slump forwards, his usual confident posture finally broken.
Galen tried to swallow back the sudden pressure in his throat, “Some stones with a heart of kyber can last for millenia. Crystals aren’t temporary, Orson.”
“Yes they are,” he insisted, his voice thick like mud, thick with denial.
Galen said nothing.
Orson sniffed, “They can break. Shatter. You’ll get bored of them.”
Galen set down the blood-soaked gauze and placed a hand over Orson’s. He was trembling.
“Orson,” he waited until the man looked at him, and tried his best to smile like he used to, to curve his lips in that crooked sort of way he did. Did. “I don’t think that will happen for a very long time.”
Orson’s lip wavered. He was staring straight at Galen but it almost seemed as if he were really looking somewhere far away, some distant future shrouded only in cold. Without warning he nearly threw himself forwards, wrapping his arms around Galen in the most desperate embrace he had ever felt. Galen suppressed a gasp, and slowly, slowly wrapped his arms around Orson in turn, dropping the gauze, forgetting about the blood that was probably going to be on his own shirt when one of them finally tore away. Because right now there was no future. There was no cold, there was no crystals. There was just them.
When one or both of them finally felt able enough, they released one another, and Galen finished cleaning up Orson in silence, Orson only wincing every couple swabs. When he had finished repairing his roommate as much as he could, they crawled into bed together, Orson feebly, Galen hesitantly. He wrapped his arms around Orson’s body, his chest pressed to the other’s bare back. He could feel the deepening rhythm of his breaths as sleep began to wear him down. Galen imagined Orson was exceptionally exhausted, and not just from the alcohol or the beating he had evidently received. But just as Galen felt his own eyelids growing heavy, Orson began to murmur something.
“I wish you were there.”
Galen did his best to blink the sleep away from the edges of his vision.
“Where?”
“The bar...The fight.”
Galen managed enough energy to scoff, feeling light enough from their shared moment to allow a pinch of laughter into the night. He figured this was another one of Orson’s half-asleep, half-drunk jokes, the ones he used to tell so often, returning home from the bar on a night similar to this.
Galen chuckled, “What, so I could watch your ass getting beat on the floor?”
“Yeah,” Orson’s eyes were already closed. “So you could feel sorry for me. Then you would have to stay.”
Galen stopped laughing, his ghost of a smile fading. Almost as if he had something to prove, he wrapped his arms tighter around Orson’s body, and pressed into him closer, sharing what warmth he had. But Orson said nothing more, he was asleep. Galen buried his face into the crook of the man’s shoulder, trying to bury whatever thought almost came to fruition at Orson’s lips. His calm faltered, as he tried to convince himself that it was just drunk Orson. It meant nothing. Yet from the bed his eyes just so happened to glance over at his desk, where his datapad lay, left on, illuminating the dark room just enough with its dim glowing light. He could just barely make out that blank space, where his thesis was missing, waiting to be completed, waiting to be named the ticket to the rest of Galen’s life as an engineer. But instead of seeing a promise of change, a promise of greatness, all he could see was a threat of separation. Of damage. Of breaking. Of leaving. Of nothing.
Galen had a hard time falling asleep that night. Instead he just kept staring into Orson’s messy hair, studying it and praying its dark curls would captivate him somehow and erase all of that doubt hiding underneath his skin, he would see something there that wasn’t there before, something extraordinary enough to make him stay, to get rid of those words that came out of Orson’s mouth. But he just saw hair. So he went to sleep, his grip on Orson a little less tight than before.