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Ashton fucking hurts . Their head feels like it’s full of shattered glass, and their scars ache. Something about FCG drawing attention to the hell that is living in their body seems like it’s made it worse. Or maybe it just reminded them there was a time before they were in pain. They fucking miss that time.
They’ve collapsed onto a bed, waiting for sleep, but it refuses to come. Gods, they really want to be unconscious right now. They’re not sure if they’re supposed to be sharing this space with anyone or not. Imogen had perched on a bed in the other room, and she’d looked so sad and alone there, by herself, that Ashton had stumbled out to one of the other rooms just to escape the image. FCG was hovering near her, at least. That was good. They’d be able to help her.
A selfish, ugly part of Ashton resents the fact that FCG isn’t there trying to help them . They know that’s shitty. Imogen needs them more. Ashton’s fucking fine .
Chet’s keeping watch. Laudna’s back at Eshteross’ manor. Fearne will probably curl up with either Imogen or Orym. Maybe both.
Fuck. Orym.
Ashton squeezes their fist tighter, still clinging to the cloth the halfling had given them, the one he’d apparently been using to wipe at the blood from their nose while they’d been stuck in that awful, frustrating loop. Fucking disgusting. Their stomach turns just thinking about Orym seeing them like that.
It’s actually impressive that their stomach can twist into more of a knot, considering the tangle it was already in. They’d asked FCG and Imogen to look in their head. It was what they wanted . But they can’t shake the feeling of being… violated . Like when some asshole they don’t know lays hands on them. Or when Hexum called them her good boy .
With effort, they sit up. Their flask fell on the floor by the bed when they collapsed. They fish for it blindly, lifting it to their lips when they finally find it and drinking deeply, until the burn of it cancels out the pain they’re already in, at least for a moment. He’s somewhat drunk already, but more can’t hurt. Maybe it will knock him the fuck out.
“That’ll just give you a worse headache in the morning.”
Ashton starts, spilling liquor all over themself and flailing for their hammer.
It’s Orym, half in the door, a familiar shape illuminated by the sparks flickering out of Ashton’s head. “Fuck.”
“Didn’t mean to scare you. I just thought somebody should check in. Nose still bleeding?” He asks, closing the door behind him and making his way slowly towards the bed.
“Think it finally stopped.” Ashton allows. He gestures to his head with his flask before taking another swig. “And it doesn’t get worse, believe me. Fucking impossible.”
“I believe it.” Orym sounds sad. Ashton is too drunk for this conversation. “To hear Grass tell it, it’s not just your head.”
Ashton laughs. They’re really too drunk for this conversation. Or maybe not drunk enough . They guess they’ll find out. “Oh, no. It’s the whole fucking thing.”
Orym’s close enough that Ashton can make out the frown on his face. “Scars?”
Ashton nods. “Gets worse when s’cold or damp. Milo says s’some shit ‘bout metal contracting ‘nd expanding. Feels like m’breaking the fuck open again.” It’s too dark for Ashton to read the expression in Orym’s eyes, but he thinks he can guess what he’d see if he could. He looks away.
“You told me before they only bother you sometimes.” Orym murmurs.
Ashton frowns, trying to remember what Orym’s talking about. They typically make it a point not to talk about their scars at all, or at least not how they fucking feel. They’ll entertain questions, Fearne’s oohs and ahs about how pretty they are, but this shit? No one needs to fucking know. Not like anyone much cares.
They’re lying to themself. They know Orym cares. They know FCG does, too. He suspects they would have rolled themself in here to try to fix it, if they weren’t busy with Imogen. That’s why he never told them. Ashton’s strong, he’s supposed to be strong. That’s what he’s good for, why he’s needed, why he’s wanted. No one else needs to know how fucking broken they are.
That’s why he’d lied to Orym, the last time Imogen went poking around in his brain and he’d ended the night with the halfling in his bed, massaging his neck so he could relax enough to sleep. Fuck. They’ve got no idea why Orym keeps coming back.
“I lied.” They say, shrugging like it doesn’t fucking matter. They laugh again, like they had when the Hells had asked if they felt better. “My head’s a fucking…death trap. Your assassins’re actively after us. Laudna’s dead. Think we’ve got bigger problems than this shit.” They gesture clumsily at their left arm, and the golden gouges in their skin. “Doesn’t fucking matter.”
Orym’s right next to the bed now. Close enough to touch. Ashton wants to touch him. He’s terrified Orym will touch them. They want him to go away. They don’t want to be alone.
“Of course it matters.” Orym insists. He sounds angry now. Good, this is familiar territory. Ashton’s right at fucking home with pissing people off. “You’re in pain.”
“I’m always in pain.” Ashton snaps. “ Always. What do you want me to say? S’worse some days. Sometimes I can’t fucking move. Sometimes I wish they would have just fucking left me there, instead of saddling me with this. ” They knock their fist against their slag glass skull hard, which is a fucking mistake, because it hurts. “ Fuck! ” They curl in on themself, gasping, fighting back a wave of nausea from the pain and the liquor. They really don’t want to puke. This is all so fucking stupid. They shouldn’t have asked Imogen and FCG to look in their head. They shouldn’t have said anything. They should have told Orym to fuck off as soon as he stepped in the door. They should have run and kept running and not looked back. They should have fucking died at Jianna’s place that night.
“Breathe.” Orym’s voice breaks through the pounding in their head, the thump of pain and blood coursing through them with every frantic beat of their heart. They smell lavender again, like they had when they first snapped out of the loop of crates, red glow, white flash, sky, pain. They breathe as deep as they can manage, chest flaring with pain as the gold and stone expand. They wince but keep going, trying to focus on the lavender blooming in Orym’s hands. It smells just like the tea Orym made after he nearly fell to his death from the airship. Sharp and cool and soothing. “That’s it. Would it help if I touched you, or would that just make it worse?”
Ashton has no idea. Orym’s touch had been pleasant the night he massaged away the worst of their headache. But they’re so fucking overwhelmed right now, and already too vulnerable, too split-open. Orym could take whatever he wanted and Ashton would be powerless to stop it.
Orym would never take anything Ashton didn’t willingly give. He’s seen Ashton fucked up before. He hasn’t run yet.
This is different. This is worse. This is undermining their very usefulness. This is showing they’re a disappointing broken fuck up.
Orym thinks they’re beautiful. Orym wants to help. Orym has never once asked them to be strong.
They’ve hesitated too long, apparently, because Orym speaks again. “It’s okay. I have another idea. Can you take these?” Ashton forces their vision to focus on the flowers in Orym’s hands, the purple-blue of the tiny buds sprouting from soft green stems. They lift their right hand, letting their left arm dangle limply against the bed, the thought of moving it an impossible task. Orym’s hands are small, Ashton can hold everything he has cupped in both in a single palm. “Good. Keep inhaling that. It’ll keep you grounded. Where’s your pack?”
Ashton frowns, but nods towards where they’d dropped the bag haphazardly next to their hammer, close to the bed. “S’nothing in there that’ll help this. Nothing does.”
Orym kneels by the pack, hesitating before opening it, like Ashton’s aversion to touch might go for their shit, too. They might appreciate the gesture if they weren’t currently feeling like shit stuck to the bottom of a goliath’s boot.
“Do you still have the heating pad I gave you?” Orym asks.
Ashton blinks, and then nods. “Yeah. I haven’t really…used it since then.” They’d sort of forgotten about it, in all the chaos since Orym gave it to them. They haven’t had a chance to try using it again. And they also…it’s stupid, but they don’t think it would feel as good, if they heated it up for themself. They know they’re being ridiculous, but most of the comfort came from being taken care of, for once in their life. Even if it scared them to death.
Orym hesitates. “It helped last time, right? Or…you don’t have to lie, if it didn’t. I didn’t mean to make you feel like you had to say yes.”
“No.” Ashton sighs, which has a strange mixed effect of the movement making their chest hurt worse, but the scent of lavender soothing the uncomfortable feeling twisting just under their skin that makes them want to run. It’s confusing. “I mean…yes, it did help. I just…s’stupid.”
“I doubt that.”
Ashton huffs. They’re not sure if it’s the lavender easing them open, or the fact that they’re drunk enough that they doubt they could flee this conversation, no matter how badly they might want to, or the pain making them feel shattered into pieces on the floor, but they actually answer honestly. “I liked it when you did it for me. ‘S…nice. To be taken care of.”
“Yeah.” Orym murmurs. Ashton can picture the wistful smile that must be on his face. They can’t bring themself to look at him, to see it. He’s thinking about Will. It’s stupid that it makes Ashton jealous. “Can I get it out and try it?”
Ashton nods, not trusting their voice. They watch Orym rifle gently through their pack, lacking the presence of mind to feel embarrassed. It’s a different kind of vulnerability, letting Orym see the things he carries with him. But it’s not as if they can get any more split open than they already are, lying here in pain and admitting they want Orym to help.
To Orym’s credit, he sorts through Ashton’s belongings with exceptional tenderness, not even pausing to examine the items he puts aside in his search. He finds the pad and replaces everything else carefully. It makes a stupid lump rise in Ashton’s throat, and tears burn in their eyes.
Ashton wants another drink. But they can’t bring themself to drop the lavender cradled in their right hand. Clumsily, they uncap their flask with their left hand, gritting their teeth against the pain as their skin stretches around the gold embedded there. They spill a little on their chest; their hands are shaking.
Orym’s working on the heating pad again, using whatever small touch of druidic magic he has to heat the cloth and rice all the way through. There’s a chorus in their head, saying they don’t deserve this, they shouldn’t have asked for this, this is too personal, too special, too much. Ashton drinks more, coughing at the burn.
“How about we slow down a little with that?” Orym’s voice is so fucking gentle. It makes Ashton want to scream.
“Fucking hurts.” He breathes, closing his eyes. “Jus’ wanna sleep.”
“I know, Ash, but you—“
“You don’t fucking know.” Ashton hisses, turning to face Orym head on. “You don’t. I don’ fucking want you to. I didn’t…I didn’t want Grass t’know, but now they do, and that’s…that’s not what…I didn’t want…” They’re shaking, and breathing too fast, and all of this is just making everything fucking worse. They know they’re screwing this up. They know they don’t actually want Orym to leave, even though that’s what all this shit is designed to do. They know Orym won’t leave even if they tell him to, because he sees through their mask every single time. So it’s down to them.
Ashton pushes off of the bed, clinging tightly to the flowers still cupped in their hand, and immediately hits the ground, their legs crumbling underneath them. It’s a combination of the fact that they’re really fucking drunk and also the deep pain seeping into their bones. “Mmmmmmnnn.” They groan, vision going white on impact with the wooden floor. “ Fuck. ”
It’s silent for a long moment as Ashton tries to catch their breath. They landed on their bad shoulder, because of course they fucking did, and the dark room is spinning around them, blood pumping in their ears. They know Orym is there, but he isn’t speaking. What could he say?
They don’t know how much time passes before the nausea fades, and they can actually take stock of their surroundings. Orym is sitting on the floor, half a foot away from their face, waiting. He’s staring at them silently, though not expectantly. Actually, Ashton realizes as they become more aware of what’s happening, he’s staring through them, like he’s trying to see the floor they collapsed on. Ashton blinks. His fingers are moving, too, and he’s whispering under his breath. Ashton frowns, trying to understand. “What are you–?”
That’s when they notice that the floor isn’t quite so hard under them as it had been when they first landed. They frown, confused, and shift a little so they can try to figure out what’s different. Something fluffy and soft brushes against their skin when they move. It almost feels like…moss? They blink, running their fingers through the layer below them. Definitely moss. It had grown so slowly that they didn’t realize it was happening until now. They look up at Orym, a question in their eyes.
“I didn’t want to try to move you. But this ground is really hard. I don’t know how much that helps, but…”
He looks almost…sheepish. Like what he just did isn’t the kindest, most magical shit anyone’s ever tried when presented with Ashton, splayed out on the floor in front of them. They roll over onto their back slowly, feeling the moss shift and grow under them. It’s not as comfortable as a bed, but it’s a lot fucking softer than the floor. And it’s more about…the fact that Orym gave a shit that Ashton was uncomfortable to begin with.
“Thank you.” They say, voice cracking. “This is…kind of fucking perfect.”
Orym lets out a relieved breath. Ashton wants to laugh. He really has no idea what this shit means to them. The only non-timebomb of the group, and he has no idea how low the fucking bar is for Ashton.
“Are you…I mean, I know you’re not okay, but…how are you?” Orym asks.
Ashton takes stock. They’re in pain, but that’s nothing new. They don’t think they actually hurt themself with that stupid ass tumble. They’re still pretty drunk, though, so they probably won’t know for sure until the morning. They think they could stand up and get back on the bed, if they really put their mind to it. Definitely if they could bring themself to ask Orym for help. They’re mostly content to lie on their bed of moss for the moment, though. They sigh. “‘Bout the same as always, I guess.” They settle on, which is probably not a very satisfying answer.
Orym doesn’t protest the vagueness, though. He just nods. “I’m sorry if I made you feel…you don’t owe us an explanation about this, of course you don’t. And I didn’t really…I think I get why you didn’t want to talk about it. I just…” Orym sighs. “I got upset thinking about you being in pain, and no one knowing. And all this with Laudna, watching Imogen…” His voice cracks. “I don’t like not being able to help when people I care about are hurting. I’m sorry for pressuring you to let me help. I know sometimes you just need space.”
Ashton can’t find his voice. There’s a lump in his throat, Orym’s words echoing through their deathtrap of a brain. I got upset thinking about you being in pain. People I care about.
They close their eyes. “I know. You were trying to help. M’sorry for being an asshole.” Orym makes a noise of protest. Ashton shakes their head, then winces at the dizziness that causes. “Most of the time I don’t even know what I need. You, Grass, this whole group, it’s…a lot sometimes. I’m not used to people trying to anticipate my needs. Unless they’re trying to sell me something.” They open their eyes again, studying Orym’s face for understanding. He’s not sure he understands it.
Orym is nodding. “Understandable. Can I…is it okay if I still try to help? Or do you want me to go?”
Ashton hesitates, really trying to examine what they want. They’re fucking bad at this. They want to not be in pain anymore. They don’t want to be alone. “Can we, uh…try the heating pad?”
Orym nods, a small smile breaking across his face, and Ashton knows they shouldn’t feel this way, but the fact that this is the response Orym wanted makes them even more sure it’s what they want, too. “Let me get it warm again. Do you want to try to get back on the bed?”
Ashton grimaces. “This shit has calmed down some.” They say, jerking their chin down towards their shoulder. “I don’t wanna fuck myself up again.”
Orym nods, holding the heating pad between his hands. Ashton doesn’t see a flicker of flame, but they can tell by Orym’s expression of concentration that he’s working his magic, seeping warmth into the fabric and rice with his small, warm hands.
Ashton casts around for something to talk about, feeling awkward in the silence. “This Tempest, or…I can’t remember what you called her, shit. You learn that trick from her?”
Orym’s smile turns amused, and Ashton feels a little embarrassed. They’re not the kind of person who is on a first name basis with anyone of any importance. They have no idea how shit works back in Zephrah. “In a way. Most Ashari learn at least a little bit of druidic magic.”
“It’s fucking cool.” Ashton murmurs.
Orym smiles again, this time a little sheepish. “I only know a small bit. My sisters can do a lot more. And the Tempest…” He trails off, eyes going distant, like he’s remembering something. Ashton remembers what he’d said about the day the Grey Assassins invaded his home; how the Voice of the Tempest had turned herself into an earth elemental and crushed them. Ashton has a little bit of experience with turning into stone, but they don’t know how that shit works, at all. Orym presses the heating pad experimentally against the bare skin of his forearm. He must be satisfied with the temperature, because he holds it out towards Ashton. “Do you want to place it, or do you want me to?” He asks.
Ashton hesitates. “You can. Just…try not to–”
Orym nods. “I won’t touch you.” Ashton believes him. Now Orym hesitates. “This won’t cover all of them. Where’s the worst of it?”
Ashton lifts their right hand and covers their shoulder. “Here. This whole side is…” They grimace. “But this is where I…landed. S’the worst, usually.”
Orym drapes the warm weight across the golden scars on Ashton’s upper shoulder, careful not to brush his hands against their skin. They relax, a low hum escaping their throat without actually intending it. The pain doesn’t disappear, by any means, but the heat on their aching body feels so good. The way it urges their tight muscles to relax has relief seeping into the rest of their body, even the stretch of golden scars where the heat doesn’t touch. Ashton knows tensing up only makes them hurt worse, but it’s some kind of fucked up cosmic joke that when they’re hurting like this, they can’t seem to relax.
“Fuck, that feels good.” He sighs, eyes drifting closed of their own volition.
He can hear a smile in Orym’s voice. “Good.” A pause. Ashton thinks they could fall asleep on the floor like this and be perfectly fucking happy. “If you want I could make you a bigger one. Maybe something wearable, too, so you could move around with it on.”
Ashton considers that. He can’t decide which feels more intimate; using the one Orym had made for Will, or having Orym make one intended for them. He lets himself imagine Orym taking measurements of his arm and chest, tracking where the pain burrows deep, spending hours stitching something meant to help. It’s overwhelming. The closest anyone’s ever come to that kind of devotion, as far as Ashton’s concerned, is the time Milo spent putting them back together. This feels just as deep. And yet…using Will’s comes with its own weight that Ashton isn’t sure they’re prepared to carry. “...Maybe.” They settle on, distracted.
That train of thought reminds them of something Orym said earlier. About watching Imogen grieve Laudna. Hells, they’re all grieving Laudna—except maybe Ashton, who refuses to accept that it’s time to start grieving, because that feels too much like leaving her behind—but it doesn’t take a genius to see how Imogen’s grief is different. How much it must look like Orym’s grief from six years ago. Gods, it was even the same asshole that killed her. Ashton feels their stomach drop. Why hadn’t they thought about this before? They’re a fucking asshole, that’s why.
“Are you okay?” It’s a stupid question. Of course he isn’t. And Orym looks confused, anyway, because this Ashton checking in on him is coming out of left field, probably the last thing he expects out of them. Fuck, they’re bad at people.
“What do you mean?” Orym asks.
Ashton sighs. “I just…you mentioned that it’s hard, watching Imogen…I dunno if they’re actually together , her and Laudna, but they sure fucking acted… act like it. That’s probably…and it was Otohan too, I don’t know. Fuck. I’m making a mess of this.” They squirm under the intensity of Orym’s gaze, not sure if they hope he understands what they mean or if they want him to pretend they didn’t open their dumbass mouth in the first place.
Understanding blooms across Orym’s face. “You mean because of Will.” Ashton nods sheepishly. Orym nods, too. “I don’t know, honestly. I still feel kind of…numb?” His expression goes far away. Ashton can almost imagine Zephrah around them, like Orym’s memories are so strong they could sweep Ashton up in the recollection. “I remember the first few days, after Will…I felt like the whole world was just…a little to the left. Or like I was…outside of it. Nothing felt real. Except at night.” A shiver passes over him, and he seems to come back to the moment. Ashton has no fucking idea what to say. Orym clears his throat. “I think that’s where Imogen is right now. What I’m worried about is what comes next.”
“What came next for you?” It’s the only thing Ashton can think to do; listen. Be brave enough to let Orym know they care.
Orym laughs wetly. Ashton hadn’t noticed the tears gathering in his eyes, but now they spill over onto his cheeks. “Anger? Or…mostly it was pain, but it was a lot easier to be angry than to deal with the fact that he was gone .” Ashton nods. That much is familiar ground for them; how anger feels safer than anything else, especially when they’re hurting. “I was awful to my mother. And my sisters…” He shakes his head. “Pretty much anybody who tried to help.”
Ashton has a hard time imagining Orym being awful to anyone, if they’re being honest. “You’re scared of how Imogen will lash out.”
Orym nods, wiping at his cheeks. “I hope she doesn’t have to get there. The Tempest will help, if she can. She helped me.”
Ashton frowns. “I thought you said she couldn’t…”
Orym shakes his head. “No. She wasn’t able to bring them back. But…she helped in other ways.” He takes a deep breath. “She’s powerful. I’ve seen her do…” He pauses. “I hope it’s enough for Laudna. I still don’t know why Fearne was able to save me .”
His expression has gone dark now. Ashton frowns. “You know this shit’s not your fault, right?” They ask, trying to catch Orym’s distant eyes.
He flinches. “It was a trade-off. Laudna or me. Laudna’s dead because I’m alive.”
Ashton sits up at that, ignoring the twinge in their shoulder, and the cold rush of air against their skin where the heating pad had been, when it slides off. “That’s not what fucking happened.”
“It is. ” Orym hisses, expression hard and sharp. “I keep surviving, and I don’t know why. Will said I wasn’t done, that I had to come back. But I wanted to stay.”
That hits Ashton like a slap in the face. “You saw Will?” Orym nods miserably. Ashton stares.
“I try to think of every day as a gift, to be glad that I’m here, for him, and dad, because they don’t get to be here, but it’s just…it’s really hard right now, because Laudna’s dead because I’m not .” He buries his face in his hands, his whole body shaking with silent sobs. Ashton’s heart breaks.
So maybe they’d been wrong about Orym not being a powder keg. He’s just really damn good at hiding it. They extend a cautious hand and carefully place it on Orym’s back. This has always been easier for Ashton than if their positions were reversed. Ashton can hand out touches just fine, especially when someone else needs them. It’s being touched that sends them spiraling. They rub Orym’s back gently. They’re in control like this, they can choose how much they give. They would give Orym anything.
After a few minutes, Orym’s body stops trembling. A few minutes more and he’s wiping at his eyes, looking up to meet Ashton’s. “Sorry.”
Ashton rolls their eyes. “I think we’re past the point of apologizing for this shit.” He points out. Orym nods. “I…fuck, I guess this is hypocritical of me, but I’m sorry I didn’t think about how all this would be affecting you sooner. I’m not great at taking care of people.”
Orym raises his eyebrows. “I disagree with you there.”
Ashton has no idea what to say to that. The two of them sit in silence for another long moment, Ashton’s hand still resting gently on Orym’s back. The position is starting to hurt, but they’re not going to say anything. Not yet. “Am I allowed to be glad that you’re here?”
Orym hesitates. Then nods.
“Well. That’s a start.” They shift a little, trying to get more comfortable. Orym notices.
“Sorry. Does this hurt?”
Ashton opens their mouth to say they’re fine, but stops themself. “Yeah. Sorry.”
Orym shakes his head. “Get comfortable.” He insists.
Ashton starts to lie back down on the moss, but stops. It’s soft, but the wood floors are cold, and that shit buries itself deep in their body. Once Ashton gets cold it’s almost impossible to get warm. And the cold hurts. “Think I’ll get back up there.” They gesture towards the bed. Orym nods. He picks up the heating pad, feeling it experimentally.
“I could warm this up again, if you want?”
They’re hurting like the hells again, and that had actually helped a lot. “Yeah, that’d be…I’d like that.”
Orym gets to work, focusing on the weight of the cloth in his hands, while Ashton hauls themself to their feet. Gods, they’re exhausted. Tonight has been a fucking lot. They collapse on the bed, lifting a blanket clumsily over themself. He’s not a drunk as he had been earlier, he realizes belatedly. Still, he thinks he’ll be able to sleep. Especially with the warmth from Orym’s gift pressed into their skin.
“Can I…would you mind if I stayed in here tonight?” Orym asks, voice small. “I…this is awful, but I need a break, from…everything, over there. But I don’t want to be alone.”
Ashton peels an eye open. “Course you can.” There’s a beat, and maybe Ashton is still a little drunker than they thought they were, because they add, “There’s room up here. S’cold.”
Orym hesitates. “Are you…sure?”
“Mmmm,” Ashton hums. “You said nights’re worse. Don’t want you to be alone.”
They can hear a wistful smile in Orym’s voice. “I think I’d like that. You ready for this?” Ashton nods, and Orym places the heating pad just as carefully as he had before. Ashton makes a pleased sound. The bed dips as Orym climbs onto the mattress. “Can I lie here?” He asks, pulling the blanket back and indicating a spot at Ashton’s side. “I might touch you, especially once I’m asleep. I like to…it’s comforting, to feel someone next to me.”
Ashton thinks about it. For the first time in a long time, it occurs to them that touch could be something a person wants from Ashton, not something a person gives with expectations attached. Orym wants to be comforted, wants to be held, full stop. That’s something Ashton can do.
“Here.” They shift a little, curving their body around Orym’s desired spot, like they’ve seen Fearne do. “You can touch me.”
Orym pauses for a moment more, studying their face like he’s trying to decide if this is really okay. Finally, he curls up against Ashton, tugging the blanket back up over the both of them. His small body eases into the contact; comfortable, comforted. Ashton did that. It feels fucking awesome.
“This okay?” Orym asks quietly. He’s watching them intently for any sign of tension with those eyes that see everything. For once Ashton doesn’t feel like they need to hide anything.
Orym is a warm pressure against his chest, easing the pain there like a second heating pad. Ashton melts into it. “Okay.” They agree. And it is.