“I want you to have it if you want it,” he interrupts.
“You know I want it.” I exhale through my nose, pausing for a minute. “Just... give me some time,” I say finally.
“Alright,” Caiden says, nodding his head. That should be enough to make me feel better.
So why does it make me feelworse?
SEVENTEEN
CAIDEN
I should have stopped as soon as the words “space cake” came out of my mouth. But no. Here I am. In the middle of Amsterdam, sitting next to the canal, watching Arseny Zakirov try not to collapse into a fit of giggles. He ate less than I did, but it clearly doesn’t take much. For a few minutes, nothing really happens, then I notice my hands. They feel... weird. I flex my fingers once; the sensation comes a fraction late. It’s like my nerves are buffering.
Interesting.
“Ari.”
“Da?” he says, holding back another giggle.
“My bones are humming.”
“Your bones are fine, detka.”
“I’m telling you they’re vibrating.” I look at him, then at the water, then back at him. He bursts out laughing. It’s not intentional, and I can tell he’s trying to hold it back, but it doesn’t work. “Stop laughing, I can feel my heartbeat.”
“That's normal.”
“In my teeth...”
“Still normal.” He presses his lips together, trying to stifle another giggle.
“Oh my god, Ari, I can feel my heartbeat in my dick.” There’s a long pause, and he loses composure completely, sending me off into a howling, laughing fit.
The sound echoes strangely off the water, and I lean forward with my elbows on my knees, trying to control my lungs. Ari is still smiling when he looks over at me.
The high makes everything slower, and for a second, I can see every detail of his beautiful face — the crease near his eye, the way his hair falls forward, the way his mouth tilts when he’s trying not to laugh again. Then I forget what I was about to say because I’m far too busy staring at him.
Then, thud. My facial expression must have changed dramatically, because Ari tilts his head. “What?”
Thud, again. Then I hear the music. “You don’t hear that?” I ask. He turns his head slightly, listening. The bass rolls again off in the distance.
“That,” he says carefully, “is far away.”
“It’s close enough, let’s go.”
“We are not wandering toward unidentified industrial noise while intoxicated.”
“We’re not intoxicated,” I say, pushing myself upright as the pavement shifts slightly under my feet. I’ll pretend that didn’t happen. “We’re... enhanced.” He stands as well, slower and annoyingly less wobbly.
The bass hits again, and this time, there’s a break in it, a sample, then a riff. I freeze, instantly recognising the music. “No way.”
Ari looks at me. “What?”
I squint down the street past Ari as if I can see through the buildings. “Ari, why can I hear The Prodigy?”
“What is The Prodigy?” he asks, blinking at me.
I turn to look at him as the bass gets louder. The riff cuts through the night like a siren calling me to the rocks. “That’s Voodoo People,” I shout, already grinning.
