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“Condition,” Devon echoed: lightly amused. “Yes. Not all of them knew, but two of them were people I’ve worked with before, and they did. They all know now.”
“So they fucking understand, and you shouldn’t feel bad about it.”
“Maybe.”
“It’s their fault anyway. Arguing, you said. Shouting.”
“Not at me, as such, but it involved my suggestions, and it got so loud…in any case, I’m in bed watching some sort of show about baking a thousand cupcakes in an hour, or I think that’s the current challenge. I’ve got lemon chamomile tea and a big fluffy blanket—this one’s striped like a sunset, if you want the image.”
“All of that sounds good as far as low stress.” He’d had to stand up. Pacing. In motion. His couch did not mind being circled, as an outlet.
“I just wanted something for me,” Devon said. “I wanted to get to hear your voice.”
Burne inadvertently made a noise out loud. It was a desperate in-love-and-terrified kind of noise.
“What was that?”
“Nothing. It’s…I’m glad you called. If you need me, if you need company, if you just want me here—I want to. To be here.”
“Oh,” Devon said, soft and pleased.
“Do you want me to talk to you? If you wanted to hear my voice? And you can take care of yourself, you know what you need—more tea, staying warm—just please do whatever you need to do? And I can do the talking?”
“Well…if you wouldn’t mind? I might fall asleep soon, though; I’m decently tired, and they did give me something for the headache.”
“Hey, you deserve to get some sleep. You had a rough day. Boards of directors being jerks and all.”
That one made Devon laugh quietly. Burne might’ve done a tiny fist-pump. No one saw except his couch, and it wouldn’t tell.
He sat back down. Let the cushions hold him up. Support, so that he could be support. “You want to hear about my day? We have some interesting data about nutrient absorption and root shape, which is totally not exciting, if you want something that’ll send you to sleep.”
A rustle suggested movement on the other end, settling in. “Tell me? Even if I won’t understand all the science. You do, and I’m interested; you said it was important.”
“Well, it…sort of is? I mean, not, like, immediately life-changing, but it’s useful, I think.” He was pretty good at conference talks and connecting with non-scientists and brand-new students; even better, Devon knew about eco-friendly design that deliberately complemented the environment, and had an architect’s understanding of materials, chemistry, foundations, locations.
He told Devon about unique grass strains, and how the comparisons could help clarify processes of evolution and divergence; he explained how that might be beneficial in terms of efficiency and new variants. He didn’t bother with specific data points, but talked about general conclusions, as far as the ways in which certain varieties might be more and less sturdy, which could be good for coastal restorations, in the future.
Devon listened and asked thoughtful questions and picked up on implications right away, a little more drowsily after a while. He was a good audience and sounding board; a couple of times Burne found himself rethinking how he’d make a point, reword a conclusion, in the published paper. He said, “Thanks.”
Devon had a sip of tea. “Any time. This’s fun.”
“Still awake?”
“Mostly…”
“Something less scientific? I can do that. Hey, I haven’t asked this one: what kind of music do you like?”
“Oh…well, when I’m working I tend to do ambient sounds…the ocean, or rain sounds, or a crackling fireplace…some classical piano, cello…” A clink suggested Devon had set the teacup down; maybe he’d finished with it. “I didn’t grow up with…my parents were very strict about not allowing loud music, rock music, hip-hop…they, ah, attempted to ban anything they thought might raise my heart rate.”
Burne winced. “Sorry for asking. If that’s not, um. A good question.”
That earned a breath of laughter. “No, it is. In college I had a roommate who loved punk rock—the more obscure and underground and queer and activist the better. That’s one of my other miniscule acts of rebellion—like wanting a cat. I can’t go to live shows. I tried once, and it didn’t go well. I do need calm when I’m working and before bed, but if I’m, oh, making dinner, or doing the dishes, and everything’s relaxed and comfortable otherwise…”
“You put on obscure underground queer punk rock music.”
“Sometimes electronica.”
“God, you’re fantastic.”
