Far Beyond the Stars (3/6)
Brendon is listless and filled with disquiet, and he has no idea why. Thanks to Cash’s ridiculous and somewhat terrifying distraction, they are on course to Aberdeen. The Cobra will intercept them near the moon, driving them towards the open space beyond Salisbury’s orbit, herding them directly to Sihnon. The trip shouldn’t be longer than ten days. Mikey’s assembly is the day after tomorrow. Everything is going according to plan.
All the same, he can’t shake this feeling. He tries to meditate, but no matter how he hard he concentrates, he can’t clear his mind, and gives up after an hour. He plays guitar until his fingertips begin to ache, and he realises dully that he’s being strumming with far too much force. It is late; Alex has been asleep for the past two hours, and the ship is silent. Restless, he paces the length of his quarters for an indeterminate period of time.
A glance at his interface tells him the Captain’s lights are still on and that his entertainment screen is playing. It could be that Spencer fell asleep that way, or that he’s not sleeping in his own room, but Brendon decides to take the chance, refusing to think about it too much.
He wraps himself in his shawl and goes up to the crew quarters, ignoring the way his heart sounds too loud in his own ears. Spencer’s hatch is cracked, pop music drifting softly from below. Brendon steels himself, drawing a deep breath, and raps his wrist against the rung of the ladder.
It isn’t much of a surprise to see Ryan’s face peer up at him. He smiles when he spots Brendon and beckons him. “Qǐngjìn.”
Ryan’s stretched out on Spencer’s bed and Spencer’s at his desk, legs kicked up on the end of the bed. Ryan moves aside to make room for Brendon, patting the spot in invitation.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Brendon says, by way of explanation. He glances at Spencer. “I remembered you had the same trouble.”
Spencer’s screen is paused on some news feed and Brendon isn’t surprised to catch his father’s name in the scrolling bar along the bottom. It still makes his chest ache a little, all the same. He has never been close to his father, but he doesn’t relish what he has to do.
Ryan catches him looking. “Yeah, some big scandal with Blue Sun,” he says. “Apparently Urie’s scientists were working with the government to create the Paxilon Hydroclorate that was used on Miranda.”
“Some people will do anything for the right price,” Brendon says, startled at the coldness in his own voice.
The loss of life on Miranda was senseless, and Brendon can’t stand to think of it for any extended period of time, or else he’ll be consumed with useless fury, wondering how things might have been different if he’d been the first son, or the second, or any but the last. The expendable one.
Spencer gives him a pensive, unreadable look, but Ryan rolls onto his stomach and pins him with a glare. “How can you be so dismissive about what happened there? You say, oh, that thing with the Tams, like it’s so distasteful to you. You talk about prices, as though it’s all business.”
Brendon doesn’t generally allow others to get a rise from him; it goes against everything he’s been taught as a Urie and as a Companion. He blames it on this odd unrest he’s feeling when he snaps.
“I am sorry that I don’t wear my feelings on my sleeve, Ryan. I wasn’t brought up to talk about my uglier emotions. Do you want to know that what happened on Miranda makes me ill? Because it does. Since the broadcast I have dreamt about the people on that planet, and what their last days must have been like, and I imagine that what River Tam sees in her dreams is a million times worse. Don’t presume to know what I’m feeling, just because I don’t show it to you.”
He lets out a shuddering breath and risks a look at them. Ryan’s eyes are wide, his mouth parted in surprise. Spencer’s expression hasn’t changed at all, except to become more closed off. Brendon’s stomach twists in regret and fear, wishing he could take all the words back, swallow them down and keep them safely guarded within. It is what he’s been taught.
“Duìbuqǐ.” Ryan says, voice soft. He reaches out, laying a hand over Brendon’s. Brendon has to struggle to keep from jerking away from the touch. “You’re right. I didn’t-”
“No.” Brendon shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I’ll. I shouldn’t have come here, interrupting.”
“Brendon,” Spencer calls, stopping Brendon as he rises from the bed. “We want you to stay.” Brendon isn’t sure how that’s possible, but he wants it to be true. “Most of the time, we wouldn’t care if people thought different than us about politics. We’d just ignore them, or if they were being really offensive hùndàn, maybe throw a punch.”
“Oh,” Brendon says, sitting back down. He can’t help his pleased smile, ducking his chin to hide it. When he lifts his eyes, Spencer is still watching him with that same look on his face. It makes Brendon uneasy and hot all over, as if Spencer is seeing something more than Brendon is comfortable showing. “I am…unused to anyone expressing honest interest in my opinion about such things.”
Ryan looks as though he’s burning with curiosity but he manages to control himself. He gives Brendon a strange smile. “At least now we know we don’t need to shove you out an airlock.”
“That’s a relief,” Brendon says, rolling his eyes. He wouldn’t normally, but around these two he feels more at ease, more himself. He relaxes back against the wall behind the bunk, and jerks his head to the screen. “You can turn the feed back on.”
“Actually,” Spencer says, opening one of the drawers of his desk, “it’s a bit too depressing for me, this late at night.” He pulls out a data cards. “How about something a little more mindless.”
Brendon is all right with mindless. Maybe it will help him to fall asleep. He almost laughs out loud when Spencer inserts the card and the show begins to play. It’s one of the medical comedies currently popular, about a doctor from the Border worlds coming to Ariel and clashing magnificently with the staff at the hospital there.
Ryan scoots closer to make room for Spencer on the bunk. Brendon watches them, fairly certain they aren’t even aware of the way they instantly curve into each other, filling up all the empty space between their bodies. The relationship between the two of them is intriguing to him-Brendon isn’t used to seeing people denying themselves what they want.
He’s never seen two people so perfect for each other so completely oblivious to their own desires. For a moment, he considers doing something about it, but it really isn’t his place. Besides in another two weeks he’ll never see them again. It will hardly matter to him, then.
*
Aberdeen is on the view screen, all soft blues and greens. It was one of the more successful instances of terraforming on the Rim planets, and has thrived because of it. Even two hours out the traffic is fairly heavy, ships taking off, or coming in at varying speeds to land.
Most of the settlements on Aberdeen are charming places, drawing on the culture of the United Kingdom and Northern Europe of Earth-That-Was. The capital, Granite City, sits in the northeast hemisphere, full of recreations of Scottish architecture in the form of homes, cathedrals, bridges and monuments.
Years ago, Ryan was rather fond of Aberdeen; he and Spencer lived there for almost a year following the war, while Unification was still in the works. Then the Alliance had come to the Rim, replacing all the local leaders with Magistrate Beckett. Beckett was only a few years older than them, and certainly didn’t possess the experience necessary to run an entire planet.
Since leaving, Spencer has heard the rumours of extortion and a protection racket. As long as passing ships dock at Aberdeen and hire an escort to open space beyond the Kalidasa system, no misfortune will befall them. Otherwise, there are pirates based out of one of the moons, sweeping in to relieve ships of their cargo.
It isn’t as bad as some Magistrates, who keep indentured servants or trade slaves, or let their people starve. The pirates have never killed anyone or destroyed any ships, but Spencer doesn’t hold with people taking what isn’t theirs. It’s been difficult, since having his citizenship stripped, to make an honest living, but he refuses to resort to thieving.
He orders Patrick to avoid the area altogether. This whole trip feels like it’s spun entirely out of his control. The course they’ve ended up on doesn’t even remotely resemble Mikey’s original plan, or even Ryan’s. He feels as though they’re flying blind, but at least he can avoid this.
By mid-afternoon, traffic has died down to a slow trickle, and when they reach Salisbury’s orbit, there aren’t any other ships in sight, which puts Spencer more at ease. Pete challenges him to a game of Lazarus’ Triumph, putting it up on the main screen. It’s cathartic, blowing fake shit up.
A proximity alarm goes off around six in the evening, the screen automatically switching to a view of the ship. It’s surprisingly close, given that the alarm only just sounded. “Patrick,” Spencer says, the skin on the back of his neck prickling.
“I’m picking up a lot of noise,” Pete says, “I think it’s a pleasure ship.” He sounds dismissive and unconcerned.
“They’re travelling at speed four,” Patrick says. “Their nav-sat shows them coming from Ghost, heading to Djinn’s Bane. No big deal.” He switches back to the game, unpausing just in time to KO Pete’s character.
Spencer can’t shake the feeling of unease about the ship, but forces himself to focus on the game. Fifteen minutes later, there’s another alarm. This time, the screen shows the ship much closer up. It’s a hornet class courier, sleek in shape, painted white with black stripes resembling a zebra’s print. It’s sort of hideous.
“Patrick,” Spencer says again. “What’s their distance?”
Patrick frowns when he checks his screen, tapping on his keyboard. “They’ve increased to speed five,” he mutters. “They should overtake us in seven minutes.”
Spencer gets to his feet and leans over Pete’s shoulder to see his screen. Nothing about the ship looks out of the ordinary, and yet. “Hail them.”
Pete sits up straight in his chair, fingers dancing over the keys. They wait in silence, after the hail has been sent. On the screen, the ship grows larger as it comes closer, revealing lurid neon green, purple, and pink details. Pete shakes his head. “No response.”
“Send it again,” Spencer says, though he doesn’t honestly expect any change.
“It’s probably nothing to worry about,” Patrick says, but he doesn’t sound so sure anymore. “The pilots on these pleasure ships spend half the day drinking and partying, themselves. There might not be anyone on the bridge to answer the hail.”
“Patrick, they’re on a gorramn intercept course with my ship.” Spencer struggles to keep the creeping sense of panic out of his voice.
On screen, the ship slows and Spencer waits, hoping against hope they’ve just noticed they’re about to plough into the side of the Nevada and are going to change course. The cannons on the top of the ship shift and that hope goes right out the window.
Spencer jabs his finger into the comm. button. “Ryan, I need you on the cannon. Zack, I’m gonna need speed six, fast. Everyone else, brace for impact.”
The first volley grazes the port bow, tossing Spencer across the bridge. Patrick grabs him by the arm, keeping him from crashing into the wall. His shoulder screams in protest and he bites down hard against crying out in pain. The alarms are blaring, the unnervingly polite pre-recorded voice telling him first in Mandarin and then in English that containment is at eighty-eight percent.
“Okay?” Patrick asks, eyes wide in concern. With his help, Spencer gets back on his feet. There’s a dull ringing in his ear and the distant smell of smoke.
“Zack!” Spencer shouts. “Any minute!”
Zack’s voice comes back, more annoyed than anything else, which Spencer finds reassuring, given the situation. “Well, you see, there were these invisible mines.”
“Zack!” Spencer snaps.
“Two minutes,” Zack grunts.
“Two minutes. Patrick, any brilliant ideas on how we outrun these guys?”
“Sheer luck?” Patrick says.
Spencer rubs his head. “Okay, someone shut that gorram message off.” Pete types a command into his keyboard and the ship is suddenly, blissfully silent. “Ryan, you have a shot of their gravitational drive?”
“I can get it,” Ryan answers. “Patrick, take us to impulse.”
“Their shields are pretty advanced,” Pete says.
“Even a little damage would be enough,” Spencer says. He doesn’t like the desperation in his own voice, but this is crazy. He’s never faced any sort of attack on his ship since the war ended. He can’t help but be suspicious that someone in the Kalidasa system knows that Ryan Ross is on his ship, and is trying to stop him.
“They’re preparing to fire again,” Patrick says.
“Well get out of the way,” Spencer says. He imagines he probably deserves the dark look Patrick spares him.
“Locked on,” Ryan calls over the comm. “Firing.”
Spencer watches on the screen as the pulse of light travels between their ships. There is no sign of impact. It just…dissipates. “We are so humped,” Pete says, with feeling.
“You’ve got speed six,” Zack shouts and Spencer doesn’t even have to give the order before Patrick is taking his controls. On the screen, the hornet class remains stationary and unresponsive.
After a moment, it disappears from view altogether. It feels as though everyone on the bridge is holding their breath. “Are…are they pursuing?” Spencer asks.
“At speed five,” Patrick says.
“They’ve opened a channel with Aberdeen, Granite City.” A frown wrinkles Pete’s brow. “They’re…it looks like they’re communicating with Magistrate Beckett.”
“Tā mā de,” Spencer breathes. “These are the gorram pirates?”
“Oh, it gets better,” Pete says. “That Alliance cruiser, Regan, is en route to Aberdeen, too.”
“Cào,” Spencer says again, with conviction.
“We’ll be clearing the Kalidasa system in ten minutes,” Patrick says.
“They’re powering up their missiles,” Pete says. “Impact in twenty seconds.”
Patrick’s the best pilot Spencer’s ever seen, including all those he knew in the war. If anyone can get them out of this, it’s him. The missile grazes along the belly of the ship, barely causing a shudder.
“I can’t make this boat go any faster,” Zack tells him, somewhat testily. It sounds as though something’s sparking in the background, and Vicky’s cursing up a storm, which really does nothing to reassure Spencer.
Spencer lets out a long breath. “Give me something to get through their shields, then!”
“If Pete locks onto their shield frequency, I can maybe synchronise and make them null, but that’s a big if and an even bigger maybe. And if they have an automated randomiser, we’re fucked.”
It’s a tense few seconds while Pete messes with his controls before letting out a sound of triumph. “Got it,” Zack says. “Cross your fingers and send a prayer to whatever deity is listening.”
There’s a sound of metal on metal as Ryan swings the cannon around. “Hit to their port shields,” Pete mutters. “Shields are holding at ninety-seven percent. They’re-they’re heading back the way they came,” Pete says, wonder in his voice.
“What in the-wǒ de mā hé tā de fēng kuáng de wài shēng!” Spencer glares at Pete’s screen like it’s going to tell him any differently. “What is going on?” Pete shakes his head, an expression of profound confusion and disbelief on his face. “Keep us at speed six until we’re sure they’re not just coming back with reinforcements,” Spencer orders.
His hands feel numb and shaky where they’re clinging to the back of Pete’s chair. He isn’t unused to action. He saw more than his fair share in the war. He just thought that was behind him.
“I’ll be in the engine room,” he says, and turns away from the bridge.
Ryan catches up with him in the hall, face ashen. They sort of collide, stumbling against the wall, Ryan’s arms coming around Spencer’s waist and clinging tightly. Spencer hides his face in Ryan’s neck, breathing in the scent of his sweat, and just lets himself stand still, for a minute.
*
The damage from the mysterious zebra ship is surprisingly minimal, but everyone is still keyed up from it. Marshall’s been on the bridge, sitting at Patrick’s side, since Spencer said he and Brendon could leave their quarters. Ryan doesn’t exactly get that particular friendship, but it’s cute to watch.
Ryan himself has curled up in his favourite spot inside the workings of the ship, just outside the bridge. From up here he can hear the reassuring murmur of the voices from below while still being alone. He’s off-centre, the adrenaline hasn’t entirely gone, and he can’t stop thinking about the last time he was in a space battle, before today.
A couple hours after Pete assures them the ship isn’t following, Victoria decides it’s time for a dance party. She has these crazy ideas about some Earth-That-Was reptile and seriously ridiculous fashion choices. She’s explained it all to him before, but they’ve always been drunk at the time. It isn’t like Ryan minds. Vicky’s style has grown on him, and she looks hot in her shiny platform shoes and tiny, sleeveless dresses. Also, the music is pretty gorram awesome for dancing.
Shortly after joining the crew, with Zack’s help, Vicky set up the comm. system to play the music in every area of the ship, save the guest quarters. At the beginning Spencer and Patrick hadn’t been too thrilled about it, but now it’s become a happy, if unpredictable, part of their routine.
Ryan’s lying on his back when the thrum of bass starts. He hears Patrick and Pete laughing on their way down to the cargo hold, Patrick reassuring Marshall that everything’s alright. Spencer’s voice calls out from the far end of the hall, “Seriously, Jon, we don’t need that much tequila,” and Pete calls back, “Speak for yourself.”
Jon jumps up to smack his hand against the underside of the hull where Ryan’s lying. They all know him too well. Ryan rolls onto his side to peek between the cracks. Jon gives him a smile, shaking a bottle of liquor at him. “Coming?”
Ryan bites down on his tongue, like he’s even considering not going. He can’t fight the eager smile that curls his lips. He scrambles onto his hands and knees, crawling down towards the dining hall. Jon meets him there, helping him down.
Brendon comes in cautiously from the lounge quarters. “Is there a…problem?” he asks. “Is there another attack?”
Ryan laughs, an edge of hysteria in it. “Come on.” He reaches out, catching Brendon around the wrist and dragging him along. Brendon goes along willingly, though he looks bewildered. He’s dressed perfectly for the occasion, his black thobe nashal embroidered in gold thread, swirling around him gracefully as he moves.
“You all really are like no other crew I’ve ever met,” Brendon tells him. He sounds a bit shell-shocked, and Ryan can’t really blame him, after the past couple of days they’ve had.
The lights in the cargo bay are set low, throbbing in time with the music. Everyone’s already dancing, except Zack and Marshall, who are apparently engaging in a drinking contest that Ryan imagines Marshall will be losing very soon.
Brendon watches them, mouth slightly ajar. “I’ve never…people don’t dance like this, on the Rim.”
“People don’t dance like this anywhere,” Ryan says. “Come on.” He tugs on Brendon’s wrist again, hand slipping to lace fingers with Brendon’s.
There aren’t many of them, but Ryan prefers it that way. He trusts everyone on the crew, doesn’t mind the press of their bodies to his. It’s much easier to let loose here than at any fancy Core party or backwater club.
After the Alliance and the invisible mines and mysterious ships, it’s nice to let go, and there’s no better way than losing themselves in the music, dancing until their muscles won’t work anymore, and their throats ache.
Vicky is at their side immediately, insinuating herself close to Ryan, breath hot on his neck. Ryan lets go of Brendon, moving to put his hands on Vicky’s waist. She wraps her arms around his neck, drawing him in, moving slinkily against him.
Brendon watches them for a moment, like he’s studying them, and Ryan feels the weight of his gaze. “I don’t-how do I do it?” Brendon calls to them.
Vicky laughs and shakes her head; her hair tickles against Ryan’s neck in a pleasant sort of way. She leans back in Ryan’s arms to shout at Brendon over the music. “Just move.”
“Come here,” Pete urges, and grabs Brendon by the arm. Ryan watches over Vicky’s shoulder as Pete shows Brendon some ridiculous move he picked up in an ancient film.
Brendon laughs outright, and Ryan’s never seen him like that, practically shining with joy. He lets Pete and Jon pin him between them, going with it as they roll their hips against his. After a moment, Brendon seems to catch up. He matches their rhythm, counters their movements. When he leans into Jon, reaching back to wind his arms around his neck, Pete’s hands catch on the flimsy fabric of his thobe, pulling it tight over Brendon’s hips, hinting at the form of the body beneath.
Ryan glances away, already out of breath and chest tight from the heat. Spencer and Patrick are more swaying to the music than dancing and he nods his head in their direction. Vicky makes a noise of disapproval and as one they separate, going to rectify the situation.
Vicky sidles up to a surprised looking Patrick, tugging him close, and Ryan rings his arms around Spencer’s shoulders. “He’s a fast learner,” Spencer says, gaze fixed on Brendon, who Pete trades for Patrick. Brendon goes easily, pulling Victoria near with his arm around her waist. She says something that makes him laugh again. He dips her low, hips moving in an almost obscene grind.
Ryan slips his thigh between Spencer’s, and rocks up, making Spencer’s eyes go wide, snapping to Ryan’s face. That’s where Ryan likes his attention. He licks his lips, face close to Spencer’s, doesn’t fight his grin when Spencer’s arms go around him. Spencer’s hands are damp on the small of Ryan’s back when they slip beneath his shirt. It’s a possessive touch that sometimes makes Ryan’s hackles rise. Right now it makes heat spread through his chest. He presses his face into Spencer’s neck breathing deep the scent of all their sweat and the metallic tang that always comes from dancing in the cargo bay. His limbs are rubbery with unspent energy and he holds on, lets Spencer move them.
One song bleeds into another, and Ryan is passed from Spencer to Jon and then to Pete. Vicky presses glass after glass of tequila into his hand, until his head feels cloudy and his body loose and heavy. Marshall, who has been passed to Ryan by Zack, is in a similar state. He rubs against Ryan, arms flailing wildly in the air in a rough approximation of the way Pete likes to dance. Ryan can’t help but laugh at the attempt and clings around Marshall’s waist to keep them both from falling over.
“On Regina,” Marshall pants, fingers curling into Ryan’s biceps, “this sort of dancing would have been considered the work of the devil.”
Ryan finds that inexplicably hilarious. He lays his face on Marshall’s shoulder and laughs until his stomach aches and his eyes water. Marshall smells strangely of syrup. “What sort of dancing do you have on Regina?”
“Shitty dances,” Marshall says blearily. He pulls away from Ryan suddenly, making a face. “Don’t tell Brendon I said that.”
“Let’s get you some water,” Ryan proposes, and drags Marshall off to the bench on the wall.
When he looks back, Spencer is dancing with Brendon, hands low on the curve of Brendon’s back, just above his ass. Brendon’s thobe is damp with sweat. It clings against his back and legs, almost translucent in places, showing a hint of skin. Ryan can’t help but watch the way they move together, fluid and sensual. Brendon bends back easily when Spencer guides him, spine curving in a perfect c-shape, throat bared.
Ryan isn’t really aware of his feet carrying him to them until he’s pressed against Brendon’s back. Spencer meets his eye over Brendon’s shoulder and he shifts his hands to rest them on Ryan’s hips instead. They all dance like this all the time; it doesn’t usually make Ryan’s stomach feel heavy with anticipation.
Spencer works his leg between Brendon until his knee bumps against Ryan’s. It hikes Brendon’s dress up around his thighs. Brendon laughs, resting his head on Ryan’s chest. “It’s so hot,” he shouts. Sweat beads on his hair, dropping to trace his cheekbone.
Ryan gathers up the hem of the thobe and gives a tug. Brendon eyes widen, startled, and he breaks out of their hold. “Just take it off,” Ryan shouts. “No one cares.” Pete’s already lost his shirt and looks halfway to losing his jeans.
Brendon bites his lip, darting a quick glance at Spencer, who nods encouragingly. His shirt is already unbuttoned half down his chest, baring lots of smooth, pale skin. It should probably be hilarious, a whore being worried about modesty, but Ryan finds it endearing. Nothing about Brendon seems to be as it should.
“Okay,” Brendon says, with a sharp, sudden smile. He lifts his arms, letting Ryan help to draw the dress off, leaving him in black tights and tank top. As nice as all his fancy clothes are, none of them have given much of a hint of the body underneath.
Brendon is slender and shapely, with narrow, almost delicate-looking shoulders. Ryan can’t help staring at the compact muscles of his arms, and the way the muscles of his back shift as he lifts his arms around Spencer’s neck again.
Ryan can only watch them for a moment: the way Brendon’s thighs flex under the thin material of his pants, the way his shirt catches against Spencer’s as they move, rising to show a glimpse of his stomach.
Spencer’s eyes are heavy-lidded when his gaze meets Ryan. There is an invitation in the tilt of his head. Ryan steps close, hands hesitant on Brendon’s hips this time. He’s suddenly very aware of the curve of Brendon’s ass, and the way Ryan fits against it. Brendon’s a really fast learner. He sinks his hips into the touch, moving just right to make Ryan’s breath catch, make his head drop. He rests his forehead against the heated skin at the top of Brendon’s spine. The tank top gaps at the top, offering a view of all the slick, tan skin of Brendon’s back. Ryan swallows hard. He’s usually good at controlling himself, but right now he just wants to dig his fingers into Brendon’s skin and rut against him.
He tilts his chin back, catches Spencer watching him. There’s a familiar, territorial look in his eyes, but he’s not pulling away from the liquid slide of Brendon’s body against theirs. Ryan squeezes his eyes shut and there’s a sudden flash of an image against the inside of his lids, of Brendon’s mouth opening over the skin of Spencer’s throat, Spencer’s teeth pressed against the fullness of his bottom lip.
Ryan’s eyes snap open again, and Spencer’s still staring at him, like he knows exactly what Ryan just saw. It wouldn’t surprise him if it were true. “I need water,” Ryan says, throat dry and raw.
Brendon breaks away from them, laughing cheerfully, oblivious. “Me, too.” He dances on his way to the table with a shimmy of his hips that is entrancing to watch.
“I think I had too much tequila,” Ryan murmurs, and he doesn’t think Spencer can hear him over the music, except Spencer says, voice shaky, “I think I did, too.”
*
Brendon wakes feeling deliciously sore like he hasn’t in a long time. There’s something about the twinges in the muscles of his legs that reminds him of what it was like, after a particularly fun night in bed. He grins at the ceiling as he moves his hips in a slow circle and stretches his arms out over his head.
Alex is still dead to the world when Brendon looks into his room. Under normal circumstances, Brendon probably wouldn’t show any mercy. But there was a lot of tequila last night, and they are vesselside, so he takes pity and closes the door silently.
Breakfast is a somewhat subdued affair. Vicky is asleep at the table when Brendon comes out, and Jon’s still passed out on the dining lounge’s couch, so Brendon takes it upon himself to throw something together.
When the others arrive, they look at him in awe, as though they’ve never seen or even heard of crepes before. He isn’t even offended by the way no one really talks, mostly too busy stuffing their faces with his meal.
It is somewhat unnerving when the silence lasts throughout the day. Pete and Patrick are, as usual, engaged in conversation on the bridge, but their voices are subdued, barely whispers. Jon stays on the sofa, occasionally groaning for someone to bring him water or a trashcan. Vicky and Zack are cuddled together on the hammock in the engine, dozing throughout the day.
Spencer and Ryan, though, are being weird. Neither of them meets his gaze over breakfast, and though he bumps into them throughout the day, they don’t speak more than a murmured hey or excuse me in passing.
Brendon is not unused to people snubbing him, for whatever reason. There are those who know of his profession and look down upon it, and there are those who are merely jealous. Though he had initially thought that the crew might react similarly, they have been quite friendly. This new attitude doesn’t make any sense, especially considering how much fun they had last night.
Shortly after lunch, Pete calls the crew to the bridge, and curious, Brendon comes as well. It’s a news feed from the Core, a Londinium woman standing before the Hall of Parliament.
“Following a private assembly today, the members of Parliament have decided to move forward with impeachment proceedings. On Monday, members of the Privy Judicial Committee will begin the preliminary hearings to decide what members of the government will be charged in the investigation, other than Minister Ross.”
A view of George Ross speaking at a press conference comes on the screen as the newscaster’s voice continues. “The Prime Minister spoke yesterday against the accusations of his involvement in the Miranda disaster and denied knowledge of the Operative assigned to assassinate seventeen-year-old River Tam.”
“Recent rumours have surfaced regarding George Ross the Third, including his involvement in the Unification war. Though missing and presumed dead, the younger Mister Ross would be a boon to those in the government looking to replace the current Prime Minister. The likelihood is slim of someone out of the Ross line being appointed to office.”
The feed switches to a political pundit, an elegant looking woman with greying hair and a smart suit. “We are talking about the Rosses here,” she said, stressing the name. “This is a family known for its numerous scandals, and more importantly, for rising above them. Where the Ross family is concerned, public opinion can, quite frankly, qù sǐ. Parliament can put on their game face, but the fact is that the Ross family has been previously charged with numerous sex scandals, embezzlement scandals, murder-and every time we just get another Ross in office.”
“Given the ages of Penelope and Marcus Ross,” the news anchor says, coming back on screen, “the only viable option for replacing Minister Ross is his eldest son, whose continued existence is a point of much contention.”
As she fades from screen, replaced with a story about some starlet announcing her pregnancy, Pete clears off the screen. Brendon has to fight to keep his face expressionless, though inside his stomach is turning with excitement. He wishes there was a way to contact Mikey, to ask if they have the younger Ross yet. Londinium feels months away, at the moment.
Pete opens his mouth to speak, but when he catches sight of Brendon, he closes it with a snap again. He darts a look at Spencer, and then says, “Exciting stuff.”
Ryan is being too quiet, arms crossed protectively around his middle and Spencer subtly moves in front of him. Spencer looks at Brendon consideringly. “What are your thoughts?”
“Cautiously…hopeful,” Brendon says. He sincerely hopes they are all better at lying around others, because he isn’t convinced by whatever this act is. They’re up to something, and he feels a little foolish for not having recognised it sooner.
He goes back to his room to share the news with Alex. Brendon is restless, ready for action. He should be there now, meeting with clients, securing votes, working his magic. Alex tries to distract him, but it’s no use.
After dinner, and more of the awkward silence from the Captain and his first mate, Brendon decides upon a course of action. He is curious not only about the silent treatment, but also about their reaction to the news feed. Yet even as he considers it, he knows it isn’t the best idea.
He ignores the little voice in his head, telling him he’s too invested. There is no excuse for the way he goes, out of makeup, in his favourite pyjamas-loose fitting pants and a matching mandarin collar shirt in cream linen. The lines are flattering, but casual, and he would not usually allow anyone other than Alex to see him this way. He feels more naked without his makeup than he does without clothing.
Spencer and Ryan are in the Captain’s quarters again, so Brendon takes his finest bottle of liquor-a gift of absinthe from a client on Persephone-and goes to them. “I can't drink this on my own, and I'm afraid the others would just drink it all in one swallow,” he says, by way of explanation, “So...would you two care to help me with it?”
Spencer eyes the bottle warily, but they welcome him in. Ryan gets down three glasses and Brendon pours for them. He has no intention of drinking, but he has been taught how to appear as if he is, to put others at ease. He sits back against Spencer’s pillows and takes a tiny sip, observing over the rim of his glass as Ryan and Spencer draw from their own.
“Shèngzǐ,” Spencer sputters, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. “It’s still as hideous as the first time I had it.”
Ryan makes an amused face. “You’ll have to excuse Spencer, his tastes aren’t as refined as our own.”
“Oh, qù nǐde,” Spencer says, flicking him on the arm. “There was nothing refined about Jedediah’s absinthe.” He rolls his eyes at Brendon. “This guy in our unit, came from Moab. He brought all these herbs with him and brewed the absinthe out of the back of his tent.”
“Sounds…like an interesting experience,” Brendon says, smiling into his cup. Even the scent of the liquor has an intoxicating effect.
“We were sort of desperate.” Spencer laughs.
“Is that how the two of you met?” Brendon asks. “In the war?”
Ryan glances over his shoulder at Spencer, as if waiting for him to put an end to the conversation. When he says nothing, Ryan turns back to Brendon. “Our fathers worked together, when we were children. We’ve known each other forever.”
“Yeah,” Spencer agrees, “Ryan’s been getting me into trouble forever.”
That explains the closeness, but not why they resist the inevitable evolution of their relationship with one another. It only makes Brendon more curious.
“You’ve really got to let that time with the flooding go,” Ryan tells Spencer, grinning.
“It wasn’t you that got in trouble for it,” Spencer protests. “And let’s not even talk about the time you talked Carson into helping you herd all the farm animals into the manor.”
Brendon shakes his head, and takes another sip from his glass. “Sounds as though you had a very interesting childhood.”
“Average, at best,” Ryan says dismissively. “Like you never raised any hell back on Hera.”
“My parents wouldn’t have stood for it,” Brendon says. “I spent most of my time in lessons.”
Ryan and Spencer exchange a look that Brendon cannot read. He’s observed them conversing silently before, and refuses to be envious of the bond they have. “Yeah, but you said you had a lot of brothers and sisters, right?” Ryan asks. “Didn’t you all pull pranks on each other?”
Brendon shrugs. “The age difference was disproportionate. They were all close together, but I’m eight years younger than my sister before me. By the time I was old enough to be getting into any sort of trouble, they were off to school, learning their trades. I don’t regret it; I learned much from them.”
“Weren’t there other kids around?” Spencer asks. He and Ryan look honestly baffled. Brendon knows that his childhood on Sihnon was not normal; even the other children at the training house were often confused by his upbringing, devoid of play.
“There were children of the servants, but I didn’t really interact with them.”
“How did you end up becoming a-” Ryan stops, shooting Brendon an uncomfortable look. “Doing what you do?”
“Please, Ryan, I’m not ashamed of my profession,” Brendon says. He pauses, refilling their glasses before speaking. Spencer scoots closer to Ryan unconsciously and Ryan leans back against him.
“My parents hadn’t exactly planned on having me,” he begins. “They had planned on a certain number of children to fill a certain number of roles. There was no place for me, in the family business. As a child, it was observed that I had pleasing features, and my parents saw the benefit in using me for political leverage.”
“Your parents traded you?” Spencer asks, voice high in disbelief.
“Nothing as crude as that,” Brendon says. Spencer and Ryan don’t look sure of that. “But that is enough about me. I was enjoying hearing about your childhood. Tell me more.”
They are hesitant at first, clearly still fixated on Brendon’s story. He has no idea why he told them what he did, but is determined to move past it. After another glass of absinthe each, they are speaking freely, telling him about the time they made fireworks out of Spencer’s sisters’ hair dye and ended up burning off their eyebrows, and the time they tried to make a pie out of berries they’d picked in the forest behind Ryan’s house, only to find out they were poisonous after eating them. Spencer’s mother had made them drink ipecac and hadn’t let them out of her sight for weeks afterwards.
Brendon has heard many former Independents speak of why they joined the Browncoats. Nothing about what Ryan and Spencer are saying sounds anything like the childhoods of other Independents Brendon has known.
“How did you end up in the war?” he asks, as he refills their glasses a fourth time. His own is surprisingly low, and Ryan pours more for him, too.
“We grew up in the Core,” Spencer says, which isn’t a big surprise. “We always knew Alliance rule, and that was fine. I grew up thinking I was lucky to have the freedom and luxury the Alliance provided us with. Me and Ryan, we’d play like we were settlers on the Rim, having to rough it, and I felt sorry for those people.
“Then the war started when I was twelve and our teachers were saying all these awful things about the Independents-these atrocities they were committing, and how people on the Rim were uncivilised heathens and they needed our help to attain enlightenment, except what they were doing didn’t seem wrong to me. I mean, I wanted the Alliance, I wanted that sort of life, but I guess I didn’t see how it was any of our business what the people on the Rim did. If they wanted to live their lives differently.”
“I found this book,” Ryan says, picking up the narrative. “This old history book in the school library, they probably didn’t even know it was there. It was about the birth of the Anglo-Sino Alliance back on Earth-That-Was, and how the Europeans had just come into America and decimated the people there because they thought they had some claim to that land.”
“It wasn’t right,” Spencer says, like anything is that simple, like two rich boys from the Core could just up and join the Independents because it was the right thing to do. “No one would listen. My parents just shook their heads at me, like it was some phase I’d grow out of, I don’t know. But I was living in luxury and there were kids my age being killed on the Border and Rim just because they wanted to be free. So I decided I was going to join, as soon as I turned eighteen.
“Only then Ryan got into this big fight with his father and took off in the middle of the night, without telling me-”
“I didn’t want you going,” Ryan says. There’s something in his eyes that Brendon reads as regret, that he still would change things if he could, prevent Spencer from ever having joined.
“So I snuck on the next transport to Meadow,” Spencer says, as though it was a foregone conclusion. “It was the nearest recruitment camp. I was sure they were gonna take one look at my ident card and send me packing, but they were so desperate. They didn’t look at any of our ident cards. They didn’t care how old we were. That was back in ‘10, right before the Battle of Du-Khang, they just needed bodies. They shoved guns in our hands and sent us out to the field.”
Brendon remembers watching the news feeds from the safety of the Great House. It had seemed unreal to him, so distant that it might as well have been happening in another time altogether. His clients didn’t care to speak of it, messy, unseemly affair that it was. He couldn’t quite reconcile the reality of it even now, trying to imagine these two men fighting and bleeding on a battlefield while he seduced the noblewomen of the Core and took them to his bed.
“I cannot decide it you two are incredibly brave, or incredibly foolish,” he murmurs.
“Oh, a bit of both, I imagine,” Ryan tells him with a self-deprecating smile. “We had all these grand ideas about how we were going to change the world. Like our enlisting would somehow change the face of the war.”
“When in reality,” Spencer interrupts, “we were barely in over a year before the Battle of Serenity, and we were in the Quin Long system at the time, defending the base on Deadwood.”
“Regardless of the outcome, I think it is very noble, what you did,” Brendon says.
The two of them have become quite entangled with one another on the other end of the bed, Ryan’s legs laid over Spencer’s, Spencer’s head resting lightly on the crook of Ryan’s arm. Brendon bites the inside of his lip, wondering about the wisdom of what he intends to do. Then he does it anyway.
“Not many people would follow someone into battle like that,” he says, picking at the bedspread.
Spencer laughs, shaking his head. “He would have got himself killed. I couldn’t let him go off on his own.”
Ryan shoves at him, but Spencer just wraps his arms around his middle and holds on. It puts his hands very near to Brendon’s, and Brendon refuses to jump when Spencer draws a finger along the inside of his index finger, sweeping lightly down to the curve of his thumb.
“Yes,” Brendon agrees, inexplicably breathless. “And it’s really remarkable, the way the two of you have remained together since then, despite all the hardships you must have faced.”
Spencer gives him a blank, uncomprehending look and Ryan purses his lips. They say, at the same time, “He’s my best friend.”
It’s sort of infuriating, and Brendon’s having trouble thinking straight. His second glass is almost empty, and he doesn’t know precisely when that happened, and Spencer’s dull nail is tracing shapes on the inside of his wrist, making his pulse quicken.
“Yes.” He takes a quick swallow of the absinthe. “But haven’t you ever thought of settling down?” He almost jumps out of his skin when Ryan’s hand closes around his ankle, gently stroking up his calf.
“Your skin is so smooth. Do you shave?” Ryan asks, distracted, and Brendon curses himself for allowing them to drink quite so much.
“All the hair on my body save that on my head was removed when I turned sixteen. It was considered unsightly.” Brendon keeps his tone light, dismissive, tries to redirect the attention. “Don’t you wish to take wives? Or…or husbands?
Spencer nuzzles his face into Ryan’s ribs, his fingers never stopping on Brendon’s skin. “Other people don’t really get it,” he says, and it almost doesn’t make sense. He closes his hand around Brendon’s wrist, scrapes his nails along the inside of his palm.
Brendon shifts uncomfortably, tugging at the collar of his shirt with his free hand. Ryan gives him an oddly pleased smirk and reaches over to pour him another glass. “This henna, do you do it yourself?” he asks, stroking his fingers down over the top of Brendon’s foot. Brendon has never considered himself ticklish, but the touch makes him squirm.
“Normally I would do it myself, but I have been teaching Alex the art of mehndi. So you don’t intend to marry?”
“Is that so odd to you?” Ryan asks, obviously amused. “Do you ever intend to marry?”
“I-” Brendon blinks at him, confused. Ryan lifts a brow, rubbing a knuckle along the arch of Brendon’s foot. Brendon swallows an aborted moan. “It was my apparently too subtle way of asking why it is the two of you are not lovers.”
Spencer lifts his head from where it’s resting, higher and higher on Ryan’s chest. He tips his chin back and looks Ryan in the eye. “Why is that we’re not lovers?” he murmurs. Brendon is very aware of the fact that they’re both still touching him.
Ryan shakes his head mutely, swaying closer. “I don’t-” he falls silent when Spencer kisses him. His hand squeezes tightly around Brendon’s ankle, nails biting into skin.
Their lips part wetly, and Spencer deepens the kiss. They’re so close Brendon can see every swipe of tongue, hear every soft breath. His own arousal throbs low in his gut, startling and almost painful in its intensity. Ryan pulls back just enough to bite down on Spencer’s bottom lip and tug, earning a low groan. Spencer squeezes Brendon’s wrist, and Brendon feels like a conduit between them, and they’re channelling all his desire into him.
They draw back, breathing heavily, lips shining, staring as if they’ve only just seen each other for the first time. Then, as one, their gaze turns to Brendon, eyes dark. “Oh,” Brendon moans, “oh, rén cí de fó zǔ, I can’t be here.”
He pulls his wrist from Spencer’s grip, pushing back on his arms to slip away. He hadn’t even realised how tangled up with them he’d gotten until now, struggling to be free.
“Brendon,” Ryan says, barely more than a breath.
Brendon shakes his head, hands trembling as his grips the rung of the ladder. He can’t look back at them, has to close his eyes and draw a calming breath, forehead resting against steel. “I’m sorry, I just-” he shakes his head again, climbing quickly out of the room.
Beneath, he can hear them murmuring, and part of him wants to stay, to listen, but he’s too terrified that they might come after him. He can’t seem to draw enough air, even after he’s locked the door to his room, slumping against it. He’s painfully hard, and realises that they must have seen it.
He lets his head fall back with a dull thump against the door. His breath comes out in a shuddery sigh. “Tā mā de.” His palms shake when he presses them to his stomach, imagining Spencer’s strong, warm hands, and Ryan’s slender, elegant fingers.
The air around him is too warm and thick, making it difficult for him to think. He has never wanted a man like this. Two men. It’s impossible and insane and it goes against everything he’s ever been taught, but he can’t help thinking about them as his hand slips beneath the waistband of his sleep pants. His fingers wrap tightly around his cock and he strokes down the length, biting his lip against a groan.
Behind his lids he can see them kissing, can still feel them touching him, and he can’t stop his hips thrusting up into his fist. One of the major lessons for the male Companion is the Tantric method of control. Brendon has been trained to pleasure his lovers for hours on end, if need be. His stamina has never failed him with a client. Yet now he comes within minutes, staining his pants like some teenaged virgin.
As he cleans up, he can feel his cheeks burning in shame. It is one thing to fantasise about the object of one’s desire; it is quite another to act upon that desire. And worse, to do so now, when there are so many other, larger concerns, and so much at stake. He cannot afford to allow his attention to be split in this manner.
Telling himself as much doesn’t actually help at all. He still lies in bed, mind racing, wondering if Ryan is still in Spencer’s room. Have they continued where he left them? It was his intention. All the same, he can’t help the way his heart plummets at the thought, stomach tying itself in knots.
Brendon is used to people coveting him; it is part of the appeal of being a Companion. He enjoys sex for the most part, and has often been attracted to his clients. But he’s never wanted someone before.
Next