Carnival

“If they die in combat,” Katya said. She nodded down over the railing, then looked away from the litter and the dead man’s singing bearers. She pulled a wreath of beads and flowers from the balcony railing and shouted down to a teenage boy walking unattended amid the tumblers. The boy looked up, and Katya tossed the necklace into his hands.

Vincent didn’t see his license, but he suspected the young man wouldn’t be allowed out alone if it were not Carnival; he glanced about himself wide-eyed, and waved the bruised flower over his head, calling out to Katya.

“Combat?” Vincent asked.

She stepped back from the railing. “That’s Philip they’re burying, who was of Canberra house. He was killed in the Trials yesterday.”

Vincent’s voice came out of nebula-tinted darkness, just loud enough to carry over the cries of merrymakers in the street. “Do you remember Skidbladnir?”

Kusanagi-Jones, who had been poised on the edge of sleep, came sharply awake, his heart jumping in response to an adrenaline dump. “Vincent?”

A warm hand rested above his elbow. Too warm, and Vincent was shivering. “The ship. Remember her?”

Kusanagi-Jones turned, eyesight adapting, collecting heat-signatures and available light. “Your temperature is up.”

“Sunburn,” Vincent said. “Robert warned me. I’m cold.”

Which was an interesting problem. “How much does it hurt?”

“I’ve got chemistry,” Vincent answered. Which was Vincent for a lot. He didn’t use it if he could avoid it.

“May I touch you?”

“Please.”

But when he reached around Vincent’s shoulders, Vincent yelped behind clenched teeth. Kusanagi-Jones jerked his hand back. “I’m more sore than I thought,” he said.

“How’s your chest?”

“Not bad. Not as bad. Just a little sore at the top.”

“Well then.” Kusanagi-Jones flopped on his back, shaking the bed, and tented the covers. “Get comfortable.”

Vincent slid over him, a blessed blanket of warmth in the chill of the over-climate-controlled night. Kusanagi-Jones was used to sleeping warm everywhere but on starships, and he found himself sighing, relaxing, as Vincent spread out against his chest. Vincent made a little sad sound and stiffened when the blankets fell against his back, but settled in once his wardrobe established an air cushion. He propped himself on his elbows so he could look Kusanagi-Jones in the face. “Skidbladnir.”

“What about it? Seventeen years ago.” Kusanagi-Jones rearranged himself so Vincent could stretch comfortably between his legs. In the middle distance, someone was singing, and he shifted uncomfortably, remembering the dead man on his litter.

“It was the last time—”

When they were still half convinced they could keep their relationship a secret. When they thought they had,and the sex had, all too often, been furtive and hasty, and—

“Yes.” The words scratching his throat. “I remember.”

“Do you remember what you said to me?”

He knows,Kusanagi-Jones thought. He stroked Vincent’s hip lightly, feeling heat and skin slick with moisturizer and analgesic. “Told you,” he said, picking over each word, “no matter what happened, I wanted you to know I—” He shrugged. It wasn’t something he had the courage to say twice in one lifetime. “I did. Want you to know.”

“And something happened.”

“Yeah.” Kusanagi-Jones closed his eyes, filtering out the charcoal-sketch outline of Vincent’s face. “Had to eventually.”

“I didn’t answer at the time,” Vincent said. “I—”

Michelangelo reacted fast. Just fast enough to get his hands into Vincent’s braids—careful of his burned neck—and pull Vincent’s mouth down to his own before Vincent could say anything stupid. Before Vincent could give him back his own words of nearly two decades before.

Vincent’s voice trailed off in a mumble that buzzed against Michelangelo’s lips for a moment before Vincent’s mouth opened, wet, yielding, returning fierceness for fierceness and strength for strength. The confession, however it might have begun, turned into a pleased, liquid moan. Teeth clicked and tongues slid, and Michelangelo arched his spine to press their groins together, not daring to hook his ankles over the backs of Vincent’s calves. Vincent pulled back, panting, drawing the scratchy cords of his braids through Michelangelo’s fingers.

“Nothing’s going to happen,” he ordained. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Vincent asked, archly, lowering his head to claim another kiss.

“Nothing interesting.”

Gray on gray in Michelangelo’s augmented sight, Vincent’s eyebrows rose. Nothing,Michelangelo thought, because I’m going to sabotage this mission, too. Because I’m going to give you up again. I have it in my hands, sod it, and I don’t…care…enough to sacrifice a whole culture for you.