Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Christopher idly marveled at contrasts. Nic's fingers curled around stiff black fabric, now hung on its proper hanger as his day's body heat bled from it. The thinner white cotton Nic yanked from his torso, now crumpled on floorboards. Nondescript trousers, disregarded. Boots tended with care.

Then Nic came to him. Fatigue gathered in the creases he carried at his temples. But his exquisite eyes and groin stirred toward action. His lithe, battle hardened body slipped under the covers toward Christopher with a tender fierceness.

Nic -- the same Nic he'd had in the first bed they shared. Nic, altogether different.

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It wasn't that Thomas didn't thoroughly enjoy a good game of chess. But he required his mind for that. Sometimes, he desperately needed away from his mind. Wolfe told him it was alright to trust that feeling.

These game nights, these times with his friends. The others would play games of shouting names and facts, finishing sentences with silliness, enacting phrases and famous moments.

Thomas let Jess' smoke wash through him. His friends were joyous and cheerful, and he let them convince his body that they were right. By the end of the night, their joy usually filled him too.

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Jess handled inventory himself. He suspected it kept the staff from taking anything home, though that wasn't the reason he did it.

The thefts had begun in less popular Greek literature, and in the bookshop's guaranteed unmirrored blank journals. When books on French translation disappeared, Jess got very curious. It was always two items a week, though the date and time of the disappearance shifted from week to week.

He kept it to himself. And he refused tighter security. The morning there were two empty slots where he'd inched forward his recommendations in French literature, he was thoroughly pleased.

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Wolfe was elated, though he doubted anyone but Nic could tell.

The whole world took to Khalila's reign like newlyweds eager for one another. Her public statements, her fashion choices, even her hobbies, inspired the globe toward a new delight in all things refined and beautiful.

And so, here Wolfe was, revisiting a joy he daren't think of for several years. Events like a proper opera were events again, with proper dress codes.

With everything else in place, from tie to tails, he slipped agile fingers into supple white lambskin, the pressure on his skin feeling deeply and irrevocably civilized.

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With time now nonexistent, she gravitated toward morning.

In the early dark hours, souls roiled under lethargy, drunk on dreams and nightmares. Morning came as a crystalline bell, clearing bleary eyes and leaving pure emotion. Grief. Or joy. Or rage.

Morgan did not feel pain anymore. But the prick of morning drew her in, the thunder of a familiar hand in her hair.

Those hearts that still, for an instant, roused to blissful flashes of remembered togetherness, before a loved one fled the city, or the world. As each illusion faded, Morgan left a wish for peace with every soul.

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Khalila couldn't quite recall how she'd come to this blissful moment... Dario's bare neck under her hand, his fingers warming the skin at her hip. They danced to the tune lilting in from the street, some stranger unknowingly celebrating their day-old marriage.

She remembered dancing in front of family, seemingly only moments ago. Like a prophecy, she could almost remember years unspool ahead: formal balls for work, moving in joy at friends’ weddings. If she relaxed her gaze, she saw Dario dancing with a child.

She curled closer, breaking their form to feel his warmth gathered tightly in her arms.

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Eskander didn't sense the connection, initially.

The academic was suitable enough, for a child Archivist. The engineer was good, and usually deferent. The strutter was a nuisance. The thief was deeply absurd... somehow both a necessity and an obstacle to Library stability.

There was a Garda, somewhere, whom he wasn't sure he'd met yet. Always busy, always with a mission.

Morgan had been… well, perhaps most like Christopher, and his mother. Brilliantly stubborn. Tiresome. Capable of greatness.

Not until he saw their interactions with Christopher did he begin to understand. Their bond was deep. Perhaps deep enough to influence him.

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Jess knew cold.

England wasn't the world's coldest place, by any means. But his lungs knew bitter London air. His bones knew brittle winters that wouldn't end.

He understood cold, viscerally, in a way others didn't. And he rather resented the well-meaning suggestions of not just what to pack but how he should comport himself in cold weather. As if he hadn't flown through English streets in clothes his father deemed only thin enough to cover a book, lest he look suspiciously bulky.

Jess stepped confidently off the train in Moscow, took a deep breath in, and doubled over coughing.

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A waistcoat had been part of his uniform as a child, Jess mused. Then it wasn’t. Now he’d come full circle again.

He honored books by indicating to others that he knew how to respect their presence: fine silks, perfect stitching. A waistcoat as one civilized layer.

He dishonored those who looked down their pompous noses at the thief/Publisher. Vivid, new-money colors. Simplicity that didn’t support the cravat he didn’t wear.

He had his own uniform requirements now too. This waistcoat was too plunging to conceal anything, too tight to cover up contraband.

A balance of freedom and tradition.

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Ephemera: transitory printed matter. A book but not a book. It was a new world.

It was Anit’s idea.

It took time for Jess to adjust. The very idea of a temporary book went against everything in his soul. It was nearly a preloaded blank, wasn’t it? Of even less use. A step backward.

But if the goal was more information in more hands, he supposed it was no different than playbills or pamphlets.

And so. Books backed only with paper - mainly new novels, old pornography, some poetry - came pouring first from them, then from every publisher in the world.

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It was dangerous. Jewelry's easily traced to its source. But Khalila didn’t worry about whispers, and Jess loved buying him earrings. What was Dario to do but secretly treasure each one like his gifts from Khalila.

The pearl earring from their first private group trip to the ocean.

Later, a sapphire, “to show you how wrong you are that my eyes are some pretty sort of blue,” he’d said.

Dario even willingly wore an amethyst, for God’s sake, Jess acting all the while like it had any worth at all. “It’s royal purple,” he explained with a grin, the fool.

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He felt it before he saw it, the gold and black sending a jolt directly from his vision to his gut, bypassing his brain.

Jess focused on keeping steady the champagne flute in his hand, and on breathing… though even as he reached for breath, he found it easily. His heart hadn’t stopped. The pain was that of widening, of stretching to contain more. He delicately trusted it.

The ballroom slowly came back into focus, Jess turning to see the stranger in the dress. They smiled mildly in his direction as they left. He silently thanked them for the gift.

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This was the earliest anyone in the illustrious family tree had developed sight troubles, and the Medica were unsure what might have caused it. Greek Fire exposure? A blow to his temples, from Garda or brigand?

Dario supposed it didn’t matter. He could go about his days seeing far less than he did before. Or he could wear an assistive device.

He scoured the globe. And when nothing was attractive enough for his face, he tried something else.

When the youngest master jeweler he could find revealed his sleek new eyewear, Dario couldn’t recall being so relieved in some time.

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Jess was told his skill at slipping away to covert meetings would be less in demand as he took the role of the Publisher of the Great Library of Alexandria. A respectable job without - well, with fewer - secrets.

That was before rogue Obscurist groups realized his trustworthiness.

Within two years of Jess taking the job, the Library had published three volumes on managing one’s own Obscurist talent. All three built on holistic systems that contradicted the “objective science” the Library had used on its Obscurists for centuries.

Not one has been traced back to its community of origin, even today.

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Trousers were intended to make her life easier. They had, when it was only her body she was fitting into clothing.

Now her body surrounded another smaller one, and waistbands were rather more complicated.

Her seamstress had assured her, since she got so attached to her clothes - moreso now with the intense emotions of pregnancy - that she’d prefer adjustable panels to new trousers every month.

It seemed a good idea. Until the panels and ties bunched and irritated while the Russian ambassador droned on. Endlessly.

The world was one pair of trousers away from an international incident, Khalila was certain.

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It was the recreational running that did it, Jess thought.

Business trips around the world got stressful, and he calmed himself by running. The activity slowed his racing brain. Back roads, city streets, parks, alleys. He ran everywhere. There was little that such varied situations had in common.

Except for one thing. Birdsong.

Coos, chirps, titters and caws. Mating calls and arguments and exultations. Wildlife drawn to humans gathering, lured to the sharing of food and tall places.

Now whenever Jess heard it, running or not, his thoughts slowed. He breathed deeper. He was reminded of life outside his own.

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Thomas preferred his code to writing any language.

He still wrote tedious longhand when his scribbles would be translated. Papers to be published needed to be understood, eventually, after all.

But when he would be the only reader? The words wouldn’t stay put on the page anyway. They’d leap into three-dimensional space, expressing their aliveness in the world around Thomas, the way anything on paper did. And letters weren’t built properly for that sort of travel. Many found it disagreeable.

His fingers hated translating thoughts into letters. Too laborious.

(And anyway, codes gave privacy and safety from any prying eyes.)

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Jess and Dario had both needled and joked, surprised at her new commitments. But Nic understood. Wolfe did too.

A soldier may be a fine-tuned machine, but equipment upkeep included the mind too. Minds and bodies both kept score.

She sat the literature down on each chair, pamphlet edges precise and square against the wood. Thomas had printed the writings from some new Medica specialists. Glain wasn’t sure she bought into all their ideas. But she knew first-hand that in very specific circumstances, with others that understood, talking aloud about events that had happened made the memories easier to carry.

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Dario stared at the rag in his hand. He instantly recognized it as a teething rag, though he had no memory of how it got into his best dinner jacket, ruining the shape of the breast pocket and possibly the drape of the whole piece. He smiled.

The other pocket was in better shape, which was to say flatter shape, though only because the clockwork toy Thomas made for their eldest was more compact than the wadded fabric the baby had chewed.

Three hair clasps hid underneath the toy. Fitting that all the children were represented in his finished garment.

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Jess stopped short, breath caught, suddenly smiling. The board under his arm slid down to thud against the sand.

It wasn’t that he and Dario had any monopoly on the beach. Jess knew that. He just wasn’t used to anyone else being here. Least of all Thomas, in a proper swimsuit (Thomas bothered to find himself one?), in the water (Could Thomas swim?), on a board (Did they have surfing in Germany? Had Thomas just learned?), surfing a wave that wasn’t for beginners.

But Thomas rode it, hair gleaming the same gold of the shimmering water under the Alexandrian sky.

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Formal Library dinners were the worst. Nic would rather be away from home in an open camp with tight rations than here in front of a plate of food that would be delicious if he didn’t have to stomach these… politicians.

The only fun to be had here was...

Yes. There was Chris, looking his way, eyes glazing as another speaker expounded on nothing.

Nic acted quickly, reaching for a rib bone. His tongue reached out a little more than necessary, his mouth surrounding the meat somewhat more thoroughly than required.

He found Chris’ eyes no longer unfocused with boredom.

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Clothing had only ever been practical for Glain. It needed to stay out of her way. Good clothing helped reduce abrasions when falling, or being thrown. Weather required various protective qualities. She had no needs past that.

But one lost bet to Jess, and she must purchase an impractical article of clothing for herself. What a pointless exercise.

She couldn’t stomach impractical footwear. Impractical trousers sounded dangerous.

That left her in the store where Nic bought his civilian shirts.

Silk could be tolerable. No embellishments. Something crisp, yes. It should be sharp.

Truth be told, she wouldn’t mind cuff links.

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Wolfe was so fatigued, he nearly startled at the unexpected choked sob. Behind them, a woman appeared in the hallway.

Whatever the matter was, he thought, they didn’t have time. The Library was only just secured, days ago. Too much to do to entertain public histrionics.

Before he could voice his ire, the crying woman approached Thomas, and he embraced her in return. Her hair was the same color as his. A man was now behind her, face contorted with a painful joy, eyes unmoving from Thomas’ face.

Wolfe realized then, Thomas’ parents hadn’t seen him since his reported death.

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“FLOWER!”

“Yes, beloved?”

“I said I didn’t want that… that thing on the wall. Why is it back up?”

“I thought you were teasing. It’s a beautiful heirloom, Dario, and your mother will be offended if she doesn’t see it in our home. Why would you not want it on the wall?”

“It’s cursed.”

“Cursed?”

“Cursed.”

“... it’s a sword. On the wall.”

“It’s cursed! It’s responsible for three pregnancies, a failed treaty and two - two separate - false arrests.”

“That sword has been on a wall for a thousand years.”

“Khalila-”

“Wait, how did it- you know what, don’t tell me.”

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The melody dropped gently but firmly all around him, Chris’ fervor for the instrument thrumming in Nic’s chest. Waves of emotion - of story - carried from the heart of a composer to his beloved’s heart, to his, hung timelessly like stars in the sky.

Nic missed this. It fed him. He let it fill him up, as Chris savored his own storytelling.

As his lover’s fingers stilled, the added staccato of an aborted gasp rapped through the room. Not Chris, someone else. Nic assumed it was someone startled that the High Commander was laying under a harpsichord. They’d get over it.

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Thomas had taken every excuse available not to wear his robe.

What once would have been a source of pride for him was complicated now. Pride was still there. But other feelings were too. He’d worked for it… sacrificed more than he wanted to. The Library wasn’t what it was, and that was mostly good.

His reticence broke, though, the day Jess got his own robe.

To see his best friend wearing it, wrapped in that meaning too… it somehow allowed it to be a more complex symbol than it had been.

Thomas wore his much more often these days.

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The first time Glain translated, she was left with a burning question to ask afterward. But she didn’t dare voice it, certainly not with a fallen colleague.

When she had free time and access to a Library, she did considerable research, but found no answers.

Had anyone ever… enjoyed the sensation?

Why would it feel good?

It made her heart race and her blood pump. And her head felt turned inside out. But in a pleasant way?

She couldn’t fathom how to explain that being ripped apart could be so agreeable.

She wasn’t going to tell anyone about this, ever.

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Eskander’s habit of being surly and unhelpful had many benefits. It minimized conversation, which he still loathed. It also meant no one in the Tower objected to him leaving for his nightly perambulations. It was his time to roam and enjoy the night air.

And to familiarize himself with the ouzo of every bar in Alexandria.

Farouk’s was cheapest, and tasted it. Athineos was better. Gave less of a headache later, though the place was intolerably fashionable. Tripoli was his favorite, a good strong flavor in a briny atmosphere of weathered old fisherman, as it should be. As he remembered.

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Jess didn’t drink tea anymore.

He found it useless after discovering Egyptian coffee. Then Italian coffee. Pretty much any coffee fit some need he had, though they had distinct purposes and benefits.

Tea was… there. Not hearty enough. If pressed, he might notice its reminders of how much of his home country was lost to him now. And how much never fit.

He made one exception. First Sunday afternoons were for tea with his mother. It may be a useless beverage in an overly ornate vessel, in an overly decorated salon. But she always had Alexandrian pastries waiting for him.

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“So, do you suppose your work with Eskander could hold for a week?”

“Why, what do you need, Nic?”

“A visit to Marrakesh.”

“What does Marrakesh need from us now? Oh.”

“Only if you want to, beloved.”

“Nic.”

“I know, it’s been-”

“Four years.”

“And next week we’ll mark another year of belonging to one another. What if we kissed each other again, under that same sun where we first knew? And agreed, and spoke our commitment?”

“It’s the same sun anywhere, you fool.”

“Now, that sounds like a yes.”

“I might be persuaded. If you come back to bed.”