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Failure, Pellaeon suspected, was an intimately familiar concept for Thrawn. He remembered the day Skywalker broke free of their tractor beam — their failures at Sluis Van and later, when they’d come away with so few ships from the Katana Fleet — and each time, sweat slicked his palms and his chest tightened as he waited for the Grand Admiral to blow up. It never happened; each time, with grace and calm humility, Thrawn had accepted the unfortunate turn of events, searched for a silver lining, and turned his mind to the future.
It was like that after Bilbringi, too, when Thrawn finally woke up. He was quiet and subdued that first day, his skin stained from alcohol swabs when the medics cleaned him up post-surgery, the crook of his elbow pockmarked from where nanodroids had been inserted into his veins. When Pellaeon walked in, he found Thrawn sitting up as much as he could, his head bent over a datapad. His eyes were sharp, so his mind hadn’t been affected, but their glow was pale.
Some days, despite his injuries, Thrawn seemed almost to vibrate with energy. He had his art holos set up inside his hospital room, blue dust glittering and transforming into different colors to display the works of their enemies. On those days, he peppered Pellaeon with questions, offered unsolicited advice, revealed unsettlingly accurate predictions about what Pellaeon and the Moffs were up to. Pellaeon kept his mouth shut as much as possible; the medics had sworn him to near-secrecy until Thrawn’s health was out of the woods.
Other days were different. Thrawn seemed scrubbed and weary; his holos seemed somehow neglected, even though they flickered no differently on those days than the more manic ones. The intense periods of planning, once enough to make Pellaeon’s head spin, were now eerily quiet, giving way to long withdrawn silences. On Thrawn’s face, Pellaeon could see only frustration and boredom, muted but clear.
Today was one of those days.
“You’ll be released soon,” Pellaeon told him.
Thrawn inclined his head but said nothing in response. He was reclined against the headboard, wrapped in a dressing gown with his arms crossed over his chest and his legs bent up at the knee, a restless position that didn’t match his closed-off eyes in the slightest.
“One more nano-surgery,” Pellaeon said, “and you’ll be back on the bridge. I talked to the medics before I came in; they said it’ll be no later than ten-hundred tomorrow, and then a day for recovery, and you’ll be in command just in time for our next meeting with the Moffs.”
“I know,” said Thrawn, voice neutral. “And I’ll expect a full report on the Fleet’s status before then, Captain.”
There was no missing the accusatory undertone there. Pellaeon shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Thrawn was asleep for a full week or more after Bilbringi, his life on the line, comatose and rushed from one surgery to the next. He’d probably never forget the taste of bacta; Pellaeon had no doubt it was embedded on his tongue. But during that week, Pellaeon and the rest of the Fleet had no one to turn to for advice; they’d made their own decisions, and Pellaeon liked to think they’d done as well as could be expected, but — well, he’d seen the plans Thrawn drew up after he woke, the starmaps, the routes he’d traced, and they’d been unsettlingly unfamiliar. To tell Thrawn the truth now, before he was truly stable, would only endanger him, the medics said. Did it sit right with Pellaeon? No. It implied Thrawn was fragile, when Pellaeon knew the opposite was true, had seen Thrawn’s strength and endurance himself. But he was wary, and unwilling to go against the medics’ wishes. All he could do was offer Thrawn a half-hearted smile, one that died on his lips almost before it was born, and it cut him deeply to see the cold stare Thrawn aimed at that smile before turning away.
Thrawn was silent for a long moment. From his face, it was impossible to tell what he was thinking; he might have been musing over battle plans, or maybe he just wanted Pellaeon to go away so he could get some sleep. The only sign of agitation was very slight, almost unnoticeable — it was the fact that he kept twisting his fingers in the blanket.
“The medics are careful what they say around me,” he said finally. “They won’t tell me much. About the Fleet, that is.”
His tone was studiously casual; he tossed out a subtle roll of the eyes to underscore the fact that he wasn’t bothered. Pellaeon tried to match his mood, tried to keep his face blank, but he could feel himself softening.
“They don’t know much, the medics,” he said. “And I’m not supposed to tell you until you’re better.”
Definitely a roll of the eyes this time. Thrawn fiddled the raw hem of his hospital blanket and muttered, “Exile again,” his voice dry. A little too dramatic, Pellaeon thought, and the manipulation was a bit on-the-nose.
Still, it worked. His cheeks heated with shame even though he knew Thrawn was just joking, and he checked the door to make sure no medics were listening in. “If I’m honest, sir, you’ve already guessed everything that’s happened with pinpoint accuracy, and I’m sure you could tell from my expressions which guesses were right,” he said. Then, with a quick, shallow sigh, “What did you want to know?”
Slowly, Thrawn raised his head, his expression difficult to read. He hesitated, as if he couldn’t think of anything he particularly wanted to know or like he couldn’t voice the one thing he really wanted to ask. He glanced at Pellaeon’s datapad and his eyebrows furrowed, as if he was trying to dredge up inspiration for a question by looking at different objects in the room. Did he not have any questions?
Or was this not really about information at all?
Pellaeon studied him for a long moment, giving Thrawn time to organize his thoughts, to make a decision. Thrawn pursed his lips and looked away.
“We’re all eagerly awaiting your return, sir,” Pellaeon said, voice firm.
Thrawn didn’t look at him.
“That is — we’re not exactly falling on our own swords, sir, but — well.” Pellaeon huffed, his cheeks reddening as he struggled to put his thoughts into words. Thrawn kept his head ducked and picked at a loose thread on his blanket, his movements slow and almost hesitant.
“That is,” said Pellaeon, softer now, “it’s not the same without you on the bridge. It’s one thing to scrape by in battle — another to truly win. And to do either without your true leader there is …” He paused, swallowing, his throat suddenly and inexplicably tight. “...intolerable,” he said.
Thrawn still didn’t look at him.
“Sir?” asked Pellaeon, his heart sinking.
“Yes,” said Thrawn weakly, “I heard you.”
His tone was light, airy — entirely inappropriate for the conversation at hand. And he still wouldn’t look Pellaeon’s way. The longer Pellaeon stared at him, the harder it seemed to be for Thrawn to hold himself up, as if suddenly all his recent surgeries had come crashing down on him. His posture dissolved — first by a flex of the shoulder blades, then by a barely-concealed shiver that brought him down on one arm. He gave up after that, rolling onto his side to face the wall, and did it with an air about him that seemed to suggest he’d chosen this position rather than succumbed to it.
Pellaeon studied him — noted the tension in Thrawn’s shoulders, the peculiar way he clasped his hands behind his neck and tucked his head, like someone expecting a blow. It didn’t look comfortable; it looked defensive.
He could chalk the sudden wave of emotion up to exhaustion, or a delayed response to trauma, and both of those were probably true, but still, it didn’t sit right with Pellaeon. His words had been totally inoffensive, should have cheered Thrawn up or comforted him instead of affecting him so greatly that he had to turn away. What had he really said, Pellaeon wondered, to warrant a reaction like that?
What was so upsetting to Thrawn about being wanted?
It was three months after Bilbringi when Pellaeon tried to walk out of Thrawn’s office after a long after-shift discussion on strategy. His eyes were itching and his legs aching from a long day on his feet, so his thoughts were fully on what came next: dinner, a shower, his bed. It was like he had blinders on; he scarcely even looked at Thrawn, certainly couldn’t claim to be studying his expression.
So when a soft sound stopped him at a door — a question he barely heard, and couldn’t make out — it took him completely by surprise. Thrawn always spoke softly, but he never mumbled. Pellaeon looked over his shoulder, a line of confusion between his eyebrows.
“Did you say something, sir?” he asked.
Thrawn’s head was bowed. He fiddled absently with the controls on his holopod. He was silent so long that Pellaeon opened his mouth to ask him again.
“I asked if you’d like to stay for a drink,” Thrawn said more clearly.
“A drink, sir?”
The look Thrawn gave him was subtly pained.
“A drink,” said Pellaeon, changing his tone. “Of course. I’d be delighted.”
He circled back to the holopod just as Thrawn was leaving it. They almost bumped into each other, but Thrawn saved them both with graceful maneuvering; his fingers brushed Pellaeon’s sleeve, turning him toward the starboard door that led to Thrawn’s living quarters. Inside, the lighting was low but dazzling, the holos here chosen according to Thrawn’s personal taste rather than military requirements. The sofa was soft — Thrawn’s presence solid, warm — the bourbon he poured for both of them buzzing hot inside Pellaeon’s chest.
It was like resting, Pellaeon thought, without needing to close his eyes.
“Is it to your taste?” asked Thrawn. He clinked his glass softly against Pellaeon’s, indicating the bourbon, but Pellaeon took the question in a more broad form.
“I like it,” he confirmed.
“Then stay a while,” said Thrawn curtly, as if it didn’t matter to him whether Pellaeon stayed or not. “There’s plenty more.”
This was the first of many late-evening visits. It was the end of their time as colleagues and the start of a friendship, or maybe something more — Pellaeon could dare to hope. He catalogued each absent-minded touch or slip of the tongue that happened on those nights: the brush of Thrawn’s finger against his own as he handed him a drink; the dark sweep of Thrawn’s tongue over his lips between sentences, chasing a drop of port away; the hesitant invitations to stay longer, to talk more, the sad and sometimes desperate glint in Thrawn’s eye as he listened, as if he thought every conversation might be their last.
It was easy to recognize loneliness. What took Pellaeon longer to recognize was grief.
For so many years, Rukh had been the closest thing Thrawn had to a friend.
Warlord Teradoc was a gracious host. He’d supplied Thrawn and Pellaeon with adjoining rooms for their peace talks on Centares, and he’d kept his displays of power subtle. His armada was nearby to show what a fantastic resource he could be to the Empire, but he made no overt threats. And that was certainly for the best — beyond his ships and men, and the promise of no in-fighting, Teradoc had little to offer. Centares was barren where it used to be beautiful, its resources tainted by pollution. Its beautiful Rubyflame Lake, once full of viscous red water at the perfect temperature for bathing, was now so full of toxic run-off that any unsuspecting animal which made its way inside would soon be mummified.
Actually, Teradoc had rather turned things to his advantage in that regard, thought Pellaeon. He grimaced as he and Thrawn passed a souvenir booth filled with mummified Rubyflame birds.
“Awful place,” he murmured out of the side of his mouth.
Thrawn’s eyes shifted to meet Pellaeon’s, a faint smile touching his lips. “A beautiful place, once,” he said. “Made awful by our own kind. Did you ever see the Aviary?”
“No, sir. I’ve never been.” A quick glance around showed Pellaeon there was no aviary in sight, either. He furrowed his eyebrows at Thrawn. “Why do you ask?”
Thrawn’s shoulders lifted in a minute shrug. “It was filled with rare avians,” he said. “The people of Centares have always loved and honored birds.” He nodded down the street to a red-brick building, its windows open and glass-free. “That building is a bird hospital, and all around us are signs of honor built into the architecture and artwork — crooks designed for every building to allow avians a place to nest, feeders, stumps where trees used to be abundant. The Aviary housed living specimens of Centares’ most unique birds.”
“What happened to it?”
Thrawn glanced over at him, his expression difficult to read. “It burned down,” he said simply. “Or rather, it was burned, during a visit by Lord Vader. The songbirds, capable of repeating anything they hear, were found dead outside with no external wounds.”
“He killed them?” Pellaeon said. “Why?”
Thrawn gave him a wry look. “I suppose they heard something he didn’t want them to.”
Pellaeon said nothing. He felt a phantom tightening in his throat and had to resist the urge to massage his neck.
“I quite like birds,” said Thrawn matter-of-factly.
“Oh?” said Pellaeon. A declaration of personal likes and dislikes was rare for Thrawn, and more than enough to distract Pellaeon from all the horrible tales of bird death.
“There’s a certain artistry in their form, don’t you think?” Thrawn said. He turned to look at a booth nearby, where a child artist was busy sanding down the edges on a whistle shaped like a songbird. “My first command was named for a bird of prey,” Thrawn said.
“Oh,” said Pellaeon again, blinking rapidly. He searched his mind for Imperial ships named after birds of prey as one of the native avians winged by overhead, casting a wide shadow. “The Osprey?” he asked. “Or The Eaglewasp?”
Thrawn watched the avian pass by, his eyes hooded and dazed by the sun, then slowly lowered his head and looked at Pellaeon. “Neither,” he said, his voice a little hushed. “It wasn’t an Imperial ship.”
Thoughts and questions swirled inside Pellaeon’s head, each one just barely touching his tongue and then dancing away before he could speak a word. What birds of prey haunted the skies of Thrawn’s homeworld? Was there anything like them here — would he ever see the bird his ship was named after again? Pellaeon was still trying to figure out what to say when he noticed a figure rapidly approaching them, his stance guarded but friendly, his face familiar.
“Gentlemen,” said Warlord Teradoc. He shook Thrawn’s hand, made like he might clap Pellaeon on the shoulder, and then noticed the subtle disapproving stares he was receiving from both men and converted that gesture to another handshake. He steered both of them away from the booths, and they went obediently — amicably on Thrawn’s part, reluctantly on Pellaeon’s — allowing him to guide them back toward the meeting house.
“Shall we?” Teradoc said. “We have much to discuss.”
Thrawn followed, his pace sedate, his expression blank as if nothing had happened; as if he’d shared nothing of importance. As if he shared personal information with everyone, all the time.
But Pellaeon hesitated; he looked over his shoulder, one last time, at the birds.
Thrawn was already unconscious by the time the medics reached him during the Battle of Bilbringi. His eyes were dim, but they hadn’t fully closed yet, as if some part of his mind was still awake — just not capable of responding, not capable of giving orders or recording his memories. They laid him out on the stretcher, and he neither fought nor helped them, but he turned his head and, with the exhausted shifting of the eyes that came from someone close to death, he looked Pellaeon’s way.
Electricity jolted up Pellaeon’s spine. There was a possibility — just a small one — that Thrawn had something important to say and was just awake enough to say it. Instinct and trust drove Pellaeon forward, made him bow his head to listen. But Thrawn said nothing; his lips twitched, showing a glimpse of teeth, but he couldn’t force his vocal cords to work, couldn’t even move his lips.
Instead, he lifted his hand, warm and broad and smeared with blood, and placed it on the back of Pellaeon’s neck.
The medics lifted the stretcher, their mouths moving and a low hum of noise entering Pellaeon’s ears. He couldn’t make out what they were saying over the sound of his own heartbeat. He watched as they pulled Thrawn away, as Thrawn’s fingers slipped off Pellaeon’s neck and his hand fell, dangling over the side of the stretcher.
Only then, when he lost that touch, did Thrawn close his eyes and truly fall asleep.
That was months ago. Now, Thrawn sat at Pellaeon's side, his posture casual and his eyes fixed with total attention on the holovid. Mon Mothma and Leia Organa Solo stood side-by-side at a press conference, delivering a passionate speech laced with propaganda, trying to rile their dwindling supporters into taking a stand against the Empire. Here in his own quarters, Thrawn did more than just slouch, like he did in his command chair; here, he sat with his legs up on the couch, twisted at the waist so he could prop his datapad up on the arm of the sofa while simultaneously studying the holovid across from him. He traced his lower lip as he watched the holo, not seeming to realize what he was doing, and again, Pellaeon’s mind went back to that day: to the fingers streaked with blood, the white cuff of his uniform saturated with red, the futile twitch of his lips as he tried to speak.
The way he’d reached out to Pellaeon for comfort. The way he’d reached out to him again weeks later, asking him to stay for a drink.
Pellaeon’s eyes drifted back to the holovid, a glow that had nothing to do with the New Republic suffusing his chest.
He shifted a little closer to Thrawn and let their thighs touch.
It was too soon for a planetside mission, the medics said. Officially speaking, Thrawn was on limited duty — something Pellaeon had all but forgotten about until he saw the Grand Admiral’s name on the landing party for a routine training exercise. He was in Thrawn’s office looking over the roster, and when he got to Thrawn’s name he paused, his mind going blank, his face hopefully going blank as well. Slowly, he looked up and found Thrawn already staring at him, as if he knew what was coming next.
“You’re not supposed to go, sir,” Pellaeon said.
Thrawn waved these words away. “It’s a simple mission,” he said dismissively. “And I’ll be supervising, not training.”
“Still…” Pellaeon glanced back down at his datapad and swept through the files. He took another, closer look at the exercise plan, this time putting it into the context of a past-middle-age non-human who’d recently gone through heart surgery and a week-long bacta tank dive.
“There’s no danger to our men, let alone to me,” Thrawn said. His voice was calm and even, absent the stubborn tone Pellaeon was used to from other people who argued with him.
“Did medical approve this?” Pellaeon asked.
“Naturally,” said Thrawn, sounding amused. “As I said, there’s no danger.”
Suddenly Pellaeon was presented with the aggravating realization that if Thrawn was lying, he had no way to tell. The man was an infuriatingly good liar. He considered calling medical on his comlink to check, then decided against it; knowing Thrawn, he’d already found some clever way around that — manipulated staffing and timing to guarantee that whoever answered Pellaeon’s call would lie for him.
“I’ll go with you,” said Pellaeon instead.
“Of course,” said Thrawn wryly, as if he’d prepared for this outcome as well. “You’re welcome to.”
He was so casually confident about the mission that Pellaeon started to feel a little foolish, and by the time the exercise came around and he was strapped into the shuttle with Thrawn at his side, he was certain he’d overreacted.
But the medics had said it was too soon for a planetside mission, and as it happened, they were right. The sun was high and hot, burning Pellaeon’s scalp beneath his hair and reflecting off the troopers’ armor in dazzling bursts of light. Thrawn walked beside him at a slow pace, seemingly unaffected as he observed his men — but gradually, Pellaeon noticed that the distance between them and the troops was growing wider.
He glanced over at Thrawn, but the Grand Admiral’s face was composed and thoughtful, giving no hint of discomfort away. His hair was damp from sweat and a little ruffled, as if he’d taken to combing it back with his fingers whenever Pellaeon wasn’t looking, and his tunic collar was open, but overall he looked to be in better shape than any of the other officers who’d come along — all of them were fit, and far ahead of Thrawn and Pellaeon now, but their faces were red from the heat and their uniforms were soaked with sweat.
Pellaeon was still mulling this over as they passed a fallen tree on the side of the trail. He made it several more steps before he realized Thrawn wasn’t with him; Pellaeon turned just as heard the scratch of bark and saw Thrawn taking a seat on the log.
There’d been no sign of exhaustion before. Now, in the split second it took Pellaeon to turn around, exhaustion hung over Thrawn like a fog. His hand was pressed against his chest, massaging the wound he’d received from Rukh, but when he saw Pellaeon watching, he removed his hand with slow dignity and placed it on the log instead, making an obvious effort to sit up straight and regulate his breathing.
“Hotter than Corellia’s nine hells out here,” Pellaeon grumbled, circling back around to where Thrawn was sitting. He stayed standing himself; if he sat, the tree trunk would just press his sweat-damp trousers against his skin and make him even hotter. “You have any water left, sir?”
Thrawn didn’t answer for a moment. His breath was rasping in his throat. Slowly, he shrugged out of his rucksack and removed two canisters of water without speaking; Pellaeon could have grabbed his own, but to him, the water was less important than the way the rucksack straps weighed down on Thrawn’s chest, and he had a sneaking suspicion that ‘You need to take the rucksack off, sir’ would have embarrassed Thrawn a little bit more than ‘Can I have some water?’
They drank in silence for a while. Their men disappeared over a distant hill, the sound of their armor long-faded. A dust cloud kicked up behind them, and then that faded too as Pellaeon watched. When he glanced back down at Thrawn, he caught him rubbing his chest again, a miserable grimace tugging at his lips.
If he noticed Pellaeon staring at him, he didn’t show it, but he said, “You told me so, Gilad,” in a voice laced with weary amusement masking something darker. Pellaeon kept his mouth shut. A sharp jolt cut through him at the sound of his given name; it was the first time he’d heard Thrawn use it, and he liked the way it sounded — crisp and melodic, like a fresh new name, one that somehow fit him better than the old one. He didn’t know how to respond, what to say; he’d spent so long being flustered over it that it was too late to say anything at all.
He cleared his throat instead. “Here,” he said more gruffly than he meant to. He made a sharp, aborted gesture, and for a moment Thrawn just stared at him — knowing, dry — but finally he reached out and took Pellaeon’s hand. Businesslike, Pellaeon pushed Thrawn’s sleeve up and pressed two fingers against his wrist to take his pulse.
“Not exactly what I expected you to do,” Thrawn noted.
“Did I take you by surprise, then?” asked Pellaeon. He tried not to think about the fact that Thrawn had expected him to — what? Hold hands? No, probably just help him up. “Your pulse is racing,” he said.
“Mm,” said Thrawn. He didn’t look surprised, and he made no attempt to move away. Instead, he seemed to have relaxed a little, all tension draining from his hand even though a little remained in his shoulders.
There was a day in the infirmary, Pellaeon remembered, when he visited Thrawn to bring him his datapad. It wasn’t long after he first woke up, and at the time he still looked pale and a peculiar mix of sharp and fragile in his hospital pajamas. Pellaeon supposed it was something like a broken glass effect; damaged, obviously, but still not safe to touch.
He’d handed Thrawn his datapad and for a while they’d made conversation, with Pellaeon avoiding all the topics they both really wanted to talk about. They’d discussed the Moffs and warlords instead, moving away from the immediate battlefield to contemplate the future, when the fighting would die down and reunification would truly begin.
They’d been interrupted by a medic. She came in quietly, with a soft voice and smile, apologetic for interrupting them. She needed to take Thrawn’s vitals, she said — so she’d touched his arm, his wrist, unsnapped his shirt to touch his chest. And Thrawn had seemed almost to flinch, then froze, his expression difficult to read.
Pellaeon looked down at him now, eyes closed against the sun, exhaustion lining his face. He could feel Thrawn’s heartbeat thrumming against his fingers, gradually evening out.
He waited until Thrawn’s pulse was calm again, and then he helped him to his feet.
“So how long has it been?” Pellaeon asked.
He’d let go of the ‘sir’ weeks ago, and so far Thrawn hadn’t corrected him. They sat beside each other on the couch — Thrawn curled up on the far end, a glass of brandy in his hands, his eyes fixed on the glittering art holos projected all around them. Alcohol made everything seem fuzzy, the colors blurring together, sometimes flaring bright and sometimes fading. It was a hypnotic effect — relaxing — and after a few moments of silence, Pellaeon had already forgotten what he asked.
“Since I was exiled?” asked Thrawn, stirring like he too had almost fallen asleep. “Or since I’ve seen another Chiss?”
Pellaeon hadn’t known there was a difference. He thought it over, tried to figure out which one he really wanted to know.
“Since you’ve seen someone like you, I suppose,” he said.
Thrawn didn’t answer for a moment. He watched a Rygardian water sculpture twist in the air before him, then turned to Pellaeon with a pale smile.
“I’ve never met someone like me,” he said.
Pellaeon snorted. “So humble.”
Thrawn’s smile changed subtly. It didn’t disappear; it just changed, and Pellaeon couldn’t say exactly how. It looked like Thrawn wanted to clarify, to explain what he meant; instead, he withdrew, his face closing off again. It was like he’d decided any attempt to explain his mind was useless.
Pellaeon turned to look at the artwork, a chill taking hold as he realized that perhaps Thrawn was right. The idea of someone like Thrawn opening up to him, and of Pellaeon failing to understand or respond properly, was terrifying and all-too-possible. It chased the veil of drunkenness away and left him cold.
“You’re not typical for a Chiss, then?” he asked, trying to straddle the line between lighthearted and disrespectful.
Thrawn’s only response was that same odd smile, this time with an edge he couldn’t seem to hide. He pulled away a little, one hand pressed flat against his chest, and that subtle sign of physical pain was all Pellaeon needed to let the subject die. He turned back to the artwork, chewing the inside of his cheek.
Exiled from a people who, if Pellaeon was reading between the lines correctly, never fully understood him anyway. Taken in by aliens who didn’t understand him either. Placed in command, where the demands of war made it impossible for him to make friends or pursue relationships. Betrayed — nearly killed — by the one companion he seemed to trust.
“It just seems lonely, that’s all,” Pellaeon said.
A dry, humorless chuckle was Thrawn’s only response.
Small touches left Thrawn embarrassed, almost subdued. Pellaeon touched the small of his back as they studied a starmap in the command room, and when he asked a question a moment later, Thrawn seemed incapable of responding. The effect lasted only a second, but it was long enough for Pellaeon to notice, and it was something he never forgot — the way Thrawn seemed almost flustered, almost tongue-tied, when he was touched like that would stay with Pellaeon for the rest of his life.
On the bridge, mid-conversation, Pellaeon touched Thrawn’s forearm. In the passageway, jogging to catch up to him, Pellaeon touched Thrawn’s elbow and guided him back toward his office to take a call. Every time, he watched Thrawn’s eyes flicker and go distant, his mind a million klicks away; and every time, he watched Thrawn call himself back and lean into Pellaeon’s touch.
And then, one night in Thrawn’s sitting room, the balance tipped.
Maybe they’d had a little too much to drink. Pellaeon’s head was fuzzy, his skin heated and soft. He found himself leaning heavily against Thrawn at one point, their boots discarded on the floor, their tunics slung over the back of the sofa.
And the next thing he knew, they weren’t in the sitting room anymore. Thrawn unfolded himself from the sofa and grabbed Pellaeon’s hand in one smooth motion, pulling him to his feet. They stumbled a little, but Thrawn righted Pellaeon gently, his hands so warm that Pellaeon could feel the heat through his sleeves.
“Through here,” he said, and led Pellaeon to his bedroom.
Pellaeon froze in the doorway, sobriety looming over his brain like a dark ghost. He watched as Thrawn swept past him and sat on the edge of the bed in his dayclothes, turning at the waist to remove something from his bedside drawer. Pellaeon averted his eyes, not sure what he was about to see — but a moment later, he heard a click, and the dark walls of Thrawn’s bedroom lit up with art.
“What—?” Pellaeon breathed.
“Nanoprojectors,” said Thrawn, his voice a little thick from drink. He looked up at the lightstreams arcing all around him, more immersive and full-bodied than anything Pellaeon had experienced in a private home. There was a distinct gleam of pride in Thrawn’s eyes. “I made them myself.”
Slowly, Pellaeon walked through the dust-shadow of the holos. It was like walking through water, he thought, and even lifting his hand and touching the walls seemed dreamy. His hand came down on a cool layer of insulated gel, the nanoprojectors set firmly inside it like tiny glass beads. Distantly he heard himself huff out a laugh.
“When did you find time to do this?” he asked. He turned around in time to see Thrawn give a one-shouldered shrug, leaning back on his palms.
“I’m less busy than you think,” he said.
Pellaeon laughed again. He joined Thrawn by the bed, hesitating for a moment before he sat down. He’d never sat down on his bed without changing clothes first; it wasn’t something people did on Corellia. But this was Thrawn’s room, and Thrawn was doing it too, and it wasn’t like Pellaeon could just start stripping.
...Could he?
He sneaked a glance at Thrawn, his face neutral but his heart pounding. After a moment, Thrawn looked back at him, and the soft expression of engagement and simple happiness on his face wavered, turning into something else. His eyes shifted down to the spot on the bed where their fingers were just barely touching.
“What’s wrong?” Pellaeon asked, pulling back.
Thrawn hesitated, shook his head. He looked around the bedroom, at the artwork surrounding him on all sides, and seemed to make a decision, his resolve hardening. He shifted closer, lifted his hand as if he meant to touch Pellaeon’s face.
Pellaeon stopped him. His fingers wrapped gently but firmly around Thrawn’s wrist.
“What’s wrong?” he said again.
Thrawn’s hand was close enough that his fingertips brushed Pellaeon’s cheek. He twisted in Pellaeon’s grip, let his thumb drift over Pellaeon’s bottom lip. “Nothing’s wrong,” he said softly, unconvincingly. “You’re just drunk.”
Not anymore, Pellaeon thought, but before he could listen to his screaming instincts, Thrawn was leaning forward, and it was too late to pull back. Their lips touched — a soft, warm, gentle touch, chaste and almost childish, but not unpleasant. Pellaeon went still; something inside him told him to stay still, to let himself be touched if that was what Thrawn wanted, but not to respond. After a moment, Thrawn pulled away and studied Pellaeon’s face.
“Sorry,” he said almost blithely. “I thought you wanted…”
“I do,” said Pellaeon, his voice coming out a little sharp. “Do you?”
Thrawn blinked at him. His face was almost impossible to read, but let his hand fall away from Pellaeon’s cheek and sat back on the bed, his eyes turning once more to the artwork. It was like he was looking for answers there, in a series of coruscating holos from a culture Pellaeon couldn’t name. He looked at them too for a moment, hoping to see whatever it was that Thrawn saw in them, but they remained inscrutable. It wasn’t like the birds on Centares; there, Pellaeon could follow Thrawn’s line of thought, could at least partially understand what he was trying to say. But here, when there were no words — only images — everything was less clear.
They sat on the edge of the bed in silence. Thrawn pulled his legs up and moved backward, until his back was up against the bulkhead and his arms were folded over his knees. He didn’t look at Pellaeon.
“You have something to say,” he said.
Typical. Pellaeon swallowed a burst of exasperation and turned to face Thrawn. “I do,” he said shortly. “Do you want to hear it?”
Thrawn’s only response was a minuscule shift of the eyebrows that might generously be called a nod.
“I think you’re lonely,” said Pellaeon. He kept his voice brusque, refusing to show how much the words hurt to say. “And I think you’re … I think the event with Rukh left a mark on you. I think your actions might be influenced by that. Maybe a self-destructive urge, or maybe — I don’t know. I…”
He trailed into silence, his heart beating ragged in his chest. After a long moment, Thrawn turned to look at him with a smile.
“It’s just sex,” he said, making Pellaeon’s heart drop. His smile wavered and failed. “I don’t see what’s self-destructive about that.”
“Because you don’t want it,” said Pellaeon, frustration coloring his voice. Thrawn’s shoulders shifted and he opened his mouth, but Pellaeon held up a hand to stop him before he spoke. “This isn’t false modesty, Thrawn. It isn’t self-deprecation. You couldn’t see your expression when you kissed me. It was—”
Thrawn looked away sharply. In the shadow of the art holos, with the blur of movement masking everything, Pellaeon couldn’t see his expression, but he could see the way it shifted and fractured before Thrawn turned his head.
“It was pained,” Pellaeon finished. He swallowed around a dry throat and watched Thrawn, waiting for him to compose himself or at least to speak, but nothing happened. There was no response; Thrawn’s posture remained tense and stubbornly dignified, his head turned so Pellaeon couldn’t read him properly. The art holos swirled and changed, slowly morphing into something different, and as the silence wore on, Pellaeon pulled his legs up onto the bed and crawled over to sit beside Thrawn against the wall. Their shoulders and legs were touching, and Thrawn didn’t pull away.
“Talk to me,” Pellaeon said.
Thrawn looked up, his eyes dry and his features set in an unconvincing expression of boredom. He stared out at the art holos rather than at Pellaeon; the column of his throat shifted as he swallowed; he shook his head.
Pellaeon watched him, waiting. In the awkward silence that followed, Thrawn uncrossed his arms, but what should have been an encouraging gesture seemed closed-off instead. Maybe it was the way he pulled his knees up tighter, made himself smaller; or the way he ran his fingers through his hair, rubbed the back of his neck and left his hand there the same way he’d reached for Pellaeon and clung to him after he was stabbed. He still wasn’t speaking.
Maybe he couldn’t speak, Pellaeon thought. Not about this. He looked out at the art holos, studying them alongside Thrawn, and for just a second, he thought he saw something hidden inside the swirl of colors.
Loneliness.
“Have you ever…?” Pellaeon started.
Thrawn cleared his throat. His voice came out raspy, quiet, a little rushed. “I’ve tried it,” he said under his breath. “I didn’t…”
He left it there, his face carefully expressionless. He rested his cheek on one hand, the gesture not relaxed but defensive, his fingers curling close to his eyes.
“Didn’t like it?” Pellaeon guessed.
Still expressionless, Thrawn nodded. His fingers uncurled, hiding his face from Pellaeon, and he cleared his throat again.
“But you still wanted to try again?” Pellaeon asked, his heart breaking a little. “With me?”
This time, Thrawn didn’t respond at all. He refused to acknowledge Pellaeon’s stare and kept his face hidden.
Pellaeon had heard the rumors, of course. Even before he’d met Thrawn, he’d heard the gossip making its way through Imperial ships. Sometimes it was spun to the positive — that Thrawn was married to his work, or didn’t have the time for relationships. Sometimes it was malicious — that he wasn’t capable of it, or his performance wasn’t satisfactory, or no one was willing to share their bed with a nonhuman. Pellaeon had too much faith in the Empire to believe it was the latter, had a gut feeling that neither of the other options were quite right, either.
“I’ve never met someone who simply didn’t like sex,” Pellaeon said aloud, his voice void of judgment. Thrawn looked up again, his expression under tight control, but wary. “But you’ve been in relationships before?”
The answer was slow in coming, but eventually, Thrawn said, “I have.” He didn’t offer any further information, and there was a tightness around his eyes that stopped Pellaeon from asking questions.
He could imagine all too easily. He took a deep breath and let it out in a slow sigh, the soothing effects of alcohol long gone.
“Let me ask you two questions,” he said, keeping his eyes on the wall. Beside him, he could feel Thrawn go still, holding his breath. “Just two, and then I’ll change the subject.”
Thrawn inclined his head. The first question was the hardest.
“Is this your ideal — the way we’ve been doing things, just friends, just touching — or is there something more?”
Thrawn’s face seemed to freeze. He looked Pellaeon over, studying his whole body as if searching for clues, then met his eyes. “This,” he said cautiously. His posture was defensive, his eyebrows drawn into something like a glare.
“This?” Pellaeon repeated.
He was searching for a way to clarify when Thrawn reached out. The back of his hand brushed over Pellaeon’s arm, over his thigh, the touch soft and tentative — indicating their new closeness, Pellaeon thought, the subtle shift from friendship to romance, without going any further. He watched the slow movement of Thrawn’s hand, the beautiful play of light over his skin, until Thrawn crossed his arms again. This time, though, instead of turning his face away, Thrawn laid his head down on his arms and faced Pellaeon, the hardness draining from his face and leaving only weariness behind.
“Second question,” Pellaeon said, his voice gentle. Thrawn’s eyes flickered over his face, studying him. “Do you want to sleep?”
Thrawn’s eyes stopped moving. A line appeared between his eyebrows.
“Just sleep?” Pellaeon said.
There was never a definitive yes or no. Thrawn didn’t even nod. But there was something: a wave of emotion crossing his face, relaxing his features, washing away the tension that had been building ever since he first asked Pellaeon to stay. There was a change in his posture, an opening of sorts — an invitation.
They lay together, both fully dressed, touching but not exploring — and after ten minutes or so, when it became clear that this wasn’t a trick, that Pellaeon wasn’t luring him into a false sense of safety, Thrawn closed his eyes and shifted closer.
There were so many different types of exile, Pellaeon thought. Abandonment by one’s own people; the loneliness of command; the complete alienation of sexuality, or the lack thereof. He didn’t like to think of what lurked in Thrawn’s past, or what caused the tension in his eyes. All three taken together, it was a type of isolation so deep that Pellaeon could barely fathom it, and betrayal and violation were so thoroughly etched into Thrawn’s life that he doubted he’d ever be free from the shadow of it all.
But for now, at least for tonight, he was relaxed, his eyes closed and his expression calm. He leaned into Pellaeon’s touch like he belonged here, or like some part of him knew he was safe.
Like he was home.