Chapter Text
“Shore leave,” said Thrass, his voice clipped. “Have you heard of it?”
Thrawn stared at his questis, a sharp line cut between his eyebrows. Something on his screen flickered and beeped as he stared at it, and he jerked his head back a little — disgust or surprise, or maybe betrayal. Thrass couldn’t be sure.
“You submitted a leave request on my behalf?” said Thrawn, voice low and flat.
There was a possible note of danger in the air. Thrass hooked his fingers through the yellow sash around his waist, the same power stance he took when he was being challenged on the Syndicure floor.
“And I approved it, too,” he said, puffing his chest out.
Thrawn’s eyes flicked up to meet his, his expression bland. “The same authority cannot both request and approve—”
Thrass tapped the patch on his shoulder that identified him as a Syndic. Thrawn’s expression barely changed — just a slight tension in his jaw as he bit the inside of his cheeks.
“Very well,” said Thrawn. He was practically bristling with discomfort, but he made a visible effort to swallow emotion, put on a polite face. “And where will we spend it?”
Thrass couldn’t help but smile. “That’s up to you, brother.”
Thrawn’s eyebrows twitched, a faint flush of color spreading over his cheeks. “I have no lodgings,” he said.
“You don’t need lodgings,” Thrass said. “Your ident card gives you automatic access to Ascendancy hotels. Have you really never taken shore leave before? I saw it in your file, but I thought it must be a clerical error — an exaggeration —”
Thrawn met his eyes with a brief smile. “I never saw a reason.”
“Your parents, perhaps?” said Thrass, one eyebrow raised. “I’m sure they’d like to see you.”
The smile faded.
“Or your family, at least,” Thrass rushed to amend, but Thrawn’s expression didn’t change. Thrass suddenly found himself fighting the urge to fiddle with the sleeves of his robes. “Well, not everyone uses leave to visit family,” he said, his tone brusque. “Have you ever been to the tropical beaches of Copero?”
“No,” said Thrawn mildly.
“Well, there you are,” said Thrass, gesturing emphatically to the leave ticket in Thrawn’s hand.
“I don’t think I would like them,” Thrawn said. “At least, not alone.”
He looked at Thrass expectantly, and after a moment, definitely not blushing, Thrass stuck his chin in the air and said, “I… suppose I could accompany you. As your escort.”
Thrawn half-smiled, then thought it over and gave an ambivalent shrug. “I don’t think I would like the beaches of Copero even with company,” he decided. “But thank you for agreeing to come.” Thrass was still processing this change in events when Thrawn gave a tight nod and tapped at his questis. “The Capitol Art Museum on Csilla,” he said. “Tickets for two.”
Thrass hurried over to look at the questis, where sure enough, Thrawn had already clicked ‘confirm reservation.’
“I didn’t agree to go to an art museum,” he protested.
Thrawn gave him an unconvincing look of surprise. “Why, Thrass—”
“No, don’t do this to me,” Thrass said.
“—I rather thought it was my company that mattered, not the destination.”
“I haven’t packed for Csilla,” said Thrass miserably, thinking of the silken sunwrap in his suitcase.
“So you admit you planned to manipulate a beach vacation out of me,” said Thrawn, sounding more amused than offended.
“So you admit you planned to manipulate a museum visit out of me,” Thrass shot back.
“I admit no such thing,” said Thrawn, his smile growing. He held up the questis. “You are the one who submitted my leave request, brother. Every step I’ve taken since is mere reaction.”
Thrass ran his hands down his face.
“The CEDF’s defensive-only doctrine—” Thrawn said.
“Don’t even start,” Thrass said. He raised his head with a sigh. “I’ll go pack.”
Again.
The first time he ever met Thrawn, he was a cadet standing in the corner of the dining hall, examining the artwork while the other merits got to know each other. Thrass could still remember that first impression: the intimidated hunch of Thrawn’s shoulders, so subtle it had to be unconscious; the far-off glaze in his eyes, fixed so fully on the artwork that one would think there was no one else in the room at all. The way he stared at his feet when Thrass first spoke to him; the quiet, self-conscious tones of a Rentor accent in his voice; and then the change in his posture, the straightening of his spine, the steel in his eyes and confidence in his voice when Thrass asked him about the art.
They stood side-by-side in Csilla’s most renowned art museum. Thrawn wore his dress uniform, guaranteeing free admission: sharp-cut and well-tailored, the epaulets shining in the light, his medals hanging from a gold chain. He was taller than Thrass now — taller by at least six inches, and broader, and the days were few and far between when Thrass looked at him and saw a schoolboy from Rentor. Instead he saw the blood on Thrawn’s hands, the ghosts in his eyes, the quiet determination in the set of his jaw.
They’d been standing in front of this single painting for an hour now — a painting of a low stone house on the edge of a frozen ocean — and Thrawn showed no signs of moving.
Thrass was content to wait.