Work Text:
Yang had slept a dreamless sleep of exhaustion and woke up close to what was evening time in the fleet's shift cycle. He turned to his side, trying to get back to sleep but was wide awake despite still being dead tired. When he rose, washed his face and tried to make himself presentable, he saw a man who'd lost weight and too much sleep over the past weeks. The dark bags under his eyes were looking a little better than they had a few hours ago, but were still a stark contrast against his pale skin.
Whatever was going to happen next, he needed a vacation.
“Marshal Yang,” Julian asked, “are you awake?”
“If that's what you want to call it,” he replied and dragged himself into the door of the bathroom to see Julian peek uncertainly through the door into Yang's sleeping quarters.
“The Imperial fleet came in and suggested a time for the... meeting.”
“Audience, Julian,” he corrected. “It's an audience. Let's not have any illusions about it.”
There was no doubt about it that nobody could stop Lohengram from ascending the Imperial throne after he'd achieved subjugation of the Alliance.
Yang still felt bad for having trapped them all in this situation by following his own moral code. Mere hours ago he could have killed Reinhard von Lohengramm, he could have given the order to shoot his sleek white flagship into oblivion, could have ignored the orders from Heinessen and ended this war. Because who cared if Trünicht of all people was executed?
But this wasn't about Job Trünicht and if Lohengramm had died before the call had reached the Hyperion – how many victims would Imperial wrath have claimed before the forces would have scattered without their leader?
Yang knew that whatever his personal feelings for the individuals involved on any side of this long-standing conflict, he had made this decision because the orders had arrived at the last second – thus in time – and he'd made the only call that – if he were to live beyond the next few hours – he would be able to live with. He wasn't the kind to be ruthless and he wasn't the kind to act without the full understanding of what example he was setting.
He knew how it worked when you made history without any awareness of precedent.
“I'll make tea,” Julian announced but waited. It wasn't like him to be hesitant when he had something to say.
“That would be appreciated,” Yang replied and stepped out of the bathroom to look for a uniform that was still wearable.
Julian stood there, watched him slowly go through the motions of getting ready for command. Then he pulled himself away and Yang could hear the sounds of the boy going through the supply cupboards to gather everything he needed to make tea.
“Everyone wants to have dinner together,” Julian told Yang when he'd finally stepped out of his room.
He nodded and walked to the sofa in their small sitting room. Julian handed him the cup of tea on a delicate saucer. The aromatic smell wafted into his nose and set his mind at ease. Some things were the same; victory or defeat, whatever was to come next, he would always enjoy Julian's perfectly prepared tea.
He took two sips, savored the taste and leaned back to look at the view screen opposite from where he was sitting. Outside the Hyperion, in the darkness of space he could make out the many dots of the Imperial fleet's ships surrounding them. It was unusual to have enemy ships so close to their own. It was a curious sight.
“Strange to be so close to the enemy and enjoy a cup of your delicious tea,” he remarked.
Julian looked over with a tight expression. He hadn't tried to convince Yang to go against the order to cease fighting, hadn't questioned Yang's motives at all and Yang knew that was because Julian understood exactly why Yang was making this decision. They both believed in the importance of legitimization of power. Doing an evil for a greater good would have been the smart thing to do to win this battle and perhaps the war – but it would have created the kind of precedent that transferred authority and shifted the proverbial goalposts on what was acceptable. It had had happened countless times before in history – from Ceasar to Napoleon to Rudolf I. and soon, Yang was sure, to Reinhard von Lohengramm.
There were always people willing to change the rules to rule.
He regarded Julian quietly, took another sip of tea and asked: “What do you think historians will say? Who won today? Us or them?”
The doubts were gnawing at him. He wondered if over there in that white elegant flagship his counterpart was wondering the very same thing.
“You don't even want to be written about.”
“True, but I would have studied history for it's own merits if I'd had the money so I can't help wondering. It's easier to draw conclusions and decide what was a good decision or a mistake when you can see the bigger picture, beginning to end with all of the consequences. Currently I can predict the outcome, but I don't know what will happen next. Maybe in twenty years you'll ask me about today and I'd be able to tell you with confidence who came out on top.”
Hands suddenly balled into fists, Julian bit his lips. “Do you have to go to the meeting? What if...” Julian's voice faltered.
“Julian,” Yang said softly to reassure him, “Marshall Lohengramm would not stab a man from behind. He'd meet him on the battlefield, staring him right in the eye. Don't you think so?"
They both looked through the view screen and over to the white flagship Brünhild that was passing them right now at a very close distance, as another reminder that less than a day ago, Lohengramm had faced them head on and nearly lost his life. Whatever that man was, he was no coward.
Julian relaxed a little. “He also arranged an exchange of prisoners that caused a lot of trouble. Wasn't that backstabbing?”
“Ah,” Yang said, “but see, he didn't have to dirty his hands then. People were doing it for him. Lohengramm just had to plant ideas in their heads and wait to profit,” He grinned very brightly, even though Julian gave him a pained look.
But after a moment they chuckled together, tension broken for the moment.
Reinhard had slept for at least nine hours. He'd been close to swaying on his feet when he'd finally made it to bed. Now, rested, washed and dressed in a freshly pressed uniform, white cloak swinging behind him, he felt more like himself again.
You never lost before. And what else is it, when you're handed an undeserved victory?
“I will meet him here,” he announced, and meant that he was going to meet Yang here in his sitting room.
“My lord, we could arrange the audience to take place in the meeting...” Müller started but Reinhard raised his hand to cut him off.
“I'll meet him here. I want a private conversation. Could you greet him and bring him straight to me?”
Müller nodded. The young admiral had once again proven himself in battle and Reinhard couldn't begrudge him the excitement when he realized he was going to meet “the magician” Yang Wen-li. It stung a little.
Even his admirals thought highly of a man who'd nearly brought him to his knees.
Reinhard paced back and forth while he waited for the appointed time of arrival.
He wondered what Yang would sound like, look like... He'd seen holopictures before, had seen solivison recordings, had even heard Yang's voice before in the battle of Astarte. But this was different.
He forced himself to sit down and ordered his thoughts until his nemesis, Yang Wen-li would join him. For years he'd wondered what they would have to say to each other when they finally met.
He was about to find out.
Reinhard chose to meet Yang standing up, aware of his own effect on people. He'd suffered through year's when his youth and elegant looks had been held against him – but these days nobody would dare challenge that Reinhard von Lohengramm drew people to him with the seductive power of his charisma and then used his cunning strategic mind to choose who he would have standing beside him.
When Marshall Yang Wen-li finally stepped through the door, his first glance was of the empty room before he let his gaze sweep and found Reinhard on the other side.
It gave Reinhard mere seconds to observe and yet he drank it all in readily.
A black-haired man, handsome if not as stunning as Reinhard or good-looking like Reuenthal, entered, holding himself with the air of a stolid commander. Despite being very much alone in the midst of enemy territory he didn't show any sign of tension, when he took in the room. And despite that calm and authority that he could see reflected in that man, the messy bangs under his beret and the way he held himself, didn't want to fit with the image of a military man.
What must he be thinking now?
Was he surprised that Reinhard's quarters didn't hold excessive splendor?
Was he beating himself up for not having ended this conflict by killing Reinhard?
Was he expecting an argument?
Had he looked forward to this meeting as much as Reinhard had.
Then their eyes met for the first time and Reinhard, making full use of he scene by letting his uniform's white cloak flap behind him, took a step towards Yang, who met his gaze curiously, taking the quiet greeting as an invitation to observe in turn. Was Yang passing judgment? Was he seeing someone who'd come to power too young?
The petty part of Reinhard thought: “At least I'm taller than him. If I wanted I could look down at him.”
He wouldn't have to look up as he had with Kircheis, up like he was still looking at his dead friend's example.
“Marshal Yang Wen-li, I've been waiting to meet you in person for a long time. At least my wish has come true. Your name has haunted me through many of my achievements.”
“Thank you,” Yang replied and bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment, giving Reinhard another moment to study him.
Artlessness. That was the impression Yang gave. Even here in this moment, when Yang was following the expected steps of courtesy, Reinhard did not sense an artificiality or fabrication about that man. In that moment, Reinhard knew that this was a man who wouldn't bow easily; this was someone who had prevailed through tenacity and the power of will.
They sat down together on the two sofas that were facing each other and Reinhard sipped Emil's delicious coffee and he had to put the offer on the table before anything more was being said, by saying: “Do you remember, three years ago, at the Battle of Astarte?”
Yang nodded right away. He hadn't forgotten the message Reinhard had sent him after that battle, after Yang had thwarted him for the very first time in both of their military careers.
“I never got a response from you.” He smiled, dialing up his own charm to show he wasn't trying to be confrontational. But this had been something he'd been thinking about whenever heir paths ha crossed again in one way or another, whenever the name Yang had been spoken with reverence or derision around him.
Yang laughed, quiet and artless as before. “Pardon my rudeness,” he said simply.
They call him magician, he thought, because he can turn around unwinnable odds. Or is it because of this? His unassuming calm?
“I was very young. I wondered why you never replied. Did you think then that our paths wouldn't cross again? Surely neither of us could have imagined we'd sit together like this one day?”
Yang regarded him for a long moment and he had picked up his cup again but not taken a sip. He was considering his answer carefully and Reinhard remembered Kircheis saying about this man, that he was soft-spoken and polite but that it was hard to glean what he was thinking. “Frankly, at the time I thought no answer was needed,” Yang finally said and hesitated for another half-second before he added: “You wished me well and I have no reason to believe you meant anything else and yet at the time I thought, you were clearly telling me to stay safe so you could crush me yourself the next time we met on the battle field.”
Startled at the sudden bluntness, Reinhard laughed out loud.
The enemy admiral smiled too.
“I was polite enough,” he admitted, “but I can't pretend that was a thought that crossed my mind. Then and many times after.”
Yang inclined his head as if to say: “I thought so.”
“Come work under me,” Reinhard finally put his offer on the table in actual words. Faced with Yang's honesty he felt he needed to lay it out right away and he laid it out in more words, watched Yang's dark eyes fix on him as Reinhard suggested that Yang's side had never appreciated him as much as he deserved, had held him back when he could have acquired victories more splendid than any that Reinhard had ever achieved.
Yang put the coffee cup down, still untasted, considered it for a long time and answered with a metaphor about warer that boiled down to him having been brought up on ideals that were different than Reinhard's.
“I don't think your water is agreeing with you,” Reinhard said, mocking the metaphor that Yang had ended with - the insinuation that living on a different kind of water wouldn't agree with his health.
Yang looked rested, but the lines of exhaustion were still edged into his every fiber.
Reinhard was as surprised as Yang that their meeting led to a discussion of democracy and what Reinhard saw as his failings, and Yang's view of why that was harsh judgment.
“You must despise someone?” Reinhard pushed. He had dealt with Trünicht and other Alliance politicians, he'd dealt with that traitor Arthur Lynch who'd been ready to do Reinhard's bidding and cause unrest in his old homeland in part because he had despised Yang and his achievements. Surely, Yang couldn't have any love for people like that.
“Hatemongers and demagogues,” Yang said, “all those who glorify war, sending soldiers to their deaths, while staying safely behind the front lines. You're not like that, of course. But it pains me to be standing on the side of too many people like that.”
“So there is something about me that you can agree with. I'm glad,” Reinhard didn't smile but he was feeling like it and hope Yang could see the amusement clearly in his eyes. “Or is the only reason for it that you had your fingers wrapped around my neck because I insist on being at the front line.”
“No,” Yang said, immediate, honest, perhaps without thinking, “it's the sign of a good commander. It's the mark of a great one that deserves the loyalty of those who follow him.”
It was perhaps – after his complicated thoughts about governments – the only time that Yang sounded truly impassioned. It dared the lion that always lived under the calm surface of Reinhard, that need for battle, violence, the need for something to channel his anger into. Kircheis had been good at helping him with that but he was not here anymore. The guilt only fueled the anger at this handed victory, the loneliness, the need to be understood.
Before he knew it – and startling Yang as much as himself he was suddenly halfway aross the narrow coffee table – fingers wrapped around Yang's neck, feeling the bobbing of the vulnerable adam's apple under his fingers. He felt a spike of something scary rise in himself that confused him until his eyes focused on Yang's slightly parted lips.
“Now what?” he asked huskyly, leaning into the inappropriate thought that crosses his mind. “Would you let me go now if you had me in a position like that?”
“I just did, didn't I? That's why you're angry, isn't it?” Yang threw back the question calmly, his dark eyes are glittering with more unreadable thoughts and emotions.
It did nothing to calm the lion. “Come with me,” Reinhard demanded not hiding how angry he was feeling at being refused, how livid he felt about wanting something this much and be denied. “I'll make it worth your while.”
“No,” Yang said. “My reasons stand. I won't be able to be of any use to you.” He reached up to touch Reinhard's knuckles, but Reinhard was shaking with anger now. He wanted to leave a mark on that pale skin, cause a crack in the calm veneer. He could still be the conqueror here, still win something without it being handed to him.
He leaned in to kiss Yang hard, hand pressing down on his throat while the other grasped the man's chin to hold him in place, force him to open his mouth. Reinhard got lost in that, inexperienced and agitated as he was.
He only noticed the slight press of Yang's arms against his shoulders, when he was nearly out of breath, kissing having turned violent and demanding.
He pulled away panting.
Yang was breathing hard too.
They stared at each other, Yang's lips wet with salvia. It was a mess.
“I'm sorry,” Reinhard said, appalled at himself. He wasn't Friedrich. He wasn't going to do that to anyone however much he suddenly realized he wanted and needed it. The twin star to his shining light. The answer to this festering loneliness. “How much is your precious freedom worth?” he asked but pulled away a few centimeters to let Yang breath.
“Are we cutting deals?”
Reinhard shook his head. “I will not keep you here against your will,” he promised, not sure how far he would fall if he gave into the darker urges he was feeling suddenly.
Yang nodded, mulled that over, stared into the coffee. “I'm sorry. I'm flattered.” His eyes were glittering too and his eyes were the ones glued to Reinhard's lips now.
Flattered but not seduced.
Reinhard, to be a detestable person, leaned in to force another kiss, wondering why Yang was refusing to fight it.
They sat on opposite sides of the same sofa after the kisses had turned fierce and a little too violent and they were both no longer pretending they weren't interested in so much more. But Yang insisted, it was the tension of battles and a war that had dragged on too long and he wasn't going to give in to that.
“If you're ever tired of freedom or of being treated like you're not worth so much more, come to me,” Reinhard demanded.
Yang nodded, but it didn't look like he was agreeing. “I would look even worse beside an Emperor than a Duke,” he remarked.
“Stay a bit longer,” Reinhard demanded. “Your coffee has gone cold. I will ask Emil to...”
“I never liked coffee anyway,” Yang interrupted. “I prefer tea.”
He watched him go after the meeting. Yang had left an impression on him but what he was feeling for his rival was something he couldn't find a name for yet. He was left with a melancholy mood.
“I should have forced him to work for me,” he whispered to himself, fingers reaching for the pendant that held the lock of Kircheis' hair but refusing to let a hand glide along his lips and think of the fierce kisses he'd forced on Yang.
“Why didn't you, my lord?” Emil asked. “Wouldn't it be safer to have him close-by?”
Safer.
Better.
Exciting.
Detestable to keep him there without permission.
“Because I would be no better than the people I hate the most,” he replied and realized how Kircheis had warned him to never lose sight of that. It was a bitter realization and he vowed not to push and let Yang have the retirement on Heinesses he asked for. Maybe, instead, he'd offer him another audience as soon as he'd ascended to the throne.
Would Yang come? Would he be able to convince him then?
His lonely heart couldn't help but yearn for it.
“Emil,” he said. “When we get to Heinessen, stock up on black tea. I may be developing a taste for it.”