Work Text:
"Brother," Thrass called him — and when Thrawn undressed for bed that night, he sat on the edge of the mattress with his uniform tunic in his hands, his thumb tracing the rising sun patch on the shoulder. The burgundy embroidery of the Mitth sun. Just another Ruling Family until today; now it was his family.
He laid back, eyes closed, with the uniform tunic clutched to his chest. In the darkness he could see Thrass' easygoing smile — the way he looked to Thrawn so confidently for strategic guidance, the way he always searched for answers on his own — never quite understanding Thrawn, always willing to listen anyway, always there to help him in the political landscape of Csilla, meet him for tea, play a game of cards.
Brother, Thrass said.
Thrawn fell asleep with the rising sun against his heart.
On Rentor, there were three traditional styles of facepaint. He learned the first style when he was only three: patterns of pale blue and gold that glittered like ice over the skin, paint that melted as snowflakes whipped into his face, left streaks of color running down his cheeks. It trickled from his forehead into his eyes, left them stinging — painted strands of his hair a chalky blue when he combed his fingers through it — stained the collar of his funeral tunic when they sent his sister's empty shroud out to sea.
At age twelve, some of Vurawn's classmates had learned the funeral paints, too. More of them had learned the patterns for weddings, watching avidly from the bedroom door as their older siblings applied the marriage paint in front of the mirror. The boys practiced it in secret and blushed vivid purple when they came to school the next day and Vurawn pointed out the traces of black paint still smudged around their eyes. The girls were more open about it; they answered doors in full practice-paint and pretended they'd forgotten it was there; they compared holos at mealtime, laughing quietly to each other over their mistakes. In the marketplace, Vurawn sometimes glanced over at the ceremonial booth where Vris'kar'vak sold face paints for all occasions, and he would see his classmates lurking there — boys and girls alike — studying the finest paints, memorizing the prices, planning out the colors they would select when it was time.
Vurawn practiced his face paint, too. He practiced the third pattern, a pattern he'd never seen anyone on Rentor use in his short lifetime. The pattern of a warrior.
He never touched the marriage paints; there was no need.
There was a delicate pale-blue tattoo on the back of Thurfian's right hand. It started at the tips of his first and third fingers and snaked down his knuckles, formed a V over the bony structure of his hand, connected in a tight-knit braided pattern on his wrist. Vurawn could see it every time Thurfian turned the steering stick of his speeder.
"A marriage pattern?" Vurawn guessed, his face tight.
"What?" Thurfian glanced his way, then turned his hand over, making the pattern ripple. "Yes. You've never seen one before?"
"On Rentor, we don't..."
He trailed off, and Thurfian snorted, his eyes on the ice fields outside.
"Well, you will someday," said Thurfian; his tone was perhaps foreboding, perhaps dark. "Now that you've been adopted, it's only a matter of time."
Vurawn absorbed this. He stared out the viewport, watching through the rearview mirror as Thurfian's repulsorlifts left black skidmarks on the ice behind them.
"Well, don't look so anxious about it," said Thurfian.
"I'm not," said Vurawn.
"It's optional, anyway," Thurfian said. "You don't have to."
Vurawn kept his face blank, but the breath he took was like a cool drink of water, and it was almost impossible not to let the relief show in his shoulders.
"Some people choose a different symbol," Thurfian continued. "A ring, perhaps, or a secondary ring of embroidery over the Mitth patch's border. It doesn't have to be a tattoo."
The relief fizzled away. Vurawn gave a faint nod and turned his eyes back to the viewport again. "When?" he asked, keeping his voice level.
"When?" Thurfian glanced his way and raised an eyebrow. "Don't get ahead of yourself. Just because you were fast-tracked to adoption doesn't mean you're entitled to a family wedding just yet."
Vurawn nodded again. He could sense Thurfian's eyes lingering on him, watching his reaction -- so he kept his face neutral and hoped that would be good enough. Sometimes, it wasn't. Sometimes, that blankness seemed to speak to people just as much as an expression would; they read into it, saw things Vurawn didn't mean for them to see. Reluctance, disinterest, dread. But Thurfian just turned away, his fingers drumming on the steering stick, his marriage tattoo pale against the darkness of his skin.
"It'll be years, at the very least," he muttered. "Years, if at all."
He meant it as a reprimand; Vurawn just tried not to show his relief.
The other Mitth adoptees were at least ten years older than Thrawn. Their partners stood at their side, men and women, all of them adorned with some small, subtle sign of their relationship. This, too, was true of the hosts: Mitth politicians and family members who circled the dining hall, their spouses at their sides. The few people who showed up alone were not, as Thrawn soon learned, unmarried or single. Their lovers simply couldn't attend.
His age would save him. No one would expect a 17-year-old to have a serious partner. They asked him about his family instead — his parents, his siblings — and with a strained smile, Thrawn answered their questions and retreated to the quiet, empty hallway, where he could study the paintings hung up there in peace.
That was where Thrass found him. Thrass, who was alone — Thrass, who smiled at him and then studied the painting curiously, trying to see what Thrawn saw.
"Welcome to Avidich," Thrass said.
Thrawn nodded. He kept his body relaxed as Thrass stood at his side, close enough to touch.
"I'm Aristocra Mitth'ras'safis. I'll be guiding you through the various protocols that will formally and officially rematch you to the Mitth family." He waved his hand at the paintings and sculptures all around him, a smile quirking the corners of his lips. "And try not to be overwhelmed by all the fancy flourishes and curlicues."
There were no fancy flourishes and curlicues here. These were paintings; this was art. But out there, in the dining hall, there were engraved cufflets and special embroidered patches — elaborate silver rings and delicate tattoos. Thrawn narrowed his eyes at Thrass, studying him closer. 'Overwhelmed', he said. But that wasn't what he meant. He meant 'intimidated.' And not by the art.
"I'm not intimidated," Thrawn said. He flicked his gaze past Thrass, at all the married couples mingling with each other, asking prying questions, not-so-subtly implying that anyone who wasn't matched was to be pitied. Thrass' smile faded — not into a frown, but into something more relaxed, more genuine.
"I see," he said.
And Thrawn believed he did.
Same-sex couples were not common in the Ascendancy, but in big cities like Csaplar, they weren't frowned upon. In the game cafe, the waiter brought Thrass and Thrawn their drinks and casually asked them if they were on a date. In the park, where Thrass could catch up on his datawork and Thrawn could study the latest art installation, a passerby smiled at them and waved, and pointed to her double-ring as she did so — one band on the third finger, one band on the first, both connected across the palm by a thin chain. The subtle symbol of same-sex love on Csilla; Thrawn responded with a polite nod; he didn't know what else to do.
When Thrass saw him off at the docks, the other officers noticed, asked Thrawn how long they'd been together — their posture stiff, their voices awkward, their eyes flitting nervously at him, studying his face, trying to fit this new information into their idea of who Thrawn was.
"We're not together," said Thrawn mildly.
The other officers exchanged glances. Some of them peeled away, suddenly busy. Others shuffled their feet.
"Who is he, then?" they asked.
"A friend," said Thrawn.
"Just a friend?"
Thrawn ran his tongue over his teeth. He drew his little finger up and scratched lightly at his palm, the gesture so subtle that the other officers wouldn't notice. Just a friend — no. But what else could he say? How could he say it?
He was still parsing through his answer when the other officers mumbled their excuses and left.
Members of the Chiss Expansionary Defense Fleet were permitted to take emergency leave for the funeral of a close family member. Parents counted; spouses counted; children counted. Siblings did not; friends were out of the question.
Syndic Mitth'ras'safis was laid to rest on Csilla, a marble marker engraved with his name and erected at the homestead, where generations of Mitth would see it when they took their Trials.
Senior Captain Mitth'raw'nuruodo was not present. His request for emergency leave was denied.
"I've never seen this one before," Ar'alani murmured.
Thrawn looked over his shoulder, buttoning his dress tunic. Ar'alani stood at his fold-out dresser, examining the shadowbox of honor chains he'd taken out this morning. He knew without asking which honor chain she meant — but a moment later, she confirmed it for him, taking the Stybla pinwheel in her hand.
"You don't usually wear this one," she said.
She was wrong. He wore it every day — not on his uniform, but wrapped around his forearm underneath his tunic sleeve, the pinwheel resting against his palm. He was careful not to let it show; he'd learned how to keep it hidden there, how to touch the control board without the metal clink giving him away. It didn't interfere with his work; he could shoot a charric just as well with the chain around his wrist; there was no reason for anyone to know.
"What's it for?" Ar'alani asked, her eyes shifting over Thrawn's face. He kept his features neutral.
"A gift from the Stybla," he said tonelessly.
Something flickered in Ar'alani's face. Years ago, he'd mentioned it to her, as much as he could. He'd been stationed on her ship at the time; she knew it was Thrass who collected him from the Bocco, and she knew it was the Stybla who requested his help, but that was all.
And she'd been the one who'd taken Thrass to visit him when the humans were here. She was the only one who seemed to understand, who heard Thrawn call Thrass his brother and took it to heart. His throat tightened as she studied him; heat rose to his face and settled there, and he was helpless to hide it, could only stand still and allow Ar'alani to take every little change in expression in.
She crossed the room. She hooked the honor chain to his epaulets for him, adjusted the length so the pinwheel fell in the center of his chest.
"Will you keep it?" she asked softly. "When you...?"
Thrawn closed his eyes. He shook his head.
"He was your brother," Ar'alani said, her voice almost inaudible. "You should keep it."
He couldn't. She had to know he couldn't. He forced himself to meet her gaze, to smile — wavering and watery, not at all the comforting, confident grin he was going for.
"It's fine," he said, keeping his voice steady. "He was just a friend."