Chapter Text
Horrifyingly, both young men have run out of things to say. Food's not out yet. The situation must be truly dire for Bedman to fall into abject silence. Though he could still capably charge into loquacious bouts of conversation, he won't force any conversations that his boyfriend might be too tired to share.
They've chattered out their anxieties on the day's long flight from Illyria to Washington, D.C. With hardly any rest beyond helping each other dress up in full formal suits, they're both fatigued and uncomfortable with the formal event.
All they needed to do was show up and be present. Bedman didn't need to be here. But if Sin was on mandatory diplomacy duty, then he could hardly permit Sin to suffer alone. Hence, he tagged along as an official plus one.
Sharing an obligatory stressor should've divided the discomfort. Unfortunately, between both of them, the discomfort might have been unintentionally compounded.
Sin and Bedman stare down at the tablecloth. Crisp, white, immaculate tablecloth. Must've been starched from the way that the entire spread drapes off the table in perfect pleats. Even with Sin's knees shoved under the table, or Bedman's wheelchair foot rests tilted at an angle that slips under the hem, this tablecloth stays eerily picture perfect.
Sin reaches instinctively to try and loosen his suit collar.
"For the last time," snaps Bedman, without any real rancor. "You can't. We're at a White House dinner. Everyone here will be looking for excuses to smear your parents' reputation. For your mother's sake at least: Don't."
"Just a little bit," whines Sin. "No one's looking."
Untrue. Painfully and clearly untrue.
Any last ditch plea drains out of his hopeful blue eye as he scans the audience. A full panopticon of powerful figures who have bad faith interpretations for every little human error. Countless senators, representatives, and diplomats keep their table within the line of sight at all times. Waiting for the part-Gear princeling to slip up. And he wasn't even a real prince, not really. Didn't matter to this type of crowd.
Every innocent coincidence of his identity -- part-Gear, part-royalty, partnered -- could be wielded as a weapon against his right to exist freely. Press figures representing news outlets had hounded them all night, thankfully now ushered out by the White House staff. Sin didn't want to do press interviews about his relationship. He didn't want to put Bedman on the spot and he didn't even know how to categorize his own identity in choppy pieces.
His hand slips down back to his waist, deeply upset by the pressure to perform. Visually, Sin holds together well enough. Painstakingly cultivated press training, supplied amply by his mother and biological father. All the press training in the world doesn't fool his boyfriend a single whit.
Bedman reaches over and tangles his hand against Sin's sweaty palm. Locking their fingers together. Sin's knee stops shaking impatiently; he closes his eye and allows himself to experience the sensation like clinging to a round life raft on the ocean's turbulent waves. He can ignore the constriction of the formalwear. There is nothing formal about holding onto the love of his life. With his eye closed, he can pretend they're under the covers. Under the waves of slumber. Unashamed to bear the judgment of callous, smirking strangers.
The votive candle in the center of the table dances with a muted ember, a flicker of light that twinkles off the reflective sheen of Bedman's round glasses. Staring back out into the sea of unfriendly faces in the room, Bedman chuckles sardonically.
"If you let me do all the talking, I can assure you, very few people would ever make the foolish mistake of harassing us again. In the first year since we deemed ourselves "official," I cannot express how many interview clips I have ruined on purpose by waxing philosophical until the interviewer realizes they will never be able to draw out a snappy byline from my verbosity."
Waking from daydream, Sin fixes Bedman with a look of such gut-deep longing, Bedman's eyes widen. He finds that he is, unimaginably, speechless again beneath Sin's hungry and adoring gaze.
"I just wanna kiss you," confesses Sin. "Like, on the mouth and everything. And if I can't even loosen my suit collar out in public, I'm not allowed to kiss you like normal either?"
Sin rubs his thumb over Bedman's wrist hollow. Stroking gently. Their tablecloth hides their hand holding indiscretion.
Bedman's voice wavers. "W-W-Well, no. No. I wouldn't advise here and now. How long until the event concludes? I-I've lost my copy of the invitation."
"Y'know, if I told you, we'd both feel worse. So maybe not. Let's not."
"Okay."
Hopeless and tired.
Without letting go of each other, their tired exchange lapses back into murky silence. Dishwater drain silence. Silence that should have been comfortable. At no fault of each other. Just the circumstances that demanded they perform some kind of stringent propriety. By this point in his court education, Sin was capable of navigating unspoken social rules with more deftness than anyone gave him credit for, but that didn't make it any easier for him to suppress his desire to trust everyone at face value.
The torture couldn't be sourced to their well-fitted suits, no. The torture could be sourced to the expectation that Sin and Bedman ought to behave as if they were socially well-adjusted to the high level political power plays in the room, ambient laughter rising and falling, legislative stakes relitigated in peals of conversational pleasantries. All the eyes staring at them. Bedman wasn't used to being watched. He was more accustomed to being the watcher. But all eyes continued to rove across them, waiting for them to slip up and ruin the image of the United Kingdoms of Illyria.
"We don't exist as politically neutral entities," observes Bedman. "Yet we're being asked to comport ourselves under the masquerade of "civility," even though we share a dinner event with politicians who would deride our love as 'eroding traditional family values.' Such a humiliating dissonance. I memorized the attendees who are actively trying to legislate the reversal of marriage equality and transgender healthcare. This country is a joke. I don't even care if they catch me saying that on a hot microphone."
Sin grunts noncommittally, looking so much older all of a sudden. That exhaustion doesn't suit him. That world weariness doesn't suit him. He even sounds a bit gruff like his old man as he responds to his boyfriend's observation.
The part-Gear draws in a long and heavy inhalation. Shadows fall across his soft face.
"Sure. I had to chat with politicians like that before, back when mom kept asking me to practice court manners and stuff. I mean, Illyria's not that much better, even with the trifecta monarchy 'checks and balances.' I dunno if I ever told you, but conservative Illyrian douchebags said a lotta weird stuff about my name and the fact that I'm dating a guy. But in court, I had to act like we were friendly. I wanted to kick their ass with the royal flag. People are always giving me so much shit about my name. I'm serious. It's a loving name. I'd rather be Sin than a hypocrite."
Bedman was about to say something wrathful about those conservative fools until a large shadow cast over both of their seated figures.
"May I take a seat with you two gentlemen?" asks the Secretary of Absolute Defense.
He's smiling. No coffin in sight. Doesn't mean that it's not stashed somewhere in the grand dining room, lurking for the right moment of blazing glory in case of unexpected assault. He didn't earn his title for nothing.
Bedman's mouth purses uncomfortably. Ah. This guy. He's done his research. He'd rather not host him, if he could be perfectly honest.
But the nervous young man turns to Sin.
And it seems that Sin turned to him, first, without even being instructed beforehand.
Observing his boyfriend's self-restraint, Bedman nearly gives Sin everything he wants. But he tamps down the 'reward' impulse. Needs to really let Sin bloom on his own without a lever of rewards for good behavior. That's the give-and-take of a mature relationship. You can't be in charge of every little character development of the one who loves you and vice versa.
Sin asks, "There's plenty of room if he wants to join us. But, uh, Bedman, do you want that? 'Cause I'm fine either way, I just don't want you to feel put on the spot."
"Hm."
And though Bedman loathes the idea of socializing with new people at this event, he is quite pleased that Sin waited to consult him first. They worked hard on finding a balance between Sin's instinctive over-friendliness and Bedman's dour misanthropy. The exchange of their glances, even the choice for Bedman to turn someone away, marked a clear growth from one of their old conflicts.
Bedman points severely at the open chair on the other side of the table. A deliberately rude and snappy gesture. Testing the Secretary of Absolute Defense, trying to parse out whether or not he was here on the basis of instigating social consequences.
Goldlewis doesn't balk. He'd never balk in the face of adversity. He regards both gentlemen without fear or judgment, standing strong in spite of the clear lack of welcome from Bedman. Donning the same formal attire as battle, he straightens the lapels of his jacket and waits patiently for permission.
Bedman has to begrudgingly admire that resolution. God knows he tries to be socially off-putting on purpose, diplomacy be damned.
"I know precisely who you are, Mr. Dickinson. I cannot imagine why you would derive any social climbing benefit from our presence, but why not. I've seen stranger phenomena in my sleep. There's plenty of room on the other side of the table, as Sin observed. Shouldn't you be lending your authority and guardianship to more important figures? Sin is wholly capable of emulating a dozen absolute defenses, so I doubt your presence adds much more if you were hoping to shield us from threats. He outclasses you in every measure, don't you agree?"
A hint of pride climbs into his voice. He likes that his boyfriend's inherited Gearhood makes him ridiculously overpowered. Who wouldn't boast?
Sin interjects, clearly mortified, "He's just here to be nice, don't make fun of the power difference."
Now that's another conflict they've yet to work out. Thorniness. Smugness. In some ways, that's part of the package deal of dating Bedman. Though Sin notices that many of his partner's worst barbed edges have since softened. Just a few, though the ones that remain stick out with the intent to puncture.
Sin doesn't let go of Bedman's hand, but he slackens his grip as a warning. Hey, be nice.
Bedman instantly clams up the hubris, unwilling to lose the skin contact. Okay, fine, sorry.
Both of them grow somber.
Yet awkward silence couldn't stand a chance against Goldlewis Dickinson.
He seats himself in the opposite free chair, settling in comfortably. This table is extra wide to fit Bedman's wheelchair. By proxy, Goldlewis benefits from the extra table length. Most other tables presumed that the majority of bodies must fit certain narrow parameters as a default. Goldlewis' body was not considered default. He was extraordinary. And he deserved to be comfortably seated. No other table at the event was supplied with his body's needs in mind.
"Best seat in the whole house," he says. "Power draws power. And I daresay that you have power in spades, young man."
That was directed at Bedman.
Almost dropping Sin's hand through sheer jarred reflex, Bedman bristles. A tremor starts at his collarbone, trembling up his neck, setting his hair a-sway with indignant shivers. He can't help being subjected to physical reactions in his awakened state. That was the price of human interaction without the protective buffer of dreams or machines.
"Might I recommend not making a grandiose platitude about my 'power'? I am hardly an insecure child. I do not need to be bolstered by some cheerful idealism that my 'spirit' or my 'personality' or my 'attitude' are powerful. Mr. Dickinson, you can see with your one uncovered eye that I am visibly disabled. That should not even be remarkable! I will name that even if everyone else is too cowardly to say it outright! That's why they stare. But we live in such a profoundly inaccessible world for mobility aids that you have to come over here to tell me how special I am. I'd rather not be."
Sin's hand squeezes Bedman's hand. No, this isn't a request for him to stop talking. Sin can pick up on the genuine upset in Bedman's too-even voice. He's offering wordless support and by god, Bedman takes that support and runs on.
"Take my glasses as an example. Nobody would consider "mild vision impairment" as a disability or superpower because societally, we have long since accommodated glasses-wearers. No such luck for mobility aids. I use a wheelchair. It's not a dirty word. Let's talk frankly: I have not been able to access my vast, dreamlike power in ages. But you already knew that, given the dossier that every major world government must have compiled about me. So, please. Don't try to boost my self-esteem. I've lived like this longer than your platitude ever will. I am very openly disempowered in your so-called progressive country that ignores the Americans with Disabilities Act constantly, even in the 22nd century. I won't let you forget that."
In the rapid crackling machine fire of Bedman's spontaneous speech, Goldlewis proved to be as patient of a listener as Sin.
"Amen. Well spoken," says Goldlewis. He's hushed in his genteel manner. Reverent in the face of Bedman's vitality. Receiving this well justified anger borne out of sacred decree. Bedman's neck and head have stopped shaking, but sprigs of lavender have shot up from the force of the infuriated tremors.
In light of Goldlewis' compliment, Bedman makes a sour face because he's irritated that his face is heating up. Such an impromptu spiel would have been far easier if he could have delivered it via dream or machine. He still resents his human vulnerabilities. He doesn't like speaking from such emotion, but it couldn't have erupted any other way than here and now.
"Um, thank you?" hazards Bedman. Self-conscious all of a sudden.
Sin intervenes. With a brief daub of touching his thumb to his tongue first, another maternal gesture picked up from his mom, Sin smooths down a few of Bedman's flyaway hairs. Combs his careful knuckles from root to end, much in the same way that his mother used to do for him.
A couple heads turn.
Bedman doesn't want the soothing sensation to end, but the Secretary of Absolute Defense is sitting right there, and other people are staring.
"Sin. I know we're publicly out, but that's more, that's too-- If you do that. That looks."
Bedman doesn't slur so much as stammer through the awkwardness of being publicly so affectionate.
Sin says, "But you don't like it when your hair gets mussed. So lemme fix it up quickly. Don't-- hey, don't move!"
Bedman's face is bright cherry red. He doesn't want to move out of the way either but he's feeling like a pinned bug beneath the stares of the crowd.
Unwilling to let this torment continue, Goldlewis turns to address all the political folks staring at them.
"Scatter," he commands, voice booming loud.
Every rubbernecker dissipates like a swarm of gnats.
He turns forward again, smiling serenely.
Sin laughs delightedly. "You mean, we could've just yelled at them to get lost?"
"Nah, son. Special privileges of my rank. They won't be botherin' you again so soon. If anyone of 'em try messin' with you while I'm here, you just let me know. I'll give 'em bureaucratic hell. Plenty of demotions to hand out if they want to besmirch the United States of America under my watch."
Shuddering out a deep and unhappy exhale, Bedman buries his face in Sin's chest.
Sin strokes Bedman's hair absentmindedly. Carding his hands through that long hair. Assuring him that they really are with someone safe. Someone trustworthy and golden.
"Goldlewis," asks Sin, already happily on a first name basis with their new friend. "How 'come you're so accepting?"
The Secretary of Absolute Defense gives Sin a measured look. Wondering about the right mixture between professional image and personal disclosure. Though he clearly wields a great deal of organizational authority, Goldlewis knows that this is no battlefield confessional. He doesn't intend to revisit ghosts of the past while Bedman is trying to burrow for safety, twisting into the once-pristine fabric of Sin's suit.
"Life's too short to lie about what you need. You young bucks have so much livin' to do. Sad, ain't it? That in spite of all your physical power, folks like you still feel the need to hide your true selves?"
"I'm not hiding," muffle-reproaches Bedman, who has since leaned against Sin's chest and pulled Sin's suit jacket over to cover up his blushing face. Encouraging the contact, Sin wraps Bedman up a bit tighter. Like bundling him up warm in a duvet, right? Well, no one except them really understood. Honestly, they're both weirdos. And they trust that they can be weirdos around this friendly entity who has proven that he cares about their wellbeing.
"Fella, take it easy there. 'Course not, I don't mean the literal sense," says Goldlewis, agreeably. "You had me read just about dead to rights. And I liked your speech and I think I got a lot outta listenin' rather than patronizin' you with some easy kindness. That's the drawback of Southern hospitality. Sometimes we try and obscure the obvious. Glad you called it for what it was."
"I don't hate you," says Bedman.
Sin beams down at him. "Aw! Wow, already? Made a new friend even though you're so crabby, I love that."
"Shut it," he says, mouthing the words against Sin's buttons.
Sin beams at Goldlewis. "We should hang out again. Outside this kind of event. Mom says I get to invite anyone to our home so whenever you're free, let's all actually do something fun. How's next weekend? Or any Saturday in general? Now that I've done my "diplomacy duty" for this year, we should have a movie night. Bet you know a lot of cool old movies."
Goldlewis reaches into his pocket and takes out a miniature calendar. A mini pen is kept in an elastic loop. He thumbs through the well-worn calendar pages. Tech would've been easier, but he values getting to indent notes and asterisks and hearts into his physical reminders.
"Let's see here now-- Not this weekend, of course. Not the next. The rest of that month's already taken up."
He heaves an exaggerated, sorry sigh. There will be times where he likes playing into the character of a put-upon Southern gentleman, who almost seems one second away from pulling out a silk handkerchief to blot sweat from his temples. But right now, he's not sweating. He's not comical. He has a lot of heart, enough to know that his body does not need to transform into physical comedy to ease the discomfort of thinner people.
Goldlewis Dickinson knows now, at his hard won age, that he is beloved for so many more qualities than the stereotypes of his size. These two young gentlemen would understand. Though they have not known each other for long at all, they have already shared vast and careful understanding.
He closes his pocket calendar. Offers a rueful smile.
And he says, "Fellas, I am truly sorry. I'm all booked out 'til next year since I'm traveling to visit Angélique, though we're only a few weeks away from New Year's, so maybe that's not too disappointin' for ya if you're willin' to wait on my overbooked schedule to free up. You two lovebirds have any fun Christmas plans comin' up? If you celebrate Christmas?"
Sin's face lit up. "Hot cocoa! Eggnog! Caroling down the hall with like, basically every part-Gear and non-Gear that I know, and all the home cooking projects that mom always wanted to practice with dad. Actually, I bet they're having a good time now. I hope. I volunteered for this diplomacy duty so dad wouldn't have to fly out here. So mom could have company at home now that I spend so much time away with Bedman."
Bedman says, "As adults with irregular schedules, now that they have some alone time, I anticipate they might be catching up on conjugal--"
"No!" shouts Sin.
Bedman pulls out from the loving embrace of Sin's inner suit jacket. He grins mischievously, batting his faint-colored lashes.
"Why? Aren't they adults?" he says, teasingly.
Goldlewis laughs uproariously; he and Bedman share a mighty fine laugh at Sin's horrified expense.
The Secretary of Absolute Defense admonishes the petite antagonist, "Now you know that's not polite dining room chatter, young man."
Bedman preens, "Yes, but he loves me, so I can say what I want without censorship. Isn't that right, Sin?"
"Dude," says Sin, "I'm gonna censor you so much when we get home."
Sin presses a longing kiss against the side of Bedman's hair.
Bedman smiles, feeling safe and held.
And the formerly stressful evening eases with good company, good conversation, and at long last: Good food now that the dinnertime event can finally begin.