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“—absolutely tasteless décor. Disgraceful by any standards. And did you see the bartender droid? It’s not even last year’s model—it must be a decade out of date, at the least—”
“It serves a decent spiced rum,” Piett observed, taking a generous swig in emphasis.
Jerjerrod’s expression was decidedly pinched. “That’s not a compliment, Firmus.”
He shrugged, the drink making him more expressive than usual. Gesturing broadly at the room, he said, “It’s a club, Tiaan. I don’t know what you were expecting.”
“I bet he picked it out,” Jerjerrod muttered darkly into his drink. It was a neon pink concoction, layered with a frothy sort of sweet cream and garnished with a jaunty umbrella. Jerjerrod flicked the umbrella, scowling at it. “My Quanta Cosmo isn’t thick enough. That droid is malfunctioning.”
With a sigh, Piett glanced around the room. As far as clubs went, this one was fairly standard: drinks were flowing, people were chatting, dance music blared over the loudspeakers as revelers thronged the central floor. Aside from the fact that the inhabitants were uniformly male, it could have been mistaken for a thousand other clubs ubiquitous to Coruscant’s nightlife.
But it wasn’t good enough for Jerjerrod. He’d found fault with everything, from the specific shade of the club’s neon sign, to the placement of the fire exits. Dutiful as ever, Piett had sat with him at their corner table and indulged his friend’s bleating.
He liked going out with Jerjerrod, usually, but these were peculiar circumstances. When Jerjerrod had invited him to a gent’s club on Coruscant he’d thought nothing of it; with both of them present on the planet for Ascension Week and Piett newly promoted to the captaincy, he’d assumed this would be a bog-standard celebration.
What he hadn’t realized at the time was that he was being invited not as a guest, but as an accomplice.
“I’ve lost sight of Conan,” Jerjerrod whined, craning his neck around in vain. “There’s too many men here, and aliens, too, in such awful colors.”
“I see him,” Piett replied. “He’s at the other end of the bar, chatting up that bloke with the neck tattoo.”
Jerjerrod whipped his head around so quickly it was a wonder it didn’t fly off his shoulders. “He’s what?”
“For Thrawn, Tiaan,” Piett groaned. “We’ve been over this. He’s wingmanning, he’s not—oh, see? Thrawn’s. Ah. Heading over there now.”
Throat dry, Piett took a desperate gulp of his drink while Jerjerrod seethed. Together they watched Thrawn sidle up to the bar, Motti slapping a hand on one enormous blue bicep and squeezing hard. Commodore Motti was a large man, and always had been. But Commodore Thrawn was just as broad, and taller besides. Side by side, they were colossal.
“Wonder if this one will be any more to Thrawn’s liking,” Piett said lightly.
Jerjerrod scoffed. “I doubt it. I’m convinced he’s using this as an excuse to get friendly with my Conan—”
“They’re already friendly.”
“Friendlier,” Jerjerrod hissed, his cheeks flushed a livid red. “That’s why he kicked up such a fuss when Conan said I’d be tagging along.”
“I don’t think that’s why, Tiaan.” At Jerjerrod’s disbelieving look, he elaborated, “I’m sure Thrawn knows that with you in the room, Motti’s attention is going to be, uh. Divided. You know he can hardly keep his eyes off of you.”
Or his hands, or his mouth. Piett had spent his entire tenure at Corellia Naval Academy studiously ignoring the noises emanating from Cadet Motti’s bunk in the dark—Jerjerrod’s breathless whimper as unmistakable as Motti’s raspy laugh—but their daytime intimacy was harder to miss. They’d clung like morning glories, twined around each other with the sort of mawkish sentimentality that embarrassed Piett by proxy.
And they hadn’t grown out of it. If anything, they’d only gotten handsier with age.
As if on cue, Motti glanced over from the bar. He shot a leer at Jerjerrod, raising his drink in salute and blowing a tidy little kiss. To Piett, he offered his middle finger.
“He’s sweet, isn’t he?” Jerjerrod cooed.
Piett coughed into his drink. “Sickeningly so.”
But to Motti he paid no mind, his attention returning to Thrawn at the bar. Thrawn was leaning against Motti, listening intently to the tattooed man but not inclining himself towards him. A bad sign. Sure enough, a few moments later the fellow had departed, Thrawn making no move to trail in his wake.
Smiling into his drink, Piett took a victorious sip.
Suddenly a rather hulking individual blocked his view. A Nautolan by the looks of it, his skin a light, sleek green, tendrils resting thickly across broad shoulders and a chest large enough Piett could have curled upon it quite comfortably for a nap. He was looming over their table, and he was staring pointedly at Jerjerrod.
Piett downed the rest of his drink in one go. Jerjerrod gaped at him, oblivious of the Nautolan trying to peek down his silk shirt. “All you quite all right, Firmus?”
“Never better,” he ground out. Inclining his head towards the Nautolan, he offered a weak smile. “Fancy a chat, friend?”
The Nautolan ignored him, the full brunt of his focus fixed squarely on Jerjerrod. “Haven’t seen you around before,” he rasped.
Eyelashes fluttering, Jerjerrod blinked. He peered at the Nautolan over his shoulder, his posing so naturally, effortlessly coquettish that Piett wanted to throttle him. Since the moment he’d met Jerjerrod he’d observed quite clearly that his friend held a peculiar sway over a certain type of man. Big, brawny men, with thickset waists and handsome faces that were best described as chiseled. One look at Jerjerrod's nonexistent backside and they were, in an instant, under his spell.
Why these men were so bewitched by Jerjerrod, Piett was not entirely certain. Jerjerrod could offer no explanation—indeed, he feigned shock whenever Piett pointed it out—but it was a state of affairs that never ceased dogging his steps. And with Motti snarling at his side, things could get heated.
But Motti was off at the bar, and the two of them were quite alone.
Jerjerrod appeared unconcerned. “Of course you’ve never seen me here before,” he said, peering up at the Nautolan from half-lidded eyes. “I’d never be caught dead in a place like this if circumstances had not transpired to force my hand. Now, please,” he added, his wrist dropping limply and his fingers swooshing to the side in a fey little wriggle, “if you could toddle off. I need a clear view of the bar.”
The Nautolan rasped out a laugh like a riptide. “You’re a real cheeky thing, aren’t you? That’s all right, I don’t mind a little lip in my men.”
“You’re—excuse me!” Jerjerrod gasped, wide-eyed. “I’m spoken for, thank you!”
Coughing into his hand, Piett drew the attention of the Nautolan for the first time. “Not by him,” he sneered, lip curling.
Bristling, Piett was just about to open his mouth and argue when he felt Jerjerrod’s hand settle atop his own, squeezing tight. “Of course by him,” Jerjerrod simpered. He cast an adoring look at Piett, filled with the same soppy intensity he typically reserved for Motti. “He’s my darling little mothling, and you’re ruining our special evening.”
There was a distinctly startled look in the Nautolan’s eye. “A moth—what?”
“A mothling,” Jerjerrod replied. He flashed a dazzling smile at Piett, the warmth gone glacial when he deigned to look at their unwanted visitor. “And I’m his top.”
It was a testament to Jerjerrod’s magnetism that none of them noticed the stupid face Piett was making.
“Uh, right,” the Nautolan said. “I’ll just—”
“Be leaving, yes. Toodle-oo.”
Once he’d left them, Jerjerrod released Piett’s hand and sat back as though nothing unusual had occurred.
“So,” Piett began carefully.
He picked up his drink, swirling it absently in his hand. He wasn’t meeting Piett’s eye. “Hmm?”
“I didn’t realize we were at that stage of our relationship.”
Suppressing a laugh, Jerjerrod offered him a sly smile. “Sorry about the subterfuge, Firmus. But needs must, you understand. And, well.” He shrugged lightly. “You could do worse than tomcatting about with the likes of me.”
Piett returned the grin. “If I’m going to be in a fake relationship with anyone, Tiaan, I’m glad it’s you.”
“Likewise.” He took an aggressive gulp of his drink, the frothy top having thickened considerably and thus hindering his instinct to delicately sip.
The commotion of men being shoved out of the way drew their attention. Elbowing his way through the dance floor, Motti was storming towards them, his eyes narrowed and his teeth bared. “Where the hell did that guy go?” he snarled. “He disappeared in that flock of twinks before I could get to him.”
“Oh, him,” Jerjerrod sniffed. “He’s hardly any trouble. We took care of him easily enough, didn’t we, Firmus?”
“Uh, yes,” he agreed. He didn’t fancy explaining to Motti how they’d chased off the Nautolan. Thankfully Motti’s attention was pointed firmly in another direction.
“The nerve of that guy, cornering you like that.” Reaching down, Motti grabbed Jerjerrod’s hand, threading their fingers together in a tight grip. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t bother you again, Ti.”
With his free hand, Jerjerrod settled his palm on Motti’s midsection. Motti’s shirt was a snug, clinging fabric, flashy and luxe, and stretched taut enough across his broad chest that Piett could see the rise and fall of his belly below Jerjerrod’s touch. He rubbed an idle circle in the fabric, his hand lilywhite against the blood-red silk.
“I’m sure he won’t be the only one,” Jerjerrod muttered. The alcohol left his mouth as pink as his cheeks; taken in tandem with his blond curls, it gave him the look of a slightly drunk angel. Peering up with a gaze brimming with emotion, he pressed his face along Motti’s belly and sighed. “You’ve ignored me all evening, and all these awful men can tell I’ve been abandoned.”
Commodore Motti had something of a reputation in the fleet. Stubborn as a bantha with a krayt dragon’s bite, he was as arrogant and intractable as they come. But for Jerjerrod, he’d always bend.
“You’re not abandoned, sweetheart,” Motti rumbled. He stroked Jerjerrod’s head, pressing it closer against his middle. “I’m just helping Thrawn for a bit.”
“He certainly does mean a lot to you,” Jerjerrod said, his lower lip wobbling.
“Not as much as you.”
“I’ve missed you, Conan,” he cried. “It’s been ages.”
“It’s been two hours,” Piett muttered, but Motti acted as though he didn’t hear him. He continued to pet Jerjerrod’s head and coo nonsense at him, while Jerjerrod nuzzled Motti’s shirt and basked in the attention.
Finally, Motti said, “You wanna dance, Ti? I haven’t gotten to dance all night.”
Motti’s button had left a mark on Jerjerrod’s cheek from the force of his rubbing. “What about Thrawn?”
“He’s taking a break from the manhunting,” Motti said, casting a quick glance at Piett. “He wants a bit of a reset, I think. And I’m not going to push him if he’s not in the mood.”
Extending his hand, Jerjerrod took it. He was hauled neatly onto his feet. “I won’t be too long, Firmus,” he chirped. “Enjoy your drink, and—Conan!”
With a breathy giggle he was tugged away. A moment later, and Motti and Jerjerrod had joined the crowd on the dance floor, twined around each other in what was less dancing and more an upright mating-press.
It was a painful reminder of his own unattachment, and he could not stomach it for long. He didn’t begrudge them, of course—they’d been good friends to him, and they deserved their happiness—but it was hard to be faced with a reminder of what he’d never had.
Meeting men on shore leave was easy enough, if you knew where to look. But a relationship, something consistent, and stable, and permanent... It eluded him. With Naval regulations being what they were (not to mention the criminalization of certain acts, as outlined in the Imperial Charter), he couldn’t just shack up with another officer without fear of a court martial, or worse. Those sorts of affairs were hugger-mugger, clandestine by nature. To find a willing partner, someone stubborn enough to pursue a relationship despite the risks, all for the love of him—it didn’t seem likely.
A shadow had fallen over his table. And by the looks of it, a big one. Steeling himself for a sudden reappearance of the hunky Nautolan—and grimacing at the thought of being roped into a fight over Jerjerrod, of all people—he turned, and found him face to face with Commodore Thrawn.
Or face to belly, really. Thrawn loomed as a matter of course, but with Piett seated, he towered. Out of his uniform, he seemed larger than ever. Piett blamed the cut of his clothes: The tight trousers and plunging neckline of his silk shirt left nothing to the imagination, emphasizing the span of his shoulders and the heft of his chest, the enormity of his thighs and width of his pelvis.
It was Motti’s doing, Piett was sure. He recognized a similar peacocking ensemble on his friend on the dance floor.
Craning his neck, Piett had to keep his jaw snapped shut to stop himself gawking.
“May I join you, Captain Piett?” Thrawn rumbled.
Dumbly, he nodded his head.
There was no discernible facial expression across Thrawn’s features, but something about him appeared pleased. He sat down in the chair once occupied by Jerjerrod, lacing his fingers together and resting them on the table. “Conan Antonio speaks highly of you.”
Piett’s gaze had wandered to the low cut of Thrawn’s shirt, where a forest of silky, dark hair peeked out from the neckline. It was with some difficulty that he met Thrawn’s eyes. “Oh, uh. That’s nice.”
An idiotic comment. He was finding himself increasingly tongue-tied in Thrawn’s presence, which was not entirely unexpected. He’d spent many an evening daydreaming of the man suddenly bursting into his cabin and demanding to ravish him; to now find Thrawn sitting across the table and engaging him in small-talk was leaving him disoriented.
But Thrawn seemed unconcerned with his floundering conversational skills. He nodded, as though Piett had made a wise observation. “He has remarked upon your loyalty on several occasions. And your patience, as well. Although I had already observed that myself, given your evident friendship with Commander Jerjerrod. He can be... trying, I think is the word. Your perseverance with him is commendable.”
“He just gets a bit overwhelmed,” Piett replied, struggling against the unreality of the conversation. Thrawn knew his name; Thrawn heard good things about him; Thrawn wanted to complain to him about Tiaan. “He really does mean well—and he’s loyal, too.”
“Ah, I see,” Thrawn said, in a tone of voice making it abundantly clear he did not believe him. “You are a good friend, Captain Piett.”
“Please, you can—Firmus is fine,” he said weakly.
Thrawn’s eyes flashed. “Would you like to dance, Firmus?”
The room seemed to lurch. “With you?”
“That would be preferable, yes.”
He was mourning the loss of his drink. Liquid courage was needed—one or two vats of it, ideally. But Thrawn was there, gazing back at him with his otherworldly eyes. The opportunity to touch a man he’d pined at from afar could not be allowed to slip through his fingers.
Wetting his lips, Piett cracked a smile. “I’d love to, Thr—er, Commodore Thrawn, sir.
“Please,” he purred, “call me Thrawn.”
Unlacing his fingers, Thrawn reached out. Piett took his hand without hesitation. His own hand was very slight against Thrawn’s larger palm, and he felt a pleasant electric thrill at the bare touch of skin on skin.
There was a moment of disappointment when, after hauling Piett up, Thrawn released his hold. But it was swiftly replaced with another jolt as Thrawn’s hand settled on the small of his back, spanning wide, and guiding him forward to the center of the dance floor.
Motti and Jerjerrod were nearby. They were fused at the hips, foreheads resting together. Jerjerrod’s arms were curled around Motti’s shoulders, so that he could pet the back of Motti’s close-cropped curls; and Motti had both arms wrapped around Jerjerrod’s waist, keeping them flush at the pelvis while they swayed. To the rest of the club they paid no mind, too wrapped up in their conversation, and speaking so closely it was as though they were breathing the words into each other’s mouths.
Yet at Thrawn’s appearance, Motti glanced their way. Piett saw his eyes widen at the sight of him, and then narrow, an amused smirk curling its way across the square cut of his jaw. He whispered something past Jerjerrod’s lips. Fast as a lightning strike Jerjerrod turned, goggling at him, his kiss-swollen mouth dropped into a perfect o of surprise.
Piett offered them an awkward little wave. Thrawn’s wave was bigger, and directed solely at Motti. “You were correct, Conan Antonio,” he called, so loudly that a man dancing nearby jerked with a start. “Firmus was agreeable.”
One of the hands behind Jerjerrod’s back gave a thumbs-up. “Nice work, buddy!”
Jerjerrod was hissing something into Motti’s ear, but Motti curtailed the lecture by sealing their mouths together, burying Jerjerrod’s squawk under a wet, heated kiss.
Piett quickly looked away, and found Thrawn was staring at him. “They are a passionate couple, are they not?”
That was one word for it. “Wild about each other, really. They always have been.”
“Passion,” Thrawn echoed, with a faraway look, “is something I aspire to, with a partner.” Tugging Piett close, he guided Piett’s hands so that they rested on Thrawn’s waist. Once satisfied with their arrangement, Thrawn settled his free hand along Piett’s back, the other remaining low down, towards the base of his spine.
With the music still playing an intimate sort of dance number, they set to swaying.
Piett didn’t often dance. He didn’t have the benefit of Jerjerrod’s lessons or Motti’s total lack of shame; adrift on a dance floor, he’d feel exposed, and embarrassed, and he’d ache to return to the sidelines.
But led around by Thrawn, the pressure was gone. Piett didn’t have to do much at all, aside from follow his lead. And it was nice, too, to have Thrawn’s hands on him. Grounding, almost. Whenever he felt a moment of self-conscious unease he’d focus instead on the weight of Thrawn’s palm, and the heat of his bare skin.
And the view of his chest, too. For at Piett’s height, close together as they were, he had an unobstructed line of sight to Thrawn’s cushy pectorals.
“What do you look for in a partner, Firmus?” asked Thrawn, snapping him out of his reverie.
A dozen cheeky responses flashed through his brain. Flirty answers, the type of thing Jerjerrod was always encouraging Piett to use in his sad attempts at attracting a mate. “Leave him wanting more, Firmus!” Jerjerrod would say. “Men love a sense of mystery!”
As if any part of Jerjerrod had ever been a mystery to Motti. Though his friend meant well, and the advice, such as it was, was not bad. Not for some men.
But Thrawn was different. The notion of lying to him was altogether unthinkable.
“Passion is good,” Piett finally said. “But stability is, too. I guess I’m looking for someone reliable, really. Strong, and consistent.” Thrawn did a funny little maneuver with his feet, forcing Piett to pick up the pace to keep up. He found himself grinning. “That’s not to say he shouldn’t be willing to have a bit of fun....”
“So it is a he, then?” Thrawn rumbled.
“He’s a him,” Piett agreed. “Whoever he is.”
A pleased rumble made its way up Thrawn’s chest, not unlike a purr. Blinking, Piett looked up at him. But he didn’t have time to gawk; the song had picked up its tempo, and with it, Thrawn’s swaying. Piett found himself gliding round the dance floor in a dizzying sort of loop. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Thrawn was trying to show off.
Distantly, he heard Motti let out a low whistle. Another purr rumbled its way up Thrawn’s chest, and then Piett was spun in a small arc before being once again clasped to Thrawn’s front.
All right, definitely showing off.
By the time the song ended Piett was thoroughly out of breath. Thrawn’s breathing was perfectly even, but a light sheen of sweat on his ultramarine skin showed that he wasn’t as unaffected as his controlled bearing would lead men to believe.
“An exemplary dance,” Thrawn declared. His lips quirked to the side as he fixed Piett with a sharp look. “But enough for now, I think.”
Disappointment rolled in his stomach. It was with no small effort that he kept the crestfallen expression off his face. “Oh, er. All right.”
“I’d much rather return to our chat,” Thrawn continued, as Piett’s despair morphed into a kind of euphoric disbelief. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“I’d like that,” he said earnestly. Filled with daring, he reached his hand out and placed it on Thrawn’s bicep. He stroked just below the sleeve, where the skin was bare and hot. “I’d like that a lot.”
Thrawn’s mouth split into a wide grin, the sharp flash of canine startling Piett into swallowing. “Lead the way, Firmus.”