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“Get whatever you like,” Jerjerrod said, gesturing vaguely around the café. “My treat.”
Piett was not in the habit of letting other men settle his debts, but for Jerjerrod he made an exception. They’d known each other long enough by this point that he was certain the offer to pay was not out of some patronizing view that Piett was a Rimworld charity case, nor did Jerjerrod presume to cover the bill to indebt Piett to himself—a very real risk for young, unconnected men, when dealing with certain Core Worlds officers. Though Piett was not as young as he used to be, his mother’s warning still rang in his head: Nothing in this galaxy is free, Firmus.
But Jerjerrod was different. He liked to pay for his friends; as he did not have many friends, Piett ended up rather spoiled. It had been strange to accustom himself to this at the beginning—much of his tenure as Jerjerrod’s roommate at Corellia Naval Academy spent awkwardly trying to refuse gifts too big and too expensive to accept without blushing—but by now he was used to it. When Commander Jerjerrod offered to pay for lunch, Piett graciously accepted.
Even if that lunch happened to be at a café quite clearly meant for couples. The rose-patterned tablecloths, soft, moody lighting, and wandering violinist suggested a certain atmosphere. A suggestion which was confirmed with a single glance, as every table—save for their own—was occupied by pairs staring dreamily into each other’s eyes and cooing like turtledoves over their petit fours.
Ah, well. At least the food looked good.
After shooting the violinist a warning look—he was drifting far too close for comfort—he replied, “Thank you, Tiaan,” and flipped open the menu. “Any recommendations?”
Jerjerrod beamed at him. “They have a marvelous brekka beet soufflé. Tasty, and very healthy. And Conan adores the jun-lime tarts, if you’re in the mood for something sweeter.”
He ordered both, Jerjerrod forgoing food in favor of what he called “a simple afternoon tea” which took about ten minutes to describe to their waitress. Jerjerrod ended up scribbling the instructions onto a napkin, complete with a small, tidy diagram of the precise ratio of tea to cream to delicate dusting of cinnamon.
“Now then,” Jerjerrod said, once the waitress had shimmered off, staring down at the napkin with a look of vague horror, “how are you liking Coruscant? This is your first Ascension Week, if memory serves.”
It was. He’d been excited to visit the Galactic Capital, but on the whole he’d found it rather like a spruced-up Axxila: same sprawling, never-ending ecumenopolis, but much cleaner pavement. He’d shared that sentiment with a Coruscanti officer, which proved to be a mistake; Piett had never seen a man go from friendly to frosty so quickly.
Though Jerjerrod was from the Core, he was Tinnelian, not Coruscanti, and was bound to respond better to the Rimworld comparison. Still, he was easily scandalized. No sense risking another ice age.
And so Piett said, “It’s been nice enough. And that club was fun,” he added, which was true. While the evening had not started out strong, it had ended with a bang: Commodore Thrawn sweeping him off his feet for a dance, of all things, followed by hours of conversation. They’d spent the rest of Ascension Week in close contact, Thrawn escorting him out and about to art galleries, to his hotel room, to public parks, to his hotel room, to restaurants, to his hotel room—
“I’m glad you brought up the dancing, actually,” Jerjerrod said. “Really, I wanted to thank you.”
He blinked, thoughts of Thrawn’s king-size bed and its remarkably springy mattress dispelled with a flutter. “Whatever for?”
Jerjerrod’s shrug was as elegant as the rest of him. “For taking one for the team, as it were. Distracting Thrawn so Conan could cease his infernal mission to birdboy for him—”
“Wingman.”
“Wingman, yes. With you keeping him occupied, Thrawn is no longer busting into my boudoir at all hours of the day demanding Conan’s attention. And Conan, of course, being the patient and generous soul that he is—don’t make that face, Firmus, it’s true—he was so... indulgent with Thrawn. And, you know. Aliens. If you give them an inch....”
“It’s much more than an inch, Tiaan,” he said solemnly. At Jerjerrod’s scrunched-nose look of disapproval, he laughed.
Jerjerrod’s lips twitched. “I suppose I rather set that one up, didn’t I?”
“You teed it up beautifully.”
A true smile at that, flashing a glimpse of slightly crooked teeth. But it vanished quickly, Jerjerrod having always been sensitive about his smile. “Yes, well, to circle back to my point: You’ve excelled, Firmus, in diverting Thrawn’s attention away from my bedroom, and for that you have my eternal gratitude. Once the trip is over you can stop pretending.”
The tinny clang of warning bells was ringing in his head. “Pretending what?”
“Pretending to be attracted to Thrawn,” Jerjerrod said slowly. “You’ve done a remarkable job of it thus far, but I’m sure you’ll be relieved to drop the act, what?”
Tiaan Viviaan Fyfe Jerjerrod was the cleverest man Piett had ever known, and Piett loved him a great deal. But there were times when he thought that perhaps Jerjerrod ought to have some sort of adult supervision.
Gently, he reached across the table, taking Jerjerrod’s hands in his own and squeezing them fondly. “Tiaan,” he said, his voice clear and even, his eye contact unbreaking, “I am not pretending to be attracted to Thrawn.”
Jerjerrod offered him an indulgent smile, like a parent whose child had declared themselves too sick to go to school. “You can be honest with me, you know. I won’t think less of you for your clever ruse.”
Drastic measures would need to be taken. “We’ve had sex.”
He recoiled as if he’d been burned. “Firmus!”
“Because I am attracted to him and we are dating, Tiaan!”
“But he’s blue!”
“I’ve noticed.”
“And there’s so much of him!” Jerjerrod cried, his green eyes wide with alarmed. “And you’re so discreetly sized! How in the world did you—”
At the reappearance of the waitress he snapped his mouth shut. His cheeks were red, and he accepted his drink with a mumbled thanks. He didn’t even attempt to confirm if the ratio of ingredients was correct.
He sighed. Jerjerrod was intrusive, but he meant well, and seeing him so flustered on Piett’s behalf was never his intention. “I should have told you sooner,” he said softly. “I know you don’t like surprises....”
“This is rather a big one, isn’t it?” Jerjerrod muttered. He took a sip of his tea, glancing thoughtfully to the side. “I didn’t realize you, er.” He cleared his throat. “Carried any special affinity for... non-Humans.”
“He’s Imperial, Tiaan. Same as you and I. And he’s got a lot to recommend him.” At Jerjerrod’s incredulous look, he doubled down. “He’s tall, for one thing—”
“Excessively, one might say,” Jerjerrod sniffed.
“He’s high-ranking—”
“One wonders how he finagled that.”
His desperation was growing. “And he’s good in bed,” he blurted out.
He regretted it instantly. Jerjerrod’s entire demeanor changed, unfurling from his brooding curl and scooting closer in his chair to loom like some great insect. With a clink, he placed his teacup in its saucer and fixed Piett with a look of sly interest. “Is he really?”
Piett swallowed. He hadn’t wanted to have this conversation—not in public, and not when it was all so bally new. But he’d meandered down the path, and he had to stick with it. “Well, yes. You were expecting otherwise?”
“Men like that,” he murmured silkily, “all bluster and bravado... I would have assumed—not that I’d given it any thought, mind you—that Thrawn would be rather selfish in bed.” Tilting his head, his expression was decidedly foxy. “Are you quite certain he was good? Perhaps he bewitched you with some manner of alien pheromone.”
“He’s good, Tiaan,” Piett argued. “Generous. He’s very....” Trailing off, he poked at his soufflé with his fork, struggling for the words. He did not have Jerjerrod’s vocabulary for this sort of conversation; while his friend could obfuscate his erotic exploits behind ten layers of metaphor, Piett preferred to cut straight to the point. As he was also naturally reserved when it came to discussing these matters, that presented something of a problem.
Finally, he said, “He’s got a clever mouth. And he knows how to use it.” Face flaming, he took a large bite of his food, and refused to say any more.
Jerjerrod’s eyes were very bright. But before he could demand an elaboration, a little chime alerted them to the café door opening.
Piett had always thought that nobody in the fleet was better at drawing attention to himself than Commodore Motti. But Thrawn gave him a run for his credits. The volume of Motti’s chatter turned heads as assuredly as the shocking blue of Thrawn’s skin, and, once the eye was upon them, it stayed there, in fixed attention, taking in the alarming sight of two men so large and so confident that the commodore rank plaques came as a bit of a shock; Motti swaggered like a grand admiral on parade, and Thrawn, likewise, glided into the room like it only recently laid down its arms and declared him God-Emperor.
Motti’s distinctive laugh rang out, a rasping guffaw accompanied by the sound of his hand slapping hard on Thrawn’s back. The effect on Jerjerrod was instantaneous. A breathless effusiveness overcame him, his cheeks flushed with delight and his lips parted in a smile. He whipped his head, his hand raised in a small wave, his fingers wriggling a coy hullo. “Conan!” he chirped. “We’re over here!”
As if Motti could miss him; there was no man alive who had such a firm grasp on the leash of his attention. As soon as Jerjerrod turned towards the door, Motti’s head jerked, his gaze sharp and alert but seeing nothing except Tiaan.
Grinning, Motti stalked over. Thrawn was hot on his heels. Like Motti, he appeared very pleased to have spotted them, but his attention was not fixed on Jerjerrod. Those red eyes were trained on Piett. And his gaze was scorching.
Dragging a chair from a nearby table—wrought-iron, featuring a pattern of delicate ivy leaves and a rose-shaped cushion which did not look as though it could survive the heft of a Motti backside—Motti spun it around, sitting backwards on it so that he could rest his elbows on the top rail. His thighs were spread wide to accommodate for the positioning. Piett caught Jerjerrod shooting several unsubtle glances in that direction, and he suppressed a groan.
“Sorry to crash your date,” Motti drawled, as Thrawn took a seat next to him. His cushion—a shy, delicate violet—was similarly flattened. “But they’ve changed the scheduling for the Victory Parade, and if we want good seats by the Imperial Palace we’ve got to hustle. I don’t want to risk getting stuck behind some halfwit ’trooper like last year.”
He reached for one of Piett’s jun-lime tarts. Jerjerrod slapped his wrist, and he relented, although Piett didn’t like the gleam in his eye from that bit of rough attention.
“If we cannot find appropriate seating,” Thrawn intoned, “we do have the option of viewing the parade from the comfort of my hotel room.” He was staring at Piett with precisely no subtlety. “It overlooks the Imperial Palace, and features a wide, sturdy bed, and several chairs—”
Jerjerrod interrupted him with an indignant sniff. “I’m certain that’s not necessary. We’ll finish our luncheon and toddle off, er, together....” And here he shot a despairing look at Piett, as though waiting for him to announce that, for the good of the collective, they ought to tie Thrawn to a post and leave him on his own for a while. When no such lifeline was forthcoming, he continued, “And if there’s any ne’er-do-wells in front of us, well. Conan is ever so skilled at clearing a path.”
Motti flashed a leer at Jerjerrod. “If it’s too crowded, Ti, you can just sit on my shoulders.”
“I would like you to sit on my shoulders as well,” Thrawn said to Piett, very seriously. “Regardless of whether it is crowded.” He glanced at Jerjerrod, his blue-black eyebrows arching thoughtfully. “And I suppose, if Conan Antonio required assistance, I could shoulder you as well.”
Jerjerrod’s splutter was drowned out by Motti’s barking laugh. In the commotion he managed to swipe a tart, tearing off a bite and chewing victoriously. “Love those things,” he said, after he swallowed. “You gotta try one, Thrawn.”
Thrawn looked at Piett. “May I?”
Nodding, Piett passed the plate over. Though in uniform, he’d removed his gloves for the meal. Likewise, Thrawn’s hands were similarly exposed, in a mirror of Motti’s usual gloveless, capless, raffish aesthetic. Not for the first time, Piett was grateful that the two of them matched. The touch of their fingers was electric, his cheeks heating at that brush of bare skin on skin.
Carefully, Thrawn picked up a tart. It fit snugly in his palm, its shell glazed with sugar and its crust an enticingly crispy brown. Thrawn looked at it for a moment, admiring the coloring.
And then he shoved it wholesale in his mouth, swallowing it in one gulp.
Jerjerrod stared, slack-jawed. Even Motti looked slightly alarmed. Piett, though, was undisturbed, if a little flushed. Reaching forward, he tapped Jerjerrod twice on the back of his hand, catching his friend’s attention and smiling brightly. Aware of Thrawn’s stare burning into him, he said, in a stage-whisper, “No gag reflex.”