Archive of Our Own

We're floating in fabric. Impossible. But that's what it feels like.

"Dias, where are you?" The familiar voice is plaintive, but jokingly so. And somewhat muffled.

"I'm right here," I reply with exaggerated surliness, and earn a laugh in response. Claude pops his head out from under the incredibly soft, white sheets, so white they practically seem to glow. His hair and sleeveless undershirt are a cute rumpled mess. He pretends to swim, kicking his legs under the covers. I can tell based on the light rippling surface of the bed around where his feet would be.

He reaches me and snuggles up against my side. I wrap an arm around him. "This place is ridiculous," he sighs. His tone makes it clear the word is meant to be praise.

I agree. The bed is ridiculous. It's a vaguely circular island in the middle of the room. Even bigger than our giant space bed on the Kalavinka, and far more layered and fluffy. Like sleeping on clouds. There's also an absurd number of pillows that seem immune to body heat and wear, bringing endless cooling comfort. Even the kings and queens of Cross and Lacour have never slept like this. They simply don't have the technology that the House of Vectra takes for granted.

Or who knows. Maybe it's now available for wealthy Expellians since the planet joined the Federation a few years ago, and my assumptions are outdated. Maybe Alen and everyone in the Barnes Mansion are enjoying hypoallergenic bedsheets. I could ask Rena sometime.

The room we're in looks misleadingly simple. It's minimalist—a term Claude has explained to me—but in a way that's luxuriously so, with clean lines, pale wood, and polished stone. There are floor-to-ceiling views in practically every direction. The views are not actually the exterior, but rather A/V panels. A few of them do have cells that can turn translucent and be used as windows to the gold industrial haze of Tetragenesis. But currently they're all serving a scene that makes this place seem like a cabin in the midst of a forest. Set in the wee hours of morning, complete with echoing bird calls and sunlight filtering through leaves. The air in the room smells fresh, with the touch of a mossy, woodsy scent. There's even a faint earthy sweetness, as if might have recently rained.

Of course, it's all artificial. Ernest and Claude would comment that the real thing (e.g., Expel) is better, at least in no small part because it's real and therefore not destroyed. Having seen more than my share of worlds now, I understand their sentiment. But it's still astounding to me that this kind of mimicry is possible.

Also, there was no need for Opera to personally see to our arrangements, but this is clearly from her instructions. The note we found on the nightstand, written in her elegant cursive, read: Hope you like the decor. Inspired by my crash landing. Sweet dreams boys! Beneath it, there was a neatly printed add-on in another familiar hand: Enjoy. Get lots of rest after your long trip. Don't hesitate to ask for anything you need.—N

We'd docked in the private Tetragenoit space port just the other day. We'd barely taken a step off the Kalavinka when we were surrounded by three-eyed agents, greeted courteously and escorted to a hidden Vectra estate. As Opera had promised years ago, she and Noel welcomed us with a feast. All of our favourite dishes, but taken to the next level. Intensely marbled, melt-in-your mouth ribeye. Skewers of succulent chicken thighs with caramelized edges. Thick slices of fresh, buttery tuna belly. The meats were paired with a velvety red wine carrying the aroma of berries; the fish accompanied by a dry, full-bodied rice wine.

The atmosphere and conversation was informal and relaxed, without any stuffiness. Granted, we were still surrounded by constant reminders of wealth and power. The furnishings of the elaborate dining room. The servants silently coming and going. New food and drink springing up, dirty or empty plates and utensils vanishing as if by magic. And the quality of the meal itself, of course. Unavoidable with the host being the heir to the ruling dynastic power on the planet. Even though Opera's now the head of Vectra in nearly all but name—an official transition still in progress—she hasn't forgotten the spirit of our low-fuss habits and preferences.

As if reading my mind, Opera had declared, "We waited at least a decade to get less than half of us together. Who knows what'll happen in the future. Let's make the most of it—before we have to save the universe again!" We'd toasted to that. Then she'd started arguing with Claude about making sure he doesn't kill off one of her favourite characters in his bestselling Parma series.

We didn't go to bed till well past midnight. Somehow Ernest still managed to wake up early—or at least earlier than Claude and me. He was undoubtedly itching to discuss more theories with Noel, particularly around the Nedian-esque markings the three of us had encountered in several ruins across Theta Sector. I silently watched through one slitted eye as he dressed with almost no sound, quietly rummaged through our bags—probably looking for the storage devices with the photos and videos—and then exited the room.

After the door shut behind him, I heard Claude whisper in a sleepy, affectionate tone, "What a nerd." I chuckled, and then we'd both rolled over, me spooning Claude, Claude spooning a pillow, and continued sleeping. When we woke again, we were somehow separated and on opposite ends of the bed.

Claude yelps, bringing my attention back to the immediate.

"What?" I glance over, curious. His outburst was startled, but not alarmed.

"Something licked me!" Claude dips back under the covers. "I knew it—geez—there you are!" He pulls out a squirming, chocolate-coloured mutt with droopy heart-shaped ears and the smallest, pudgiest legs I've ever seen. It slobbers happily all over Claude as he struggles with it, laughing, hugging the wriggling body close to his chest.

"Okay, little buddy. Which one are you? Let's see…" Claude checks its collar. "Gneisenau, female. Okay, Gneisenau. Come on, girl. No dogs in bed. Let's get a move on." He shuffles on his knees over to one side of the bed, leans over the edge and carefully drops the dog to the floor, giving her an encouraging pat on the rump to push her gently away. Of course she immediately turns around and starts to clamber excitedly back on to the bed. Somehow the scrambling of her little legs works, and she's soon scampering all over us, prancing through the sheets and making the fabric puff up and down across the bed as the air is displaced.

I make an annoyed, can't-be-bothered-to-move sound. Claude laughs, and gets up onto his knees again. He lazily follows the small dog around on the extra giant bed, trying to catch her with non-committal grabs.

"You're not trying," I tell him, admiring the tight boxer-briefed view whenever he bends over.

He executes a last-second lunge, and lands on his stomach as Gneisenau darts out of his grasp. I hear a muffled giggle, and then he picks himself back up, crawling on his hands and knees after the dog, patting down the fluffy sheets around him as he goes. "You're not helping."

"No."

"Then don't complain."

I unobtrusively pluck a pillow from the side. "Believe me. I'm not complaining."

"I know. You're staring at my ass."

I whip the pillow in his direction. Instead of hitting him in the rear and knocking him over, he flips out of the way, yanks the pillow in midair and flings it back. It smacks me in the face with a loud puff.

I pull it off my face, laughing, as Claude also laughs and scoops up Gneisenau, who had stopped running around the bed and was watching us with large eyes. He returns to his previous spot beside me, and sits with the little dog in his lap. She seems quite content there and peeks out between Claude's arms, tongue lolling and tail wagging.

I prop myself up on one arm and eye the dog. "Reminds me of Tiny."

"Tiny?"

"A stray that used to follow Rena and Cecille around the village. Rena was particularly fond of him."

"Oh yeah, I think I remember her mentioning him. What was he like?"

"He was… tiny," I say in a deadpan voice. This causes Claude to crack up, and the corner of my mouth curls up since it was the reaction I'd been aiming for. I reach over with my other arm, showing Gneisenau the knuckles of my hand, the way Noel had shown me all those years ago. She sniffs, then licks my fingers, and I scratch her behind the ears. "He was friendly. Playful. Not as excitable as this, but about the same size. With longer legs." I remember the photo albums we went through when we visited Ilia on Earth. "Your dog was much bigger."

"Yeah. And his tail was a lot fluffier."

"Your mother said he was named for an old friend of your parents. What was it again…?"

"Ratix."

I continue scratching, pondering the naming of animals. Noel and Opera's adopted strays, all seventeen of them—Seventeen!! Opera had exclaimed incredulously at dinner, as dogs darted under the dining table and around our legs, and Noel sat there with two in his arms, smiling sheepishly—all have the most bizarre names. I have no idea how they keep track of them. As much as Opera had rolled her eyes, she could actually identify every single one, clearly knew all of their particular temperaments and habits, was not above spoiling them when they neared her. And they never failed to come when she called.

"What the hell's a Gneisenau," I muse. Gneisenau's tail wags harder at the sound of her name.

I'm not expecting an answer, but Claude immediately says, "Federation battleship. Named after several classic military vessels from Earth. Which are probably named after a historical military officer from Earth. I'm assuming German."

I raise an eyebrow. "German?"

"Language and people from part of Europe. A region of the Eurasian continent on Earth."

"Ah. Are they all like that? The dog names. Hipper and Speed and… Loots… whatever. And whatever the rest of them are."

"Spee and Luetzow," Claude corrects. "Zeppelin and Bismarck and Bluecher and Koenig and… that's all I remember on Day 2 after wine and sake." He rubs a temple. He hadn't drunk that much, and neither had I, but neither of us—nor Noel—are much for alcohol. Opera and Ernest, on the other hand… "Yeah, I think most of them are something along those lines. Opera's got a healthy sense of disrespect for authority, but she's also a military buff. You remember her jacket collection." He looks down and turns Gneisenau over, rubbing her belly as if she were a baby. "Who's a little tubby-wubby drooling fur sausage?" he coos facetiously. "You are! Yes you are!"

I snort at the nonsense, but join in the dog-talking. "How did you get in? When are you leaving? You're interrupting us." Gneisenau yawns, then continues tongue-lolling and wriggling about in the doggie heaven of Claude's lap, little paws kicking.

Claude laughs. "Interrupting us what?"

"You'll find out when she leaves."

"Ooh. Sounds like a threat."

Gneisenau suddenly freezes and jerks her head around. Then she semi-rights herself and starts barking at the door. Her tail never stops wagging—in fact, it seems to wag faster. There's a clear set of three raps.

"Yes?" Claude calls.

"Pardon the disturbance," comes the reply from the other side of the door. It's an older male voice with a soothing, unflappable quality to it. It must be Opera's butler. "Has one of Lord Chandler's beloved canines breached your room by any chance?" Thanks to Gneisenau's yapping, the answer is obvious, but the question is specifically phrased to minimize embarrassment on the part of the guests.

"Yes," I say. "You can come in."

The door opens. In steps a mustachioed man with a monocle over the third eye on his forehead. He's wearing an immaculate suit. Gneisenau barks again, and the man says sharply, "Gneisenau!" and makes a strange whistle followed by a clicking sound. The dog leaps out of Claude's arms, bounding towards Opera's butler.

"Attagirl!" says Claude. "Thanks, Alfred."

Alfred picks Gneisenau up. "My pleasure." He bows to us, somehow managing to make the movement dignified even with the dog in one arm. Then he says, "Would you gentlemen fancy a late brunch, or anything else at this time?"

Claude's eyes light up. "Oh! Do you do afternoon tea, or something like that? If it's not too much trouble."

"But of course. An afternoon tea would be very easy. I will ensure everything is to your tastes. Or did you already have something specific in mind?"

"No, that's great. We'll leave it in your more-than capable hands. Thank you."

"You are most welcome. Lady Opera has been beyond delighted since you all arrived. The least I can do is try to return a bit of the joy your visit has brought her."

After Alfred departs, I ask, "What's afternoon tea?"

"Tea served with finger foods. Little sandwiches, pastries, cakes, tarts… there's also scones—like a biscuit—with clotted cream and jam. Usually they come out displayed on a tiered tray, a food tower." Claude gestures, one hand out flat as if he were holding something like the bottom of a plate, the other hand pulling from above as if lifting a bag. "My mom loves it. When I was little, she'd take me to fancy hotels where they serve it. It was always a big deal—she'd get her hair done, dress up, spend time with her makeup and everything—and made me dress up… I wasn't a big fan of that part. But it was worth it because we'd spend the rest of the day together."

I nod. I know that Claude spending a day, even half a day with his mother is—and was—something rare.

He folds his arms, holding his elbows, and shrugs. "Some people consider it a girly thing, 'cause it's traditionally associated with women's high society or whatever. But it just makes me think of time I was able to spend with my mom." He smiles at me. "So I always feel like—it's something special to do with someone you care about. And this feels like a fancy hotel, so…" Claude looks apologetic. "Sorry, I should've asked first if you were interested."

I pause. There's a ghost of embarrassment in Claude's words, body language, facial expression. Perhaps something from when he was younger, if he'd mentioned or suggested it to someone who couldn't see beyond what society tells them to think.

I shrug. "Why wouldn't I be interested? You just said it has jam and cake."

Claude chuckles and rubs the back of his head. "That's right. Hope it satisfies your sweet tooth."

"All I need is carbon, hydrogen, and oxygen," I reply. "In specific arrangements." Claude lowers his arm and laughs, clearly recognizing my reference to an explanation of the chemical structure of sugar that he'd given me a while back.

As he laughs, I shift and push myself up in the bed, so that I'm sitting up next to him. I hold a hand up to his face in a loose fist, the same way I'd shown Gneisenau my knuckles earlier.

Claude stops laughing, blinks at my hand, and looks up at me. "…Eh?"

Instead of replying, I open my hand and reach over to the side of his head, tucking my fingers under his tousled hair, just behind the earlobe, and scratch. He starts laughing again. "What—I'm not a dog!" I don't stop, and reach over with my other hand, do the same behind his other ear. He laughs harder, and starts shoving at my chest. "What are you doing—?"

I drop both hands, wrap my arms around him and let myself fall back onto the feather-soft bed, bringing him down with me. I pull him close to my chest. "I told you you'd find out after she leaves."

Claude says, in an amusingly small voice, "Oh."

We lie there like that, saying nothing, just breathing.

After a few minutes, I ask, "Did your mother take photos of the two of you at afternoon tea?"

"Hmm? Yeah."

"I don't remember seeing any when we were there."

"She probably kept them somewhere else. We can message her later. Why?"

"Just curious what you looked like."

Claude laughs. "Probably stupid."

"Probably adorable."

He turns his head so I can't see his expression, but I can see his ear is pink. He mumbles something against my chest.

"I can't hear you."

"…I said I wish I could see photos of you when you were a kid."

"Ah." I stroke his hair fondly. "You'll just have to imagine it."

We continue murmuring gentle back-and-forths to each other, cuddling contentedly in the ocean of puffy white fabric. Surrounded by the soothing sound of a forest coming to life in the middle of the day. Until three more raps at the door signal Alfred's return.

…Wheeling in a long table that slides across the room and over the bed, coming to a smooth stop in front of us. We sit back up, staring at the impressive tiered trays shaped like spun golden stars running the entire diameter of the bed, flanked with cups, plates, embroidered cloth napkins folded into flower shapes, and Alfred's smoothly-delivered explanation of every item on the table going in the background.

There are flaky, buttery pastries, some with vegetables, mushrooms, and meats, others with chunks of fruit. Deviled eggs stuffed with mayonaise, sauces and spices. Slender pastel sandwiches layered with cucumbers, seafood, meats and cheeses. Creamy-looking custard tarts. Fritters. Crumpets. Profiteroles. Macarons. Panna cotta. Something I didn't catch. A grid of square tea cakes that resemble exquisite, tiny paintings. Did he say they were handpainted? An arrangement of small dishes, spoons and honey dippers with luscious-looking preserves and honeys ranging from a pale wheat colour to a deep amber. A glass jar of thick, rich clotted cream next to a basket containing three kinds of scones. I think I heard 'buttermilk' and 'lavender'. Actually, I think I heard the word 'butter' at least six times now. Three labelled pots of fragrant tea: Phoenix Tip black tea in a sleek crimson teapot; Dragon Eye green tea in a celadon side-handled teapot; a clear crystal pitcher with iced blooming gold-flower fruit tea.

"—harvested from our own rooftop greenhouse gardens," finishes Alfred. "Please, help yourself. Ring the bell if you need anything else at any time." He elegantly vanishes from the room in the way only a seasoned butler can.

I drag my gaze from one end of the table to the other. Many of the items are small morsels, as Claude had described, but… it's an army. I wonder if Ernest will be back soon, and if he ate yet. "I assume this is more than what you and your mother had."

Claude scratches his head. "I think I just flashed back to my first meal in Arlia."