As the Gorgon brightened overhead, the crowds grew heavier. Someone on stilts paraded past, her head nearly level with Vincent’s feet. He returned her wave, laughing, and she tossed him a strand of holographic beads that cast pinpoint dots around them as they whirled through the air. Vincent reached to catch them, but Michelangelo intercepted and enfolded them in his hands.
For analysis, of course. His wardrobe wasn’t doing anything that Vincent’s couldn’t, but it was Vincent’s job to let Angelo take the risks for him. He hated it.
Angelo finished his analysis and threat assessment and handed Vincent the necklace. It was spectacular, some light, cool substance with a high refractive index and pinpoint LEDs buried deep within, so the facets cast multicolored sparks in all directions. More brilliant than a necklace of diamonds, and not dependent on available light.
Below, there was more music, more dragon dancers. A roar echoed from the street’s narrow walls as tumblers passed, given so little room by the crowd that it seemed they must stumble into bystanders at any moment. Vincent ran a backup analysis on the beads–nothing, not even a microprocessor–then pulled the necklace over his head and let it fall across his chest. It settled over his wardrobe, casting dancing pinpoints down his torso and across his shoulders, up his cheeks and into his hair. He turned to grin at Angelo, half wishing they were down on the street amid the revelers, and caught Angelo looking at him with a particular, aching, focused expression that set him back.
Angelo blinked and looked down quickly, leaving Vincent adrift with one hand half extended. It might almost have been an honest reaction.
“What’s that?” Michelangelo asked, pointing down the alley. The music was swelling again, a new group of performers pushing by. Katya Pretoria pressed a cold drink into Vincent’s hand.
On the left, amid the coiling river of pedestrians, a group of men clad in red carried a platform on their shoulders. At first Vincent thought it was another Carnival float, and the person slumped cross‑legged on the litter would begin throwing beads or lift up a trumpet at any moment.
But his head lolled against one powerful shoulder, and when Vincent leaned forward, peering down into the street–trying to see in the half‑light provided by flickering torches and the glowing hemispheres that adorned the building walls–he could see that the man was propped up between slats, and his hands were bound together before his chest. The litter bearers were singing, Vincent saw, their voices rising over the tumult of the crowd, and even the dragon dancers made way for them.
Angelo nudged Vincent, and Vincent stepped back. “He’s–”
“It’s a funeral procession,” Katya said. “It’s an honor.”
When Vincent turned to her, she stared straight ahead, her eyebrows drawn close above her nose. “Is it an honor afforded to women, as well?”
“If they die in combat,” Katya said. She nodded down over the railing, then looked away from the litter and the dead man’s singing bearers. She pulled a wreath of beads and flowers from the balcony railing and shouted down to a teenage boy walking unattended amid the tumblers. The boy looked up, and Katya tossed the necklace into his hands.
Vincent didn’t see his license, but he suspected the young man wouldn’t be allowed out alone if it were not Carnival; he glanced about himself wide‑eyed, and waved the bruised flower over his head, calling out to Katya.
“Combat?” Vincent asked.
She stepped back from the railing. “That’s Philip they’re burying, who was of Canberra house. He was killed in the Trials yesterday.”
Vincent’s voice came out of nebula‑tinted darkness, just loud enough to carry over the cries of merrymakers in the street. “Do you remember Skidbladnir?”
Kusanagi‑Jones, who had been poised on the edge of sleep, came sharply awake, his heart jumping in response to an adrenaline dump. “Vincent?”
A warm hand rested above his elbow. Too warm, and Vincent was shivering. “The ship. Remember her?”
Kusanagi‑Jones turned, eyesight adapting, collecting heat‑signatures and available light. “Your temperature is up.”
“Sunburn,” Vincent said. “Robert warned me. I’m cold.”
Which was an interesting problem. “How much does it hurt?”
“I’ve got chemistry,” Vincent answered. Which was Vincent for a lot. He didn’t use it if he could avoid it.
“May I touch you?”
“Please.”
But when he reached around Vincent’s shoulders, Vincent yelped behind clenched teeth. Kusanagi‑Jones jerked his hand back. “I’m more sore than I thought,” he said.
“How’s your chest?”
“Not bad. Not as bad. Just a little sore at the top.”
“Well then.” Kusanagi‑Jones flopped on his back, shaking the bed, and tented the covers. “Get comfortable.”
Vincent slid over him, a blessed blanket of warmth in the chill of the over‑climate‑controlled night. Kusanagi‑Jones was used to sleeping warm everywhere but on starships, and he found himself sighing, relaxing, as Vincent spread out against his chest. Vincent made a little sad sound and stiffened when the blankets fell against his back, but settled in once his wardrobe established an air cushion. He propped himself on his elbows so he could look Kusanagi‑Jones in the face. “Skidbladnir.”
“What about it? Seventeen years ago.” Kusanagi‑Jones rearranged himself so Vincent could stretch comfortably between his legs. In the middle distance, someone was singing, and he shifted uncomfortably, remembering the dead man on his litter.
“It was the last time–”
When they were still half convinced they could keep their relationship a secret. When they thought they had,and the sex had, all too often, been furtive and hasty, and–
“Yes.” The words scratching his throat. “I remember.”
“Do you remember what you said to me?”
He knows,Kusanagi‑Jones thought. He stroked Vincent’s hip lightly, feeling heat and skin slick with moisturizer and analgesic. “Told you,” he said, picking over each word, “no matter what happened, I wanted you to know I–” He shrugged. It wasn’t something he had the courage to say twice in one lifetime. “I did. Want you to know.”
“And something happened.”
“Yeah.” Kusanagi‑Jones closed his eyes, filtering out the charcoal‑sketch outline of Vincent’s face. “Had to eventually.”
“I didn’t answer at the time,” Vincent said. “I–”
Michelangelo reacted fast. Just fast enough to get his hands into Vincent’s braids–careful of his burned neck–and pull Vincent’s mouth down to his own before Vincent could say anything stupid. Before Vincent could give him back his own words of nearly two decades before.
Vincent’s voice trailed off in a mumble that buzzed against Michelangelo’s lips for a moment before Vincent’s mouth opened, wet, yielding, returning fierceness for fierceness and strength for strength. The confession, however it might have begun, turned into a pleased, liquid moan. Teeth clicked and tongues slid, and Michelangelo arched his spine to press their groins together, not daring to hook his ankles over the backs of Vincent’s calves. Vincent pulled back, panting, drawing the scratchy cords of his braids through Michelangelo’s fingers.
“Nothing’s going to happen,” he ordained. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Vincent asked, archly, lowering his head to claim another kiss.