Fic: Brown Eyes, Silver Eyes
So this is the other fic I wrote for Chocolate Box, for @karanguni, only a month late /o\. It would have been on time, but instead of a short action scene followed by a fairly straightforward sex scene, it turned out that Aral would. not. stop. talking, and it turned into a completely different story, with a lot less sex and a lot more of, well, everything else, but mostly angst.
Title: Brown Eyes, Silver Eyes
Length: 5000 words
Rating: M
Tags: suicidal character, alcohol, declaming revolution in iambic pentameter, hurt/comfort, competence, Escobar, angst
Summary: Aral goes drunk-flying in the Dendarii gorge. Illyan follows.
Brown Eyes, Silver Eyes on AO3
Aral pulled back on the joystick and let the flyer soar upwards until her nose was almost vertical, up, up, up, he was staring into the moons, the stars, pressed flat in his seat by the g-forces. He let out a yell, no words, just a raw scream of exhilaration, then forced the stick forwards as hard as he could. The flyer groaned and lurched, and the moons and stars whirled around him. He plunged down, flung with bruising force against the safety harness, his body screaming. A rock wall loomed up on his left, on his right. He swerved, threw the flyer into a spin, his vision blurred and for an instant he blacked out.
When he blinked back into focus, he thought he was aiming for the sky again, then realised he was seeing the reflection of a moon on water below. Water very close below. He pulled up, gasping, heart thumping, and got the flyer level, banking into a wider valley where the rock walls gave him more clearance. It would annoy his father if he crashed in such a stupid way. He set the flyer on a steadier course and took another sip of mead instead, rolling gently around the turns. At least he'd lost the ImpSec flyers again, somewhere before that last dive. Negri's men were a gutless lot.
More, he'd lost his thoughts. He pictured them spinning off the flyer, crashing into some rock wall a few minutes ago, leaving him with just his hands and the flyer's responses and the canyons and cliffs of the Dendarii gorge for company now. Much better company. He swooped up and then began to push the joystick forwards for another dive when something swept hard across his nose, so close that he thought it was a hallucination. He jerked his flyer back level reflexively, but the other machine was already out of sight, above and behind him. Aral cast a confused glance around but saw nothing save a flash of moonlight on a wing as it banked and turned.
"Who the hell's there?" he demanded, broadcast across the comm.
His proximity alarm sounded: the other flyer was on his tail, tight behind him and a little off-centre, and even before the response came, he knew who it would be.
"You've terrorised my men enough for one evening."
Commander Illyan. Of course it was Illyan.
"If they can't keep up then stop sending them," he retorted, and pulled into another dive. Illyan followed as if roped to his tail. Aral swerved, lurched, rolled sideways and twisted into a narrower canyon. Illyan was still there. He'd left the channel open, he could hear Illyan's breathing over the link, steady and calm as if he were waiting through a meeting instead of speeding through the Dendarii range.
He opened up the throttle and took the next turn very fast, scraping the tip of his starboard wing against the rocks. Sparks flew up. Illyan did not scrape his wing, nor did he drop behind. Annoyed, Aral increased his speed further, following the old road his father had once shown him, though the canyon walls were starting to dance in his vision. The invisible rope holding Illyan to his tail did not alter.
"You flown down here before?" he demanded.
"No," came the instant response. "But I've seen a map."
"Fuck that thing in your head, anyway," Aral said savagely to this. "If I had one of those in my head I'd just aim this flyer straight at the wall now."
Illyan's steady breathing didn't alter. "No," he said, "you wouldn't." His tone was as level as his breathing. He was angry at Aral. Good. More people should be angry at him. Aral suddenly dived low, only pulling up and levelling out at the last second. Illyan was right behind him; if he crashed Illyan would crash too.
Aral took another gulp of mead and turned south, into the narrowest parts of the range, clipping his other wing as he went. The joystick was slippery in his hand, the control lights on the dash swirling, he swung one way, then the other, then got her straightened up again. There was only one path through here, with overhangs above and rocky pillars below, and he knew it was madness to go in, but he plunged in anyway. A glance behind: the other flyer wasn't there.
"Simon?" he said, and then, "Shit." The canyon was not wide enough for two flyers side-by-side, but Illyan was overtaking him anyway, his flyer rolled over on her side with one wing pointing at the narrow chasm beneath, the other aimed at the moon, skimming between the tip of his rocking wings and the rock wall. There was a sharp turn coming up, one wrong move from him now, one swerve, and Illyan would be crushed.
Aral dared not slow down lest he unbalance his flyer, dared not adjust his course, dared not even breathe as they rounded the turn side by side. Then Illyan shot out in front of him. The canyon twisted, and Illyan twisted with it, flying upside-down. There was no room for him to roll in this narrow section, but he rolled anyway in an odd twisting manoeuvre, his wingtips coming within a hairsbreadth of the walls, then settled right-way-up. Aral lurched sideways in his seat with a relieved shudder, and his flyer veered towards the cliff face. He steadied it, gasping.
"You fucking lunatic," he spat into the comm.
There was no response, but he thought Illyan's breathing was a little faster. Illyan pulled ahead as the path widened, swooping through the gorge like some night-hunting bird. Aral opened his throttle again, trying to stick to Illyan's tail the way Illyan had been doing to him, but every time he thought he was closing the gap Illyan lost him again. Illyan suddenly soared up, above the rocky walls, and Aral followed him, his vision narrowed to the tail of Illyan's flyer. There was a strong wind blowing up here and he fought with it, trying to keep the light craft steady as he followed. Illyan, apparently unaffected by the wind, went into a series of spins and rolls that Aral, after the first nauseous swirl, did not attempt to imitate. Belatedly he realised that Illyan had lured him out of the gorge. He considered diving back down, but the moment his flyer's nose tilted downwards, Illyan sliced across it again, his twisting turn taking him within inches of the rocky plateau beneath them. Aral pulled up.
"All right, all right," he said across the comm. "You've made your point, you're crazier than me." He circled as Illyan looped back up again, then followed Illyan along and down into a wider valley where a small river meandered with a broad meadow on either side of it. Aral was struggling to focus now, on Illyan, on the ground, on anything, dizziness and exhaustion and drink starting to overwhelm him. He swung left and right, drifted over the river, then swore as the flyer suddenly lifted as something flashed past. Illyan swooped around him again, using the downdraft from his own machine to push Aral's into a safe landing spot. Aral pancaked onto solid ground, bounced once, then settled down in a flat landing. He sat back limp in his seat. Illyan's flyer soared past him again as if checking he was going to stay there, then spun around on its own length and flew straight at him. Aral's head went back, lips parting in shock. At the last second Illyan swerved, grav-thrusters firing, and landed neatly alongside. Aral blew out his breath in a puff, took another gulp of mead and then swiped the control to open the hatch. The fresh air roused him, and he pushed himself out of the flyer to stand leaning against it, catching his breath, feeling the ground rock beneath his feet.
The hatch opened on the other flyer and Commander Illyan jumped lightly out. He looked at Aral, and his face was not in its usual bland lines of the Emperor's vid-camera, nor yet the grim acceptance he'd displayed on other drinking expeditions lately. His hair was sweat-streaked, he was breathing fast, and his eyes were wide. A small satisfied smile curled at the corner of his lips, and the thrill of their flying duel still glowed on his face. He met Aral's gaze directly and held it.
Illyan didn't look directly at people. Aral had noticed it again and again over the months in his company. Illyan always stood to one side, a spectator in other people's lives, deliberately excluding himself from involvement, a vid-camera with legs. With a body. His direct gaze was as startling as if Aral had just brought a statue to life.
Aral pushed off the side of his flyer and closed the distance between them. His legs were unreliable, and he crash-landed on Illyan, much as his flyer had landed on the meadow.
"You fly like a fucking angel," he said, and kissed Illyan on the mouth.
If this greeting surprised Illyan, he gave no sign of it. Instead he caught Aral in a hard grasp, and Aral couldn't tell if his intent was romantic or practical.
"That mead is even worse second-hand," Illyan said when he broke off. He reached into his flyer with one hand and pulled out a water bottle and gave it to Aral. Aral took a few swallows, then put it aside and kissed Illyan again. "Better?" he mumbled.
"Much."
His thoughts were still far behind him, smeared somewhere along the walls of the gorge, Illyan was still breathing fast and responding enthusiastically to the kiss, and the thrill of the flight was beginning to shift into a different thrill as he pressed his body against Illyan's. Illyan, evidently, had not given up exercise since getting back from Escobar. Aral could feel his wiry strength, hard arms that had no difficulty keeping him steady as Aral put all his attention into his mouth on Illyan's, the sharp line of his jaw, the velvet-soft skin on his lips, the way even as he kept his grip on Aral he made a low sound of pleasure at Aral's efforts. He redoubled those efforts, and was rewarded with another gasp and a sudden slide of Illyan's hips against his. Aral reciprocated and immediately lost his balance, and Illyan broke off with a laugh, catching him.
"You're way too drunk," he said, but warmly, amused.
It was a mild night, the native mosses that covered the ground looked soft and inviting. Aral let himself sink down on it bonelessly. Illyan turned his skew-limbed collapse into something more controlled, ending up lying beside him propped up on one elbow.
"I'm not," Aral said lazily. He reached out, ran his fingers through Illyan's hair, still sweat-damp after the flying. The flyers loomed up on either side of them, and Aral squinted at Illyan's.
"You know what that looks like?" he said as he pulled Illyan in for another kiss.
"What?" Illyan mumbled. His hands were running down Aral's chest, making him shiver in anticipation.
"Your flyer. It looks like the new Model F. I saw the specs for it last year. Nice bird."
"It is." Illyan moved in for another kiss, but Aral raised his head, staring at the flyer.
"Can't be. It's not in production yet, there's only one prototype, it's still being tested... Simon. How the hell did you get that?"
"I borrowed it," Illyan said. There was something in his face that caught Aral's breath, some combination of amusement and smugness and calculated defiance.
"You borrowed--" Aral lay back again, staring at the sky, picturing the way Illyan had pushed that flyer to the limits of its abilities, within inches of smashing it. "I knew it, that chip in your head must have knocked some screws loose. You just took it?"
"I have an order," Illyan said primly, "in the Emperor's own Voice, to follow you. I judged that I needed this so that I could obey that order. And I was right, none of my men could keep up with you in the older models, and they're all good pilots."
Aral caught at Illyan's arm, pulled him down again and kissed him. "You stole it," he said. "Confess. You stole the prototype. What did you do, just waft in with your Horus-eyes and glare at them until they handed it over? And to think you had me convinced you were the most by-the-book lieutenant in the entire of the Imperial Service."
"Perhaps it's your influence."
"Ha. You've got to watch your step, Simon, if you really took that without authorisation they can cashier you for it. Look, I'll give you a chit for it--oh." His thoughts, left behind on rocky walls of the gorge, were starting to come back. He wasn't an admiral any longer, he couldn't cover for Illyan. He pulled Illyan back towards him, as if he might serve as a human shield between Aral and his memories.
"They can't cashier me, don't worry," Illyan said lightly, and let himself fall onto Aral as if recognising Aral's wish for distraction, his hips pressing frankly in, no hesitation. Aral surprised himself with a laugh, letting his eyes rest on the way Illyan's shoulders moved in his uniform jacket, enjoying the familiar press of his belt buckle against Aral's hip, the heat of his mouth.
His hands curved on Illyan's neck, fumbled with the buttons on his high collar. The moonlight gleamed on the Horus-eyes on either side, their two pupils seeming to watch him in tandem with Illyan's own eyes. Aral touched the pins. "They used to tell us there were miniature vid-cameras in these. I suppose for you that would be redundant." He ran his fingers over Illyan's lips, giving up on the collar, but Illyan had drawn back at his words, a new tension in his body.
"What?" he demanded. "I'm not too drunk, I'm never too drunk for this, so unless you've changed your mind--" Intuition came a moment too late, and he pulled Illyan in hard and kissed both Horus-eye pins. "You think I mind you watching me?"
"It would not be uncommon," Illyan said, his voice as cautious as his body. He wasn't looking at Aral any more.
"Who the hell have you been taking to bed? And I thought I was the one who was supposed to have bad taste." He let the flare of anger soar upwards like the flyer had, and rode it, used it to pull Illyan bodily on top of him, wrapping one hand around the back of Illyan's head where he vaguely supposed the memory chip might be, pressing Illyan's mouth towards his for another kiss. Illyan reciprocated, but still cautiously, his earlier enthusiasm modulated into a minor key. Aral got Illyan's tunic loose, slid one hand under the layers of uniform until he found the bare skin of his back, startlingly smooth and soft.
"ImpSec's watched me all my life," he mumbled. "Negri's got recordings of me fucking already. Lots of them. Dammit, Simon, nobody should have done this to you in the first place." He caught Illyan's chin with his other hand, staring into his brown eyes and his silver eyes. It was just a trick of the light, a trick of the mead, that made it look like the silver eyes were shimmering, alive, wet. "What are you even doing in ImpSec? You're a good person."
Illyan made a sound that might have been a laugh or a snort, but Aral continued, the pressure of words rising in him.
"You're a good person, but ImpSec isn't, and you know it. We may have got rid of Grishnov and his mob, but honestly, was there much to choose between them and Negri?" Words were beginning to boil up inside him now, venting from a source that had lain dormant for many months. "But ImpSec isn't past reforming, and you're the proof of that, Simon." He still had his hands pressed against Illyan's back, he could feel the tension, the truth of what he was saying. "The day will come when you will have to change. Whatever ImpSec's sins are, they lie on us all, on what we are willing to permit. And in this, we are very close to being exactly what our enemies call us. When we do these things to you, when we allow you out to smash down any door, drag any man away without recourse, when no law but the Emperor's voice governs you--" Illyan's whole body flinched at that, but Aral was in spate now, carried away on words, flying through them as recklessly as he had through the gorge.
"When we permit this, then how can we face the rest of the galaxy as anything other than the barbarians they call us? Intelligence work always operates in the grey areas, but other planets, other worlds, have intelligence agencies, and they are governed by law, they collaborate with others, they have windows in their walls." He paused for breath, staring up at Illyan's face. He wasn't sure Illyan was breathing at all. He hadn't been able to outfly him, but he could out-talk him. "One day we'll do it. Smash holes in that great hideous building and let in the light." He drew one of his hands out, caressed the Horus-eye pins again. "I don't want to see you take the role of a monster. I want to see you out of the shadows, with the trust and respect that your labours deserve."
Illyan was absolutely still now, looking directly at him, Horus eyes and real eyes both. Then he let himself drop on Aral, mouth hard across his, as if Illyan was trying to swallow his words before they emerged, as if his words were food and drink, and politics and lust melted together again in his mind. He had, he thought dimly, managed to provoke Illyan just as much now as he had with the flyer.
Just when Aral's whole body was engaged, when he was unable to think of any more words, Illyan pulled back and said, "But what is the point in you formulating all these plans when you turn down the opportunity to put them into practice?" and it was Aral's turn to freeze.
"I thought I wasn't inviting Ezar into bed with me," he snarled back, appalled at the longing in Illyan's eyes, trying to drive it away. "If that's all you're really here for, give me that bottle and go wait in the flyer."
This time he'd truly hurt Illyan, the blank shock that precedes pain filling those wide human eyes. Anger flashed over him as quickly as brandy catching fire, anger at his own words, self-loathing, escaping as gouts of brutal rage, directed inwards and outwards indiscriminately. He'd been here before, he'd been here so many times before, he and Ges, that sudden flick from pleasure to pain. Instinctively he rolled over, trapping Illyan beneath him, seizing his shoulders.
"Damn you, what did you even follow me here for? When I want the Emperor's lapdog to come to my heel I'll say so. I've had enough of you glued to my elbow like some really fucking aggravating shadow, I--"
Illyan twisted away, breaking his grip, rolling into a crouch. His Horus-eyes watched neutrally; his human eyes burned. Aral struck out, not sure why, not even sure who he was attacking. His blow glanced aside, and so did the next, and the next, whatever he did, Illyan wasn't there. It was like trying to attack smoke, and it wasn't just that everything was spinning and tilting around him, he'd been drunk when he and Ges had grappled like this, but Ges had always closed with him, the blows switching to kisses and then back. But Illyan was moving now as he had in the flyer, spinning, catching his attacks and turning them aside, never striking back, never taking the pain in his eyes and converting it into the pain of the body. He charged, trying to pin Illyan against the flyer, but when he lunged forwards Illyan wasn't there and he was going headfirst for the river. For an instant he welcomed it, anticipated the burning icy plunge and the rocky smash that would obliterate all his crimes, past and present.
Instead he was seized, turned around, pinned to the ground, held down by two iron-strong hands and a knee. His mouth opened on helpless gasps, winded, and he could only stare up at Illyan's blank face.
"Don't make promises you won't deliver," Illyan said at last. Don't offer me something I want and can't have, both pairs of his eyes said.
"Can't," Aral whispered. "Not 'won't'. Can't," and Illyan released him. He lay still, breathing hard, then stumbled to his feet, crossed to his flyer, retrieved the bottle of mead and took it to sit on the riverbank, propped up against a rock. He stared at the flickering moonlight on the water, raising the bottle to his lips. "Everything I touch," he muttered. "Everything I fucking touch. It's just as well she won't come."
He didn't know how much time had passed. It might have only been a minute or two, it might have been an hour; it was enough that he could see Ges's face in the water; it was enough that random half-splintered memories of the retreat were flashing into his mind, perfectly vivid, the ships he'd lost, the mistakes he'd made, the lights flaring and going out on the tactical computer. His face was as wet as if he had fallen in the river, his eyes aching.
He jumped violently and nearly dropped the bottle when Illyan sat down silently beside him. But it didn't help, his thoughts seguing smoothly from past to present failures, embodied in the man at his side.
He offered Illyan the bottle. "It won't help you forget what I said, but if you have enough of this you might not care."
"Previous experience suggests not," Illyan said, but he took the bottle anyway, had a sip, grimaced and passed it back. "You have to be Dendarii-bred to like this stuff." He sat without saying anything more, but Aral was aware of Illyan's eyes on him, sidelong, a spectator noting all that he saw. Then, just as the pain of that drove Aral to take another drink, Illyan turned and looked directly at Aral again. His expression changed, and Aral recognised it: precisely the look he'd had when the flyer had landed. "I fly like a fucking angel," Illyan said, in Aral's own intonation.
Aral's mind was working slowly now, but the cues were strong enough that he reached out to Illyan even before he grasped what it was Illyan was offering him: a chance to start again, to replay that exchange only without injuring each other in the process.
"You do," he said. He touched Illyan's cheek, let his thumb play over his lips. Illyan exhaled, his expression changed, no longer the perfect past-imitation, but his true present self: like Aral still had something he wanted. Aral had seen that expression so often and knew what it was Illyan wanted: he wanted to be led. He let his hand fall slowly. "I'm sorry, Simon. I'm sorry. Whatever you're looking for, it's not here."
"While watching you trying to punch me has its charms, as a pastime," Illyan answered, "I am not so fond of it that I'm going to answer that truthfully."
Aral supposed he deserved that. He offered Illyan the mead again. Illyan took it, but instead of drinking he said, "Captain Voraronberg?"
It wasn't really a change of subject. His tendencies had been the stuff of gossip for decades, in town and in the Service, and men who shared them approached him regularly. Mostly he turned them down, but Voraronberg was recently back from Escobar too, and drinking in the same bar, and there'd been a grief in his eyes that Aral recognised. He didn't think it was because he could call Voraronberg 'captain' in bed, but it might have been. They'd both been drunk enough that it had been a brief encounter. Though not as abbreviated as earlier with Illyan.
"You watched?" Aral heard himself say, and wished he hadn't. His mouth had bought him enough grief tonight. But Illyan merely snorted a laugh.
"There wasn't much to watch. I was surprised you both made it to a bed."
Aral had woken up at home. That was normal, lately: he never woke up where he finally passed out. Judging by the way the rocky side of the gorge opposite was fading out of focus, it wasn't going to be long now. Perhaps Illyan would just leave him here for the carrion-eaters.
"You minded?" Aral said next. "I don't know Voraronberg. He doesn't know me. But he wanted to fuck the Hero of Escobar, even after seeing what happened."
"He wanted to console you," Illyan corrected this. "Stupid of him."
Aral deserved that too. He took the mead back from Illyan, leaned back against the rock, then let himself slump sideways until he was leaning against Illyan. Offering himself to Illyan. Illyan adjusted his balance, opening up his shoulder, not quite putting his arm around Aral.
"You could push me in," Aral suggested. "Tragic accident. War hero gets drunk and falls in the river. They could have a funeral for me like Serg's."
"Don't imagine I'm not tempted."
"I know for a fact you can lie better than that, Simon." He turned his head slowly so that he could see Illyan's face, and Illyan did put an arm around him then. Aral kissed him, slowly this time, without promises, without politics, just the warmth of his mouth on Illyan's, apology and forgiveness together.
He pulled away at last, drowsy now, and lay back, letting his head sink on Illyan's shoulder. His earlier passion was gone, all three passions, sex and politics and fighting, leaving him nothing but burned-out ash. Illyan held him wordlessly. Clouds covered the moon, and the flickering lights vanished from the surface of the water. For a while, all was still.
It was his body that broke the spell, the mead turning on him and seeking its revenge at last. Aral was aware of sweat starting on his face, on his neck. He opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. His stomach lurched, he heard himself groan. Illyan's head turned sharply, a rueful awareness rising in his eyes.
His thoughts became very hazy then, only the misery of his body at last overwhelming the misery of his mind as the familiar consequence of alcohol poisoning ensued. He was always aware of one thing: he was not left to suffer alone. Strong hands held his head, wiped his face, wrapped something warm around his shoulders when he shivered.
When the spasms left him, and he began to be aware of his surroundings again, he found he was no longer at the riverside but back near the flyers, lying on his side on the dry moss. He coughed and raised his head. He felt less drunk now, more exhausted, a little more clear-headed. Illyan was there, and when Aral tried to sit up Illyan caught his shoulders, raising him until he was supported against Illyan's chest. For a moment it was simply nice, uncomplicated, right: of course Illyan was there with him. But his clearing mind brought him back to reality, and he began to remember. He tried to pull away, but for all that his mind was clearer, his body was uncooperative.
"Why," he croaked, coughed, tried again. "Why can't I get rid of you? How much more do I have to do to get you to go?" A clumsy gesture took in everything: the flight, the fighting, the insults, the vomiting. The past.
Illyan had turned all such questions aside, before, with light insults or bitter jokes. This time, he didn't answer at all.
"Why won't you go?" Aral repeated hoarsely, and Illyan gave him a true answer.
"This is clean and easy," he said, "compared to before."
Aral felt as though Illyan had punched him, winded. He coughed again, his own words sour in his mouth. "Oh," he managed. "Simon..."
"I was there too," Illyan went on, as if having started to speak he couldn't stop. "Everything you did, my hand was over yours, holding you to it." As if in illustration he put a bottle in Aral's hand, closed Aral's drink-stunned fingers around it. "That was my role, to force you to keep your hand to the job. I didn't know what I was doing until later, but I did it."
Aral raised his hand shakily to his mouth and took a sip from the bottle. Illyan's hand remained over his, guiding him. It was only water; he supposed he should not have expected anything else. He sipped it slowly, and his mind felt clearer. He didn't want his mind to feel clearer. His fingers lost their grip and Illyan caught the bottle, his hands moving away, then returned and covered his again, unexpectedly tentative. Aral laced his fingers into Illyan's.
"'m surprised you don't do what I did," he said at last. "Resign your commission."
Illyan made an odd sound. "When I was on Illyrica," he said, "they tried taking the chip out of some of us, when they could see it was fucking us up. It didn't help. It grows into your brain, and the way they tried to pull it out, it takes your brain with it." He brought his hands together, fingers joining, the chip's threads growing into his mind. "If I resign my commission--" He stopped speaking, then gave a shaky laugh. "Negri can't fire me, either. Not even for stealing that flyer. They gave our families death-in-service benefits when we left. I'm in this as long as I live."
Aral turned his head, looking for Illyan's face, afraid of what he would see on it, needing to see. He reached up clumsily, touched Illyan's forehead. "I'm sorry," he said at last. "What I said earlier. When we were flying."
Of course Illyan knew what he meant. Illyan always knew what he meant. He sighed. "No," he said. "That's not the way out, for me."
"Why not?" Aral asked, meaning it truly, hearts on the table. "Why not, Simon? You've seen what we are, you've had your brain fucked by them, you're bound to them for life--what stops you?" He raised a hand suddenly, and added, "And don't look at me like that. I'm not enough of a reason."
Illyan's eyes said otherwise, but then a tiny smile touched the corners of his mouth. "Curiosity," he said at last. "I want to know what happens next. What the consequences will be. What the surprises will be. I want to find out."
Aral lay back, let his hand fall. "Yes," he said at last. "You're in the right line of work, you know that, Simon. Even with--all of it." A twitch of his hand, encompassing all that was wrong with ImpSec. "Curiosity. Yes."
He closed his eyes, wondering what his answer might be, if he could answer anything to that. But thinking was growing more and more difficult, exhaustion was beginning to overwhelm him, suck him down, even gravity was pulling harder on him. He could hear Illyan's steady breathing, the thud of his heart, and he let that fill his mind as everything else faded and blurred.
"Ready to go back?" he heard Illyan say.
Words were starting to slip away from him, his mind too thick and slow, and he could only jerk his head in a faint nod. He felt himself moving, Illyan was lifting him up, supporting him, carrying him to the prototype flyer, lowering him into the passenger seat, settling him comfortably. One word floated in his mind, drifting there like a becalmed boat, as his eyes refused to open and unconsciousness began to cover him: love. He tried to send it away, but the word remained there like a snatch of music repeating itself in his mind. With an effort he pulled his eyes open enough to see Illyan's face bending over him, smoothing a blanket over him. Love. He whispered the word, barely more than a breath, and the last thing he saw as blackness swallowed him was the warm crinkle at the corners of Illyan's eyes.
Crossposted at https://philomytha.dreamwidth.org/169919.html. There are
comments there.
Title: Brown Eyes, Silver Eyes
Length: 5000 words
Rating: M
Tags: suicidal character, alcohol, declaming revolution in iambic pentameter, hurt/comfort, competence, Escobar, angst
Summary: Aral goes drunk-flying in the Dendarii gorge. Illyan follows.
Brown Eyes, Silver Eyes on AO3
Aral pulled back on the joystick and let the flyer soar upwards until her nose was almost vertical, up, up, up, he was staring into the moons, the stars, pressed flat in his seat by the g-forces. He let out a yell, no words, just a raw scream of exhilaration, then forced the stick forwards as hard as he could. The flyer groaned and lurched, and the moons and stars whirled around him. He plunged down, flung with bruising force against the safety harness, his body screaming. A rock wall loomed up on his left, on his right. He swerved, threw the flyer into a spin, his vision blurred and for an instant he blacked out.
When he blinked back into focus, he thought he was aiming for the sky again, then realised he was seeing the reflection of a moon on water below. Water very close below. He pulled up, gasping, heart thumping, and got the flyer level, banking into a wider valley where the rock walls gave him more clearance. It would annoy his father if he crashed in such a stupid way. He set the flyer on a steadier course and took another sip of mead instead, rolling gently around the turns. At least he'd lost the ImpSec flyers again, somewhere before that last dive. Negri's men were a gutless lot.
More, he'd lost his thoughts. He pictured them spinning off the flyer, crashing into some rock wall a few minutes ago, leaving him with just his hands and the flyer's responses and the canyons and cliffs of the Dendarii gorge for company now. Much better company. He swooped up and then began to push the joystick forwards for another dive when something swept hard across his nose, so close that he thought it was a hallucination. He jerked his flyer back level reflexively, but the other machine was already out of sight, above and behind him. Aral cast a confused glance around but saw nothing save a flash of moonlight on a wing as it banked and turned.
"Who the hell's there?" he demanded, broadcast across the comm.
His proximity alarm sounded: the other flyer was on his tail, tight behind him and a little off-centre, and even before the response came, he knew who it would be.
"You've terrorised my men enough for one evening."
Commander Illyan. Of course it was Illyan.
"If they can't keep up then stop sending them," he retorted, and pulled into another dive. Illyan followed as if roped to his tail. Aral swerved, lurched, rolled sideways and twisted into a narrower canyon. Illyan was still there. He'd left the channel open, he could hear Illyan's breathing over the link, steady and calm as if he were waiting through a meeting instead of speeding through the Dendarii range.
He opened up the throttle and took the next turn very fast, scraping the tip of his starboard wing against the rocks. Sparks flew up. Illyan did not scrape his wing, nor did he drop behind. Annoyed, Aral increased his speed further, following the old road his father had once shown him, though the canyon walls were starting to dance in his vision. The invisible rope holding Illyan to his tail did not alter.
"You flown down here before?" he demanded.
"No," came the instant response. "But I've seen a map."
"Fuck that thing in your head, anyway," Aral said savagely to this. "If I had one of those in my head I'd just aim this flyer straight at the wall now."
Illyan's steady breathing didn't alter. "No," he said, "you wouldn't." His tone was as level as his breathing. He was angry at Aral. Good. More people should be angry at him. Aral suddenly dived low, only pulling up and levelling out at the last second. Illyan was right behind him; if he crashed Illyan would crash too.
Aral took another gulp of mead and turned south, into the narrowest parts of the range, clipping his other wing as he went. The joystick was slippery in his hand, the control lights on the dash swirling, he swung one way, then the other, then got her straightened up again. There was only one path through here, with overhangs above and rocky pillars below, and he knew it was madness to go in, but he plunged in anyway. A glance behind: the other flyer wasn't there.
"Simon?" he said, and then, "Shit." The canyon was not wide enough for two flyers side-by-side, but Illyan was overtaking him anyway, his flyer rolled over on her side with one wing pointing at the narrow chasm beneath, the other aimed at the moon, skimming between the tip of his rocking wings and the rock wall. There was a sharp turn coming up, one wrong move from him now, one swerve, and Illyan would be crushed.
Aral dared not slow down lest he unbalance his flyer, dared not adjust his course, dared not even breathe as they rounded the turn side by side. Then Illyan shot out in front of him. The canyon twisted, and Illyan twisted with it, flying upside-down. There was no room for him to roll in this narrow section, but he rolled anyway in an odd twisting manoeuvre, his wingtips coming within a hairsbreadth of the walls, then settled right-way-up. Aral lurched sideways in his seat with a relieved shudder, and his flyer veered towards the cliff face. He steadied it, gasping.
"You fucking lunatic," he spat into the comm.
There was no response, but he thought Illyan's breathing was a little faster. Illyan pulled ahead as the path widened, swooping through the gorge like some night-hunting bird. Aral opened his throttle again, trying to stick to Illyan's tail the way Illyan had been doing to him, but every time he thought he was closing the gap Illyan lost him again. Illyan suddenly soared up, above the rocky walls, and Aral followed him, his vision narrowed to the tail of Illyan's flyer. There was a strong wind blowing up here and he fought with it, trying to keep the light craft steady as he followed. Illyan, apparently unaffected by the wind, went into a series of spins and rolls that Aral, after the first nauseous swirl, did not attempt to imitate. Belatedly he realised that Illyan had lured him out of the gorge. He considered diving back down, but the moment his flyer's nose tilted downwards, Illyan sliced across it again, his twisting turn taking him within inches of the rocky plateau beneath them. Aral pulled up.
"All right, all right," he said across the comm. "You've made your point, you're crazier than me." He circled as Illyan looped back up again, then followed Illyan along and down into a wider valley where a small river meandered with a broad meadow on either side of it. Aral was struggling to focus now, on Illyan, on the ground, on anything, dizziness and exhaustion and drink starting to overwhelm him. He swung left and right, drifted over the river, then swore as the flyer suddenly lifted as something flashed past. Illyan swooped around him again, using the downdraft from his own machine to push Aral's into a safe landing spot. Aral pancaked onto solid ground, bounced once, then settled down in a flat landing. He sat back limp in his seat. Illyan's flyer soared past him again as if checking he was going to stay there, then spun around on its own length and flew straight at him. Aral's head went back, lips parting in shock. At the last second Illyan swerved, grav-thrusters firing, and landed neatly alongside. Aral blew out his breath in a puff, took another gulp of mead and then swiped the control to open the hatch. The fresh air roused him, and he pushed himself out of the flyer to stand leaning against it, catching his breath, feeling the ground rock beneath his feet.
The hatch opened on the other flyer and Commander Illyan jumped lightly out. He looked at Aral, and his face was not in its usual bland lines of the Emperor's vid-camera, nor yet the grim acceptance he'd displayed on other drinking expeditions lately. His hair was sweat-streaked, he was breathing fast, and his eyes were wide. A small satisfied smile curled at the corner of his lips, and the thrill of their flying duel still glowed on his face. He met Aral's gaze directly and held it.
Illyan didn't look directly at people. Aral had noticed it again and again over the months in his company. Illyan always stood to one side, a spectator in other people's lives, deliberately excluding himself from involvement, a vid-camera with legs. With a body. His direct gaze was as startling as if Aral had just brought a statue to life.
Aral pushed off the side of his flyer and closed the distance between them. His legs were unreliable, and he crash-landed on Illyan, much as his flyer had landed on the meadow.
"You fly like a fucking angel," he said, and kissed Illyan on the mouth.
If this greeting surprised Illyan, he gave no sign of it. Instead he caught Aral in a hard grasp, and Aral couldn't tell if his intent was romantic or practical.
"That mead is even worse second-hand," Illyan said when he broke off. He reached into his flyer with one hand and pulled out a water bottle and gave it to Aral. Aral took a few swallows, then put it aside and kissed Illyan again. "Better?" he mumbled.
"Much."
His thoughts were still far behind him, smeared somewhere along the walls of the gorge, Illyan was still breathing fast and responding enthusiastically to the kiss, and the thrill of the flight was beginning to shift into a different thrill as he pressed his body against Illyan's. Illyan, evidently, had not given up exercise since getting back from Escobar. Aral could feel his wiry strength, hard arms that had no difficulty keeping him steady as Aral put all his attention into his mouth on Illyan's, the sharp line of his jaw, the velvet-soft skin on his lips, the way even as he kept his grip on Aral he made a low sound of pleasure at Aral's efforts. He redoubled those efforts, and was rewarded with another gasp and a sudden slide of Illyan's hips against his. Aral reciprocated and immediately lost his balance, and Illyan broke off with a laugh, catching him.
"You're way too drunk," he said, but warmly, amused.
It was a mild night, the native mosses that covered the ground looked soft and inviting. Aral let himself sink down on it bonelessly. Illyan turned his skew-limbed collapse into something more controlled, ending up lying beside him propped up on one elbow.
"I'm not," Aral said lazily. He reached out, ran his fingers through Illyan's hair, still sweat-damp after the flying. The flyers loomed up on either side of them, and Aral squinted at Illyan's.
"You know what that looks like?" he said as he pulled Illyan in for another kiss.
"What?" Illyan mumbled. His hands were running down Aral's chest, making him shiver in anticipation.
"Your flyer. It looks like the new Model F. I saw the specs for it last year. Nice bird."
"It is." Illyan moved in for another kiss, but Aral raised his head, staring at the flyer.
"Can't be. It's not in production yet, there's only one prototype, it's still being tested... Simon. How the hell did you get that?"
"I borrowed it," Illyan said. There was something in his face that caught Aral's breath, some combination of amusement and smugness and calculated defiance.
"You borrowed--" Aral lay back again, staring at the sky, picturing the way Illyan had pushed that flyer to the limits of its abilities, within inches of smashing it. "I knew it, that chip in your head must have knocked some screws loose. You just took it?"
"I have an order," Illyan said primly, "in the Emperor's own Voice, to follow you. I judged that I needed this so that I could obey that order. And I was right, none of my men could keep up with you in the older models, and they're all good pilots."
Aral caught at Illyan's arm, pulled him down again and kissed him. "You stole it," he said. "Confess. You stole the prototype. What did you do, just waft in with your Horus-eyes and glare at them until they handed it over? And to think you had me convinced you were the most by-the-book lieutenant in the entire of the Imperial Service."
"Perhaps it's your influence."
"Ha. You've got to watch your step, Simon, if you really took that without authorisation they can cashier you for it. Look, I'll give you a chit for it--oh." His thoughts, left behind on rocky walls of the gorge, were starting to come back. He wasn't an admiral any longer, he couldn't cover for Illyan. He pulled Illyan back towards him, as if he might serve as a human shield between Aral and his memories.
"They can't cashier me, don't worry," Illyan said lightly, and let himself fall onto Aral as if recognising Aral's wish for distraction, his hips pressing frankly in, no hesitation. Aral surprised himself with a laugh, letting his eyes rest on the way Illyan's shoulders moved in his uniform jacket, enjoying the familiar press of his belt buckle against Aral's hip, the heat of his mouth.
His hands curved on Illyan's neck, fumbled with the buttons on his high collar. The moonlight gleamed on the Horus-eyes on either side, their two pupils seeming to watch him in tandem with Illyan's own eyes. Aral touched the pins. "They used to tell us there were miniature vid-cameras in these. I suppose for you that would be redundant." He ran his fingers over Illyan's lips, giving up on the collar, but Illyan had drawn back at his words, a new tension in his body.
"What?" he demanded. "I'm not too drunk, I'm never too drunk for this, so unless you've changed your mind--" Intuition came a moment too late, and he pulled Illyan in hard and kissed both Horus-eye pins. "You think I mind you watching me?"
"It would not be uncommon," Illyan said, his voice as cautious as his body. He wasn't looking at Aral any more.
"Who the hell have you been taking to bed? And I thought I was the one who was supposed to have bad taste." He let the flare of anger soar upwards like the flyer had, and rode it, used it to pull Illyan bodily on top of him, wrapping one hand around the back of Illyan's head where he vaguely supposed the memory chip might be, pressing Illyan's mouth towards his for another kiss. Illyan reciprocated, but still cautiously, his earlier enthusiasm modulated into a minor key. Aral got Illyan's tunic loose, slid one hand under the layers of uniform until he found the bare skin of his back, startlingly smooth and soft.
"ImpSec's watched me all my life," he mumbled. "Negri's got recordings of me fucking already. Lots of them. Dammit, Simon, nobody should have done this to you in the first place." He caught Illyan's chin with his other hand, staring into his brown eyes and his silver eyes. It was just a trick of the light, a trick of the mead, that made it look like the silver eyes were shimmering, alive, wet. "What are you even doing in ImpSec? You're a good person."
Illyan made a sound that might have been a laugh or a snort, but Aral continued, the pressure of words rising in him.
"You're a good person, but ImpSec isn't, and you know it. We may have got rid of Grishnov and his mob, but honestly, was there much to choose between them and Negri?" Words were beginning to boil up inside him now, venting from a source that had lain dormant for many months. "But ImpSec isn't past reforming, and you're the proof of that, Simon." He still had his hands pressed against Illyan's back, he could feel the tension, the truth of what he was saying. "The day will come when you will have to change. Whatever ImpSec's sins are, they lie on us all, on what we are willing to permit. And in this, we are very close to being exactly what our enemies call us. When we do these things to you, when we allow you out to smash down any door, drag any man away without recourse, when no law but the Emperor's voice governs you--" Illyan's whole body flinched at that, but Aral was in spate now, carried away on words, flying through them as recklessly as he had through the gorge.
"When we permit this, then how can we face the rest of the galaxy as anything other than the barbarians they call us? Intelligence work always operates in the grey areas, but other planets, other worlds, have intelligence agencies, and they are governed by law, they collaborate with others, they have windows in their walls." He paused for breath, staring up at Illyan's face. He wasn't sure Illyan was breathing at all. He hadn't been able to outfly him, but he could out-talk him. "One day we'll do it. Smash holes in that great hideous building and let in the light." He drew one of his hands out, caressed the Horus-eye pins again. "I don't want to see you take the role of a monster. I want to see you out of the shadows, with the trust and respect that your labours deserve."
Illyan was absolutely still now, looking directly at him, Horus eyes and real eyes both. Then he let himself drop on Aral, mouth hard across his, as if Illyan was trying to swallow his words before they emerged, as if his words were food and drink, and politics and lust melted together again in his mind. He had, he thought dimly, managed to provoke Illyan just as much now as he had with the flyer.
Just when Aral's whole body was engaged, when he was unable to think of any more words, Illyan pulled back and said, "But what is the point in you formulating all these plans when you turn down the opportunity to put them into practice?" and it was Aral's turn to freeze.
"I thought I wasn't inviting Ezar into bed with me," he snarled back, appalled at the longing in Illyan's eyes, trying to drive it away. "If that's all you're really here for, give me that bottle and go wait in the flyer."
This time he'd truly hurt Illyan, the blank shock that precedes pain filling those wide human eyes. Anger flashed over him as quickly as brandy catching fire, anger at his own words, self-loathing, escaping as gouts of brutal rage, directed inwards and outwards indiscriminately. He'd been here before, he'd been here so many times before, he and Ges, that sudden flick from pleasure to pain. Instinctively he rolled over, trapping Illyan beneath him, seizing his shoulders.
"Damn you, what did you even follow me here for? When I want the Emperor's lapdog to come to my heel I'll say so. I've had enough of you glued to my elbow like some really fucking aggravating shadow, I--"
Illyan twisted away, breaking his grip, rolling into a crouch. His Horus-eyes watched neutrally; his human eyes burned. Aral struck out, not sure why, not even sure who he was attacking. His blow glanced aside, and so did the next, and the next, whatever he did, Illyan wasn't there. It was like trying to attack smoke, and it wasn't just that everything was spinning and tilting around him, he'd been drunk when he and Ges had grappled like this, but Ges had always closed with him, the blows switching to kisses and then back. But Illyan was moving now as he had in the flyer, spinning, catching his attacks and turning them aside, never striking back, never taking the pain in his eyes and converting it into the pain of the body. He charged, trying to pin Illyan against the flyer, but when he lunged forwards Illyan wasn't there and he was going headfirst for the river. For an instant he welcomed it, anticipated the burning icy plunge and the rocky smash that would obliterate all his crimes, past and present.
Instead he was seized, turned around, pinned to the ground, held down by two iron-strong hands and a knee. His mouth opened on helpless gasps, winded, and he could only stare up at Illyan's blank face.
"Don't make promises you won't deliver," Illyan said at last. Don't offer me something I want and can't have, both pairs of his eyes said.
"Can't," Aral whispered. "Not 'won't'. Can't," and Illyan released him. He lay still, breathing hard, then stumbled to his feet, crossed to his flyer, retrieved the bottle of mead and took it to sit on the riverbank, propped up against a rock. He stared at the flickering moonlight on the water, raising the bottle to his lips. "Everything I touch," he muttered. "Everything I fucking touch. It's just as well she won't come."
He didn't know how much time had passed. It might have only been a minute or two, it might have been an hour; it was enough that he could see Ges's face in the water; it was enough that random half-splintered memories of the retreat were flashing into his mind, perfectly vivid, the ships he'd lost, the mistakes he'd made, the lights flaring and going out on the tactical computer. His face was as wet as if he had fallen in the river, his eyes aching.
He jumped violently and nearly dropped the bottle when Illyan sat down silently beside him. But it didn't help, his thoughts seguing smoothly from past to present failures, embodied in the man at his side.
He offered Illyan the bottle. "It won't help you forget what I said, but if you have enough of this you might not care."
"Previous experience suggests not," Illyan said, but he took the bottle anyway, had a sip, grimaced and passed it back. "You have to be Dendarii-bred to like this stuff." He sat without saying anything more, but Aral was aware of Illyan's eyes on him, sidelong, a spectator noting all that he saw. Then, just as the pain of that drove Aral to take another drink, Illyan turned and looked directly at Aral again. His expression changed, and Aral recognised it: precisely the look he'd had when the flyer had landed. "I fly like a fucking angel," Illyan said, in Aral's own intonation.
Aral's mind was working slowly now, but the cues were strong enough that he reached out to Illyan even before he grasped what it was Illyan was offering him: a chance to start again, to replay that exchange only without injuring each other in the process.
"You do," he said. He touched Illyan's cheek, let his thumb play over his lips. Illyan exhaled, his expression changed, no longer the perfect past-imitation, but his true present self: like Aral still had something he wanted. Aral had seen that expression so often and knew what it was Illyan wanted: he wanted to be led. He let his hand fall slowly. "I'm sorry, Simon. I'm sorry. Whatever you're looking for, it's not here."
"While watching you trying to punch me has its charms, as a pastime," Illyan answered, "I am not so fond of it that I'm going to answer that truthfully."
Aral supposed he deserved that. He offered Illyan the mead again. Illyan took it, but instead of drinking he said, "Captain Voraronberg?"
It wasn't really a change of subject. His tendencies had been the stuff of gossip for decades, in town and in the Service, and men who shared them approached him regularly. Mostly he turned them down, but Voraronberg was recently back from Escobar too, and drinking in the same bar, and there'd been a grief in his eyes that Aral recognised. He didn't think it was because he could call Voraronberg 'captain' in bed, but it might have been. They'd both been drunk enough that it had been a brief encounter. Though not as abbreviated as earlier with Illyan.
"You watched?" Aral heard himself say, and wished he hadn't. His mouth had bought him enough grief tonight. But Illyan merely snorted a laugh.
"There wasn't much to watch. I was surprised you both made it to a bed."
Aral had woken up at home. That was normal, lately: he never woke up where he finally passed out. Judging by the way the rocky side of the gorge opposite was fading out of focus, it wasn't going to be long now. Perhaps Illyan would just leave him here for the carrion-eaters.
"You minded?" Aral said next. "I don't know Voraronberg. He doesn't know me. But he wanted to fuck the Hero of Escobar, even after seeing what happened."
"He wanted to console you," Illyan corrected this. "Stupid of him."
Aral deserved that too. He took the mead back from Illyan, leaned back against the rock, then let himself slump sideways until he was leaning against Illyan. Offering himself to Illyan. Illyan adjusted his balance, opening up his shoulder, not quite putting his arm around Aral.
"You could push me in," Aral suggested. "Tragic accident. War hero gets drunk and falls in the river. They could have a funeral for me like Serg's."
"Don't imagine I'm not tempted."
"I know for a fact you can lie better than that, Simon." He turned his head slowly so that he could see Illyan's face, and Illyan did put an arm around him then. Aral kissed him, slowly this time, without promises, without politics, just the warmth of his mouth on Illyan's, apology and forgiveness together.
He pulled away at last, drowsy now, and lay back, letting his head sink on Illyan's shoulder. His earlier passion was gone, all three passions, sex and politics and fighting, leaving him nothing but burned-out ash. Illyan held him wordlessly. Clouds covered the moon, and the flickering lights vanished from the surface of the water. For a while, all was still.
It was his body that broke the spell, the mead turning on him and seeking its revenge at last. Aral was aware of sweat starting on his face, on his neck. He opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. His stomach lurched, he heard himself groan. Illyan's head turned sharply, a rueful awareness rising in his eyes.
His thoughts became very hazy then, only the misery of his body at last overwhelming the misery of his mind as the familiar consequence of alcohol poisoning ensued. He was always aware of one thing: he was not left to suffer alone. Strong hands held his head, wiped his face, wrapped something warm around his shoulders when he shivered.
When the spasms left him, and he began to be aware of his surroundings again, he found he was no longer at the riverside but back near the flyers, lying on his side on the dry moss. He coughed and raised his head. He felt less drunk now, more exhausted, a little more clear-headed. Illyan was there, and when Aral tried to sit up Illyan caught his shoulders, raising him until he was supported against Illyan's chest. For a moment it was simply nice, uncomplicated, right: of course Illyan was there with him. But his clearing mind brought him back to reality, and he began to remember. He tried to pull away, but for all that his mind was clearer, his body was uncooperative.
"Why," he croaked, coughed, tried again. "Why can't I get rid of you? How much more do I have to do to get you to go?" A clumsy gesture took in everything: the flight, the fighting, the insults, the vomiting. The past.
Illyan had turned all such questions aside, before, with light insults or bitter jokes. This time, he didn't answer at all.
"Why won't you go?" Aral repeated hoarsely, and Illyan gave him a true answer.
"This is clean and easy," he said, "compared to before."
Aral felt as though Illyan had punched him, winded. He coughed again, his own words sour in his mouth. "Oh," he managed. "Simon..."
"I was there too," Illyan went on, as if having started to speak he couldn't stop. "Everything you did, my hand was over yours, holding you to it." As if in illustration he put a bottle in Aral's hand, closed Aral's drink-stunned fingers around it. "That was my role, to force you to keep your hand to the job. I didn't know what I was doing until later, but I did it."
Aral raised his hand shakily to his mouth and took a sip from the bottle. Illyan's hand remained over his, guiding him. It was only water; he supposed he should not have expected anything else. He sipped it slowly, and his mind felt clearer. He didn't want his mind to feel clearer. His fingers lost their grip and Illyan caught the bottle, his hands moving away, then returned and covered his again, unexpectedly tentative. Aral laced his fingers into Illyan's.
"'m surprised you don't do what I did," he said at last. "Resign your commission."
Illyan made an odd sound. "When I was on Illyrica," he said, "they tried taking the chip out of some of us, when they could see it was fucking us up. It didn't help. It grows into your brain, and the way they tried to pull it out, it takes your brain with it." He brought his hands together, fingers joining, the chip's threads growing into his mind. "If I resign my commission--" He stopped speaking, then gave a shaky laugh. "Negri can't fire me, either. Not even for stealing that flyer. They gave our families death-in-service benefits when we left. I'm in this as long as I live."
Aral turned his head, looking for Illyan's face, afraid of what he would see on it, needing to see. He reached up clumsily, touched Illyan's forehead. "I'm sorry," he said at last. "What I said earlier. When we were flying."
Of course Illyan knew what he meant. Illyan always knew what he meant. He sighed. "No," he said. "That's not the way out, for me."
"Why not?" Aral asked, meaning it truly, hearts on the table. "Why not, Simon? You've seen what we are, you've had your brain fucked by them, you're bound to them for life--what stops you?" He raised a hand suddenly, and added, "And don't look at me like that. I'm not enough of a reason."
Illyan's eyes said otherwise, but then a tiny smile touched the corners of his mouth. "Curiosity," he said at last. "I want to know what happens next. What the consequences will be. What the surprises will be. I want to find out."
Aral lay back, let his hand fall. "Yes," he said at last. "You're in the right line of work, you know that, Simon. Even with--all of it." A twitch of his hand, encompassing all that was wrong with ImpSec. "Curiosity. Yes."
He closed his eyes, wondering what his answer might be, if he could answer anything to that. But thinking was growing more and more difficult, exhaustion was beginning to overwhelm him, suck him down, even gravity was pulling harder on him. He could hear Illyan's steady breathing, the thud of his heart, and he let that fill his mind as everything else faded and blurred.
"Ready to go back?" he heard Illyan say.
Words were starting to slip away from him, his mind too thick and slow, and he could only jerk his head in a faint nod. He felt himself moving, Illyan was lifting him up, supporting him, carrying him to the prototype flyer, lowering him into the passenger seat, settling him comfortably. One word floated in his mind, drifting there like a becalmed boat, as his eyes refused to open and unconsciousness began to cover him: love. He tried to send it away, but the word remained there like a snatch of music repeating itself in his mind. With an effort he pulled his eyes open enough to see Illyan's face bending over him, smoothing a blanket over him. Love. He whispered the word, barely more than a breath, and the last thing he saw as blackness swallowed him was the warm crinkle at the corners of Illyan's eyes.
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