Volume 1: A Serviceable Boy
Chapter 13
A Piece of the Truth
Chapter Notes
Rereading this, I think Bror might be the MVP of this story, just in terms of being the best at actually being a human being.
Chapter Notes
Rereading this, I think Bror might be the MVP of this story, just in terms of being the best at actually being a human being.
Rereading this, I think Bror might be the MVP of this story, just in terms of being the best at actually being a human being.
Gersha woke with a jerk and realized, with horror, that he was still in Tilrey’s bed. He hadn’t even closed the door or turned out the lights. What time was it?He scrambled to his feet and began frantically putting the bed to rights. It wasn’t as neat as he’d found it, but that couldn’t be helped.To his relief, it was only dawn. A glance at the outdoor cam showed him the car hadn’t returned. Safe in his own room, he undressed, showered, and re-dressed, cinching the belt and collar of his tunic as tightly as he could. His eyes burned from last night’s foolish tears.
Yes, you are a fool!
Bosh and Tilrey still hadn’t returned. Rather than risk meeting them on his way out, he retired to his study and fiddled with a fix for a bug in his database.At last he heard the distant hisp of the wind-seal. He crept into the corridor, staying out of sight, until Tilrey’s door had opened and closed.Entering the coldroom, he ran into Bosh, who was taking his breakfast out to his quarters in the garage. The driver looked bleary with fatigue and liquor—someone at the party must have been generous with the bottles.“Morning, Fir. You want the car?”“No, eat your breakfast—I’ll take the tram.” Gersha inclined his head toward Tilrey’s door before he could stop himself. “You were gone all night. Is he—?”“Sleeping, Fir. Long night. Needn’t worry yourself.”Something flashed in the driver’s usually impervious eyes—was it sympathy, or contempt, or even reproach?Gersha felt his jaw tighten. “I’m off to the Sector, then,” he said.Toward noon, two voices rumbled outside Tilrey’s door, debating whether he was asleep. “Come in, Bror,” he called, recognizing the newcomer.Bror tiptoed in, or as close to tiptoeing as someone his size could manage. Tilrey didn’t sit up or turn his eyes from the wall. A fresh dose of sap had renewed the numbness, lozenges had soothed his throat, and a steaming shower had sluiced away all tangible traces of the Councillors-elect, but he still didn’t particularly feel like showing anyone his face. Bror would understand.“You should be asleep,” his friend scolded gently.“I got a couple hours.” A lie.Somehow it was always worse after than during. Last night he’d had perfect control of every physical response, but some time this morning the armor of affected indifference had slipped away, leaving him in a body that shivered and flinched and kept warning danger.Stupid fucking body.His nostrils twitched at the fragrant steam from the teapot Bror had brought. “Did Bosh brew that?”“Yeah.” Bror settled beside him on the bed. “He wanted to bring it in himself, too. Said I’d disturb you. What’d you do to make him so protective—suck him off?”The rough joshing was Bror’s way of trying to jog him out of his funk; Tilrey was grateful. “In the poor bastard’s dreams. No, I think he’s just worried about what Gersha might think. Pour me a cup.”He sat up by inches, cautious with his aching muscles, and sipped from the tumbler his friend offered. Bror was so close, though. Bror’s breath on his face, liquor-scented. Bror’s fingers inside him. The little groans Bror made right before he came. The circle of Councillors, some barely breathing while others pleasured themselves shamelessly.Tilrey pushed the sense-memories away; closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind. “I needed this. Thanks.” And I need you.Bror tugged a pillow into place behind Tilrey’s head, his bluff good cheer fading. “Green fields of hell, Rishka. I wish I’d found a way to beg out of it. I could’ve said I couldn’t get it up.”“Better you than somebody else.”“But still . . . shit. I hate performing like that. I hate how you hate it.”So do I. No. No. Make this into a funny story to tell at the Café. “If you hadn’t, they might have enlisted Bosh,” Tilrey pointed out.Bror laughed weakly. “That would’ve made his year.”“I don’t think he likes me. He’s cold as fish eggs.”“And probably as soft.”This led them into ribald speculations on Bosh’s proclivities and cock size, and Tilrey was abjectly grateful when Bror bellowed with laughter, far more than his attempts at wit deserved.“You’re trembling, love.” Brow furrowing again, Bror reached out to stabilize Tilrey’s tipping cup.Get away from me. Bror was stifling him with his bulk, the smell of his sweat, the stink of his come. The body Tilrey had regained last night, the stupid victim body he couldn’t control, cringed back into the alcove.They won’t ruin Bror for me. “I’m fine. Just don’t—”“Sorry. Wasn’t thinking.” Bror retreated to the other end of the bed. “I’ll just sit here, ’kay? Or is the chair better?”“No. You’re fine. Sorry.” Unable to meet his friend’s gaze, Tilrey lay back and stared at the faintly reflective surface of the polymer wall. White, white, white—why was everything in his world white? The color of new snow was soothing and inspiring, according to Whyberg. Pure. Clean.Each time he’d slipped toward sleep this morning, there they were. The white-haired one saying Slut. The slightly rancid taste of the fastidious one’s come. The redhead’s hand shoving his head into the pillow.Being passed hand to hand like a vial of sap was nothing new, not really, but he’d never reconciled himself to it. Not since the first time it had happened, a punishment he knew he’d earned, and Linnett had looked at him solemnly and said, What a shame it is to have to do that to you.Think about something else. “I’ve lost all the ground I gained,” he mumbled.“What’s that?”“With Gersha. I was really getting somewhere until last night.”“Had him in the palm of your hand, huh? I’m not surprised.” Bror had moved closer again. His hand raised itself in Tilrey’s peripheral vision, then went still.“It’s okay. Go on. Anyway, he was there when we were . . . he got an eyeful. Really not his scene.”The big hand came down and rested lightly on Tilrey’s right shoulder blade, unmoving. “The Fir knows it’s not your fault.”“I’m not sure he cares.”“Fuck him, then. It’s not like you need anything from him—he’s just Verán’s errand boy.”“He’s . . . not like the others, though.” He didn’t know how to explain his complicated feelings about Gersha to himself, let alone to Bror.Bror snorted. “What’s different? He takes ass when it’s offered, just like all of them.”Maybe Bror was right. Maybe Gersha had woven an illusion of his own mental and moral superiority and drawn Tilrey into its web. Still . . . “He could be so much more of a force in the Council than he is. His name, his looks, his talent—he lets it all go to waste because he hates politics and flattery and the rest of it.”Another snort. “I don’t blame him for that. You’re good at all that shit, though, Rishka. You should give him a tutoring session.”He’s right, Linnett said quietly in Tilrey’s head. You don’t hate politics. You know exactly what Gersha refuses to learn. You could teach him.He shook his head, as much at the inner voice as at Bror. “He’s got delicate sensibilities. After last night, he may not ever look me in the eye again.”“Seriously?” Bror’s hand began moving in small circles, massaging his rhomboid. “Does he not get how being a kettle boy works?”“Oh, he gets it. That doesn’t mean he accepts it.”Tilrey felt a frustrated huff of breath on his nape. “Fuck him and his delicate sensibilities, then. If the little green-eyed prick ever hurts you in any way, shape, or form, I’ll start a rumor that he prefers girls.”Tilrey smiled at the absurdity. “I don’t think that’s Gersha’s problem.”He’d just successfully appreciated an irony. His control was creeping back. Soon—not today, but maybe tomorrow or the day after—he would stop feeling phantom hands on him, and this election night would lose itself among the other memories he kept locked up securely in his mind. Whatever happened with Gersha, they would not own him, after all.“Shut up and give me a real massage, Brorsha,” he said, arching into the touch. “My back’s killing me.”The Sector was nearly empty on this post-election afternoon, but Gersha couldn’t focus. His throat ached and his lids drooped, yet laying his head on the desk brought only tormenting thoughts. He saw his secret life ripped wide open, spread out on Verán’s bed for all to see. Glassy eyes. Slack mouth. Parted thighs.He tried to read his Tangle book, but each sentence summoned the wrong kind of memory. A road? Bosh and Tilrey in the car. A woman’s bared neck? Bror sucking on Tilrey’s skin, leaving purple marblings. A king’s imperious command? Verán’s curled lip as he watched.He was relieved when Ranek Egil stepped in, bringing news and gossip from the lower echelons of Int/Sec. After a lengthy surveillance operation, a young Upstart Dissenter—Councillor Akeina’s nephew—had been taken into unofficial custody last night. Because he’d been instrumental in building the case, Ranek had hoped to serve as First Interrogator, but his boss had chosen a rival with seniority.“All I can do is observe,” Ranek groused. “She’s making a royal mess of it, if you ask me. The only way to get a high Upstart to confess to a crime is to appeal to his vanity.”“And which crimes do you want him to confess to?” He wondered what it would be like to have some clearly defined transgression to hide, instead of a free-floating shame.“Dissenter ideology. Recruiting Laborers to his cause. Using his access to power to foment resistance among the lower orders. Right now, he’s pretending he’s the one who was recruited, not the instigator. But he’s given up his main Drudge contact, so we can pit them against each other. We simply have to break Akeina enough to use him to our advantage.”Break him. An ugly phrase.Still, the distraction was welcome. Lost in the minutiae of Ranek’s case, Gersha was starting to feel sleepy. He snapped upright as a tap sounded on the office door—where was his secretary?“I should get back to it. Supposed to be on my lunch hour.” Ranek pulled open the door to reveal a tall, burly Laborer in a snow-white tunic.Words died in Gersha’s throat as he recognized Bror, whose surname he didn’t even know and whose filthy hands and lips he couldn’t stop feeling all over him.The muscle-bound kettle boy was grinning disarmingly. In a detached way, Gersha watched Ranek react to the spectacle, taking an exaggerated step back and then allowing himself a tiny, wolfish smile. Was that what Ranek found attractive, then—bull necks and blunt noses?He can’t just barge in here. Why on earth? To cover his embarrassment, Gersha mumbled something about a message from Bror’s protector, Councillor István, clutching a pen beneath his desk to steady himself. Kettle boys did not carry messages, but Ranek might not know that.The interrogator smiled blandly, clearly sensing Gersha’s discomfort, and said, “I’ll leave you alone, then.”Without being invited, Bror took the chair Ranek had vacated. He stretched his long legs into the space between them, his gaze unnervingly direct.Gersha had rarely seen a Laborer confront an Upstart this way. The disrespect might not be voiced, but it was palpable. He met Bror’s eyes, the pen sweat-slick in his fist. “What brings you here, lad? This is completely irregular.” No tolerance, whispered the voice of his uncle. Make sure he knows his place.Bror held his gaze. “Rishka doesn’t know I’m here, and you can’t tell him. Okay, Fir?”Gersha’s chest went tight with rage at the boy’s commanding tone, but somehow the only words that reached his lips were “You’ve seen him today? He’s all right?”Bror shrugged. “Will be, because he’s tough, but he’d be better if Verán hadn’t decided to pass him around to all the newly electeds. Guess you already know that, the way your colleagues run their mouths.”Gersha’s lunch forced itself upward. He couldn’t claim to be surprised, but he hadn’t wanted to know for sure. Now he had no choice but to visualize Tilrey lying there the way he had for Bror, letting it happen. Maybe worse. Maybe he’d smiled at each man and joked and called them his favorite—Bror’s voice cut through the sick whirl in his head. “Well, if you didn’t already know, you fucking should. I’m going to say something, Fir, and if you take offense and tell Fir István on me, I’ll deny saying it. And he’ll believe me, Fir, because, frankly, I’m better liked than you are.”The heat came up so quickly it made Gersha’s eyes prickle. He tried to breathe through the anger, the humiliation. “Did you come to the Sector just to insult me?”“No.” Bror planted his hands on his tree-trunk thighs and leaned forward. “I came here to tell you to stop being a fucking pussy.”For a long moment, Gersha couldn’t speak. Then he heard his own voice from a great distance—ice-brittle, like his uncle’s. “Ah. I see, then.” I could have you thrown in a cell or a brothel.“No, you don’t see. You think you’re special and hot shit and more pure than the others—delicate fucking sensibilities or whatever—but you don’t see anything, Fir. You want to live in a dream world, that’s your business. But if you dump my friend for something he can’t help, then you are a fucking pussy.”The word burned red hot between them, singeing Gersha’s cheeks. Then he registered the rest of what Bror had said. “‘Dump’ him? Tilrey? What do you mean? Why would I do that?”Bror regarded Gersha narrow-eyed, as if he should understand. “All he was doing last night was his job. Following orders. You think he wanted to play that crowd scene with me?”The phrase made Gersha wince. “I understand that,” he said with excruciating dignity. “And I have no intention of ‘dumping’ Tilrey. I fulfill my obligations.”“Good. You’ll never touch him again, though, will you, Fir?”The question left Gersha at a brief loss. “Is that any of your business?”Bror rose and took a looming step toward him. “Yeah, my friend is my business. He’s not in a real good position here, being a Skeinsha and all, and I don’t like it when Strutters treat him like a toy they can pass around or throw away. If it’s Linden or Verán doing it, I have to suck it up. But you, Fir?”Gersha wiped his sweaty palms on his tunic. If this man doesn’t leave in the next ten seconds, I’ll call security. “I have no plans to ‘throw him away,’ and I still fail to see,” he said, “why it matters to you what your friend and I do or don’t do in bed. I’m sure he’d be mortified if he even knew you were here.”Of that much he was sure. Tilrey’s pride was undeniable.Bror didn’t look cowed. “Yeah. He might not talk to me for a year, which is why you aren’t gonna tell him. I don’t know what your deal is, Fir. But I think Rishka actually likes you, and I can’t say I understand why, but he hardly ever likes anybody, and if you hurt him, I swear, you’ll have me to answer to.”Dozing at last, Tilrey opened his eyes when the door clicked open. “Bosh?”The room was dark; the skylight, covered with drifted snow, offered no clues to the hour. He’d tried to read for a while, but the book had fallen from his hand when weariness overcame him.The footsteps were too light and hesitant to be Bosh’s or Bror’s. “Fir,” Tilrey concluded, turning over to face the intruder. “Home already?”“I woke you, didn’t I?” The formal discomfort in Gersha’s tone was reminiscent of their first meeting. “Bosh says you haven’t eaten. Could I get you some broth? Or tea?”“Tea, maybe, Fir. But I’m fine.”All these hours, he’d been certain Gersha would never set foot in his room again. Now that he’d been proven wrong, Tilrey found to his surprise that the Fir’s presence caused him more itching discomfort than his absence had. Why doesn’t he just leave me alone?This was good, he reminded himself. But he should have gotten up, dressed. Not allowed Gersha to see him this way.After the door shut behind the Upstart, he rose unsteadily. By the time Gersha returned bearing the tea tray, he wore a shirt and trousers, but there was nothing he could do about the mottled flesh on his neck or his swollen, wanton-looking mouth.“Thanks, Fir.” He reached for the cup—no shaking this time. “You didn’t have to. Be up and about tomorrow.”Gersha perched uneasily on the edge of the bed, his eyes trained to Tilrey’s right. “I just wanted you to know I’m here,” he said stiffly.The awkwardness was so familiar, so painful, that Tilrey knew abruptly what he had to do. It was risky, but if he didn’t, he might lose the high-strung Upstart for good. The distance between them now would grow into a chasm.He held out his free hand. “Come here, Fir.”Gersha twitched at the unexpected command, but he took Tilrey’s hand and let it draw him closer, eyes still averted.Good. Over the course of their nights together, he’d trained Gersha to follow his lead, probably without the Upstart’s realizing it. You learned that from the best, Linnett boasted.“Put down your cup, Fir. You don’t want to spill it.”Gersha obeyed again. And when Tilrey’s arm swooped around his waist and drew him down into the bedding, he didn’t protest, only emitted a soft sound that might have been a grunt or a sob. Then he molded himself to Tilrey’s body as he had so many times before, hiding his face against Tilrey’s side.The Fir’s body needed only a reminder to bridge the gap his mind couldn’t, leaping over the obstacles of pride and protocol. Tilrey understood; muscle memory had far too much power over him, too.Gersha did care for him. There was a dark triumph in seeing it at last.He drew his fingers through the man’s black curls, feeling almost in control again. “I told you things happen on Election Night, Fir, and they don’t matter. Why are you so sad?”“Because I—” Gersha tried a few times to eject choked words. “I’m so ashamed. I’m ashamed of us—Upstarts—and the things we do.”“Shh, Fir.” Tilrey scrubbed his fingers over the man’s scalp, tracing the delicate curve of his skull. “You didn’t make the world. All you can do is live in it.”“It’s wrong for them to treat you like a toy. I should speak up. Someone should. Verán—”“If you objected to anything he does, Verán might send me to live with Besha. We wouldn’t have any more time together. Anyway, Fir, it’s my choice to live this life. I could have run away when Linnett was arrested. I could have refused this posting and let them send me somewhere else, even if it was a cell.”“Would they really have sent you to prison?”“Or a brothel—something less luxurious than this.” Tilrey shrugged as if he didn’t know each word was a nail to the Fir’s tender heart. “Fir Verán doesn’t like to be crossed. I’m captured property. Spoils of war. When your property turns on you, what do you do with it?”“You aren’t property.” Gersha’s head rested on Tilrey’s chest. “And I’m letting you comfort me. It’s absurd. You should hate us.”“I don’t need comforting, Fir.” Tilrey let his hand tangle in the Upstart’s curls again. He despised pity, but if he had to play the tragic victim for a bit, so be it. “Having you close, though—I like that. Will you stay with me while I go to sleep?”“Of course I will.” An indrawn breath, too close to a sob.For a moment, Tilrey considered blowing Gersha just to make sure the Upstart didn’t start getting skittish again. But no, he wouldn’t try that, and not just because his throat still ached from the night before. Gersha needed to believe there was something pure in their feelings for each other.He needed Tilrey to be a martyr. A cause. Anything but another piece of ass.So that was the role he’d play—and maybe it was also the truth, or a piece of it. He did resent Upstarts, when he let himself. He did wish he could trust this one to be different.Or even love this strange man, if love were an emotion he could still feel.Gersha’s arm encircled him, drawing him close. “Just sleep, love.” And then, a little later, low in Tilrey’s ear, “I wish I could do more for you. So much more.”When Tilrey’s breathing had been slow and even for nearly an hour, Gersha disentangled himself and rose as quietly as he could.For a while, he allowed himself to watch the boy’s chest rise and fall, prolonging this interlude in which they weren’t an Upstart and a kettle boy, just two souls on an even keel, both in need of peace.Having you close—I like that. Was Bror right? Did Tilrey really, somehow, like him? What had he done to earn that?I am a fucking pussy. Gersha could have made a disruption last night. Insisted on taking Tilrey home. Risked losing him.Or, if he’d been more clever, more shameless, maybe he could have manipulated Verán to his will. Verán touched Gersha too often, gazed at him too long. Playing on the old man’s desires, he might have done something. Instead, he’d taken one look at the scene in the bedroom and bolted like a frightened child. He was no use to Tilrey at all.But he would be. If he had to learn politics for that purpose alone, so be it. He didn’t know why helping Tilrey should matter so much, didn’t want to dwell on it, only knew that Bror’s words had cut him to his core. Never in his life had he stood up for something, not really. He’d stood aloof and disapproved of his peers, but he’d never spoken that disapproval, let alone acted on it. Never shown his mettle.Rising from the bed, his spine stiffening with resolution, Gersha felt a heavy object tumble to the carpet. He picked it up—a book with library binding.Idly he turned it to see the spine. A chill ran from his crown to his knees as he recognized the title, written in ancient English.His eyes flew again to Tilrey, but not for a last fortifying glimpse. The boy’s eyelids were barely quivering, his brown lashes impossibly fine against his pale cheeks. The blanket exposed his broad shoulders. He looked like an artist’s dream of a happy Laborer: the picture of strength, of beauty, of innocence, of solid Whybergian values.Why on earth was he reading a book from the Tangle?
Gersha woke with a jerk and realized, with horror, that he was still in Tilrey’s bed. He hadn’t even closed the door or turned out the lights. What time was it?
He scrambled to his feet and began frantically putting the bed to rights. It wasn’t as neat as he’d found it, but that couldn’t be helped.
To his relief, it was only dawn. A glance at the outdoor cam showed him the car hadn’t returned. Safe in his own room, he undressed, showered, and re-dressed, cinching the belt and collar of his tunic as tightly as he could. His eyes burned from last night’s foolish tears.
Yes, you are a fool!
Bosh and Tilrey still hadn’t returned. Rather than risk meeting them on his way out, he retired to his study and fiddled with a fix for a bug in his database.
At last he heard the distant hisp of the wind-seal. He crept into the corridor, staying out of sight, until Tilrey’s door had opened and closed.
Entering the coldroom, he ran into Bosh, who was taking his breakfast out to his quarters in the garage. The driver looked bleary with fatigue and liquor—someone at the party must have been generous with the bottles.
“Morning, Fir. You want the car?”
“No, eat your breakfast—I’ll take the tram.” Gersha inclined his head toward Tilrey’s door before he could stop himself. “You were gone all night. Is he—?”
“Sleeping, Fir. Long night. Needn’t worry yourself.”
Something flashed in the driver’s usually impervious eyes—was it sympathy, or contempt, or even reproach?
Gersha felt his jaw tighten. “I’m off to the Sector, then,” he said.
Toward noon, two voices rumbled outside Tilrey’s door, debating whether he was asleep. “Come in, Bror,” he called, recognizing the newcomer.
Bror tiptoed in, or as close to tiptoeing as someone his size could manage. Tilrey didn’t sit up or turn his eyes from the wall. A fresh dose of sap had renewed the numbness, lozenges had soothed his throat, and a steaming shower had sluiced away all tangible traces of the Councillors-elect, but he still didn’t particularly feel like showing anyone his face. Bror would understand.
“You should be asleep,” his friend scolded gently.
“I got a couple hours.” A lie.
Somehow it was always worse after than during. Last night he’d had perfect control of every physical response, but some time this morning the armor of affected indifference had slipped away, leaving him in a body that shivered and flinched and kept warning danger.
Stupid fucking body.
His nostrils twitched at the fragrant steam from the teapot Bror had brought. “Did Bosh brew that?”
“Yeah.” Bror settled beside him on the bed. “He wanted to bring it in himself, too. Said I’d disturb you. What’d you do to make him so protective—suck him off?”
The rough joshing was Bror’s way of trying to jog him out of his funk; Tilrey was grateful. “In the poor bastard’s dreams. No, I think he’s just worried about what Gersha might think. Pour me a cup.”
He sat up by inches, cautious with his aching muscles, and sipped from the tumbler his friend offered. Bror was so close, though. Bror’s breath on his face, liquor-scented. Bror’s fingers inside him. The little groans Bror made right before he came. The circle of Councillors, some barely breathing while others pleasured themselves shamelessly.
Tilrey pushed the sense-memories away; closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind. “I needed this. Thanks.” And I need you.
Bror tugged a pillow into place behind Tilrey’s head, his bluff good cheer fading. “Green fields of hell, Rishka. I wish I’d found a way to beg out of it. I could’ve said I couldn’t get it up.”
“Better you than somebody else.”
“But still . . . shit. I hate performing like that. I hate how you hate it.”
So do I. No. No. Make this into a funny story to tell at the Café. “If you hadn’t, they might have enlisted Bosh,” Tilrey pointed out.
Bror laughed weakly. “That would’ve made his year.”
“I don’t think he likes me. He’s cold as fish eggs.”
“And probably as soft.”
This led them into ribald speculations on Bosh’s proclivities and cock size, and Tilrey was abjectly grateful when Bror bellowed with laughter, far more than his attempts at wit deserved.
“You’re trembling, love.” Brow furrowing again, Bror reached out to stabilize Tilrey’s tipping cup.
Get away from me. Bror was stifling him with his bulk, the smell of his sweat, the stink of his come. The body Tilrey had regained last night, the stupid victim body he couldn’t control, cringed back into the alcove.
They won’t ruin Bror for me. “I’m fine. Just don’t—”
“Sorry. Wasn’t thinking.” Bror retreated to the other end of the bed. “I’ll just sit here, ’kay? Or is the chair better?”
“No. You’re fine. Sorry.” Unable to meet his friend’s gaze, Tilrey lay back and stared at the faintly reflective surface of the polymer wall. White, white, white—why was everything in his world white? The color of new snow was soothing and inspiring, according to Whyberg. Pure. Clean.
Each time he’d slipped toward sleep this morning, there they were. The white-haired one saying Slut. The slightly rancid taste of the fastidious one’s come. The redhead’s hand shoving his head into the pillow.
Being passed hand to hand like a vial of sap was nothing new, not really, but he’d never reconciled himself to it. Not since the first time it had happened, a punishment he knew he’d earned, and Linnett had looked at him solemnly and said, What a shame it is to have to do that to you.
Think about something else. “I’ve lost all the ground I gained,” he mumbled.
“What’s that?”
“With Gersha. I was really getting somewhere until last night.”
“Had him in the palm of your hand, huh? I’m not surprised.” Bror had moved closer again. His hand raised itself in Tilrey’s peripheral vision, then went still.
“It’s okay. Go on. Anyway, he was there when we were . . . he got an eyeful. Really not his scene.”
The big hand came down and rested lightly on Tilrey’s right shoulder blade, unmoving. “The Fir knows it’s not your fault.”
“I’m not sure he cares.”
“Fuck him, then. It’s not like you need anything from him—he’s just Verán’s errand boy.”
“He’s . . . not like the others, though.” He didn’t know how to explain his complicated feelings about Gersha to himself, let alone to Bror.
Bror snorted. “What’s different? He takes ass when it’s offered, just like all of them.”
Maybe Bror was right. Maybe Gersha had woven an illusion of his own mental and moral superiority and drawn Tilrey into its web. Still . . . “He could be so much more of a force in the Council than he is. His name, his looks, his talent—he lets it all go to waste because he hates politics and flattery and the rest of it.”
Another snort. “I don’t blame him for that. You’re good at all that shit, though, Rishka. You should give him a tutoring session.”
He’s right, Linnett said quietly in Tilrey’s head. You don’t hate politics. You know exactly what Gersha refuses to learn. You could teach him.
He shook his head, as much at the inner voice as at Bror. “He’s got delicate sensibilities. After last night, he may not ever look me in the eye again.”
“Seriously?” Bror’s hand began moving in small circles, massaging his rhomboid. “Does he not get how being a kettle boy works?”
“Oh, he gets it. That doesn’t mean he accepts it.”
Tilrey felt a frustrated huff of breath on his nape. “Fuck him and his delicate sensibilities, then. If the little green-eyed prick ever hurts you in any way, shape, or form, I’ll start a rumor that he prefers girls.”
Tilrey smiled at the absurdity. “I don’t think that’s Gersha’s problem.”
He’d just successfully appreciated an irony. His control was creeping back. Soon—not today, but maybe tomorrow or the day after—he would stop feeling phantom hands on him, and this election night would lose itself among the other memories he kept locked up securely in his mind. Whatever happened with Gersha, they would not own him, after all.
“Shut up and give me a real massage, Brorsha,” he said, arching into the touch. “My back’s killing me.”
The Sector was nearly empty on this post-election afternoon, but Gersha couldn’t focus. His throat ached and his lids drooped, yet laying his head on the desk brought only tormenting thoughts. He saw his secret life ripped wide open, spread out on Verán’s bed for all to see. Glassy eyes. Slack mouth. Parted thighs.
He tried to read his Tangle book, but each sentence summoned the wrong kind of memory. A road? Bosh and Tilrey in the car. A woman’s bared neck? Bror sucking on Tilrey’s skin, leaving purple marblings. A king’s imperious command? Verán’s curled lip as he watched.
He was relieved when Ranek Egil stepped in, bringing news and gossip from the lower echelons of Int/Sec. After a lengthy surveillance operation, a young Upstart Dissenter—Councillor Akeina’s nephew—had been taken into unofficial custody last night. Because he’d been instrumental in building the case, Ranek had hoped to serve as First Interrogator, but his boss had chosen a rival with seniority.
“All I can do is observe,” Ranek groused. “She’s making a royal mess of it, if you ask me. The only way to get a high Upstart to confess to a crime is to appeal to his vanity.”
“And which crimes do you want him to confess to?” He wondered what it would be like to have some clearly defined transgression to hide, instead of a free-floating shame.
“Dissenter ideology. Recruiting Laborers to his cause. Using his access to power to foment resistance among the lower orders. Right now, he’s pretending he’s the one who was recruited, not the instigator. But he’s given up his main Drudge contact, so we can pit them against each other. We simply have to break Akeina enough to use him to our advantage.”
Break him. An ugly phrase.
Still, the distraction was welcome. Lost in the minutiae of Ranek’s case, Gersha was starting to feel sleepy. He snapped upright as a tap sounded on the office door—where was his secretary?
“I should get back to it. Supposed to be on my lunch hour.” Ranek pulled open the door to reveal a tall, burly Laborer in a snow-white tunic.
Words died in Gersha’s throat as he recognized Bror, whose surname he didn’t even know and whose filthy hands and lips he couldn’t stop feeling all over him.
The muscle-bound kettle boy was grinning disarmingly. In a detached way, Gersha watched Ranek react to the spectacle, taking an exaggerated step back and then allowing himself a tiny, wolfish smile. Was that what Ranek found attractive, then—bull necks and blunt noses?
He can’t just barge in here. Why on earth? To cover his embarrassment, Gersha mumbled something about a message from Bror’s protector, Councillor István, clutching a pen beneath his desk to steady himself. Kettle boys did not carry messages, but Ranek might not know that.
The interrogator smiled blandly, clearly sensing Gersha’s discomfort, and said, “I’ll leave you alone, then.”
Without being invited, Bror took the chair Ranek had vacated. He stretched his long legs into the space between them, his gaze unnervingly direct.
Gersha had rarely seen a Laborer confront an Upstart this way. The disrespect might not be voiced, but it was palpable. He met Bror’s eyes, the pen sweat-slick in his fist. “What brings you here, lad? This is completely irregular.” No tolerance, whispered the voice of his uncle. Make sure he knows his place.
Bror held his gaze. “Rishka doesn’t know I’m here, and you can’t tell him. Okay, Fir?”
Gersha’s chest went tight with rage at the boy’s commanding tone, but somehow the only words that reached his lips were “You’ve seen him today? He’s all right?”
Bror shrugged. “Will be, because he’s tough, but he’d be better if Verán hadn’t decided to pass him around to all the newly electeds. Guess you already know that, the way your colleagues run their mouths.”
Gersha’s lunch forced itself upward. He couldn’t claim to be surprised, but he hadn’t wanted to know for sure. Now he had no choice but to visualize Tilrey lying there the way he had for Bror, letting it happen. Maybe worse. Maybe he’d smiled at each man and joked and called them his favorite—
Bror’s voice cut through the sick whirl in his head. “Well, if you didn’t already know, you fucking should. I’m going to say something, Fir, and if you take offense and tell Fir István on me, I’ll deny saying it. And he’ll believe me, Fir, because, frankly, I’m better liked than you are.”
The heat came up so quickly it made Gersha’s eyes prickle. He tried to breathe through the anger, the humiliation. “Did you come to the Sector just to insult me?”
“No.” Bror planted his hands on his tree-trunk thighs and leaned forward. “I came here to tell you to stop being a fucking pussy.”
For a long moment, Gersha couldn’t speak. Then he heard his own voice from a great distance—ice-brittle, like his uncle’s. “Ah. I see, then.” I could have you thrown in a cell or a brothel.
“No, you don’t see. You think you’re special and hot shit and more pure than the others—delicate fucking sensibilities or whatever—but you don’t see anything, Fir. You want to live in a dream world, that’s your business. But if you dump my friend for something he can’t help, then you are a fucking pussy.”
The word burned red hot between them, singeing Gersha’s cheeks. Then he registered the rest of what Bror had said. “‘Dump’ him? Tilrey? What do you mean? Why would I do that?”
Bror regarded Gersha narrow-eyed, as if he should understand. “All he was doing last night was his job. Following orders. You think he wanted to play that crowd scene with me?”
The phrase made Gersha wince. “I understand that,” he said with excruciating dignity. “And I have no intention of ‘dumping’ Tilrey. I fulfill my obligations.”
“Good. You’ll never touch him again, though, will you, Fir?”
The question left Gersha at a brief loss. “Is that any of your business?”
Bror rose and took a looming step toward him. “Yeah, my friend is my business. He’s not in a real good position here, being a Skeinsha and all, and I don’t like it when Strutters treat him like a toy they can pass around or throw away. If it’s Linden or Verán doing it, I have to suck it up. But you, Fir?”
Gersha wiped his sweaty palms on his tunic. If this man doesn’t leave in the next ten seconds, I’ll call security. “I have no plans to ‘throw him away,’ and I still fail to see,” he said, “why it matters to you what your friend and I do or don’t do in bed. I’m sure he’d be mortified if he even knew you were here.”
Of that much he was sure. Tilrey’s pride was undeniable.
Bror didn’t look cowed. “Yeah. He might not talk to me for a year, which is why you aren’t gonna tell him. I don’t know what your deal is, Fir. But I think Rishka actually likes you, and I can’t say I understand why, but he hardly ever likes anybody, and if you hurt him, I swear, you’ll have me to answer to.”
Dozing at last, Tilrey opened his eyes when the door clicked open. “Bosh?”
The room was dark; the skylight, covered with drifted snow, offered no clues to the hour. He’d tried to read for a while, but the book had fallen from his hand when weariness overcame him.
The footsteps were too light and hesitant to be Bosh’s or Bror’s. “Fir,” Tilrey concluded, turning over to face the intruder. “Home already?”
“I woke you, didn’t I?” The formal discomfort in Gersha’s tone was reminiscent of their first meeting. “Bosh says you haven’t eaten. Could I get you some broth? Or tea?”
“Tea, maybe, Fir. But I’m fine.”
All these hours, he’d been certain Gersha would never set foot in his room again. Now that he’d been proven wrong, Tilrey found to his surprise that the Fir’s presence caused him more itching discomfort than his absence had. Why doesn’t he just leave me alone?
This was good, he reminded himself. But he should have gotten up, dressed. Not allowed Gersha to see him this way.
After the door shut behind the Upstart, he rose unsteadily. By the time Gersha returned bearing the tea tray, he wore a shirt and trousers, but there was nothing he could do about the mottled flesh on his neck or his swollen, wanton-looking mouth.
“Thanks, Fir.” He reached for the cup—no shaking this time. “You didn’t have to. Be up and about tomorrow.”
Gersha perched uneasily on the edge of the bed, his eyes trained to Tilrey’s right. “I just wanted you to know I’m here,” he said stiffly.
The awkwardness was so familiar, so painful, that Tilrey knew abruptly what he had to do. It was risky, but if he didn’t, he might lose the high-strung Upstart for good. The distance between them now would grow into a chasm.
He held out his free hand. “Come here, Fir.”
Gersha twitched at the unexpected command, but he took Tilrey’s hand and let it draw him closer, eyes still averted.
Good. Over the course of their nights together, he’d trained Gersha to follow his lead, probably without the Upstart’s realizing it. You learned that from the best, Linnett boasted.
“Put down your cup, Fir. You don’t want to spill it.”
Gersha obeyed again. And when Tilrey’s arm swooped around his waist and drew him down into the bedding, he didn’t protest, only emitted a soft sound that might have been a grunt or a sob. Then he molded himself to Tilrey’s body as he had so many times before, hiding his face against Tilrey’s side.
The Fir’s body needed only a reminder to bridge the gap his mind couldn’t, leaping over the obstacles of pride and protocol. Tilrey understood; muscle memory had far too much power over him, too.
Gersha did care for him. There was a dark triumph in seeing it at last.
He drew his fingers through the man’s black curls, feeling almost in control again. “I told you things happen on Election Night, Fir, and they don’t matter. Why are you so sad?”
“Because I—” Gersha tried a few times to eject choked words. “I’m so ashamed. I’m ashamed of us—Upstarts—and the things we do.”
“Shh, Fir.” Tilrey scrubbed his fingers over the man’s scalp, tracing the delicate curve of his skull. “You didn’t make the world. All you can do is live in it.”
“It’s wrong for them to treat you like a toy. I should speak up. Someone should. Verán—”
“If you objected to anything he does, Verán might send me to live with Besha. We wouldn’t have any more time together. Anyway, Fir, it’s my choice to live this life. I could have run away when Linnett was arrested. I could have refused this posting and let them send me somewhere else, even if it was a cell.”
“Would they really have sent you to prison?”
“Or a brothel—something less luxurious than this.” Tilrey shrugged as if he didn’t know each word was a nail to the Fir’s tender heart. “Fir Verán doesn’t like to be crossed. I’m captured property. Spoils of war. When your property turns on you, what do you do with it?”
“You aren’t property.” Gersha’s head rested on Tilrey’s chest. “And I’m letting you comfort me. It’s absurd. You should hate us.”
“I don’t need comforting, Fir.” Tilrey let his hand tangle in the Upstart’s curls again. He despised pity, but if he had to play the tragic victim for a bit, so be it. “Having you close, though—I like that. Will you stay with me while I go to sleep?”
“Of course I will.” An indrawn breath, too close to a sob.
For a moment, Tilrey considered blowing Gersha just to make sure the Upstart didn’t start getting skittish again. But no, he wouldn’t try that, and not just because his throat still ached from the night before. Gersha needed to believe there was something pure in their feelings for each other.
He needed Tilrey to be a martyr. A cause. Anything but another piece of ass.
So that was the role he’d play—and maybe it was also the truth, or a piece of it. He did resent Upstarts, when he let himself. He did wish he could trust this one to be different.
Or even love this strange man, if love were an emotion he could still feel.
Gersha’s arm encircled him, drawing him close. “Just sleep, love.” And then, a little later, low in Tilrey’s ear, “I wish I could do more for you. So much more.”
When Tilrey’s breathing had been slow and even for nearly an hour, Gersha disentangled himself and rose as quietly as he could.
For a while, he allowed himself to watch the boy’s chest rise and fall, prolonging this interlude in which they weren’t an Upstart and a kettle boy, just two souls on an even keel, both in need of peace.
Having you close—I like that. Was Bror right? Did Tilrey really, somehow, like him? What had he done to earn that?
I am a fucking pussy. Gersha could have made a disruption last night. Insisted on taking Tilrey home. Risked losing him.
Or, if he’d been more clever, more shameless, maybe he could have manipulated Verán to his will. Verán touched Gersha too often, gazed at him too long. Playing on the old man’s desires, he might have done something. Instead, he’d taken one look at the scene in the bedroom and bolted like a frightened child. He was no use to Tilrey at all.
But he would be. If he had to learn politics for that purpose alone, so be it. He didn’t know why helping Tilrey should matter so much, didn’t want to dwell on it, only knew that Bror’s words had cut him to his core. Never in his life had he stood up for something, not really. He’d stood aloof and disapproved of his peers, but he’d never spoken that disapproval, let alone acted on it. Never shown his mettle.
Rising from the bed, his spine stiffening with resolution, Gersha felt a heavy object tumble to the carpet. He picked it up—a book with library binding.
Idly he turned it to see the spine. A chill ran from his crown to his knees as he recognized the title, written in ancient English.
His eyes flew again to Tilrey, but not for a last fortifying glimpse. The boy’s eyelids were barely quivering, his brown lashes impossibly fine against his pale cheeks. The blanket exposed his broad shoulders. He looked like an artist’s dream of a happy Laborer: the picture of strength, of beauty, of innocence, of solid Whybergian values.
Why on earth was he reading a book from the Tangle?