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“As a matter of fact, I did think that,” Patrick scoffed and pushed on Fal’ran’s chest. “I was looking forward to spreading out.”
“Not a chance.”
They wrestled for dominance until Fal’ran turned Patrick around and plastered himself to the human’s back. Patrick wriggled and squirmed, but Fal’ran threw a leg over his hip and enveloped him in his body.
“I’m not letting you go, Patrick Smith.” Fal’ran nuzzled the back of his neck, inhaling the drowsy rain and leather smell of him. A fearful thought raised its head in Fal’ran’s mind, and Fal’ran ducked his head and amended his statement. “Not tonight, at least.”
Not ever, he hoped.
* * *
The next few days found Fal’ran wandering the halls of Emissary Serihk’s ship with increasing levels of boredom and loneliness.
The boredom was a new sensation for Fal’ran. He’d never had enough security or certainty in his life to be bored.
But loneliness, he realized, was acutely familiar. He recognized the ache in the center of his chest and the tightness in his lungs, but only because they’d been gone for weeks now. Maybe months. He couldn’t recall when the loneliness had disappeared. He’d had it when he landed on Klah, but not by the time he’d left it.
Now it was back.
Sazahk had insisted on being transferred to a different ship. He wanted one with more scientific capabilities and other scientists to share information with, but more importantly, he wanted one that wasn’t under full-time observation by his hated older brother. Patrick had ordered Tar and Bar’in to accompany him. He’d looked at Fal’ran too, like he meant to send him away as well, but whatever he’d seen in Fal’ran’s eyes had stopped him.
Fal’ran appreciated Patrick had allowed him to stay, but it meant his squad mates were far out of reach.
Emissary Serihk wasn’t so bad, no matter what Sazahk said. He treated Fal’ran kindly, evenly, and patiently. The few times Fal’ran had exchanged more than a few sentences with him, he’d gotten the impression that, with more time, they’d have very interesting conversations.
And Bryant Harrison, Serihk’s consultant and obvious lover, if the smell of them was anything to go by, Fal’ran actually felt comfortable with. Finally. Another brat from a ghetto trying to survive in this other world they’d never expected to set foot in.
But Bryant and Serihk were busy. Very, very busy. In and out of the ship to talk to various heads of state and business. Pouring over paperwork. Doing whatever the fuck else powerful people that made decisions for everyone else did.
And they took Patrick with them. Every morning, Patrick left the bed before Fal’ran had blinked away the sleep and every evening he returned to Fal’ran already bleary-eyed with exhaustion.
But every night, he still fell into bed with Fal’ran and buried his nose in Fal’ran’s neck as he fell asleep.
That had to mean something.
It had to.
As they often did, Fal’ran’s feet led him to Lar’a’s gym. She’d told him he was welcome to use it and he had every day so far. He loved the brightness and space of the room, the rough feel of the barbells in his hand, the supple give of the benches. The place was top of the line.
But today, he glared at the weight bench, frustration bursting out of his chest and threatening to make him scream. The boredom he could take. He could even take not knowing the status of negotiations with the Insects. It’d be war or it wouldn’t be. He’d find out which soon enough. He couldn’t influence that outcome. Even the loneliness, he could swallow down and muscle through.
What he couldn’t take was another day of Patrick not meeting his eyes.
He needed to hit something.
Fal’ran bypassed the weight bench he loved so much for the punching bag in the corner. He ripped his shirt off, threw it in a corner, and slammed his fist into the heavy bag with a satisfying thud. The rough fabric chafed his knuckles, but the pain centered him.
The human came back to him every night and fell asleep in his arms, but Fal’ran knew by the way his eyes skittered away, by the way he smelled, and by the way he didn’t smell, that he held himself back.
Fal’ran threw a few wild punches at the bag, wailing on it to bring the feelings in his chest under control. Once his heart pounded, he set his feet and settled into jabs and crosses and hooks. Real techniques. Real training. Like Patrick had taught him.
Patrick was having doubts.
About Fal’ran, about their relationship, about himself, Fal’ran didn’t know.
But the result was Patrick slipping through Fal’ran’s fingers. It made Fal’ran want to scream.
And cry.
