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Patrick closed his eyes and released a slow breath. He would not be dragged into this argument. He was going to be mature, patient, respectful, and respectable. He was going to do the right thing, like he always did. When he heard Fal’ran climbing to his feet, he opened his eyes.
“Smith.” Fal’ran’s chest had stopped heaving, and he looked less pissed and more confused. He shrugged a shoulder, his cocky arrogance cracking enough for Patrick to glimpse some vulnerability in him for the first time. “I just want you.”
Patrick softened and he gave Fal’ran a small smile. “And I just want you to be the best you can be.” He shook his head and straightened his jacket. “We’re going to do this right. I’m your captain. That’s it.”
Fal’ran’s brow furrowed into a hard frown. “But for how long?”
Patrick raised an eyebrow. “How long will I be your captain?” That probably depended on how the Trial went.
Fal’ran sucked his teeth. “No. I mean, how long do we have to–” he raised his fingers in quotation marks “—do this right before we get what we want?”
Patrick huffed a laugh. Wasn’t that the Goddamn question of life? He raked his gaze over Fal’ran’s form, and a mix of longing and unmistakable affection tightened his stomach. The kid was going to do great things. He’d get over this little infatuation. This little stumbling block in his career growth. He’d learn to control his urges and what things he could have and what things he couldn’t. He’d learn to think long term and…
Patrick let out another bitter laugh and turned back to the tent flap. And he supposed maybe one day Fal’ran would be as miserable as Patrick was. When Patrick replied, just before he stepped out of the tent, even he heard the doubt in his own voice.
“As long as it takes.”
Chapter Six
“Stop it, I’m fine.” Sazahk was obviously not fine as he clung to the short metal handholds Bar’in had drilled into the tall straight trunk of the Yelt tree, but he batted at Tar’s hand, nonetheless. “Don’t touch me, I’m fine.”
Patrick nodded from his perch on a branch a story above them when Tar glanced at him. “If he says he’s fine, he’s fine.”
Even if the stripe of red across his forehead, his heaving chest, and the way he’d watched Bar’in scale the tree first with wide, skeptical eyes all told them he wasn’t.
Bar’in scoffed down from the very top of the Yelt tree where he’d finished drilling in the beams for a platform. “Sazahk, take Tar’s fucking hand. You can’t hang out at the bottom of the tree.”
“He doesn’t need Tar’s hand. He’ll make it up just fine by himself, won’t you, Sazahk?” Fal’ran countered from halfway up a third tree. He tugged on the thin metal bar he’d anchored, and when it didn’t budge, moved on to drill in another a few feet above.
Sazahk scrunched his face into a purple-tinged red scowl as he climbed up after Tar. “I’d make it up a lot better if you all worried less about me and more about making sure you insert the handhelds all the way through the bark and into the strong core of the trunk in nice even and consistent increments, so you don’t—”
“They are, Sazahk, they are.” Patrick chuckled as he tightened the knot around the tree limb he sat on. It’d been a long time since he’d had to tie proper ropes, but the knot held strong when he tested it, and he tossed the rest of the rope over the edge with a smile. It cascaded down to hang a couple feet off the ground, joining the other dozen throughout the Yelt Tree copse that Patrick had already anchored.
They’d started transforming this little area of the arena as soon as they’d finished morning PT, and they’d fallen into a pleasant rhythm. Fal’ran and Bar’in scaled the trees bare-handed, drilling in thin and concerningly narrow metal handholds to turn the trunks into more easily climbable ladders. At first there’d been a fierce, but unacknowledged, competition between the two of them to see who could do it faster, but after about the sixth tree each they’d worn themselves out enough to settle it as a, still unacknowledged, draw.
Tar followed up after them hauling caches of supplies to hide in the branches—grenades, gatlungs, copious amounts of ammo for Bar’in’s sniper rifle, first aid supplies. Once he was done, Sazahk inched his way up and down the trees, shaking like one of the leaves and refusing any sort of help. He took readings of the wind and the temperatures and the angles and distances between the trees and loaded it up in his data tablet.
Patrick circulated between them, checking on their work, giving advice or direction here and there, and stringing up thin but strong ropes between the trees and hanging some from the branches down to the ground. Traversing his little network would be doable, but dangerous as fuck. He’d have to run them all through the obstacle course a few more times. Bar’in and Tar would have to finish it as easily as Fal’ran before he let them up on anything other than the ladders they were making.
He sighed and leaned his head back on the trunk behind him. And they only had a few more days before the Trial. The thought made his gut roil with nerves, but he breathed them out in another deep sigh. They were in a far better position now than he thought they’d ever be two weeks ago.
They could all breathe the air, they’d all stopped sweating out their body weight in water every hour, they were getting down the combat basics, and they hadn’t tried to kill each other all week. That was a low bar, but hell, they’d hit it.
And Patrick would be lying if he said he didn’t get a little giddy running over the ropes and watching Tar tuck guns into tree hollows. They were gearing up for a fight and he hadn’t had a proper fight since he’d joined Garrett Twal against the Insects and pirates. That had been months ago, and he was getting antsy and stir crazy.
The trunk Patrick leaned against shook as something landed on the branch beside him with a heavy thud. “I’ve been thinking about where to position Sazahk.”
Patrick looked down from the streaks of red and orange in the sky that peeked through the thick leaves of the Yelt copse and raised his brows at Fal’ran. The young man had slid down a rope Patrick had anchored above them in another tree and now stood on a softly swaying branch as steadily as if it was the solid ground below them, holding the rope loosely in his hand. Patrick barely remembered being that young and overconfident.
He put his hands behind his head and smiled. “And what are your thoughts?”
“He needs a good vantage point, and he needs to be kept safe.” Fal’ran hopped over to Patrick’s branch, then crouched down and threw his legs on either side of it so he straddled the branch too, facing Patrick.
“That’s right.” Patrick’s eyes swept Fal’ran’s body on instinct—a captain checking his soldier—and took calm stock of him with one part of his mind while throttling the part of his mind that wanted to linger inappropriately. The young klah’eel dripped with sweat and the tip of his nose was burnt, but he looked strong and limber and focused. He looked good. He always looked good, the part of himself he was trying to choke out added, and Patrick distracted himself by pulling a small canteen out of the pack around his shoulder. “Drink some water.”
Fal’ran caught the canteen when Patrick tossed it to him and took a swig. And Patrick did not stare as Fal’ran’s throat bobbed or as he wiped the back of his hand across his lips and tusks. Fal’ran raised his scarred eyebrow at him as those lips quirked in a smirk.
Patrick had woken scared stiff that he’d fucked up things between them by letting them go too far the night before. But except for a few more challenging looks and heated glares, Fal’ran had treated him the same as ever. After giving Patrick the obligatory knowing, smug little smile, he tossed the canteen back and answered the question. “So, I think he should go in a tree. Whichever one has the most—” Fal’ran motioned at all the leaves and twigs around them, and satisfaction surged through Patrick’s chest when he found the word “—foliage.”
