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As much as he liked to be proved right, Fal’ran shook his head in disgust and lowered his voice so the imbeciles on the mat didn’t hear him. “Bar’in didn’t even try.”
Smith flicked his eyes up to him with that same calculating expression as when he’d told Fal’ran to run the obstacle course again. “Why do you say that?”
“Because Bar’in’s faster than that.” Fal’ran searched Bar’in’s face as Tar let him up. “And Tar telegraphs his moves for a whole day before he does them. Bar’in saw it.”
Smith’s lips stretched into a small smile. “Very good.” He raised his voice to bark at Bar’in and Tar before they escaped off the mat. “Again. Now.”
The two lined up.
Smith counted them off.
And Tar slammed Bar’in into the ground.
“Again.”
Slam.
“Again.”
Slam.
“Again.”
“No!” Bar’in scrambled up to his feet, spitting like a cornered rat. “What’s the point? What do you want?”
Smith replied calmly, “You know what I want.”
Fal’ran frowned and sniffed towards the smaller klah’eel. Frustration flooded his nostrils, but Fal’ran tried to dig under that. Resentment. Resistance. Fear, but of what? It wasn’t like Tar hurt him whenever he brought him down.
Bar’in stared at Smith, trembling with something that looked like rage but didn’t quite smell like it. He glanced at Tar and for a moment Fal’ran thought he might give in, might take the spar seriously and give Smith the effort he was looking for.
But then Bar’in spun away and stomped off the mat. “No. I’m done. I lose.”
Fal’ran’s eyebrows rose, and he looked at Smith to see how he would react, ready to see him blow up, but Smith just watched Bar’in slink to the side of the room with a calm, thoughtful expression. Fal’ran sniffed when Smith turned his back but smelled nothing on the human.
After a beat, Smith turned away from Bar’in and waved a hand towards Tar. “Alright, Fal’ran, you’re up.”
Fal’ran rolled his shoulders and smirked. Finally. Tar eyed him with that usual blank expression and the same bitter dislike wafted across the mat. Fal’ran lifted his lip in a snarl and stepped forward, but Smith caught his elbow before he did.
“You remember what I said about sparring?” Smith dug his fingers into the joint of Fal’ran’s elbow.
Fal’ran gritted his teeth against the pain and bared them at Smith. “That it’s not fighting.”
“That’s right.” Smith released him, and Fal’ran scowled as he stalked to the center of the room. “You’re teammates.”
Fuck that.
Fal’ran faced off against Tar. Tar’s scent drifted across to him—sour and resigned—and as Fal’ran watched his expression and his eyes to predict his next move, the enormity of what Fal’ran had been missing hit him.
Time slowed as Smith counted them down and Fal’ran stared at Tar’s motionless face.
Tar’s nostrils didn’t flare. His nose didn’t twitch.
The man couldn’t smell.
“Go!”
Fal’ran feinted left and dodged right to spin around to Tar’s back. Tar couldn’t smell him. He couldn’t smell the triumph at his realization, or the confidence it gave him. But Fal’ran could smell his uncertainty. He sidestepped under Tar’s punch and jabbed his stomach, but Tar hardened his rippling muscles and took it with a grunt. No wonder Tar insulted people left and right. He couldn’t smell the insult on them, or when they were challenging him or telling him to back off.
