Jean’s Apartment • The Stacks
Evening on the 77th of Roalis, 2719
Somewhere in the back of his head, he was starting to understand, even as Jean started to undo his cravat. It was a funny, creeping feeling, those pieces, drifting closer together. He felt like he was in over his head, but he reckoned it was too late now. When he saw the bundled shape of linen underneath Jean’s shirt, he started to raise his hand, breath catching in his throat – he started to tell him to stop, that he didn’t have to, whatever it was; that men were allowed their secrets, oes, that some things were best left unknown.
And then, because his breath was all frozen in his lungs and he couldn’t speak, it was too late. The pieces had already fit themselves together. The sister Jean hated, the sister he shared so much with. Like Jean de Silver in a frock, Tom thought, and his heart hurt, and he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know a single godsdamn thing.
He blinked at Jean’s slim, pale shape in the lamplight, and he didn’t let his eyes linger anywhere he thought they oughtn’t. He blinked, then he glanced down at the empty glass in his lap.
What was he feeling? He didn’t know. He felt like somebody’s fist was knotted in his gut. Relief, that the kov wasn’t out to get him after all. Disappointment, maybe. Even now, shutting his eyes, he could smell the dark, fragrant cigar smoke, the soft, cool waft of pine. He could picture Jean’s sharp green eyes. Not the green of the Tincta Basta, not like hama’s; the green of the trees on some far-off mountain, he thought. Tom and his green-eyed men. Except –
He didn’t know. He’d’ve been a right hypocrite, wouldn’t he’ve? Jean was as much a woman as he was a politician. Somewhere in the confusion of his thoughts, he pictured Shae. He'd known other such folk, though most of them'd been tyat.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he drew in a deep breath, then let it out slow-like. He raised up a thin hand. His head ached, like always. His mouth was damned dry; he needed more to drink, he thought, another glass, another five glasses. The whole handle, or what was left of it. As if there was enough Gioran whisky in Jean de Silver’s entire store for this.
“Jean,” he murmured, “uh.” His hand hung in the air, trembling faintly. He held up one finger, then, as if to say, Give me a floodin’ second, ye chen? His mouth opened, tongue clicking impotently against his teeth; his lips moved, but nothing came out.
Finally, he looked back up at the half-Gioran, mouth set in a deep frown. He studied that pale, delicate face – glanced down – glanced back up again, clearing his throat and shifting in his seat.
His brow furrowed. “No shame, Jean,” he said, rough, more than a little uncertain. He cleared his throat again. He sat still, tapping the rim of his glass with a fingernail, then made to stand up; he grunted uncomfortably as he put his weight on his hip.
The half-Gioran was still at least a head taller than him; Tom lifted his chin and raised one red eyebrow, and looked him in the eye like he was still wearing a shirt. “I’m drunk, and I’m fair confused, but what you’ve given me, it’s not going to leave this room. I’m not a dobber, any more than you’re a fool.” He shot a brief glance at the pile of clothes on the floor, the rumpled twist of the discarded bindings, then looked back at Jean’s eyes. “And I’ll be the last man to stand in your way.”
He paused.
“Let me pour us another round, ’cause I think we both need it.” He tried a smile, and found it wasn’t too hard; it was a messy, wry, sad sort of smile, but a smile nonetheless. “Sit. All right? And you can tell me as much as you see fit, and I can try to understand.”