Beloved Captor

Walking beside Laren filled Desdaine with longing, like a pleasant ache. Desdaine liked being with him. Laren’s presence soothed his spirit and inflamed his body at the same time.

And, unbelievably, Laren was still here, walking the glistening streets of the city at Desdaine’s side. They said nothing for a while, just strolling in a companionable silence, no compulsion to fill the void with awkward noise. Desdaine dared imagine that Laren liked being with him too.

Laren’s baggy, wrinkled flightsuit made him look free and joyful as an unmade bed. Desdaine was, as always, sleek, perfectly groomed, poised, and smoldering.

A gentle wind wafted off the water. Laren’s homeworld rose higher over the edge of the world, glowing blue-white and immense. Laren waved a salute to the planet.

“Desdaine.” Laren said, as if trying out the sound of his name. Desdaine loved how it sounded on this man’s tongue. “Is that your first name or your last name? Desdaine what? What Desdaine?”

“The Savar have only one name,” Desdaine said, then added before Laren could say it, “Like dogs.”

“I wasn’t going to say that.”

“Yes, you were.”

Laren grinned. His merry bright smile looked a shade guilty. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

Blunt though Laren was, nothing he said felt truly hostile. That was a funny thing about fighter pilots -- they didn’t hate their opponents.

This encounter meant more to Desdaine than it ought. For once he was grateful that Ilzec officers’ dress uniforms included the requirement of wearing a cup. Desdaine was not sure if that requirement was for the officer’s protection or because visible arousal was considered bad form in Ilzec society. Laren couldn’t see that Desdaine was hard as a prison shockstick the whole time they walked together.

Desdaine wanted to touch Laren’s body, but he was terrified to propose anything. He didn’t know if he could bear a look of revulsion in case he was misreading this encounter altogether.

Still, he would never forgive himself if he let this moment pass without taking the chance.

Laren was taking the last possible drag off his cigarette.

Desdaine blurted before he could think about what he was saying and talk himself out of it. “Do you want to go down to the docks with me?” He’d used the local island expression.

Laren crushed the bitter end of his cigarette under foot, squinted up at the hazy stars. The night breeze lifted his short forelock off his brow. Casually, with scarcely a blink he said, “Nah. I really have no interest in that.”

A quivering sickness fluttered inside Desdaine’s middle. His mouth burned even as he felt his face go bloodless. He kept his voice steady. “Then good night.” He was off, stiffly dignified, his boot heels clicking on the stones.

He made it back to his long glossy black car, and let himself inside before his driver could get out and open the door for him. He curled up in the back seat, his arms around his belly, as if holding his guts in, shame and embarrassment searing though him in a hot current with hideous disappointment. His nerves felt raw. If nerves bled, his were bleeding. He winced, then wretched. He felt pathetic.

He had seen addicts crawl, losing every shred of pride, restraint – everything -- to get a fix. He always wondered how those abject bastards could surrender their dignity, their very selves, to serve a wanting.

And here I am.

The only difference between him and an addict was that Desdaine never got to taste his obsession. He’d gone straight to withdrawal without ever experiencing the high.

What made him ask Jess Laren that question? Desdaine had set himself up for this fall. He reached for what he wanted and now he was roadmash -- crushed, disgusting, and ridiculous. Something writhed inside his middle.

What made him think? Or not think. He’d asked Jess Laren for sex. The man had named his fighter ship Karena not Nigel!

Desdaine’s driver looked back over one burly shoulder to his passenger. Desdaine’s driver was a loyal beardog of a man, a big hulking slab of meat too stupid to feel anything deeply. Thick as he was, even he sensed something wrong. “You sick, sir?”

“Drive,” Desdaine said.

A sharp mind could carve you up. Desdaine’s mind was shredding him from the inside out. His driver would never suffer.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

“I don’t care.”

Lying on his side, Desdaine felt a tear cross the bridge of his nose. He felt his pride cracking.

Or was that his heart?