Two Men with the Wrong Kind of Ambitions

October, 475 IC, Odin

It was an obvious lie, but Reuenthal delivered it with such flat consistency that no one tried to find an alternate explanation for how exactly Hank von Leigh had ended up with an arrow through his thigh. If he said he had fallen off his horse while trying to get an arrow from his quiver, well, he had an arrow wound, and bruises all over his back from falling, though they didn't exactly match that description. But the Kaiser's personal doctor, who had accompanied Yang to the hospital, was nothing if not chosen for his discretion.

Yang was out of the hospital by that night, having needed minor surgery to remove the arrow and close the wound. Modern medicine made quick work of that kind of thing, for which Yang was grateful. He was dismissed with antibiotics and crutches, to be used until his stitches came out.

Reuenthal had stayed at the hospital with him all day, though he had been told to remain in the waiting room rather than right next to Yang while he was being treated. When Yang hobbled out on his crutches finally, he was surprised to still see Reuenthal waiting there for him. He looked both out of place and weirdly regal, sitting with his long legs crossed in the plastic hospital chair. He hadn't changed clothes, so his white shirt was still covered in Yang's blood. Yang himself had been given a fresh outfit by the hospital, so he was annoyed on Reuenthal's behalf that no one had offered him the same courtesy. Then again, Reuenthal probably looked and felt more natural in uniform, even a bloody one, than he would in the hospital sweatpants and tee shirt that Yang was wearing. Yang didn't know why he had that impression, but it was an unshakeable one.

Reuenthal stood when he saw Yang enter the waiting room. "Are you free?" he asked.

"If you're asking if I've been discharged, yes."

"I'll call us a car."

They left the bright hospital waiting room, Reuenthal carrying Yang's belongings, and Reuenthal flagged down a taxi that would take them back to the IOA. It was a chilly night, and Yang shivered when the wind blew past them as they stood on the side of the road. Reuenthal seemed unaffected by the temperature.

The taxi pulled up and they sat inside. At first, they were silent on the ride, but Yang decided he couldn't let the events of the day go unaddressed.

"I'm sorry for making you waste your Saturday," Yang said finally.

"On the contrary," Reuenthal said, "I'm grateful that your little accident allowed me to leave the party early. Sitting in a waiting room for a few hours is a small price to pay."

"You weren't enjoying it?"

Reuenthal made a noise that was halfway between agreement and disengagement. Perhaps he just didn't want to talk about it in the taxi. He was being rather circumspect in his answers.

"Regardless," Yang said. "I'm grateful for your help."

"You're welcome."

They made it back to the IOA without further conversation, and then slowly walked to the dorms. Reuenthal continued to stick around, even as Yang fumbled with his keys to open his bedroom door. When Yang pushed the door open, Reuenthal narrowed his eyes. "Did someone break in?"

"What?" Yang asked. His room looked exactly like it always did—unmade bed, old school papers everywhere, books open for reference on every available surface, uniforms on the floor, trash can filled to the brim, closet door half open.

"I see. You just live like this."

Yang did not dignify that with a response, just leaned heavily on one crutch as he took his belongings from Reuenthal. "I guess I need to buy a new dress uniform," he muttered. "Sorry yours got ruined, too."

"It's fine." Reuenthal seemed reluctant to leave. "Do you need anything?"

"I'm fine," Yang said. "You probably don't want to be seen with me any more than you already have been. If you hadn't noticed, I'm a bit of a pariah."

"A wolf should not be so concerned with the opinions of sheep."

Yang smiled. "I think it's less the sheep, and more the hunters with bows and arrows that we need to be concerned with, in this particular situation."

"You should make more of an effort in the weekend physicals. And maybe take a night physical class, too. Then things like this would be less likely to happen."

"Reuenthal, I don't know if you know this, but I have a thirty class-hour schedule. I do not have time to sleep, let alone go take an archery class."

"Archery wasn't exactly what I was suggesting. Come to hand-to-hand with me. Tuesdays and Thursdays at six. I'm sure you can spare four hours a week."

"What good would it do me?"

"It might save your life, getting more coordinated."

"We're studying to be officers, right?"

It had been a rhetorical question, but Reuenthal answered, "Yes."

"The minute that an officer needs to engage in hand-to-hand combat, the battle is already lost."

"Not everything that happens in life can be accurately simulated in the practicums, von Leigh."

Yang sighed. "Maybe when my leg heals."

"I'll hold you to that."

"Why do you have such an interest in me?" Yang asked. He was feeling bold—maybe it was the pain medicine or blood loss. "You've been staring at me since the first day we arrived."

Reuenthal raised an eyebrow. "So has everyone else."

"You know what I mean."

"I'm sure I do not." The smile on his face indicated that he did. "But isn't it only natural for me to have an interest in my direct competition?"

"I don't care about rank."

"You say that, and yet you stay number two."

"Rank doesn't mean anything. Not everything worthwhile about a person as a leader can be summed up in a number. Bittenfeld will be a better commander than I will— he has the right kind of charisma."

"Oh? Are you saying I should be jealous of Bittenfeld?" Reuenthal's voice had an odd edge in it that Yang couldn't place, one that made him slightly uncomfortable, as though he had accidentally mis-stepped in this conversation.

"No." He shook his head. "I'm talking about my own personal failings."

"I don't think you being the way you are is a failing," Reuenthal said. He was still hovering in the doorway, and Yang wondered if it would be better to have this conversation with the door shut.

"Do you want to come in?" he asked.

Reuenthal was silent for a half second. "Maybe some other time, von Leigh," he said. Although it was a refusal, it was a warm one. "You should get some rest. I'll see you around."

"Sure. See you." Reuenthal strode off down the hallway, Yang watching him go before he closed the door.

The next day, at dinner, Yang was eating alone, stirring his tomato soup absentmindedly as he flipped through one of his history texts, jotting down notes for an essay that was due on Friday. He wasn't paying any attention to the room, and so when Reuenthal stood across the table from him and asked, "May I sit here?" Yang jumped.

"Oh, yeah, of course." He leaned over pulled some of his belongings out of the way so that there was space for Reuenthal to put his tray down. He also glanced around the room to see if anyone was watching what was happening, but, for once, no one seemed to be paying attention.

"What are you working on?" Reuenthal asked as he sat down.

"Foundations of Civilization homework," Yang said.

"Learning anything interesting?"

"Always." He tapped his pen on his paper. "You have any interest in history?"

"Some."

"What parts?"

"I'm more interested in individuals than I am in the ages they lived in."

Yang nodded slowly. "I don't know how much I hold to the great man theory of history." He meshed his hands together. "There's people moved by forces in society, and sometimes one gets pushed to the top enough that their name is attached to an era, but it's also the groundswelling of people moving below them that give them their real influence. It could be anyone lucky enough to fall into the right position."

"But aren't leaders essential for directing the energy of the people? If no one could hold them together, there would be no changes of age."

"It's a combination," Yang said. He took a breath as though he were about to launch into an explanation, then stopped. "Sorry, you shouldn't let me lecture you about things, I can just go on. I don't know how my dad put up with me."

"Considering I've barely heard you say anything before, it's a nice change."

"Speaking out in strats class is never a good idea," Yang said. For some reason, the half-compliment that Reuenthal had given him was making him feel flustered, like the ground of the conversation had fallen out from underneath him. Reuenthal had such an intense aura about him; that was it. Every graceful motion and word he said seemed to be imbued with a gravitas that Yang couldn't match. "What historical figures are you particularly interested in?" Yang asked, trying to get the conversation back to more familiar territory.

"Ones that I feel like I can understand," Reuenthal said.

"Such as?"

"Alexander the Great."

Yang laughed. "’One eye dark as night, one as blue as sky’?" he quoted.

Reuenthal smiled. "There are worse reasons to like a person."

"There are worse heroes to have."

"What about you, von Leigh? Who's your favorite?"

"I couldn't possibly say," Yang said. The answer that jumped immediately to his tongue was Ale Heinessen, but that wouldn't be an acceptable answer to give here in the IOA cafeteria.

"Rudolph von Goldenbaum?" Reuenthal asked, staring at Yang, who couldn't hide the momentary flicker of distaste that crossed his face. Reuenthal smiled, as though he had won a victory. "No?"

"I find it hard to believe that Kaiser Rudolph would have liked me, so he'll have to excuse me in Valhalla for any of my personal feelings."

"I understand," Reuenthal said, with a conviction that startled Yang. He seemed unwilling to say anything else on the matter, though, so they both ate their dinner in silence for a few minutes. Yang couldn't help but sneak glances at Reuenthal, trying to discern the reason for the other man's sudden change in attitude towards him.

Out of the blue, Reuenthal said, "You should be more ambitious." He looked across the table at Yang. "Other people will like you more if they see you have interests outside of history."

Yang hesitated a moment, picking up his teacup before answering. "I have ambitions."

"Oh? What kind?"

Yang hid a small smile behind his teacup. "The wrong kind."

When Reuenthal didn't say anything in response, Yang returned to his reading, though he could feel Reuenthal's eyes on him. After about half a minute of silent study, Reuenthal said, "I think I am a man with the wrong kind of ambitions, as well."

Yang didn't look up to meet Reuenthal's eyes, but he gave a quick nod.

December, 475 IC, Odin

Yang's leg healed, and now that he had something approaching a friendship with Reuenthal, his life at the IOA took on a slightly different shape. Because Reuenthal was (for some reason) willing to be seen with him in public, that meant that the portion of the class who had already looked up to or liked Reuenthal now accepted Yang as an awkward attache to their dark haired number one. If it was odd that the number one and number two students were friends instead of fierce rivals, no one commented on it in his hearing.

This meant that at Wednesday lunch and every day dinner, Yang now had company. There was always Reuenthal, often Bittenfeld or Wahlen, and occasionally other members of the class who wanted to speak with Reuenthal about something or other.

Once, Eisenach, Yang's confusing mentor, had even shown up for dinner, sitting himself down across from Yang without saying a single word. He ate his pasta and meatballs while staring intently at Reuenthal for about a half hour, then got up and left. When Yang had tried to say hello, or engage him in conversation, Eisenach had stared at him to shut him up. It had been intensely odd. Later that night, Yang got a text from Eisenach.

> are you vetting my friends now?

> and i told you, I don't care about rank

As with everything relating to Eisenach, that raised more questions than answers. Still, part of him was glad that his mentor approved of Reuenthal. He didn't know why, but there was satisfaction in that knowledge. He didn't think it was because Reuenthal's relative glory as the top student in the freshman class reflected back on him-- he really didn't care about that-- but he couldn't put his finger on what that deeper satisfaction was.

In any event, Yang found himself enjoying the time he spent with Reuenthal, even in the dreadful hand-to-hand combat classes he reluctantly attended. He was terrible at them, and no amount of coaching from Reuenthal about how to move properly was helpful at all. Still, Reuenthal seemed to enjoy having him attend, and was more patient as a teacher than Yang had expected, so Yang kept going, even if he felt he wasn't getting anything out of it except sore arms and a headache.

He may have been the member of the freshman class least likely to win a fistfight, despite all his practice, but Yang soared in his academics. He had top marks in his theoretical and history classes, and was somewhat undefeated in the strats practicum.

He could only say "somewhat" undefeated, because he did occasionally have to face Reuenthal. He somehow always knew immediately when he was being pitted against his friend, and he suspected that Reuenthal knew as well, no matter if Yang was trying to disguise himself or not. They were evenly matched intellectually, but their temperaments when it came to strategy differed significantly. Yang was perpetually pragmatic, though not overly cautious. Reuenthal, on the other hand, let his pride get the best of him during strats; it was his biggest and only weakness. If he felt he had the upper hand, he would seize on it, get too 'hot', and allow openings in his strategy. Yang could capitalize on those moments.

Against everyone else, Reuenthal won. Against Yang, his pride and abilities forced him to settle for simply "not losing". This was fine with Yang, who, above all else, valued a tactical retreat when it looked like the most optimal solution.

Their matches often ended in draws, or in confusing situations without what could be called a victory condition for either side. Yang suspected that they gave whoever was GMing their game that week a headache. The games always went long, as well.

Yang cared less about winning these games than he did about having a kind of secret conversation with Reuenthal, in which they each presented their side of the "argument", their preferred tactics, and worked out the relative merits. He didn't know if Reuenthal felt the same way, and he never spoke aloud about the kind of intellectual dialogue that he thought they were having, but when it came time to write the postmortem, they often silently exchanged papers, read the other's, then added on an additional section to their own discussing what their opponent had said.

His life settled into this satisfying rhythm as the temperatures dropped and winter came to that part of Odin. During winter break, the period between the winter solstice and New Year's, there were no classes, and most students (at least those from Odin itself) chose to go home. Yang had no such opportunity, so he remained in his dorm at the IOA, grateful for the opportunity to catch up on sleep and the few assignments he had left to do. Reuenthal had returned to his family's home for break, so Yang was alone, but a few days before New Year's, he received a message.

> do you want me to come?

> do I have to dress up?

> are any unpleasant people going to be there?

> you flatter me.

> I'm sure my presence would cause a scene

Yang couldn't quite find holes in Reuenthal's logic, and since the other man was asking for his company specifically, Yang couldn't exactly refuse. He had never heard of Count Mariendorf, but he wasn't exactly well versed in the who's-who of the Imperial nobility. If there was any subject that Yang found less interesting, Yang had yet to find it.

Still, on the night of the party, Yang dressed in his dress uniform and tried to comb his hair into some sort of order in his bedroom mirror. Reuenthal knocked on his door.

"I'm coming," Yang said, giving up on his hair and heading into the hallway.

Reuenthal, also in his dress uniform, looked good, but he always looked good. Next to him, Yang always felt slightly under prepared and graceless. Reuenthal reached towards Yang's shoulder and brushed a piece of lint off him. "Ready?"

"Sure."

Reuenthal had borrowed a car from his family, and he drove them to the Mariendorf estate. It was a pretty house, surrounded by snow covered pines, though Yang couldn't say that he loved the classical imperial style that every noble house seemed to be constructed in. There were many other cars parked along the driveway, so this was apparently a large gathering and not a small, private affair.

Yang and Reuenthal walked up the long path together, and were greeted at the door by the butler, then directed into the main hall.

A vivacious older blonde woman wearing a truly voluminous blue dress practically swooped down on them as they entered the hall and stood in the doorway. "Oskar! I'm so glad you could make it! Who is your friend?"

"Countess Mariendorf, this is my classmate, Hank von Leigh. Herr von Leigh, this is Countess Mariendorf."

Countess Mariendorf smiled broadly at Yang. "Any friend of Oskar's is a friend of mine, I'm sure."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Yang said, very awkwardly as the countess grasped his hand. She seemed nice, but he also felt cornered, which always made him start looking for the nearest exit. Reuenthal placed a hand on Yang's arm, perhaps sensing his nervousness.

"I've known Oskar since he was this big," the countess said, and held her hands apart to indicate the size of baby Reuenthal, which was, admittedly, a funny mental image for Yang. "Please, come in, enjoy the party. My husband is around somewhere; I'm sure he'd love to meet Oskar's friends, and Hilde will be so glad to see you, too!"

"I will keep an eye out for them both," Reuenthal said, with patience that sounded to Yang only slightly exaggerated. The countess smiled again, then flitted away to entertain other guests, which allowed Reuenthal and Yang to enter the party properly.

The whole main hall was decked out in blue and silver garlands for the new year, and twinkling lights and candles covered every available surface. There were tables laid out with food and drinks, a band was playing near the front of the room, and the center of the hall was filled with dancing couples, all dressed in the imperial fashion: wide gowns with embroidered bodices, velvet jackets and cravats for the men, every inch an opulent display of wealth.

“How do you know her?” Yang asked, as soon as they were further into the party.

“She was friends with my mother, and kept a kind of interest in me when I was a child,” Reuenthal said, rather shortly.

“Oh.” Yang decided not to press that topic further. “Which one is the count?”

“Over there.” Reuenthal nodded, but did not point, at a man standing talking to a group of other guests. “He’s fine.”

“High praise.”

“And who is Hilde?”

“Hildegarde. Probably the youngest guest at the party. I think she’s six.”

Yang was somewhat stymied as to what one actually did at a party. Reuenthal had gone directly to the drinks table and brought him back a glass of wine, which he sipped on, but then there was nothing to do but stand around. At this party, their IOA ranks, the only things that gave them some semblance of status at school, were meaningless, and Reuenthal seemed to have no desire to talk with the gathered group of minor nobility. Yang didn’t want to talk to them either, and didn’t know anyone, so it led to them lurking on the edges of the party and doing a lot of people watching.

Eventually, Count Mariendorf came over to speak with them both, upon the prompting of his wife, who they watched point them out across the room.

“Good evening, Herr von Reuenthal, Herr von Leigh,” Count Mariendorf said as he approached.

“Good evening,” Reuenthal said. “I see the countess told you about my friend.”

“Of course.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” Yang said, rather awkwardly, and shook hands with the count.

He asked the question that Yang always dreaded, “Where are you from?” but it didn’t have the tone of malice that it came with about half the time, so Yang smiled and answered.

“Phezzan, sir.”

“Beautiful planet, Phezzan. Expensive to live there, though,” Mariendorf said. “Do you two just know each other from the Academy?”

“Leigh is number two in the class,” Reuenthal said.

“Oh? Congratulations.”

“I have several more years to try to keep that rank,” Yang said, scratching the back of his head. “We’ll see what happens. Besides, Reuenthal is number one.”

“You scamp,” Count Mariendorf said. “You should have led with that. Congratulations to you as well.” He clapped Reuenthal on the shoulder. “I am looking forward to your successful career.”

“I hope that I live up to your expectations.”

“Do you get to go out much, at the Academy? Or do they keep you locked down in study?”

“Sometimes,” Reuenthal said.

“Any girls ever come visit?”

“Not in particular.”

“Well then! There’s plenty of eligible young ladies here tonight. Why don’t you both have some fun? There’s no need to be shy. Lots of women love a handsome cadet.”

“Of course, sir,” Reuenthal said.

Mariendorf turned and called out to some of the women who were chatting on the side of the room, a few meters away from where Yang and Reuenthal were. “Fraulein von Burren, Fraulein Steffelson, would you come over here? There’s some people I would love for you to meet.”

The two women glanced at their friends, then at the stiff backed cadets, whispered, said something that Yang couldn’t hear, then approached, curtseying. Reuenthal gave a half bow, then picked the nearer woman’s hand and gave it a kiss. “Pleasure to meet you, Fraulein,” Reuenthal said.

Yang gave a half bow, imitating Reuenthal, but did not attempt to kiss anyone’s hand.

“Now, you four should do the things that youths do best. Enjoy the music,” Count Mariendorf said, then made a fast exit, heading back to rejoin his wife. Yang could see them over the shoulder of this woman, von Burren, having some sort of discussion and looking back at Reuenthal and Yang. Yang shook his head slightly, then focused on the lady in front of him.

“Er. Did you want to dance?” he asked, figuring that this was the socially appropriate thing to do.

“Of course, Herr…?”

“Oh. Von Leigh. Hank von Leigh.”

“Then I’d be happy to, Herr Hank von Leigh.” Yang shot a glance at Reuenthal, not wanting to abandon him, but Reuenthal’s face had developed a smooth and empty mask, an expression that Yang hadn’t seen on him before, and he was holding out his arm for the other woman to take, and proceeding to the dance floor, leaving Yang behind.

Fumblingly, Yang walked with his partner towards the dance floor, and when the next song started, put his hands in the same places that everyone else was putting theirs, and attempted to dance, shuffling in time to the music. His natural clumsiness compounded with his reluctance at being in this situation, and he stepped on this woman’s toes, several times. She was nice enough about it, and did not mention it, but when the song ended, she said her goodbyes and went back to her friends, glancing over her shoulder a couple times.

Yang abandoned the dance floor with relief, and leaned against the wall, watching Reuenthal dance. He seemed to have a natural way with it, and spun his partner around, causing her to laugh loud enough for Yang to hear over the music. When the next song ended, the woman who had abandoned Yang tapped Reuenthal on the shoulder and asked him for a dance, which he gave to her.

As Yang was standing by the wall, swishing some wine around in a glass but not quite drinking it, wondering how exactly he had let Reuenthal drag him into this, a child wandered up to him. He looked down at her. She was wearing a dress, but she had hiked it up and shoved the train of it into the pair of pants that she was wearing.

“Hi,” she said.

Yang crouched down to be eye level with her. “Hi,” he replied. “Are you Fraulein Hilde?”

“How did you know?”

“My friend told me that there’s only one person here who’s your height,” Yang said. “So she must be you.”

“Oskar said that?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your name?”

“Hank von Leigh,” he said, and stuck out his hand for her to shake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Fraulein Hilde.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” she said. She looked at him with a sharp and curious expression. “My dad said you’re not from around here.”

“I’m from a different planet,” Yang said.

Hilde wrinkled her nose. “I want to go to a different planet.”

“Why? Odin is beautiful,” Yang said.

“I just do.”

“I understand.” He looked at Hilde, decided she was probably about as bored at this party full of people she didn’t understand as he was, and he smiled at her. “Do you like to dance, Hilde?”

“No.”

“Can I tell you a secret?”

“What?”

“I don’t like to dance either,” he whispered in a conspiratorial tone. That got her to laugh, which Yang considered a victory. “What do you like to do?”

Hilde considered the question for a second. “See things, I guess.”

“What kind of things?”

“I don’t know, just things. Trucks.”

Yang laughed. “Even though we don’t like dancing, do you want to dance anyway, Fraulein? You can say no. I’m just not sure what else to do at a party.”

“You eat food,” Hilde said matter-of-factly. “And then you leave when you get tired.”

“I like that thought. Strategic goals and a tactical retreat.” He ruffled her hair, and she ducked out of his hand.

“Okay,” she said.

“Okay what?”

“You can dance with me.”

Yang smiled and stood, offering her his hand. “Then may I have the pleasure of this dance, Fraulein Mariendorf?”

She giggled and took his hand, delighting in his mock seriousness. Yang led her to the dance floor. He spent a while holding her hands and gently walking back and forth with her, in a pantomime of the real dance. It was far easier not to step on her feet when she was so much smaller and much more liable to wiggle out of his way. When she started to yawn, Yang spun her around one last time, then sent her back to her mother, waving goodbye. Hilde glanced back at him a couple times as she walked back to her mother, then pulled on her mother’s dress and pointed at him. Yang gave a friendly wave and smile to the countess.

Yang returned to his previous passtime, which was waiting for Reuenthal to finish dancing. He seemed to have an endless energy for it, so Yang found himself glancing at his watch, checking obsessively for how many minutes were left until midnight, after which point he presumed they could both go home.

Home. Hah. Back to the IOA dorms. Was that home?

He got himself another glass of wine.

At a minute or so before midnight, Count Mariendorf stood up in the front of the room, and called everyone’s attention. At last, Reuenthal abandoned his last dance partner, and came to find Yang. “Having a good time?”

“I haven’t found anyone so unpleasant as you had led me to believe,” Yang whispered, so as not to speak over the count’s speech. That was about as much positive as he could say about the party. “The food is good.”

Reuenthal smiled and handed Yang another glass of wine.

“Fünf! Vier! Drei! Zwei! Eins! Happy New Year!” There was a general raucous of celebration.

“Prosit!” Reuenthal said, then clashed his glass against Yang’s, a little too hard.

“Prosit,” Yang said.

The band at the front of the room struck up in a particularly melancholy sounding rendition of Auld Lang Syne.

January, 476 IC, Odin

They escaped the party a bit later. Yang was not what could be called sober at that point. He didn’t know how drunk Reuenthal was, but at least the car drove itself, so they weren’t going to crash on the way.

On the exit to the party, the countess had pressed yet another bottle of wine into Reuenthal’s hands, thanking him for coming, and expressing once again just how glad she was to see him, and how glad she was he was doing well. Reuenthal handled that situation with more aplomb than Yang would have been able to.

Now, they stumbled back into the dorm. Yang had some difficulty getting the key into the lock, so Reuenthal took it from him and opened the door, sending them both tumbling into Yang’s messy room. Reuenthal kicked the door shut behind himself, not waiting for an invitation from Yang, though he certainly would have given it.

“Happy New Year,” Reuenthal said, sitting down on Yang’s bed. Yang himself clambered unsteadily to sit on top of his desk, sitting criss cross, with his elbows on his knees. “Shall we have our own toast?” Reuenthal asked.

“What are we toasting to?” Yang asked. Reuenthal was looking around in the mess of Yang’s room for cups, and the only thing he found was Yang’s battered thermos. He unscrewed the top of it, shook out some droplets of old tea, and then used his pocket knife to pry the cork out of the wine bottle, pouring himself some wine in the main part of the thermos, and Yang some wine in the detached cup.

“To the future!” Reuenthal said. “Prosit!”

“Prosit,” Yang said. They knocked their beverage containers together and drank.

“To the class of 479! Prosit!”

“To Wednesday’s practicum! Prosit!

“To victory!”

Reuenthal kept saying more things to toast to, but Yang didn’t mind.

“To Hank von Leigh!”

Yang shook his head. “Don’t toast to that,” he said.

“Why not?”

“That’s not even my name,” he said, then laughed. He kept laughing, feeling odd and melancholy but unable to stop. “You knew that, right? That’s not even my name.”

“Who am I toasting to then?” Reuenthal asked. His voice was deep and serious. He stood. “I need to know.”

“Yang Wen-li,” Yang said. And when he did it was a relief, like a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He looked at Reuenthal, who was staring at him again, with those luminous, mismatched eyes. Yang didn’t know what to do with his hands, all of a sudden. He was wringing the thermos cup back and forth in them.

“Then prosit, Yang Wen-li,” Reuenthal said.

“Prosit,” Yang said, very quietly. He started to raise his cup to his lips, but Reuenthal grabbed his arm, pushed it down, and leaned forwards towards Yang. Yang didn’t quite understand what was happening, leaned back, and toppled off his desk.

His head smashed into the wall mirror with a crash, and he tumbled to the floor, his wine cup spilling everywhere.

Reuenthal jumped backwards, then shook himself, taking a second to process the situation in his very drunk mind. “Are you okay?” he asked. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have--”

Yang wasn’t exactly conscious. He hadn’t hit his head hard enough to knock himself out, but he found laying on the floor to be surprisingly comfortable, and had no motivation whatsoever to move or get up. Reuenthal crouched over him, made sure he was still breathing, and then paused a moment, reaching forward, then hesitating, then reaching forward again. Eventually, he got his hands underneath Yang’s arm, pulled him halfway to his feet, and dragged him out of the broken mirror shards and onto his bed. Yang didn’t resist, but also made no valuable contributions to this action.

One of his legs was still dangling down from the side of the bed. Reuenthal lifted that, too, and laid it onto the bed properly, then tugged the very wrinkled comforter up over Yang, who had his eyes closed at this point, his familiar posture of pretending to ignore everything that was happening around him.

Reuenthal looked around the messy room, grabbed the half-empty wine bottle from the floor, turned off the light, and left.