Historiography

May 483 I.C., Odin

“I heard the interesting rumor that there’s a ghost haunting your classroom,” Staden said to Yang, sitting down across from him in the faculty dining hall at lunch on Wednesday. Dappled light was streaming in through the open windows, and the faint breeze caused the white tablecloths to dance around the edges of the tables.

Yang looked up, nonplussed. “A ghost?”

“About this tall, pale as a sheet, certainly not a living student of the IOA, calling out ‘Hank, Hank!’ very mournfully. A ghost.”

Yang cringed. “You mean Hildegarde von Mariendorf.”

“So you know the identity of this ghost?”

“Her father is a friend of mine. And I suppose she’s my friend, as well.”

“Can you explain what a girl is doing in your classroom?”

“Taking my class,” Yang said. “How did you hear about this?”

“I just interrogated several of the freshmen who were placing bets on how much longer it will be before you get fired and, presumably, exiled to a frontier outpost to languish for the rest of your career.”

“How generous of them. I hope that they make good money off of my misfortune.”

“I’m going to have a meeting with Steger this afternoon.”

Yang took a sip of his tea. “Steger knows about Fraulein Mariendorf. I assume since he hasn’t said anything to me, he doesn’t actually care that much.”

“Not about that,” Staden said.

“Then I’m not sure why you’re telling me about what you’re doing with Steger.”

“I’m going back to the front,” Staden said.

Yang raised his eyebrows, very startled. “Why?”

“Many factors. I probably won’t stay on the front for long, but I would like to finish my career in active service, rather than here.”

“Thinking of retiring?”

“The pension of a flag officer is much better than that of a captain,” Staden said. “I have a few good years left in me yet. And I think students here are more likely to give me an aneurysm than the rebels are to put a hole in me.”

Yang laughed. “So you’re handing in your notice?”

“I am.”

“I’ll be sad to see you go,” Yang said.

“Maybe.” Staden took a sip of his own coffee. “I’m recommending that you take my position.”

“What?” Yang put down his cup. “Why?”

“I was called into the Ministry of War last week as well, to give my opinion on several former students of mine,” he said, then paused. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised by what I heard there, but I was. You have a talent for strategy that is clearly unmatched. It would be a shame to waste it.”

“I like teaching history,” Yang whined.

“It’s an unfortunate fact that the world does not care what you like, Leigh.”

“Why would you do this to me?”

“I don’t think that there’s anyone else who could do my job half as well as you could. Besides, I’m sure you’ll probably be allowed to keep your Ancient Earth elective, if you want it.”

“And I don’t get a choice?”

“You were put here by order of the kaiser. I believe that Fleet Admiral Muckenburger would be more than happy to have you moved back to the Ministry of War, or to the front lines, even, but he can’t without risking the kaiser having a problem with it. But Steger can shuffle you around internally. You should count yourself lucky.”

Yang scowled. “You should have suggested someone else.”

“Consider this payment for the fact that I found you an excellent position with my friend Merkatz, and you immediately went and ruined it.”

“Didn’t you say that I’ve been promoted the fastest of anyone in my class? I’d hardly say that’s ruining it.”

“You got promoted to get rid of you, and then because the kaiser liked you. This is the first time you’ve done anything worthy of said promotion. You’re not usually so full of yourself, ‘Fleet Admiral.’”

Yang cringed. “I really can’t make you change your mind?”

“If you hate the posting enough after a few years, you can always ask to leave the IOA,” Staden said with a grim smile.

“And if I asked to be reassigned to the front right now just to spite you?”

“You won’t,” Staden said. “And it would hardly be spiting me. Give it at least a try of a few years, will you? You would probably like it.”

“Says the person who complains about it constantly.”

“There is no student alive who is a match for your level of absurdity, so you should be able to handle them all much better than I can. Besides, teaching the practicum will get you respect from the students faster than teaching a first year history course does.”

“I don’t really care about that.”

“Maybe you should.”

“And how will people feel if I keep letting Hildegarde von Mariendorf attend my classes, once they’re the top senior level practicum, and she crushes them all in matches?”

Staden raised an eyebrow. “Now that, I’d like to see.”

“No, you don’t. You’d only claim she was giving you a headache.”

Staden laughed. “You and all your friends, Leigh.”

Yang was sitting outside in the garden behind his boarding house, gloomily reading a book on strategy in preparation for his eventual takeover of the SW practicum, when his phone rang. The weather was fabulously warm, the perfect kind of late-spring evening, and aside from the fact that his peaceful tenure as a history professor would soon be over, he was enjoying the end of the semester very much.

He was tempted to ignore the ringing phone, but it kept on buzzing and jingling, so he fished it out of his pocket and looked at the name on the caller ID. He was very surprised to see who it was, and he answered immediately.

“Mittermeyer!” he said, pleased.

“Leigh, I’m standing outside your house. Can you let me in?”

Yang scrambled to his feet, dropping his book on the dented old lawn chair he had been reclining on, and ran to peer over the fence towards the street. “Mittermeyer! Over here!” He waved at his friend, then unlocked the rusty garden gate. He hung up the phone as Mittermeyer walked over.

Mittermeyer looked exhausted, and he was carrying a suitcase and wearing his uniform, now with a lieutenant commander’s stripes on his shoulders. He smiled wanly at Yang and entered the garden, looking at the discarded pile of candy wrappers that Yang had left on the table next to the lawn chair, some of which were starting to flutter away in the wind.

“Did you just get off the plane?” Yang asked. “I didn’t know you were going to be on leave so soon.” He dragged another garden chair over so that Mittermeyer could sit, which he did.

“Can I stay with you for a little while?” This was an abrupt question, but Yang had said in the past that his door was open to any of his friends, so he didn’t mind Mittermeyer asking at all.

“Of course,” Yang said. “Don’t want to stay with your family?”

Mittermeyer was silent for a little bit too long. “I’ve actually been on Odin for a couple days,” he said.

“You should have called me.” He tried not to sound admonishing, but the tone in Mittermeyer’s voice concerned him. Mittermeyer had his hands in his pockets, and he was leaning back on the garden chair, staring up into the cloudless blue sky.

“I’ve--” He broke off his sentence. Yang sat up, very concerned now, and looked at him.

“What happened, Mittermeyer?”

“Am I a bad person, Leigh?”

“You know I don’t think you are. What’s going on?”

Mittermeyer didn’t meet his eyes. “I did something impulsive. Maybe I shouldn’t have.”

“What did you do?” He had a sinking feeling in his gut.

“I proposed to Evangeline,” Mittermeyer said.

If it had been anyone else, Yang would have said congratulations, but the combination of hesitancy, pain, and confusion in Mittermeyer’s voice made him simply say, “And she said yes?”

“Yeah.” Mittermeyer looked down at his hands.

“Why did you ask her?”

“I couldn’t keep facing my parents without doing it,” he said. “Just--the way they were looking at me, like that was the only thing that could make them happy.”

“You already know what I would say,” Yang said, “so I’m not going to lecture you.”

“Thanks.”

“You proposed, and then you ran back here? Does she know where you went?”

“I told my mother that I thought it was inappropriate for us to live in the same house before we got married, and then I left.”

Yang was silent for a second. “Did it make your parents happy?”

“It made my father happy. He watched me propose.”

“And now what are you going to do?”

“Marry her, I guess.”

“You could say you changed your mind.”

“And then I would be back exactly where I was before. Worse, even.”

“Would it be worse?”

“Leigh--I…”

“Wolf,” Yang said, which shocked Mittermeyer enough to get him to look at him. “It’s your life, not your mother’s, not your father’s, not Evangeline’s, not even Reuenthal’s. It’s certainly not mine, so I’m not going to tell you what you should do. But you seem miserable, and you’re my friend, and I don’t want you to be miserable.” He shook his head.

“I know,” Mittermeyer said. “You tell me that often enough.”

“Is me saying that actually helping? It doesn’t seem to.”

“Every time you say anything to me, it seems very clear, and then I get out of your sight and everything goes back to being the way it was before. It’s the same thing when I feel like I’ve made some kind of choice. There’s this moment of just--clarity, or something--and I do what I think I need to, and then when it’s over I--” He looked away, down at the ground. “I’m not very good at expressing anything, am I?”

“It’s fine,” Yang said. “I get it.”

“Do you?”

Yang smiled a little, but it was a sad expression. “You’ve yelled at me for making spur of the moment decisions in the past. That split second insight can be incomprehensible to someone else.”

Mittermeyer was silent.

“Look, we can not talk about it for a while. I’ll order dinner so my landladies don’t get mad at me for having a guest who wants to eat, that should help.”

“Will it?”

“I don’t know, but it’s not like not eating dinner will feel any better. Come on.” Yang stood, then offered Mittermeyer a hand to help him to his feet. Mittermeyer hesitated a second, then took it, and Yang pulled him up off the lawn chair.

“Thanks, Leigh.”

“No problem,” Yang said, squeezing Mittermeyer’s hand, then letting it drop. “Let’s go inside.”

It was later, after dinner, when Yang was debating which blanket and pillow to give Mittermeyer to sleep on his couch with, when he brought up the subject again. Since he only owned two comforters, the one he had been using since he was a student at the IOA, and the fantastically nice one that Magdalena had given him as a solstice gift (after opining about the state of Yang’s home decor), he didn’t actually have much choice to make. Yang never used it because he thought it was too nice, and he didn’t want to accidentally get it dirty by eating in bed, and then have to figure out how to wash it. He handed the silk comforter to Mittermeyer, who was sitting on the couch, then sat down next to him.

“Look, Mittermeyer,” Yang began, anxiously rubbing the back of his head. “Have you told Reuenthal?”

The room was dim, lit only by the banked fire in the hearth. Mittermeyer turned away, the dim red light touching his cheeks and eyelashes. “No.”

“Did you ever tell him you were breaking things off with him?”

“No,” he said again.

“Are you going to break things off with him?”

“I have to, don’t I?”

Yang was silent for a second. “You at least have to tell him that you’ve proposed to Evangeline. There are any number of ways things could go after that.”

Mittermeyer shook his head. “I’ve ruined everything, haven’t I?”

“I don’t know,” Yang said. “Do you want me to tell Reuenthal for you?”

“Would you?”

“If you wanted me to. Or if I thought you were going to try to keep it a secret. He deserves to know.”

“I’ll send him a message. His leave isn’t until July.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow. Okay, Leigh?”

“Sorry.”

Mittermeyer leaned forward, putting his head in his hands, elbows on his knees, his long hair falling around his face.

“You should tell Evangeline,” Yang said.

“Tell her what?” Mittermeyer’s voice was bitter, though muffled through his hands.

“About Reuenthal.”

“And then what will happen, Leigh? You think she’ll just say, ‘Oh, that’s fine-- go ahead and continue to risk your career doing something illegal. Go ahead and cheat on me.’ Or maybe she’ll break off the engagement because of it. Or maybe she’ll be so suspicious of it ever happening again that I’ll never even be able to--” He cut himself off. Yang waited for him to resume talking. “Tell me I’m stupid, Leigh.”

“I won’t.”

“You should.”

“Why?”

“I remember what I was thinking, when I decided to propose to her,” Mittermeyer said after a second. “I thought-- I imagined-- everything would be okay if I could just see him. Just talk to him. It wouldn’t matter if… If I need… Evangeline would be there, and that would be fine.”

His words were coming out in an incoherent tumble, but Yang let him talk it out. He supposed he understood what Mittermeyer meant, in a way. After all, what had he been doing for years? Being happy to be near Reuenthal, but careful never to cross a line into something else. It was possible to be happy like that. Not easy, but possible. He looked at Mittermeyer and wondered if Mittermeyer had taken him as a role model in that specific way. He felt slightly sick at the thought.

“And I thought-- she is beautiful, and I do like her, and she’s too good for me, but she loves me anyway-- so I had to do something.” His voice was strained. “I wish I could un-open that door-- the one where I love--” And then Mittermeyer fell silent, aside from his rough breaths as he tried to compose himself.

Hesitantly, not sure if he would appreciate the gesture, Yang reached over and wrapped his arm around Mittermeyer’s shoulder. Mittermeyer leaned into the touch, though, his shoulder against Yang’s. Mittermeyer was fiercely warm, Yang realized. His hand on Mittermeyer’s back felt hotter than his hand on his own knee, which was facing the lit fire. Yang felt the shifting lines of tension in Mittermeyer’s body as he gently rubbed his shoulder.

“How do you put up with me, Leigh?” Mittermeyer asked, almost too quiet to hear.

Yang knew the answer to that question, and it involved carefully stuffing all of his own selfish thoughts down into the deepest recesses of his heart, but he wasn’t going to say that, so he said, “Because you’re my friend,” which was also true.

By some miracle the next morning, that miracle being his alarm clock, Yang woke up before Mittermeyer. As Yang stumbled around his apartment in his pyjamas, travelling from bedroom to bathroom to shower, he saw Mittermeyer still soundly asleep on his couch, blanket tossed onto the floor, one leg dangling off the edge of the couch, Mittermeyer’s head on his arm, and the pillow clutched to his bare chest. He seemed peaceful there, in the early morning light streaming through the window. Yang watched him breathe for a second, hearing the occasional soft snore, then shook his head and went to shower.

When he was done, Mittermeyer was awake. “Hey,” he said as Yang towelled his hair off on his walk back to his bedroom.

“Morning,” Yang said.

“Sorry about last night.”

“Don’t know what you’re apologizing for.”

“Being a mess.”

“It’s fine. We all have our moments.”

“You don’t.”

“Hah. You just haven’t seen me at my worst.” Yang vanished into his bedroom to dress, and by time he came back out, Mittermeyer was in the bathroom.

Yang snuck downstairs, trying not to get caught by his landladies, and gathered up coffee and muffins from the kitchen to bring back up to his room for Mittermeyer.

“Do things feel any better now that you’ve slept on it?” Yang asked through a bite of muffin. “Or are you still...you know?”

“I’m less likely to run a couple hundred kilometers away now,” he said. “So I suppose that’s an improvement. Thanks for breakfast.”

“That is good,” Yang said. He glanced at his phone for the time. “I have to get going-- it’s finals week at the IOA.”

“Glad I’m not taking a final.”

Yang pointed at a stack of papers on the desk at the other side of the room. “Could take my Ancient Earth exam if you need something to amuse yourself with.”

“I’d rather not, thanks.”

Yang laughed. “Suit yourself.” He finished his muffin and searched through the drawers of his desk for the spare key to his room. He tossed it to Mittermeyer, who caught it deftly, even though he was holding a cup of coffee in his other hand. “Here. The spare outside door key is underneath the little statue of the frog, but honestly the door is never locked. If you need to go somewhere, at least you’ll be able to come back in.”

“Appreciate it.”

“I gotta go, or I’m gonna be late,” Yang said. He pulled down his outer uniform jacket and pulled it on. Mittermeyer looked at him.

“Leigh, you didn’t tell me you got promoted.”

Yang rubbed his head awkwardly. “Well, it’s kinda a stupid story,” he said. “I was trying to figure out-- well, nevermind, I’ll tell you about it later, I’ve gotta go.”

And he dashed out the door before he was forced to explain the circumstances under which he had been promoted.

Yang was able to avoid thinking about everything for most of the day, busy with proctoring and then beginning to grade his set of final exams, but was confronted with a reality he did not expect when he left the IOA grounds for the evening. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he took it out, expecting it to be Mittermeyer suggesting that they get blindingly drunk at a nearby bar. Instead, it was a message from an unexpected, but definitely not unwelcome, source.

Oberstein was apparently free and on Odin. Yang hastily texted back. Oberstein was waiting for him in Eaglehead park, so Yang diverted from his normal course towards the train station, and through the park’s wrought iron gates.

Oberstein looked the same as Yang remembered him, except he was out of uniform, and he was slowly ripping up the remains of a sandwich to toss at some pigeons pecking at the gravel a yard or so in front of the bench where he was seated. The brilliant afternoon light wasn’t doing anything positive for Oberstein’s complexion, which was generously describable as ‘wan.’

“Commander Oberstein,” Yang said, catching his attention. “You wouldn’t believe how relieved I am to see you.”

The pigeons scattered as Yang sat down next to him. Yang was a little put out by the fact that the birds didn’t seem to like him, but a few more tosses of bread from Obserstein had them coming right back, as long as Yang didn’t make any unexpected moves.

“I find myself in your debt,” Oberstein said. “Several times over. I have done nothing to deserve the amount of thought that you spare for me.” He wasn’t looking at Yang as he said this, but it was delivered in the same flat tones that Oberstein said everything in.

“Don’t worry about it. Besides, we’re friends, so--” Yang shrugged.

“Are we, Commander Leigh?”

“I believe I said we were last time we spoke. I don’t see why that should have changed.”

“Very well.”

“What are you doing back on Odin?”

“I’ve been put on administrative leave, pending an investigation.”

“Any idea what the results of that investigation will be?”

“I expect to be put back into my position, perhaps less a rank.”

“Oh, that’s fine, then,” Yang said. “I’m glad you’re no longer in, er, I believe Muckenburger called it a holding cell.”

“As am I,” Oberstein said, though he didn’t sound very enthusiastic one way or the other. “I should congratulate you on your promotion.”

“Considering it’s the only one I’ve actually deserved, it hardly is worth congratulating me on…” Yang said, staring up into the sky.

“You performed well under Merkatz before El Facil, and you performed the duties expected of you in the PI unit. Both of those things would have earned you promotions eventually,” Oberstein said.

“I’m mostly just surprised I got it, since I went out of my way to annoy Muckenburger,” Yang said with an anxious-sounding laugh. “After he told me years ago to stay out of his way.”

“So I heard. Thank you.”

Yang didn’t have a response to Oberstein’s flat gratitude, so he asked, “What’s going on on Iserlohn?”

“Major rebuilding efforts. And Kleist and Wartenburg are both being reassigned. There will be staff shakeups in general.”

“Do you want to go back there?”

“It’s a good place to be,” Oberstein said. “I have no objection to it, though I hope that my next commanding officer will be of a higher caliber than Kleist is.”

“If only we could choose.”

“You have been lucky thus far.”

“That’s true,” Yang said. “I have no right to complain whatsoever.”

“If I may say something,” Oberstein began.

“Of course.”

“You yourself would be an officer I would be pleased to serve under. It would be to the benefit of many if you were to continue to rise.”

Yang made a slightly annoyed face. “I like my posting at the IOA.”

“That may be the case, and you may do some good there for the students, but there is more that you could do in the galaxy by going elsewhere.”

“Why don’t you take your own advice?”

Oberstein didn’t react to this comment, which Yang had intended as slightly inflammatory. “I am not a man who is easy to promote.”

“Why not? Don’t you do good work?”

“Being proficient and well liked are both necessary for rapid promotion, and arguably the second one is more so.”

“People don’t like me, either,” Yang said.

Oberstein turned to look at him for the first time, his artificial eyes becoming slightly translucent when the afternoon sun shone through them at the right angle, revealing faint traces of the circuitry beneath. “You should see yourself as others see you.”

“I would prefer not to,” Yang said.

“Why not?”

“The ego isn’t meant to handle the unfiltered truth of how other people perceive you. Besides, I know exactly how other people think of me. They’re loud enough about it, most of the time.”

“I’m not referring to people who dismiss you as a foreigner,” Oberstein said. “I am referring to those whose respect you have earned. They see potential in you.”

Yang stared out across the park, tempted to kick a pebble but not wanting to scare away the pigeons. Oberstein was running out of sandwich to throw to them. “And you are saying that Fleet Admiral Muckenburger and the kaiser are both on that list of people.”

“Yes.”

“How am I supposed to feel about that?” Yang asked. “You understand me.”

“I believe I do.”

“It seems contrary to, well, everything about myself that the kaiser and the fleet admiral should see something in me. I don’t want to be seen at all.”

“You should use it to your advantage,” Oberstein said.

Yang scowled. “I don’t want the advantages of the Goldenbaum dynasty. It feels--” He cut himself off, remembering suddenly that they were in a public park, where several IOA students were lounging on the grass not twenty meters distant.

Oberstein tossed the remainder of his bread to the birds. “You were willing to sacrifice your life, once, and you risked your position for my sake. Why is it much harder to put your feelings aside to gain a position that will benefit you? The higher you are, the wider your reach and influence, the more good you can do.”

Yang was quiet for a second. “It’s like-- I’m climbing this ladder, but the rungs are made of bones, and the ropes are made of gut, and at the top there’s just someone endlessly adding to the chain.” He looked down at his hands. “I feel like participating in it-- that blood is on my hands, too.”

“You will pay it back a hundredfold.”

“I don’t think there’s any way to,” Yang said. “All of this is built on the past.” He craned his neck to look behind them. There was a statue of Rudolph von Goldenbaum towards the other side of the park-- he was grateful that Oberstein had chosen a park bench fairly far away from it, but now he wanted to see it. “And no matter how much you study the past, or explain it, or write about it-- people who died are still dead, people who were hurt are still hurt. You can’t fix it. You can describe something as injustice, but that’s not creating justice.”

“But you have a chance to create the future.”

“That isn’t helping the past anyway.”

“They’re beyond help or further harm, then,” Oberstein said. “So there is no reason to not use what you can. The blood is not on your hands. It’s on theirs.” And there was a quiet, flat vitriol in Oberstein’s voice that Yang wasn’t sure he had heard before. It was a little disturbing.

“But if I don’t succeed? Then I’ll just be adding to all that.”

Oberstein looked at him, catching his eyes as Yang turned back away from the statue. “Some people pay the price of being reviled by the future,” Oberstein said. “It’s one that I would pay.”

Yang was silent for a long second. “I don’t know.”

“When the time comes, you will know what to do,” Oberstein said. “You did before, and you will again.”

“Yeah, I guess.” He turned his head away from Oberstein’s piercing gaze, then tried to change the topic. “Where are you staying while on Odin?”

“My family’s home, in the capital.”

“Oh, I wasn’t aware that-- well, I guess it’s stupid to say I didn’t know you had a family.”

“I don’t. I am the last of the von Oberstein line.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. History will not mourn if the line ends with me.”

Yang stood. “Would you like to come to dinner? I have a friend staying at my house that I’d like you to meet.”

“If you like.”

Yang smiled and stood, causing the pigeons to scatter, affronted by his sudden movement. “Excellent. I’ll text Mittermeyer and tell him where to meet us.”

“Wolfgang Mittermeyer, I presume?”

“Yes-- did Eisenach mention him?”

“Once or twice.”

Oberstein and Yang made their way back to the city center on the train, not really speaking after they left the relative privacy of their park bench. Yang was happy to have Oberstein’s quiet companionship-- he felt the man understood him in a way that few others did; maybe Hilde came closest, but she was a child. Even though they did not see eye to eye on some things, Yang felt like their goals were aligned, though they hadn’t spoken them directly, as nothing could be spoken directly. Perhaps they were a good balance for each other, Yang thought; things that seemed very clear to Yang seemed muddy to Oberstein, and the opposite was also true.

They met Mittermeyer at a restaurant that Yang liked, and Yang made the introductions. Mittermeyer seemed mostly confused by Oberstein, looking between Yang and the thin and stiff man who sat upright in the booth next to Yang’s weird contorted sprawl. Seeing Mittermeyer sit alone at the other side of the table made Yang suddenly and deeply wish that Reuenthal was here, as well, but that would have probably made the situation worse.

They talked about nothing in particular, mostly comparing their shared experiences at the IOA to Yang’s teaching, Oberstein’s assignment on Iserlohn to Mittermeyer’s experience on a starship construction facility, and other things of that nature. It was fairly pleasant, if mundane, talk, and Oberstein was very careful not to mention anything about what he and Yang had been discussing before. Yang appreciated that, since, although he trusted Mittermeyer, he suspected that Mittermeyer would not want any of what Yang was thinking about dumped on his plate.

After dinner, Yang proposed going to a bar, which was an idea that Mittermeyer seconded, but Oberstein politely declined. They stood on the corner of the street to say their goodbyes.

“You’ll be on Odin for a while?” Yang asked.

“I would think,” Oberstein said.

“Then we should see each other again.” He smiled at Oberstein, who nodded. “Have a nice night.”

“You as well. Pleasure to meet you, Mittermeyer.”

“Uh, yeah,” Mittermeyer said, less-than-enthusiastically shaking hands with Oberstein, who then turned and swiftly vanished from sight.

Yang and Mittermeyer walked towards the nearest bar. “Who was that?” Mittermeyer asked.

“Commander Paul von Oberstein…?” Yang said, very confused, since he had introduced him by name to Mittermeyer.

“No, I mean, who is he?”

“Just a friend. I met him when he was on Iserlohn. Eisenach knows him.”

“There’s no accounting for taste, I guess,” Mittermeyer said.

“You don’t like him?”

“There’s something off about him.”

“I’ll admit he’s not-- well, I wouldn’t bring him to a dinner party. But I don’t like going to dinner parties either. I can’t hold that against him.”

“I didn’t like the way he looked at you.”

“He was looking at me?”

“Yeah.”

“In what way?”

“I don’t know,” Mittermeyer said. “Like he wants something out of you.”

Yang glanced at Mittermeyer, amused as they walked. “I highly doubt--”

“Not like that. I don’t know.”

“Well, forget about it,” Yang said. “I suppose it’s not a requirement that all my friends also be friends with each other.”

Mittermeyer laughed at him and they entered the bar. By the time next morning rolled around, Yang could barely remember Mittermeyer’s misgivings over the splitting headache he acquired.

July 483 IC, Odin

It was the hottest summer in living memory on that part of Odin. Yang’s boarding house room was not air conditioned, and with the window open, everything felt humid and sticky, with every paper lying limp on the table and Yang’s hair sticking to his face with perspiration that did nothing but make him miserable. There was the hope of relief with thick clouds forming up on the horizon, promising the kind of summer thunderstorm that everyone looked forward to as collective and private catharsis.

Yang was trying to focus on putting together lesson plans for the upcoming school year, but instead was alternating between staring out the window at the trees shaking in the grey wind, and picking up his phone to check his messages every few seconds.

Reuenthal was supposed to be coming back to Odin today, and they had agreed to meet for dinner. He was just waiting for the text to tell him where and when, and he had been waiting for that all day.

He knew why he was being twitchy and uncomfortable, shifting around in his chair, unable to settle. It had nothing to do with the heat, or the humidity, or the low pressure system rolling in off the ocean a hundred kilometers distant. It had everything to do with Reuenthal, whom he hadn’t seen in months.

They had written to each other, of course, and even half-discussed the situation with Mittermeyer in their letters, but that was not the same as seeing him in person. He had no idea what Reuenthal would be feeling like.

His phone buzzed and Yang almost dropped it, so quickly did he try to look at his messages.

And he attached an address.

> of course

> be there in about 45 mins

Yang scrambled to find his shoes and check himself in the mirror, debating if he should change into his uniform, then deciding against it. There was no way he could even remotely pretend that he was going to see Reuenthal on business.

And then he was out the door and jogging to the train station. His entire journey was one of complete preoccupation, and he almost missed the stop he was supposed to get off at, and barely made it out the doors and onto the platform in time.

The light now was subdued and yellowish, as the heavy clouds moved over the sun. The city felt dragged down under its own weight in the heat and humidity, and everyone who was out on the streets was rushing to get from one air conditioned haven to another, and their body language made it clear that every step was a burden.

The restaurant was a welcome relief from the sweltering air outside, the air conditioning hitting him like a wall as he stepped in. The place was swankier than he was used to, and he suddenly wished he had put on his uniform; he was feeling underdressed in the dark and surprisingly elegant place. Soft music was playing, but it felt loud enough to further jangle Yang’s nerves.

Reuenthal was already here, and he was watching Yang come in with an inscrutable expression on his face. Yang met his eyes, almost accidentally, as he walked over, and he couldn’t help but smile, most of the anxiety about seeing Reuenthal being replaced with the happiness of seeing Reuenthal.

“Been a while, Commander,” Reuenthal said. “Have you picked up any new bad habits in my absence?”

Yang pulled out the chair opposite him to sit. “Oh, plenty,” Yang said. “You’d be horrified to learn of them all.”

Reuenthal smiled, then. “You’ll have to tell me all about them.”

Yang shook his head, and Reuenthal raised an eyebrow. Yang shrugged a little. “Von Steger and all of my students judge me for the way I sit at the front of my classroom to deliver my lectures. I think it’s an endless source of gossip and amusement how bad my habits are, but they can’t get rid of me.”

“You notice that I’ve seated us at a table rather than a booth, so you have no ability to contort yourself.” But Reuenthal was smiling, still.

“I’m glad you’re still trying to improve me. Though I’ll tell you, it won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“You’ve never been able to make me do something that’s against my nature, have you?” The particular tilt of Yang’s head, and the lightness he kept in his voice indicated that he was joking-- playing the now-familiar game with language.

“Oh? I haven’t yet managed to corrupt you with my evil ways?” Reuenthal was joking, too, a sardonic tone in the words.

“Not yet,” Yang said.

“Perhaps it’s for want of trying.” Reuenthal fiddled with the water glass in front of him, swirling it around for a second before taking a sip. Yang watched him, and knew Reuenthal was watching him watch him. “Should I try harder?” His voice was carefully neutral, and he looked at Yang steadily.

Yang’s heart had leapt up into his throat. “And what will everyone think, if you do?” He was really asking about Mittermeyer, and Reuenthal knew this. Yang felt-- or he knew he would feel-- more than a little guilty about anything involving Reuenthal, since he knew more than anything else that Mittermeyer loved him. But Mittermeyer had gone and destroyed what he had, and Yang couldn’t really be faulted for that, or for the light and strange feeling in his chest.

“I don’t care,” Reuenthal said. Though his voice was steady, there was a momentary twitch of his lips in a scowl that he was unable to stifle. The guilt found its home with that expression-- Yang knew he was further breaking something that he had once tried very hard to protect. “And you shouldn’t either.”

But he knew what Reuenthal wanted, and the guilt, for once, was not enough to stop Yang from knowing what he wanted, as well. Yang waited a second before responding. “Then I suppose you should try a little harder.”

Reuenthal relaxed back into his chair slightly, the corner of his mouth turning up into a smile. He changed the topic. “I’ve been reassigned to Odin,” he said lightly.

Before Yang could ask anything about it, the waitress came over to take their orders, which was good because it gave Yang a chance to breathe, but bad because he hadn’t even glanced at the menu. He picked something at random, and saw Reuenthal silently laughing at him as he fumbled telling it to the waitress.

“Where are you assigned on Odin?” Yang asked. “And is this a permanent thing?”

“Ministry of War, and probably not for too long. I’ll get bored of it eventually.”

“Oh?”

“Captain Hetling suggested that my experience on his ship might translate well to the navigation unit, and he also thought it was long past time for me to get a reprieve from the front lines.”

The navigation unit, Yang knew, was responsible for mapping routes for patrol ships, as well as what information could be gleaned about navigable spaces on the other side of the galaxy. They worked closely with the strategic planning department to write routes of attack, among other things.

“If I recall correctly, you said you would request a change in posting a while ago because far-patrol was boring. What makes you think that you’ll get bored of this one so quickly?”

“It’s far easier to get bored of desk work than it is to get bored of being on the other side of the galaxy,” Reuenthal said. “And I did change my posting internally on the Teutonic. Going from security officer to executive officer is no small change.”

“Captain is more befitting to you,” Yang said. Reuenthal’s mouth twitched in his small, odd smile.

“Oh? Well, you’re closer to that than I am. You could have a ship of your own now, if you wanted one.”

“Why would I want one?” Yang asked.

“It’s self explanatory, isn’t it?”

“Everyone is telling me to leave the IOA. I only just arrived there.”

“You’ve been teaching for two years. Isn’t that long enough?”

“I don’t think so,” Yang said. “I was finally feeling like I had my feet underneath me, and then…” He shrugged. “Reassigned to a new class.”

“You said you’re taking over Staden’s position? That should be something.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You have a very different approach to the games than Staden does. I have no idea if your students will love or hate you.”

“Some of them will do one, some the other.” Yang shrugged. “If I look at the bright side of it, I think it will be easier to give my students good sense in SW than it was in history, since half of them did not pay attention in that class.”

“The fact that the practicum weighs so heavily on the rankings does give some impetus for students to care.”

Yang sighed. “Still, I like history.”

“Then make them do cavalry battles and age of sail naval battles and trench warfare,” Reuenthal said with a wave of his hand.

“Perhaps I will.”

“Aside from your teaching troubles, how have you been?”

Yang fiddled with his fork. “Fine,” he said. “There’s always something strange happening, and I feel like I can never talk about any of it with anybody.”

“You can tell me anything you like.”

Yang smiled at him gratefully. “Certain things are better left unsaid.”

“Are they indeed?” Reuenthal looked slightly put out.

“There is talk that is merely unpleasant, and talk that is dangerous,” Yang said. “There are certain scandals for which the best we can hope is that we only ever discuss the unpleasant parts, and not the dangerous ones.”

“Oh?”

“On El Facil, I made a series of embarrassing mistakes. Admitting to that is unpleasant, but it is not dangerous .”

“One should hope.”

“In any event,” Yang said, “there seems to be no shortage of unpleasant talk.”

“About Iserlohn?”

“No,” Yang said with a slight frown. “For once in my life, no.”

“You seem unhappy about that?”

He shrugged, a joking tone in his voice. “I’m so used to being an embarrassment that to suddenly find myself on the receiving end of praise and reward makes me uncomfortable.”

“It’s good to have your talent recognized.”

“Is it?”

The waitress arrived with their meals, disrupting the conversation. They ate quietly for a few minutes, Yang feeling like he was sneaking glances at Reuenthal, but Reuenthal was unashamed about looking at him-- but that was the way it had always been, wasn’t it? He couldn’t help but smile.

They talked about nothing for a while, until they had almost finished eating. Reuenthal studied him for a moment. “Maybe I lied, earlier.”

“About what?” Yang asked.

“I said that it’s good for your talent to be recognized. Perhaps that’s not true.”

“Well, I’m glad you’ve suddenly decided to agree with me,” Yang said. “It’s easier to be obscure. It lets me be as lazy as I desire.”

“No,” Reuenthal said, finishing the last of his beer. “I say that because I feel I might get jealous, if too many people saw you for who you really are.”

Yang suddenly felt quite warm in the cool air of the restaurant. “Oh,” he said.

Reuenthal flagged the waiter down for the bill and paid before Yang could object.

The rain hadn’t yet begun when they walked out of the restaurant, but the clammy feeling in the air and the fierceness of the wind meant that it was only a matter of time. The sky was heavy and grey above them. Yang’s hair kept blowing directly into his eyes, no matter which way he turned to avoid it.

“Shall we find a bar?” Yang asked.

“I have a bottle of wine in my hotel room,” Reuenthal said. “That might be more pleasant.”

“What kind?”

“The kind that is a rare indulgence on a lieutenant commander’s salary,” Reuenthal said. “It would be a shame for me to drink the whole thing myself.”

“Of course.” Yang gestured for Reuenthal to go ahead, and he walked next to him. By time they made it to the hotel, the first fat drops of rain were beginning to fall, splashing and pockmarking the sidewalk. Yang stood outside the hotel awning for a second and tilted his face upwards, looking at the sky, until a heavy raindrop landed on his nose. Reuenthal held the door open for him.

The lobby was deserted, and in the elevator, Reuenthal leaned against the wall, arms crossed, silently watching Yang. When the bell chimed and the doors opened, neither of them moved for a second, until Yang gestured to say ‘lead the way’, which Reuenthal did, languidly walking down the cold and empty hallway. Their footsteps were imperceptibly quiet on the red carpeted floor.

Reuenthal’s hotel room was nice, Yang thought. It was a little suite with a kitchenette, a room with a couch and table, and a bedroom. It was not fancy or large, but it was clean and comfortable. The middle room where they had entered had a huge plate glass window looking out over the capital city; they were fairly far up, about twenty floors. Rain was streaking down the glass in dark sheets, and Yang looked out at it and shivered a little. For how hot the day had been, it was cold in the room, and the violent throes of the weather outside wasn’t doing any favors.

Reuenthal had taken his uniform jacket off, leaving him in just his white button down, and he came from the kitchenette holding two glasses of wine, handing one to Yang and standing shoulder to shoulder with him as they looked out the window.

A streak of lightning split the sky, and the power in the building flickered momentarily, an alternating reversal of sudden light in darkness and sudden darkness in light. Yang shivered again as the thunder rumbled. “Glad we’re not still in the elevator right now,” he said, which was a stupid thing to say, but he couldn’t think of anything else.

Reuenthal chuckled a little bit but didn’t address Yang’s floundering comment. He raised his wine glass, the liquid catching the dim light in the room behind them. “What are we drinking to?”

“To bad habits,” Yang said, and raised his glass.

“Prosit!” Reuenthal said, and knocked his glass on Yang’s.

“This is good,” Yang said after he took a sip. “Thank you for deigning to share.”

“No matter how good the wine is, it’s depressing to drink alone, so I’m happy to do so.”

“True.” Yang enjoyed the feeling of Reuenthal standing quietly at his shoulder. When he finished his first glass of wine, Reuenthal picked up the bottle from the coffee table behind them and refilled it.

“To never doing anything against our nature,” Reuenthal said, raising his second glass.

“Prosit!” Yang said. He leaned against the cold glass window and faced Reuenthal, taking a couple sips of wine. The lighting flashing behind him, reflected in Reuenthal’s mismatched eyes. Reuenthal smiled at him.

“To Oskar von Reuenthal,” Yang said.

“To Yang Wen-li,” Reuenthal replied.

This time, Yang wasn’t surprised at all when Reuenthal leaned towards him, his hand that wasn’t holding a wine glass reaching up towards Yang’s face. Yang tilted his head, and Reuenthal kissed him.

Reuenthal’s lips were soft and slightly parted, and his hand stroked from Yang’s cheek to the back of his head, to tangle in his hair. Yang ran his own hand down Reuenthal’s back, pulling him a little closer. Reuenthal chuckled a little, and his breath smelled like wine. He broke off the kiss for just a second and took the dangerously tilted glass out of Yang’s hand, putting both of their glasses on the side table next to them. Yang appreciated his looking out for the safety of both their clothing and the carpet.

Only then was he able to put his other hand on Yang’s shoulder and press him back against the cold window.

Yang thought his knees might give out, but he somehow remained standing as Reuenthal kissed him. He traced his hand up Reuenthal’s side, then down again while Reuenthal cupped the back of his neck. Yang’s eyes were closed, so when the thunder boomed behind him, he jumped. Reuenthal took the opportunity to press his other hand to the small of Yang’s back and move to kiss Yang’s jaw towards his ear. The sensation of it all was almost overwhelming-- Reuenthal’s body pressed against him, coiled and taut, his hands on him, the muted roar of the rain and the sound of both of them breathing, the taste of wine still heady in his mouth.

“I’ve wanted to do this for a long time,” Reuenthal whispered directly into Yang’s ear.

“Yeah,” Yang mumbled, somewhat incoherent as his hand raked through the back of Reuenthal’s hair. “So have I.”