Chapter Text
Mike thinks the other two diplomats might strangle him if he doesn’t stop fidgeting, but he can’t exactly help it.
His whole life, he’s rarely had to even be presentable. While Ranulf’s always insisted on looking proper, Mike’s almost always been able to wear a thick, fur-lined jacket and pants and boots. If they were gray, Mike usually looked presentable enough for Ranulf’s standards, even being allowed to wear them on the diplomatic meetings that happened (usually involving a much-younger Mike playing with the children of the rulers of the only four peoples that the Solokovs have ever dealt with).
But no, he’s not allowed to wear them on the artificially-made planet, built specifically in order to be neutral ground, for his first meeting of the quadannual galactic council. Instead, Mike is stuck with his black curls, down to the back of his neck, oiled back, with an outfit that feels paper-thin even though it’s not, a deep navy blue blazer over a black button-up shirt and black slacks. He’s not even wearing boots, just leather shoes that make the sides of his feet feel like they’re being split open.
So as he sits at one of the hundreds of white-covered tables, he fidgets, pulling on his cuffs and his fingers and running his hand over his hair until some dark locks lose their oil and spring back into a relatively-normal state, eyes darting around across the people from so many different demographics and peoples and worlds.
Neither of the other diplomats - technically his subordinates, which is fucking weird, respectively named Leena and Mira, twins, considered amazing luck on Denorax - tells him to stop, though, so he keeps doing it for what feels like hours, until he has to actually get up and wash his hands because he’s rubbed off so much oil onto his hands.
When he comes back from the restroom, though, he almost freezes up upon seeing who’s sitting at one of the five empty seats at the Denorax table.
He doesn’t shout a greeting to the red-haired girl, instead walking over as quietly as possible with these accursed shoes and then tugging on her hair.
She immediately shoves back an elbow into his gut, getting an ‘oof’ out of him, and whips around, glaring at him yet with a gleam in her eye that means she’s trying not to smile. “You asshole!”
“Missed you too!” Mike grins despite the pain, flopping down in his seat, conveniently next to hers. “Where have you been?”
Mike and Maxine Mayfield go way, way back. Fourteen years ago, the Mayfields - well, more accurately, Max’s mother, ruler of the Fields of May (yeah, on the nose) on Etera, the rainforest and garden planet that exports half of the plants and food in the galaxy, had come to Denorax for negotiations, and she’d brought along her daughter. While Ranulf and Duchess Susan Mayfield had gotten along relatively well, four-year-old Mike and Max had play-fought the whole week, leaving baby-teeth marks on each other’s arms and constantly screeching at each other and hitting each other until they cried. The adults had assumed they hated each other, but upon trying to separate them, both whined and cried until they were allowed to start gnawing on each other again.
And over the past fourteen years, during which the Mayfields (and later the Hargroves, a Duke and his son, the former becoming the Duchess’s husband - Mike hates Billy, particularly because he’s a big believer in colonialism and clinging to the belief that all tribes should be wiped out and has started several dinner conversations with how ‘stupid’ native people are) visit for a month per year in order to keep the trade deal of vegetables-and-animals-in-exchange-for-weapons-books-ice-and-stone going, Mike and Max have retained that pattern, throwing barbs and constantly shouting at each other and wrestling and insulting (Max has broken his nose three times) but still ending up hanging out in Mike’s room every night and secretly being practically-best-friends.
“You look ugly as shit.” Max says instead of answering the question, giving him a sideways grin.
“And it’s no wonder that you haven’t gotten married yet despite tradition.” Mike snaps back, sticking his tongue out at her. “You look like a ghost.”
That’s a lie. The dark green pantsuit she’s wearing combined with her red hair, currently in a braid over her shoulder, actually makes her skin look less pale than usual.
“You look like a vampire. Open your mouth.” Max says.
Mike gives her a dirty look, keeping his mouth shut. (Solokovs have big canines, meant for a mainly-meat diet in the cold, and if he shows them to her, he’s gonna get teased mercilessly.) Instead of doing anything, he scratches the side of his head with only his middle finger, subtly flipping her off - Max immediately cackles, but before she can retaliate, Leena gives them a dark look that says ‘you need to stop because you’re representing both your planets.’
Both of them stop, though Max gives him a look that says ‘this isn’t over.’
“Anyway, what are you doing here?” Mike asks. “Aren’t the nobility’s kids excused from this stuff?”
“I’m avoiding home, so I volunteered to come as a junior delegate.” Max sighs, rolling her eyes. “Billy’s being a douche.”
“Thought he was-”
“He moved back in.”
“Damn.”
“Anyway.” Max sighs. “Avoiding the lovely Hargroves by coming here, then coming over here-”
“To hang out with me?” Mike says, batting his eyelashes.
“Fuck off. I want to see the Thorara diplomat, and your table’s gonna have a better view than mine ‘cause the mediators are so scared of your guys that they gave you a nice spot.”
Mike perks up at the mention.
Thorara is considered one of the most inhospitable planets in the galaxy. Completely covered in deserts and with a south side regularly reaching air temperatures of over a hundred fifty degrees Fahrenheit (and the north side retaining a temp range of seventy to a hundred ten during the day), little to no water and food, and endless sand and monstrous wildlife, nobody’s tried to colonize the planet for years, leaving the biggest tribe: the Mella.
Mike’s read a lot about the Mella. Well… what he can read. The tribe is isolationist - they’ve only ever made a deal with the Ocradus tribe, who are currently under the rule of a colonialist regime yet still maintaining some political power, for the water covering their planet. Despite holding over 95% of the galaxy’s gold and precious metals and gemstones - according to one novel about them (which Mike discounts the accuracy of, as the author spends practically twenty pages practically writing smut about how beautiful the women of the planet are and it was nasty enough that Mike had to skip it), there’s so much gold that it’s in all of the food and makes the sand and plants and what little water there is glitter.
The accounts all conflict. Some talk about how savage the Mella are, too backwards for modern weapons and practically too stupid to read, while others talk about their brilliance, about how they secretly have tech at the level of or beyond all the other planets. Some talk about how they fight with spears, others talk about their extensive peace-keeping. Talk of the beauty of the planet and the people versus claims life other than the Mella can’t survive there, claims that they’re completely sustainable versus that they’re out of resources - nobody can agree on much, especially as only three planets’ people have even set foot on the surface in the past hundred years.
However, there are three things that everyone agrees on when it comes to the Mella.
One: they’re isolationist and will only make deals with other native tribes in exchange for water.
Two: they’re rich as fuck thanks to the metals and gems that they refuse to sell.
Three: everyone wants a piece of them.
No Mella has ever come to this meeting. They don’t have a seat here. Mike honestly didn’t know they knew it was a thing until he was given orders by Ranulf to read up on them because, for the first time since their discovery six hundred years ago (and… subsequent attempts at colonization and imperialist takeovers for the next five hundred), they’re coming to this conference.
“Holy shit, really?” Mike asks, and he can’t help but grin. “We get a direct view?”
“Told you you’re a vampire.” Max grins wolfishly, poking his canine with her finger.
Mike immediately ‘bleh’s and tries to bite her hand.
-
It’s almost an hour later, during which Mike makes polite conversation with six different dignitaries who stop by the table (though none bring up any potential deals or negotiations, simply introducing themselves, which is mildly disappointing), that the room falls into a hush.
Max elbows Mike, grabbing his attention and nodding over to the door, and he looks just in time to see it open, and-
Oh, holy shit.
“His name is Dhuri.” Max whispers. “The youngest diplomat in centuries.”
The diplomat walks surely yet gracefully, like he’s expecting everyone to move out of his way but still choosing to walk with light steps. He’s standing straight, shoulders back, head high, and he’s wearing all off-white and dark-red, a suit like Mike’s but more revealing, sleeves rolled up and shirt unbuttoned slightly. His hair is dark brown and short, coming in waves just above his ears, and his skin is lighter than he would think for a desert people, closer to olive than the dark brown of most native tribes.
Mike probably looks like a perv as he stares at what he can see of Dhuri’s chest, but he’s not looking at it like that.
He’s staring at the gold.
Where collarbones should be are wide, thick strips of shining gold against his light-brown skin, and honestly, Mike can’t tell if it’s inlaid into his flesh or some kind of jewelry.
There’s more gold on his arms. Triangular designs up from his hands, wide bands around his wrists and just below his elbows and small gold triangles making geometric designs covering his thin forearms. Once again, he can’t tell if they’re actually a part of him.
“Are they in his skin?” Mike whispers to her, staring at him, hardly blinking.
Max smacks his arm. “Stop staring! It’s not your business!”
Mike ignores her. It’s what she deserves. (Or something.)
“I’m gonna go talk to him.” Mike says, standing up from his chair.
“Sit the fuck down, Mike-” Max hisses, but he’s gone, making quick strides over to the diplomat. When he gets close enough to see details, he sees so much more.
There are much thinner strips of gold along his cheekbones and winding around his neck.
His eyes are hazel with flecks of gold.
He has a mole on his upper lip.
He’s…
Shit. Shit, he’s looking at Mike, he’s-
Mike doesn’t know what to do. Shit. Does he speak Common? Does he- shit, what’s he doing?
Does he know as much as anyone can about the Mella from failed trade deals and books? Yes. Does he speak a little of the language? He remembers a little bit! Does he know the customs?
He knows a little due to past diplomatic attempts.
He can go off of what he knows from the reports.
Mike stops and bows at a forty-five degree angle, making a diamond with his thumbs and pointer fingers in front of his forehead and keeping his eyes averted. “Chaab’il eere, oxloq’inb’il ula’.” he fumbles.
Oh, no. The Mella are so far removed they don’t speak Common, do they? They-
The diplomat is quiet for a second before he laughs, a melodic sound that makes Mike’s heart jump. “So… that’s not the right pronunciation. Or the right greeting for the situation.”
When Mike stands up straight, awkwardly shoving his hands into his pockets, he sees Dhuri smiling. He looks almost nervous, bunny teeth poking through his lips.
Cute.
“I’m so sorry.” Mike mumbles. “I- I wasn’t sure-”
“I appreciate the effort.” Dhuri says, smiling at the floor. He has a mild lilt to his voice, but the accent is so light Mike almost doesn’t hear it. “But I do speak Common.”
“I’m so sorry for assuming.” Mike says, shrinking before he can help it. “I figured that- since the Mella are isolationists-”
Dhuri’s smile clenches tightly.
“Al’Jinai.” he audibly forces through his teeth. “‘Mella’ is an offensive term. Stemming from the word ‘honey’ in Latin, a language brought with the first colonization attempts and applied in order to imply we were soft, sweet, and simple. Something to be consumed.”
Oh, great. He’s just fucking up on, like, eight different counts, apparently.
Mike pinches himself and hangs his head. “I’m so sorry…”
He doesn’t know what the diplomat’s title is.
“Technically consul, but we don’t think about that too much.” he says before offering his hand. It’s slender, yet it has callouses lining his fingers and palms. “You are?”
“Mike S- well, Mike Wheeler of the Solokovs.” Mike stammers, taking it. His hand is cold. He wonders if Dhuri’s freezing compared to the environment of his homeworld. “My parents were the Wheelers because- uh, they made wheels- so I have their name, but I got taken in with my sisters by our head Consul and commander so I’m technically also ‘Mike Solokov.’”
“Nice to meet you.” Dhuri says, giving another small, bunny-toothed smile as he lets go.
“And you’re Dhuri, right?” Mike asks, fighting the urge to wipe his hand on his pants, not because Dhuri’s hand is dirty but because his own palms are sweating.
Dhuri laughs awkwardly. “Technically. It’s the shortening of my Al’Jinai name. My full name is actually Will’dhurad’i An’Eshala Jinna al Qas’han Jina-ya. Most people back home call me Will, but I felt it was more appropriate to go by Dhuri here - make it easier on people’s tongues while not letting them pretend I’m not Al’Jinai.”
Mike blinks, trying to process the name. “What- uh- what does your name mean?”
Dhuri smiles awkwardly. “It’s, uh… complicated. Where I’m from, names are a lot more complicated than just a word or two to identify you. It’s closer to a story. ‘Will’dhurad’i’ is my personal name - it means ‘he who endures the fire’ - but it usually gets shortened to Dhuri, which means ‘the enduring one.’ ‘An’Eshala’ is my maternal line, the Waterbearers. ‘Jinna’ means I’m important in the tribe and chosen by the elders. ‘al Qas’han’ means I’m descended from the Qas’han Al’Jinai warriors through my father - Byers would be the closest translation. And ‘Jina-ya’ means I was born during a storm, which is… rare.”
Mike’s brain stalls out for a solid few seconds trying to process that. “Do, uh… all Al’Jinai-”
“My sister’s name is shorter, if that’s what you’re wondering.” Dhuri interrupts, smiling slightly and cheeks light pink. “Ellisa An’Eshala al Hopper Jina-ya. I just happen to have more than the normal three names because of when I was born and because the Grandmothers like me.”
“Huh.” Mike says, and then he realizes he’s probably being rude. “My name means ‘gift from God,’ which is dumb because nobody in my family believes in God. I think my mom just liked the sound of it. Then my middle name is ‘James’ for a similar reason, and my last name is ‘Wheeler’ because my family makes wheels and ‘Solokov’ because…”
He already said that. Mike’s fucking this up in so many ways. Dear God.
“Yeah.” he finishes lamely. “Um, do you want something to eat? My table should be getting food soon-”
“Are you offering a seat?” Dhuri asks, smiling again. His cheeks are turning darker pink, the gold on his cheeks showing even more at the contrast. It looks good. It reminds Mike of pictures of sunsets.
After a second of being a dewy-eyed schoolboy, Mike realizes that offering a seat might not be acceptable in his culture.
“No! I mean- yes? I- I don’t think there’s enough room for your entire party-”
“It’s only me.” Dhuri interrupts. “Most of my people aren’t in the mood for diplomacy.”
Mike blinks. Wait- what?
“Um, what- what does that mean? Is it not a popular idea to have allies on Thorara, or are you declaring war, or-?”
Dhuri gives a small smile, but this one looks far less sincere than his others, teeth concealed inside his lips and muscles tight. “You’ll understand later. However, because we have no qualms with the Solokovs and I think you’re actually nice and far more genuine than half the people here, I will warn you: during the actual meeting, I do not recommend you speak up. Stay neutral. Stay quiet. Out of forty-nine planets, yours is one of eight my people have no problems with. It is in your best interest and your people’s best interest to keep your mouth shut during what’s coming.”
Mike’s breath catches.
‘What’s coming?’ ‘Stay neutral?’ The fact he outright said it’s a warning? He’s telling Mike to stay out of a massive conflict. And ‘eight of the forty-nine’ means-
“The council is meeting in five minutes. Please take your seats.” the moderator announces.
Dhuri gives Mike a much more genuine, soft smile at the sound that makes his heart flip even as it pounds in terror. “The meeting is starting. Perhaps we continue our conversation later?”
Mike nods, half in shock, and he’s frozen as Dhuri walks away.
As soon as he’s gone into the conference room, Max is bounding up to him. “Holy shit! You idiot! What-”
“I think there’s about to be war.” Mike says faintly.