Chapter 1: Promotion
Chapter Text
Mike knows that if Consol Ranulf catches him, he’s gonna get his ass kicked, but instead of actually listening and studying the Solokov guns of the past few centuries and how to use them, he’s laying flat on his back on the top shelf of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf with the fantasy novels, squished in twelve feet off the stone floor and reading a book as quietly as he can in case anyone comes looking.
Mike likes sword-fighting. It’s pretty awesome, especially when it’s Robick he’s working with and it’s like a game. He just… isn’t in the mood for guns. Like, ever. He’s just not interested. But the Consul thinks it’ll make him a ‘good second,’ which is dumb - note to self: don’t say that to him.
But seriously, it’s Nancy’s thing! She likes to shoot, Mike likes to read, and that’s part of why it’s so stupid that Mike’s the one who’s supposed to transform himself into this badass warrior and Nancy’s the one who’s supposed to learn how to become a counselor and the next Consul when she’s the fighter and he’s the one who likes to hide in the library while snow buries them inside the mountain as always.
His little sister Holly’s lucky. The odds of both Mike and Nancy dying are so crazy low that she’s allowed to do whatever her little eight-year-old heart desires, which usually means tea parties with her bears and guards (and occasionally Mike) while they’re the ones under the pressure of tradition.
It feels like everything on Denorax, their planet, comes down to tradition sometimes. Mike, Nancy, and Holly being separated from their parents and taken in by the Consul was tradition (coming from the idea that the Consul has to have three heirs, taken from the general populace, in order to keep the government controlled by the people). Their food is tradition. The clothes they wear and their training and even their house is tradition.
He’s tired of tradition.
Mike shifts slightly on the stone shelf, covered with a blanket to keep the chill out, and flips to the next page. It’s a book about a prince falling in love with a knight and running away with her to fight the monsters lurking outside the city walls. He’s read it three times, so he already knows how it ends, but it’s a very comforting thing to read. Nobody dies. Nobody gets hurt. Just a secret romance and kicking a bunch of evil dragons’ asses.
It’s one of his favorites. It’s also a very good weight to throw at Nancy when he’s annoyed.
Mike pulls the blanket around him as he turns to the next page.
Denorax is one of the coldest planets in the galaxy. It’s not on the outer rim - far from it - but it circles in an hourglass around the two suns, meaning that for about four years out of ten, the temperature is below two hundred degrees Fahrenheit as the rock floats through space and the other six years it manages to drag itself up to only fifty below.
He’s been born here. It’s the only home he’s ever known and the only planet he’s ever been on.
Mike’s still fucking cold. He constantly wears layers and bundles himself in blankets and does everything he can to stay warm, even if he has the pale skin and dark hair typical of the Solokovs.
It’s part of why Mike thinks he would’ve been better as the royalty of a different planet. Not only would he much prefer to be on a warm planet - maybe a rainforest planet, a desert, something above zero - but he’s just not built to be a Solokov.
Solokovs have a very specific reputation. Brutal, defensive, fighters - cool, calm, and collected during diplomacy, waiting for other nations and peoples to bow to them and their will, but happy to wage war the second they’re slighted and annihilate the opposing side or even against their own people, demonstrated by how the Denaxians, namesake of the planet and the tribe that ruled Denorax for years as the Solokovs were still developing, were wiped out centuries ago to make way.
It’s taught to the children in history class. The Solokovs took the planet, bombed the Denaxians, pushed them into surrender and exile, leaving them to either freeze or become Solokov.
It’s meant to cause patriotism, pride, loyalty - it just makes Mike feel kinda sick to think about the bodies still out there, still composed because of the temperature, frozen into snowbanks miles outside the safety of the mountain.
And that’s the thing. Mike’s not brutal. He screamed like a little girl when he saw a public execution for the first time. He’s absolute shit at anything physical. He’s nearsighted and clumsy. He likes reading romance books. He-
“MICHAEL!”
He’s scared shitless of authority figures like Ranulf.
Mike automatically jumps, but that makes him sit up, and next thing he knows, he’s smacked his head on the stone above him hard.
He regrets his height. Being six-foot isn’t great for curling into small spaces.
“Ow! Fuck!” Mike hisses, smacking his hand to the spot.
“Come down now!” Ranulf shouts from below him. In the library filled with not much but soft paper and hard stone except for a few chairs, it echoes and makes Mike cringe again.
He takes a chance and peeks over the ledge, only to find a very-pissed off man.
Ranulf isn’t technically part of the former dynasty, instead founding the sixteenth. You see, he stormed the government, killed the former Consul and his family, and took a seat on the throne still covered in their blood.
So generally a great guy. Real sweet person. Not terrifying and violent at all. If you ignore his kill count in the thousands, his history of winning six wars and torturing POWs, and the way he even fucking got his titles.
Mike thinks it’s reasonable that he’s terrified.
“You’re not in trouble. Come down.” Ranulf says.
Mike’s not sure if it’s a lie, but he also knows that he’s gonna get his ass handed to him if he doesn’t listen, so he folds his blanket, tucks his book under it, and pushes off the shelf, falling for a second before landing, careful to bend his knees so the impact isn’t too painful (ask how he knows to do that one.)
Ranulf’s eyes are narrowed as he makes no attempt to hide that he’s looking Mike over.
“Are you aware that I’m counselor, commander, and Consul?” he asks coolly.
Mike cringes. If this is another lecture-
“Michael.”
“Yeah, I know.” Mike says, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“Are you aware that your instructor claims you show no physical prowess whatsoever?”
Well, fuck him, Mike’s good at climbing things.
“No.”
Ranulf’s eyes stay narrow as he regards Mike. “What is the proper greeting at a Council meeting?”
Mike blinks. Wait, what?
“Sit.” Ranulf says, gesturing at two of the six chairs in the library. “They’re much more comfortable than the shelves you favor.”
Mike has no idea what the fuck is happening, but he listens, going and sitting in one as Ranulf reclines in the other, folding his hands in his lap.
“Your sister is a natural leader.” Ranulf says coolly. “A good fighter. She’s highly intelligent, calculating, and an excellent shot.”
Oh, he knows what this is.
“And I’m not, I kn-” Mike sighs.
“Don’t interrupt me.” Ranulf cuts off. “Your sister has many good attributes. She is not made for diplomacy.”
Once again, Mike blinks in surprise.
“Nancy’s good at diplomacy. She-”
“Nancy lacks discipline over her temper. She is capable of strategy and subtlety, but her instinct dictates she react with aggression rather than calculation. She would be better suited to lead an army than a government.”
Mike knows that. Of course he knows that. Nancy’s been a fighter since she first got handed a gun, sharp in both wit and physical capability, ready to either bite your head off or shoot you. She thrives in chaos.
Yet Ranulf saying it like that, like it’s something impossible to change, makes something tighten in Mike’s chest.
“She could lead a government if she wanted.” Mike says, voice smaller and meeker than he’d like. “She could have discipline.”
“No, she couldn’t.” Ranulf says. His lip curls, but it’s not amusement - more like the face of ‘I’ve just heard the stupidest fucking statement I’ve ever had the misfortune of hearing, yet I must entertain it.’
Mike shifts in his seat. “She’s smart.”
“She is.”
“She’s good under pressure.”
“She is.”
“She’s-”
“Not you.” Ranulf interrupts, tone final. “She’s not you.”
Mike’s mouth snaps shut. He’s kinda terrified of wherever the hell this is going.
“Nancy is a fighter. Just as good as, if not better than, me. You, on the other hand, are not a fighter.”
Mike braces for the insult. It doesn’t come.
Instead, Ranulf sits, studying him, elbows balanced on his knees, for a long time before saying, “You’re intelligent. You think before you act. You consider all angles before you make a decision. You have an affinity for words.”
Mike’s rendered speechless.
Ranulf must see the confusion on his face, because his lips curve into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Did you think I haven’t noticed, Michael? You’re helpless in combat - you’re slow, you’re clumsy, you’re weak - yet I’ve read your essays. You remember important information and comprehend it. You have a grasp of history and a deep understanding of politics. You hide in here even when you aren’t training because you prefer to absorb information and learn. That is far from a weakness.”
The air’s been sucked out of the room. This is- this is new. This is somebody nobody’s ever said, let alone Ranulf. He’s not saying it like an insult. He’s not saying it like it’s a disappointment. He isn’t telling Mike to change or fix himself.
“The tabletop games you play with the servants? You utilize astonishing strategy while developing relationships with allies. Your essays? They’re in-depth analyses of peoples, cultures, and interaction and trade with them that impress even me. All of this on top of your evident knowledge, creativity, and diplomatic capability.”
Mike blinks at him.
“I’m done trying to make you someone you’re not.” Ranulf says. “Yet the people still need a leader. Thus, I believe I have found a solution. When I retire, there is no one Consul.”
“You- you’re splitting your-” Mike chokes out.
“You’re the brains. Nancy is the brawn. Holly is the innocence keeping the two of you balanced - the heart.” Ranulf says, folding his hands. “So yes, I plan to split my titles.”
Mike’s heart is pounding out of his chest.
“Nancy is Commander in charge of military and defense. Holly is titleless, yet intended to be the pure, beloved figurehead ‘leader’ whom the people are endlessly loyal to. And you, Michael, are Consul. You reign over diplomatic relations, trade, and alliances. You take care of the people.”
Mike thinks his jaw might’ve hit the floor.
He doesn’t know what to say.
His whole life, he’s been the afterthought. Least loved by his birth family, then taken away to be the awkward, bookish heir with no care for violence, someone barely surviving training while Nancy thrived, while Holly charmed everyone with her effortless sweetness. Mike’s always been the spare, the one supposed to be ready to take the place of Nancy yet still less than her.
And now Ranulf is telling him he’s important.
That he’s necessary.
“I- are you sure?” Mike asks, swallowing hard.
Ranulf raises an eyebrow. “Do you believe I would make a decision like this lightly?”
No. Of course not. Mike shakes his head.
“This doesn’t align with tradition. You do not align with tradition. But as you know, tradition is not infallible. The needs of the people outweigh the rules of the past. And while we may have always needed to be steel, the time may be right to express that we are not mindless brutes. You are the key to this.” Ranulf stands up, knees cracking lightly. “Thus, I have high expectations for the meeting next week. You are to look and act professional, you are to represent this planet and people with dignity, you are to make alliances and secure resources wherever possible, and you are to memorize the list of other attendants and their cultures, customs, and personalities. That will be sent to your room shortly. I recommend you begin your first reviews.”
He’s already out the door before Mike thinks to call, “Wait, what?!”
Chapter 2: Dhuri
Notes:
Hey! Sorry I wasn't able to put a note on the first chapter. Basically, I'm just really glad you're reading this and hope you enjoy!!! <3
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.
Chapter 3: Colonizers
Notes:
As a mixed author who's from a ton of oppressed groups (half Siksika, quarter Prussian Jew, eighth Irish, eighth Inuk), I say this with all my heart: FUCK COLONIZERS.
You will see why this is the author's note lol.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The first two hours of the meeting are boring.
The council room is, in itself, impressive, a massive thing with (removable) wedges representing each house pushed together to make a circle, one person sitting at each with two to three behind them. Mike’s sitting at a wedge with stone and an ice vein through the middle (which the middle has visibly has a cooler in it to maintain, and which makes Mike sit on his hands and let Leena and Mira take notes instead of risking his poor numb fingers). Max’s wedge is mossy, there are wedges of stone and of plants and of sand, and there’s even an aquarium wedge, behind which sits an older woman and two teenage boys - the woman is clearly not Native while the boys are both from the Ocradus tribe.
Dhuri sits at the plainest table, simply carved from pale, unpainted wood. There’s no decoration, no ornament, not even a plaque to announce his name or planet. He doesn’t have any support staff, either, though he does occasionally pass notes with one of the Ocradian teenage boys. Despite that, Mike knows about half of the Council is watching him, the same (...maybe not the same way) as Mike is. Dhuri is surprisingly still - other than the occasional note on the pad in front of him or passing them with the Ocradian boy, he stays still, spine straight and hands folded in front of him, not even fidgeting.
It’s after the Celenna representative gives a circular rant on mining rights on Lira III - Mike has to fight not to fall asleep - that he does anything.
The councilors start arguing over who goes next after Celenna, and that’s when he moves. Dhuri slowly stands up, rebuttoning his jacket and taking a deep breath before clearing his throat. All of them go dead quiet.
“Chaab’il eerib’, ex was wiitz’in aj k’amol b’e.” Dhuri says. “For those of you who do not speak my language or are not knowledgeable about my people, that means ‘hello, fellow delegates.’ My name is Dhuri of the Al’Jinai, and I am the representative of Thorara. Tonight, I am sure that many of you have questioned why, after centuries, there is finally a representative. Laa’ex aj kolonel xe’elq’ak chiqu chiru naab’al chihab’. Laa’at li q’etq’etil.”
Dhuri smiles, but this time, it’s not bunny teeth - it’s sharp as a wolf, baring his teeth instead of laughing. “I would ask to be pardoned, but considering you all see us as too backwards to so much as develop the wheel, I know that few, if any of you, know what I just said. For those who don’t know: I just said that I am here because you are all colonizer scum who have robbed my people.”
Mike’s entire body tenses. Eight of the forty-nine are safe. Isn’t that what he said?
“Over the past year alone, over eight thousand tons of gold and jewels have been stolen from our planet by mining vessels from forty-one of the delegates at this table. None of you have been sanctioned to step foot on my planet, let alone to take so much as a grain of sand. And yet you do so anyway because you have so little respect for not only my world, but for my culture and people.”
Dhuri takes a deep breath, pressing his fingertips against the plain table. “None of you have so much as attempted trade for decades, or even asked in order to let the Al’Jinai select which reservoirs are the least culturally important. You have come in ships claiming we’re isolationist and thus deserve to be stolen from, yet you have not only not asked, but you have not attempted to see things from our point of view. We do not like the idea of isolation. My people believe in collaboration and mutual respect. But when your first contact was to attempt to colonize us, and every attempt at outreach except for our lone allies - another colonized native tribe - has been similar, you cannot blame us for our lack of trust.”
Dhuri takes another deep breath. “My people are open to trade to the eight delegates who have not stolen from us and drained our land like the leeches they are. If you make attempts to understand our culture, to learn our language and customs and understand us beyond our resources - if you respect us - my people are willing to offer peace treaties and trade offers. To the other forty-one: retract your vessels immediately. Thorara is off-limits under threat of war. If so much as a single vessel that is authorized by your government and not by us attempts to land, let me make something very clear: you will not have time to blink before we rain hell upon you. The Al’Jinai are peaceful, but we are not stupid, and we are not cowards. We protect our own, whether land or people, and if you make another move at what is ours, you will not come out alive.”
Dhuri takes another deep breath, throat bobbing and eyes closing for a millisecond. “Even if you follow my recommendations, trade is not available to you. You have forfeited your right to legitimacy when you attempted to become conquerors, and in doing so, became thieves. To the eight who are good: I look forward to future negotiations. Thank you.”
He sits down, and the whole room breaks into chaos.
“You don’t have proof.” the delegate from Hejdi, a temperate planet, protests.
Dhuri doesn’t say a word. He just withdraws something from his pocket, setting it on the wedge before tapping it twice. It immediately projects a wide-scale image hologram above them.
Mike cranes his neck to look. It’s a 3D holographic of Thorara’s surface, made out of logs.
Oh, holy shit.
“There have been two hundred and three mining operations, eight of which have been your planet, sir.” Dhuri says. “See the graphics placed above your seat. You will find detailed records, and if it were to be touched or if I were to touch my control-”
Dhuri does so, tapping it once, and it switches to a hologram of a ship (obviously Hejdi), crates marked with the Hejdi emblem surrounding it as the ship is loaded.
The delegate drains of color, and Mike bites his lip to muffle a laugh.
He should be afraid. The galaxy is about to break into war.
But Denorax isn’t at risk. Three of their four allies hold the rest of the galaxy’s gold, and they wouldn’t have invaded or stolen anything. The last ally holds very little value and could easily be let go - Mike knows the trade agreement has little benefit to the Solokovs and only survived because Ranulf wanted to seem like less of a hardass.
Denorax is safe.
And, to be fair, the Hejdi are assholes.
“We have logs of every mining vessel, every unauthorized entry, photographs from orbit and on the ground level, and even evidence of your own markets and trade. We’ve been documenting this for decades. And before you ask: all of this has a paper trail. Your shipping logs and trade agreements have been acquired through the Open Trade Transparency Act, passed by the people in this room when you began policing each other’s tariffs and becoming paranoid about theft and illegal activity. It is remarkably easy to use your own systems to expose you.”
Mike fights not to laugh again, but whether out of nerves or awe or a sense of justice (read: ‘fuck yeah, you tell ‘em’), he’s not sure. Somewhere behind him, Leena mutters ‘holy shit.’
Both of them scoot their chairs closer, leaning forward to talk to him like hundreds of the other aids and junior delegates are doing, and Mike turns to face them in his chair.
“Are we one of the good guys? Please tell me we’re one of the good guys.” Leena whispers. “If we’re not, I’m quitting.”
“We are. Barely.” Mira says quietly. “Consul, what’s your stance?”
Mike hesitates. On the one hand, he should probably stay neutral. Dhuri flat-out told him to.
On the other hand, he doesn’t like colonists, and he can actually do something to help the last uncolonized people. Ranulf would probably applaud an alliance with a civilization holding so much wealth, and they have the military might to-
“We’re backing the Al’Jinai.” Mike whispers.
Surprisingly, even Mina nods.
“I… expected more of an argument.” he admits.
“The Me- Al’Jinai are off the radar.” she says quietly. “According to our own intel, they don’t even have communication devices or speak Common beyond the most common five hundred words. The hologram tech he just used is twenty years out from everyone’s current technology. It’s not glitching and it’s able to be controlled by touching it. We don’t know what they’re capable of, but all I know is that we’ve grossly underestimated them.”
“If they’re willing to declare war on forty-one planets, they’ve got the capacity to do it.” Leena whispers. “I’m not gonna recommend we fight against a devil we don’t know anything about.”
Mike glances back at Dhuri. The boy - because he looks so young, a few weeks younger than Mike himself - has gone still again. His eyes are closed and he’s taking deep breaths.
“They’ve been playing dead.” Mira whispers in a tone that sounds almost awe-struck. “Laying low. Pretending to be backwards and blind so that we don’t see what they have until it’s too late.”
“Can you blame them? The colonization attempts-” Leena starts.
“The first contact with them in total involved a village being burned and them being declared beautiful savages.” Mike interrupts. “The strategy is brilliant. Show us what they want us to see, secretly build up defenses so we won’t know what hit us and can’t defend ourselves when we attack. It’s probably part of how they survived.”
They’re quiet for a minute.
“I’m going to start writing a statement.” Mina whispers. “This conference takes place over three days. You can present it tomorrow. You- MikeMikeMikeno-”
His chair scrapes backwards as he stands up, the room once again going quiet. Dhuri’s eyes lock onto Mike.
“Denorax and the Solokovs denounce the deplorable actions taken by the delegates in this chamber.” Mike says, forcing his voice to stay steady. “We recognize the legitimacy of the Al’Jinai and their claim to their planet and its resources, and we seek a formal alliance. Denorax also announces consequences in trade with any country that has proven involvement in these illegal operations. Furthermore, we request to open bilateral negotiations with the Al’Jinai delegation for the purposes of cultural exchange, reparation discussions, and, if desired, trade under their terms. We respect the sovereignty and independence of Thorara and its people. The Solokovs do not stand with colonizers. We stand with justice.”
People break out into shouting.
“We formally stand with the Al’Jinai!” Mike shouts over them.
Dhuri’s face breaks into what can only be described as pure sunshine even as people stand and point fingers and shout at the top of their lungs, looking at Mike like he just handed him a puppy.
Mike smiles back.
By the time the moderator manages to get enough speaking room to announce that they’re done for the night, six others - Juno IV, Haraken, Ulam, Valzera, Orkadia, and Tseralia - have announced their support. When Mike looks at Max, she looks like she’s having a panic attack, and Mike realizes that the Hargroves must have stolen from them. The Ocradian delegates are all grinning, and the boys both look like they want popcorn.
But when Mike goes to go to his rooms, Dhuri walks up, hands him a note, smiles, and keeps walking.
Dhuri’s handwriting is neat and straight, but Mike’s more focused on the words.
‘My room is on the nineteenth story of the Cove. Be there in an hour? :)’
-
Despite Mira and Leena’s advice, Mike agrees to meet Max in his rooms later and goes to the Cove. It’s one of the nicer diplomatic towers, and the whole place is pretty much done in dark wood (Mike knows it’s imported from Hewad on first glance), with even the inside of the elevator done the same and with a couch inside.
Mike does not sit. Instead, he shifts his weight from foot-to-foot, trying to ignore how his fancy shoes pinch at his toes with every movement. The elevator panel is sleek crystal, but he hardly notices as he presses ‘19’ with trembling fingers.
He spends the entire smooth journey up trying to figure out what the hell he’s doing. It’s pretty much his first day, and he picked a side in a massive almost-war and possibly made a ton of enemies and-
Oh, God. Dhuri’s pretty. Is this what thinking with his dick is?
Before he can answer that, the door dings open, and it opens straight into a massive suite.
“Uh- hello?” Mike calls, voice cracking as he steps inside, the doors sliding closed behind him. It’s so warm. A glance at the thermostat reveals that it’s eighty degrees. For someone from an ice planet, Mike feels like he’s about to melt.
“Dhuri?” he calls again, and this time, there are footsteps hurrying out.
When Dhuri comes into view, he takes Mike’s breath away.
He’s changed into something more comfortable - a loose linen shirt and similarly-materialed pants, both light cream that makes the gold and olive stand out - and he’s barefoot. His hair isn’t as done, instead hanging in loose waves just past the top of his ears, and-
“Hey!” Dhuri beams, cheeks squishing up because of how wide his smile is, bounding over like an excited puppy, arms outstretched like he’s going to hug Mike before he lowers them to his sides, clearly rethinking. “I’m so happy you came!”
His accent is more pronounced here, his ‘r’s rolling and his words more musical and rounded, almost lilting, like he’s more used to talking to children and animals and plants than people. Mike has no idea what to do with it.
“Uh,” Mike says, blinking eloquently, “you seem different.”
Dhuri laughs - giggles, really - and gestures for Mike to come in. “That’s because I was using my scary face. You know, intimidation. Grr. If I don’t go in acting scary, they’re all going to assume the Al’Jinai are weak and then - surprise! - ‘no, Dhuri, we’re not going to withdraw our bullshit mining operations.’ And I need them to stop that, so I had to go in as ‘Consul Will’dhurad’i An’Eshala Jinna al Qas’han Jina-ya’ instead of Will. My dad taught me! Well, Hopper’s my step-dad, but he’s better than my actual dad, so I like him more. Anyway, he taught me how to put on my scary face. The trick is to lower your voice, speak in big words and have a neutral tone, stand up straight, and pretend everyone is below you. Which… when you’re surrounded by a bunch of colonist assholes, isn’t that hard.”
Mike thinks he’s getting whiplash.
“You’re really cheerful.” he stutters out, and oh, God, why did he say that?
“Yeah.” Dhuri says, smiling that wide smile again. “My family says that too. My sister and brother are really serious, and my step-dad is too, but my mom is more like me, just… also a giant ball of stress. Anyway! Do you like food? I have snacks and drinks. I was cooking earlier-”
“You cook?” Mike says in a daze. “I thought you were a diplomat.”
“I’m not usually.” Dhuri admits with a small shrug. “Usually, I’m a bit of a nuisance, but I’m chosen and trusted by the Grandmothers and know a lot about galactic politics. Plus, I’m good with languages and my scary face is perfect for negotiations.”
“Uh, what- what do you do back home?” Mike asks.
“Oh! Your shoes are probably uncomfortable. You can take them off if you want.” Dhuri says. “I do a lot of things. I’m mostly an artist - painting, drawing, sculpting, telling stories - but I also tend to take care of a lot of tribe members. The children, the animals, the elders, the disabled, my sister and mom - I take care of them.”
“Why your sister? Ellisa, right?” Mike asks, toeing off his shoes and sitting on the couch - a low thing upholstered in silk - when Dhuri gestures to it. “From what I’ve read, the Al’Jinai have pretty progressive views on gender.”
“Oh! She h- wait, you’re not going to betray us, right?” Dhuri says. “Because I can’t tell you if you’re going to use it against us.”
“No! I- I’m personally against colonization and in full support of the Al’Jinai, and- like, I think the Consul doesn’t have as strong of opinions on oppression, but I think he’d like that we’re allying with the richest people in the galaxy.”
Oh, that sounded wrong.
“Sorry.” Mike finishes lamely. “That was really rude.”
“I like that you’re honest.” Dhuri says instead of looking offended. “I prefer that over falsities, and I appreciate a genuine reason.”
Mike breathes a sigh of relief. “Okay, good.”
“So you promise me that Denorax is on our side?” Dhuri says, offering his hand. “That this alliance is set in stone and you will not turn on us?”
Mike knows such a promise is a bad idea.
“I promise.” Mike says, taking his hand and shaking it once.
Dhuri smiles. “Then you can call me Will.”
“Nice to meet you, Will. I’m Mike. Would you like to be my friend?” Mike grins back.
Will’s cheeks flush pink again, and his eyes practically squeeze shut from how he’s beaming. “Yes, Mike, I’d love to be your friend.”
Notes:
If you were wondering why Will was out of character and going by a different name: this is why!! He's our beloved Will behind closed doors, but he's also a total badass when he needs. I hope you like the way I've done that!!! <3
Chapter 4: Asylum
Notes:
Hello!! Here's the next chapter - I hope you enjoy!!! <3
Chapter Text
When Mike leaves Will’s room four hours later, feeling like he’s floating and full of bubbles like he’s had champagne even though he hasn’t had a single drink, he gets lost and spends twenty minutes desperately trying to find his suite. When he finally does recognize his surroundings, on the verge of tears, he almost collapses in relief.
But, unfortunately-
“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?!” Max shouts, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him as soon as he’s through the door. “DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT THE FUCK I HAVE BEEN GOING THROUGH?! Oh, God-”
She starts frantically pacing, and Mike vaguely registers that she’s wearing one of his tank tops and a pair of his pants, her curly hair loose down her back and her makeup smudged.
“I didn’t know, I swear- Neil and Billy, those fuckers, they- they’ve been running illegal operations on not one, not two, but forty planets. We’ve been running operations against not just the Mella-”
“Al’Jinai, Mella is offensive.”
“Fine! Al’Jinai! But we’ve been running operations not just against the Al’Jinai but against sixteen other planets by robbing their territory. My mom doesn’t know and I can’t get in touch with her because Neil realized I knew and took her fucking data pad, and when the head diplomat sends the report, she’s going to say that we’re innocent, but then if she does that she’ll have them release the past logs, and then those planets will know and we’ll be waging war against not just the Al’Jinai but sixteen other goddamn planets, Mike! They’ve forged signatures, they’ve- fuck! Fuck!”
Mike stands there, stunned, while Max practically tears across the room, yanking her own hair and breathing like she’s hyperventilating. “They’re gonna kill me, Mike! They’re going to say I knew and I didn’t report it at best, and at worst that I was the perpetrator! They used my name and my passwords and my political clearance! I-”
“I can offer political asylum.” Mike says, blinking as he tries to process that over the still-glowing ember in his chest from talking to Will, the memory of his smile. “We’ll keep you safe.”
“Political asylum doesn’t extend to war criminals. They’ve been committing war crimes.” Max pants, putting her head in her hands as she flops down on the couch. “Denorax can’t take me in. As long as the Al’Jinai are threatening us, the logs are going to be released, and- fuck, Mike, I- fuck!”
That’s when Mike gets an idea that’s either brilliant or absolute shit.
He sits down next to her, bumping his thigh into her knee (ha, short) in comfort for a millisecond before standing back up and walking over to the button system on the wall.
It’s some kind of fucked-up intercom, Mike knows, built so you can call servants and staff as well as other counselors, and he looks for a second before he finds the label reading ‘Cove: Floor 19.’
“Uh, hey, Will. It’s Mike.” he says after hesitantly pressing the button. “I have a diplomatic situation. Can me and my friend come see you?”
He takes his finger off the button, staring at the system as Max starts shouting ‘what the fuck’s at him, and it’s only a second before that rolling, musical voice comes through with ‘Absolutely, come in!’
-
Mike’s sure that they look amazing - he’s wearing fur-lined ankle boots with a formal suit and his friend is wearing clothes meant to be underclothes-slash-pajamas for a six-foot guy as a five-three girl - as they walk down the street to the Cove building, but he’s too busy trying to get Max to chill the fuck out as she freaks out about meeting Will to feel self-conscious.
“He’s really nice, you gotta trust me-”
“I don’t! I don’t trust you! He’s fucking terrifying-”
“He’s not, I swear-”
“He declared war on ninety percent of the fucking galaxy-”
Mike herds her into the elevator as she yanks the cuffed pants higher on her hips, and he would normally tease her, but her lip is still being worried between her teeth and she looks so fucking terrified, so he doesn’t.
Her shoulders, covered in freckles and visible with the tank-top, she’s wearing, hit her ears when the elevator doors slide open, and Mike has to grip her shoulders and physically drag her forward, her feet barely moving.
“Hello.” Will says, stepping closer and narrowing his eyes at her. “You’re Maxine Mayfield of Etera, also known as one of the planets violating Thorara.”
Max looks on the verge of tears, and Mike shakes his head to express that Will needs to be Will instead of Diplomat Dhuri of the Al’Jinai, but Will barely nods back before turning his attention back to Max. “Why are you here?”
“I didn’t know.” she croaks, and her voice is shaky and honestly, with the most love in Mike’s heart that he can muster, pretty pathetic. “My step-dad and stepbrother, they- they lied. They did it behind me and my mom’s backs, they- we didn’t know. We thought we were leaving you guys alone, but they- my signatures and passwords and everything got used, and I- I didn’t know, okay, I’m so sorry! It wasn’t me! I- I wouldn’t!”
Max is starting to hyperventilate again, and just like that, Will melts.
“Hey, hey, don't cry. It's okay.” Will says, swooping in and putting an arm around her shoulders, a thin hand coming to gently hold Max's bicep as he leads her further inside, hunching himself to match her height even though he’s only about three inches taller. “Maak’a’ naxye, at raarookil, k’ojk’ooq aach’ool. Chaab'il wankat. K’am jun li musiq’ej. Laa’at kolb’il aawib’.”
Max hugs around her own waist as she does start tearing up. “They’re assholes. I didn’t mean to-”
“Chunlak. Take a deep breath. Sit. Have some tea. Tell me what happened.” Will says, voice rolling even more and hitting soothing tones that Mike associates being used with children. “You're safe. You’re not in trouble. Who's the asshole?”
“My stepdad and my stepbrother.” Max sniffles.
Will gasps softly, quietly exclaiming ‘oh, a twofer, how awful,’ and it’s both so random and out-of-place that both Mike and Max laugh a bit.
Will smiles back as he coaxes Max onto the couch, saying soft words in the Al’Jinai language as he wraps a blanket around her shoulders. “Do you like tea? Or cake? I have both.”
Max looks up at him in something like shock. “You’re not what I thought you’d be.”
“Well, ‘diplomat’ isn’t actually my full-time job.” Will says as he goes over to the kitchen, voice carrying like a song. “I have a couple in my city, actually. I’m a medic and a nurse, and I look after the elders and wounded and disabled. I’m a teacher and I mind the children. I look after the animals. I do a lot of art. I’m supposedly destined to bring peace to my world and people, but I don’t really believe the Grandmothers on that.”
He brings out a kettle and sets it on the cooktop. “Mostly, I just take care of things. Everyone says that I’m best at being kind. It’s actually a bit hard to be such a hard-ass in diplomatic situations.”
There’s a quiet ‘mrr,’ and then a blur of tan speeds across the floor and launches onto the couch, making Max jump and Will whip around.
“Ox! Chalk!” he calls to what Mike now recognizes as a small, cute cat - it can’t be more than five pounds, with big paws and ears and a round little body - as he starts walking over to him. “Sorry, Oxloq’inb’il is excited to be in a new environment and is thus not listening to me.”
“What is that?” Max asks at the same time Mike asks, “What does that name mean?”
Will shifts to adjust as he plucks the cat up into his arms and starts walking back to the kitchen. “He’s an Osob’tesink. That basically means ‘blessing,’ and it’s because we receive them for special occasions. This one’s name means ‘Cherished,’ though I rethink that every time she gets into trouble. She’s about three years.”
Mike remembers reading about them. They’re cats, descended from domesticated sand cats, specifically given to a bride or a new mother in the tribes as a way to usher in safety and good luck.
“They’re specifically used as wedding presents and as childbirth blessings for the matriarch of a family.” Mike says slowly, looking at the settled little cat. “How did you get one?”
“Oh, good job on reading about us!” Will beams, though something dark flits over his eyes. “I just got lucky with this little one. She’s perfect. Anyway, Max - while I get the rose-pistachio cake and some tea, why don’t you tell me exactly what happened?”
Mike blinks in surprise at Will dodging the question like that, but Max apparently isn’t perturbed whatsoever, because she launches into a breathless explanation. Mike brushes it off - it’s probably a long story.
“My mom married Neil when I was eleven. He’s the worst. His son is even worse. Like, he’d- he’d throw a fit and try to kill you if he knew that I was talking to-” she waves a hand.
Will’s expression clouds again as he walks back over with tea. “A Mella?”
She nods. “He, uh- one time, we had some Ocradus representatives, and he tried to run them down with his car because I was hanging out with one.”
“Lucas?” Will asks.
Max looks up sharply. “How-?”
“We’ve been friends for… a very long time. He’s helped me through some very rough patches in my life.” Will says lightly. “He told me about that incident. He’s told me some about you, actually. The way he speaks, you’d think you hung the stars.”
Max’s cheeks flush, and Mike makes a mental note to bother her later about it, but he’s more focused on Will.
“For what it’s worth, I believe you, but what had you so worked up that you came here on the verge of tears in borrowed pajamas?” Will asks lightly, returning to the kitchen. Max immediately looks calmer with the cat hopping onto her lap rather than follow its master. “I doubt it’s racism, though that is a very good reason to be upset.”
“They’ve been using me.” Max says, voice wavering. “My diplomatic credentials. My mom and I, we didn’t know, but Billy and Neil, they- they’ve been illegally mining in a ton of different sites, and they’ve been claiming it’s been us and leaving a paper trail to cover it up. When you declare war and the documents get released, it’s going to look like my mom and I sanctioned acts of war against sixteen nations. We didn’t, I swear to you.”
Will doesn’t pause as he returns with two slices of cake, one of which he offers to Mike, who takes it gratefully - he had a piece earlier and it’s fucking amazing - and sits down next to Max, one hand finding its way to her back. “Your government can’t be saved by what’s coming. We can’t back down. You understand, yes?”
Max shrinks into herself again. “I know. I just- fuck.”
“Yeah, ‘fuck.’” Will says, smiling slightly before returning to soft-but-serious. “We cannot save your government, but we can save you. My people don’t believe in needless punishment, and I can offer political asylum to you and your mother if you claim the labels of whistleblowers. We can offer protection.”
Max stares at him, jaw slack. “You just declared war on forty-one planets, including mine, and you’re offering me and my mom protection?”
“I understand the position you’re in, and I believe you.” Will says gently. “I know what it’s like to have family that doesn’t have your best interests at heart and uses you for personal gain.” Mike watches as he rubs a finger on the gold bands around his wrist. “I don’t believe in leaving people trapped, especially in bad situations. If you accept, the asylum is yours.”
“What happens if I do accept?” Max asks quietly.
“You would publicly renounce the illegal operations and those responsible, and you would likely testify if it came to calling for arrests or executions. You’d come to Thorara under my protection as the head diplomat and one of the Jinna. The Al’Jinai would offer safety as long as you chose to stay.”
Mike watches Max’s expression shift into contemplation. “What about after?”
“Well, we don’t believe in harming innocents.” Will says, ducking his head to smile at her. “We want to harm the government, not the people. Once Neil and Billy are dethroned, do you not think that someone will still need to reign over Etera?”
Max stares into her tea for a moment. “I’d be safe on your planet?”
“Yes. The heat can get nasty, and there are some parts of the desert that really are uninhabitable, but you’d stay in the cities where it’s safest. It’s beautiful there.” Will says gently. “In fact, I believe you and my sister El would get along very well.”
She’s quiet for another few seconds.
“I’ll take it.” Max says finally. “I’ll try to reach my mother and get her to.”
“Good.” Will says, rubbing another few circles on her back as the cat purrs in her lap. “Then that’s that. I’ll call for my friend Dustin to fetch your things. I’d rather you stay here where you aren’t alone and where the evil stepfamily doesn’t know your location.”
“Wait - you have friends here?” Mike asks, almost incredulously.
Will gives a small smile. “Dustin has been my friend since I was five years old. He later signed up to be my manservant, but he’s more of my friend than anything, even if he does technically do what I ask. Anyway, I’ll have some papers drawn up for the asylum and set up another bedroom. Unless - Mike, would you prefer to stay here? It is late.”
Mike should say no. “Sure, yeah. That sounds good.”
“Good.” Will says, rising and stretching. “I’ll set up two and call Dustin. I’ll keep him away from you until a later date - he’s always grouchy when I wake him. I’ll return in a few minutes.”
“Sounds good.” both Mike and Max say at the same time as Will goes across the room, going up to walk on the balls of his feet halfway through.
As soon as he’s out of sight, Max sighs. “Thanks for making me see him. He’s…”
“Nice?” Mike says, and he can’t help the slight smitten tone of his voice as he continues. “He’s honestly so sweet. Can you believe that he doesn’t even do this as his job? He works with kids, Max. The elderly. The disabled. He’s an artist.”
“Oh my God, Mike, did you-” she says, staring at him in a kind of mocking disbelief. “Tell me you didn’t come here thinking you were gonna get lucky.”
“Max!” Mike hisses, immediately slapping a palm over her mouth. “I didn’t! Don’t even- he might hear you!”
“Mike and Will, sittin’ in a tree-” Max sings, licking his hand.
“Gross! Don’t fucking lick me, you freak!” Mike complains, wiping his hand on his pants, and when she grins at him and sticks out her tongue, he just tackles her.
When Will returns, the cat is watching disappointedly from the arm of the couch as Mike and Max play-wrestle and snarl insults at each other. The whole galaxy may be going to war, but there’s some kind of safe bubble in this suite, and Mike’s clinging to it with as many claw marks as he’s sure Will’s cat would leave.
Chapter 5: Breakfast
Notes:
Sorry for the wait lol - it took a bit to get the motivation, as this is kinda one of my least popular fics and it messed me up a bit and gave me a crisis. Anyway, here you go! <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The next morning, Mike makes a probably-personally-dangerous decision, ignoring the call from Ranulf that comes through on his data pad and just enjoying the morning (or what passes for one on an artificially-made planet in a three-body problem, only inhabitable because of how good technology and climate control and construction have gotten.) He completely shuts the data pad down, hiding it under his pillow (okay, sue him, he’s scared to see Ranulf’s impending messages even if the pad is off), before going into the bathroom attached to one of the guest bedrooms. Each diplomatic suite is practically set up like an apartment or like one of those cruise ships that Mike’s seen from some delegations on water planets. He thinks it’s a bit extravagant, but he also appreciates it, as he’s able to brush his teeth and at least try to tame his hair as well as put some of the provided clothing on.
After a bit of trying to make sure he doesn’t look like he crawled out of a trash receptacle (especially when going to have breakfast with the meanest teenage girl alive and the Disney-princess of a diplomat that Mike will admit he definitely has a bit of a crush on), he goes out into the main area, but they’re not alone at the table.
Will is sitting cross-legged on a chair, a cup of tea in his hands, and his hair is loose and curling around the tops of his ears as he listens to the other two people (both unknown) at the table speak and laugh among themselves.
Mike freezes up a bit - he doesn’t know these people - but then Will sees him and lights up. “Chan chaqwil, Mike! So Lucas, Dustin, this is Mike. Mike, Lucas and Dustin.”
“Why do you put my name last?” one of the boys complains, probably about Mike’s age, with super-curly, kinda-long brown hair and a grin missing some of his front teeth. “Why can’t it be ‘Dustin and Lucas’?”
“Because Will likes me better.” the other boy, dark-skinned and with natural hair extending in a bit of an afro, teases, taking a bite of whatever meal that’s been plated up. “Obviously.”
“You’re all wrong. Ox is my favorite.” Will says, scooping the cat up from where she’s scratching the leg of one of the chairs and plopping her in his lap.
“That’s so unfair.” Dustin says, shoving a forkful of what Mike recognizes as some kind of rice into his mouth. “I get up before noon for you.”
“You get up at eleven-thirty while I get up at seven.” Will sighs, rolling his eyes with a smile. “And may I remind you that I do literally everything that’s supposed to be your job?”
“Not true. I do my job.” Dustin says.
“Sorry, what’s your job?” Mike asks, his brain blanking out as he just stands there like some kind of scarecrow.
Will looks back up at him before patting the chair next to him. “Come sit down! I made shakshuka with couscous because Lucas hates flatbread.”
“Bread should be round. I’m right about that.” Lucas says mildly, scooping up some dark red egg with his fork.
Mike hesitantly walks over and sits in the chair, and Will quickly starts plating up a serving of the meal, the cat perfectly still and purring in his lap. “Basically, it’s poached eggs in tomato and pepper sauce with a type of dried and steamed ground-up pasta. It’s really good. Super common breakfast on Thorara.”
“Anyway, you asked what my job was. I’m technically Will’s servant, but he actually does all his own stuff, so I’m basically just his live-in friend. I only signed up so that I can go off-world with him.” Dustin says. “I’m such a great friend that I’m never going to leave him alone.”
“I’m aware.” Will says dryly.
“Anyway, I’m Lucas.” Lucas says, reaching out and offering his hand to Mike. He takes it. “I’m from Ocradus.”
“I know. I read your file.” Mike says before immediately cursing himself for it.
Lucas just laughs. “Well, good to know you did your homework.”
Mike thinks it’s interesting. Lucas has an accent relatively similar to Mike and Max’s - probably because the people who colonized Ocradus were the same ones who colonized Denorax and Etera originally - but Dustin’s accent is rolling like Will’s, mostly with a lisp from the missing teeth but also pretty different, while Will’s accent gets thicker the longer he talks, his ‘r’s all rolling and his vowels drawn out.
“Will, Dustin - you’re both from Thorara, right?” Mike asks as he delicately takes the plate from Will’s hand when he passes it to them. “You have different accents.”
Will nods, sipping his tea. “We were raised in different cities. I’m from Ayet-Jirrah, the capital, and Dustin is from Sahlaret.”
“Plus, Will can’t hear and I have cleidocranial dysplasia.” Dustin says, taking another bite. “So I have a lisp because I’m missing a lot of teeth as well as collarbones and his voice is a little bit fucked up because he can’t hear himself talk and learned English from lip-reading.”
Mike blinks, caught off-guard, both by the facts and by how bluntly Dustin’s presenting them.
“You can’t hear?” the bane of his existence’s voice says from behind him. When Mike turns to look, Max is wearing linen close to what Will is wearing, hair in a ponytail. “Also, can I have some of whatever that is?”
“Poached eggs in tomato and pepper sauce with a type of dried and steamed ground-up pasta.” Will repeats, already grabbing another plate. “And no, I can’t. I have hearing aids, which I wear in places like the Council Meetings, but in a situation like this where I’m safe, I know everyone, and I can see everyone speaking, I don’t wear them because they make my ears sore. I don’t usually wear them at home, either, because about a quarter of Thorara is Deaf and everybody knows some Jinnamala- sorry, uh, sign language.”
Max takes a seat, and she mumbles thanks to Will when he gives her a plate before digging in, clearly not planning on participating in the conversation - not a surprise, Max is very much so not a morning person.
“Anyway, Max, I have your accommodations and papers ready. Your mother’s are still in the works.” Will says. Mike wonders how he’s changed personalities yet again - serene, serious, not scary-mysterious-diplomat nor excited - until he sees Will close his eyes for a moment too long, head dipping.
Oh. He’s tired. Enough so that he’s really mellow and calm.
Mike shouldn’t find that as endearing as he does.
“Once the meetings are over, you’ll go back to Thorara with Ox, Dustin, Lucas, and I. Mike, would you like to come?” Will says, petting the cat slightly harder like he’s trying to use the purring to keep himself awake.
“I- uh-” Mike stammers, brain immediately screeching to a halt.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. On the Ranulf-is-scary hand, he’d be pissed if Mike accepted without consulting him, let alone after ignoring his calls and agreeing to an alliance landing him as well as his people on the shit-list of several dozen planets. On the diplomacy hand, that’s a really good way to make a bond with the Al’Jinai. On the Will-is-pretty-and-Mike-is-feeling-some-serious-homosexuality hand, Will is pretty and Mike is feeling some serious homosexuality and he’d feel bad turning him down and potentially ruining their friendship, let alone any chance of romance.
Mike can call Ranulf later. Explain that he’s building bonds with the rich, mysterious, only-uncolonized indigenous planet’s representative, setting up a full alliance and potential trade deal (only half a lie), and say that he’s going to Thorara to fully set up the alliance.
He can also argue that he and Max would be the first person who isn’t indigenous to be allowed on Thorara. That he’s the second alliance of theirs ever. That it’s beneficial.
“Yes,” Mike says, being careful to make sure Will sees his lips move. “I’d love to come.”
-
He only works up the nerve to call Ranulf much later that morning, about four hours away from the next meeting, holed up alone in the guest room. Dustin and Lucas (whom, after much talking to, Mike has decided are really awesome) are playing a board game in the main area, Will fell asleep on the couch with debriefings and paperwork spread across him and the couch with a blanket covering him head-to-toe and a cat laying on him, and Max is trying to reach her mom.
Which means Mike has literally no excuse.
Ranulf answers on the third ring, and Mike ignores how much his heart is racing as the man appears, intimidating as ever with his perfectly-done hair and dead eyes and scarring and gray uniform.
“Michael.” Ranulf says evenly, and Mike can’t tell what he’s thinking, so he just starts talking full-speed, his go-to defense mechanism.
“So I allied us with Thorara. I know that’s a really risky move, but they have advanced tech years ahead of anything hither to undreamt of plus most of the galaxy’s resources, and besides, it’s a better move than being against them because we don’t know what kind of weapons they have. The diplomat - his name is…” Mike considers for a minute which name to tell Ranulf “...Dhuri, and he’s good. He’s offering Max and her mom political asylum while they wage war on Etera - they already told you about that, right? Well, W- Dhuri announced war on everyone but seven planets including us. Dhuri also invited me to go with them - he’s taking his servant, an Ocradus native delegate, and Max - and I accepted because I think I can get some really good intel, and-”
Mike runs out of air, and he tilts his head back gasping. Ranulf doesn’t say a word for a long time, and Mike’s about to start rambling again, but Ranulf interrupts as soon as Mike opens his mouth.
“I’m looking over Leena and Mira’s reports at the moment,” Ranulf says, “and I’m inclined to agree that Thorara as allies are the best for both us and them.”
Mike freezes. “Uh, what?”
“The Mella-”
“-turns out it’s Al’Jinai, Mella is offensive-”
“The Mella.” Ranulf repeats, ignoring Mike. “Are extremely wealthy, lacking in water - which we have in abundance due to snow - and have extraordinary technology. Mina sent me the recording. Based on the specific threats and classified military data, they could easily wipe many planets out - we do not want to be on their bad side. Go with Consul Dhuri to his planet. Get in his good graces as much as possible. We want to bind ourselves inextricably. Make ourselves immeasurably valuable to them, tie our cultures - we want to partner with them. Do you understand?”
Mike’s mouth is still half-open before he remembers to close it. “Uh- yes, sir. I agree and understand.”
“Good.” Ranulf says, flipping through something off the screen. He squints for a millisecond before turning back to Mike. “This Dhuri, is he… describe him to me.”
Mike chokes. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Describe him to me, please. Your surroundings aren’t at your building and I don’t recognize them, meaning you either slept in his designated zone or slept with someone else. Considering that you are one of the younger diplomats there and I am very aware of your… orientation… the odds are that you are in his space. Describe him to me. How do you get along?”
Mike freezes up long enough that Ranulf starts to visibly get impatient before he finds the words. “Dhuri is…”
He’s not going to tell Ranulf the truth. He’s not going to tell him about Will, who takes care of the elderly and disabled and children on his planet, who likes animals and art and bakes and cooks, who can’t hear and adores his cat and is unendingly kind and funny and smart. Ranulf doesn’t get that. Only Mike and the people Will chooses do. Will isn’t for Ranulf - Dhuri is.
“He’s powerful. Intimidating. He’s nice, but he’s obviously emotionally strong and smart. Not naive in the slightest. He’s nice to me about cultural things but, like you saw, willing to wage war.” Mike clears his throat, but before he can come up with anything else, Ranulf interrupts.
“Seduce him.”
Mike chokes even harder, enough that he has to pound on his own chest. “What?!”
“We need access. Influence. From what limited information we can gather based on what he presented at the meeting and personal appearance and such cross-referenced with our few records, he’s powerful in the community based on the gold patterns. Emotional bonds open doors that diplomacy never could as long as they’re genuine enough. You’re young, attractive, intelligent, powerful, charming when you want to be - if he’s drawn to you, I advise you to strongly encourage it, and if he’s not, I want you to try to nudge him into it.”
“I’m not going to manipulate like that.” Mike sputters. “That’s not- that’s not right.”
“You may be Diplomatic Consul at the moment, but I still have superiority over you. Whether platonic or romantic or sexual, you are to build a bond with him that will keep you, and thus us, in good graces with them. That’s an order. Update me in twenty-four hours.”
Ranulf hangs up after that, and Mike stares at the wall, data pad in his lap, suddenly feeling like a very small, very vulnerable chess piece on a board that has more squares than stars in the sky.
Notes:
I love Deaf Will <3 anyway, please leave a comment or Kudos if you like this, and please subscribe or bookmark if you want to stay up-to-date! Thank you so much and see you soon! <3
Also, PS: Will's culture is based on Q'eqchi' (a type of Mayan) and Saharan/Moroccan culture - the language is mostly Q'eqchi', his culture is mostly Moroccan, and many elements are just made up by me anyway lol. Thank you for reading! <3
Chapter 6: The Al'Jinai
Notes:
Here you go!! We get to learn a bit about the Al'Jinai in this one because I'm a whore for world-building lmao. Enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Mike spends the rest of the day before they have to go do diplomatic stuff hiding in the guest room, too embarrassed at Ranulf’s instructions to show his face - however, Will does slip about a dozen books under the door, and Mike quickly becomes so engrossed that he doesn’t pay attention to Ranulf’s voice in the back of his head saying ‘seduce him’ on loop.
He doesn’t pass up the honor.
The books that Will slipped underneath the door are texts that Mike doesn’t recognize, and upon opening the first book, he realized that it was in their language, with translations in Common inked in with a pen underneath the original strings of characters that are nearly unrecognizable to Mike’s eyes.
It’s within the first few lines of the first book that Mike realizes that these are stories that have never been released to the public.
Knowledge of the Al’Jinai is heavily limited off-world, only in romance novels that are more fetishizing than anything and in footnotes of some books and recorded laments about how the richest people in the galaxy are Native and refuse to trade with anyone but Native tribes and representatives.
The book that he’s holding is pretty much an encyclopedia of cultural practices and religions and beliefs among both the Al’Jinai as a whole and among different subtribes.
Mike quickly realizes that these are heavily secret stories. Upon searching through the database where all published novels and papers are, there were only the aforementioned stories, with nothing actually written by the Al’Jinai.
Which means this is a planet-specific book.
Which means that, other than probably some members of the Ocradus tribe, Mike is one of the first people who’s an outsider to read this, if not the first.
The thought steals his breath like he’s been punched as he starts to read. The handwriting isn’t Will’s, blocky and obsessive and neat, but there are annotations that are, words and fragments underlined with his handwriting on the sides of the pale, thin paper that’s made of a material that Mike doesn’t recognize.
‘The Al’Jinai tend to share similar physical traits - skin ranging from gold to almost night-black, golden and brown eyes, and dark hair - but we also have flecks of gold in our blood and tears. This is because we ingest a great amount of gold in our food, as our diet is almost entirely cactus and meat, and the cacti absorb the gold and it gets trapped inside it and we then feed it to the animals, filling them with gold as well. Every source of food is inundated with it, and it is because the gold is in the sand and water. Underneath the sand, there are large liquid gold reservoirs, and during the heat of the summer, these will melt and shift. Small drops of gold get trapped in the sand, quickly hardening into small pieces the size of a weevil, and the sand scrapes flecks off, which then get distributed, filling the water and getting mixed into the sand like simply another grain.’
Mike turns his attention to the annotations. ‘Al’Jinai - frequently called ‘fallen angels’ + ‘children of nature’ (false) + ‘People of the Desert’ (true and non-offensive.) Mella - offensive because colonialist term and insult.’ ‘Weevils common - small, about an eighth of an ounce.’ ‘Gold reservoirs usually relatively shallow, only about three feet deep - the sand rarely gives because the gold is either hard or contained by hardened gold mixed with sand to create relatively solid surface.’ ‘Vegetables & fruits rare delicacy, grains more common but still rare - we get to eat more than most because we are Jheji. It’s why I get to bake and cook things like cakes and shakshuka and couscous.’
Mike audibly murmurs ‘huh’ before he remembers that he’s literally reading by himself and probably looks like an idiot.
‘Gold is a large part of Al’Jinai culture, most notably among the Jheji, but still important to the nomads. It is in our skin, as well. We are born with gold visible along our veins and along our bones due to both gold in our calcium and blood and gold in our skin.’
There’s an annotation by the translator, in their handwriting. ‘Will’s are more prominent than mine. Mine are tiny threads only on major veins while he has them on his cheekbones and on every vein.’
Mike remembers the tiny threads along his cheekbones that catch the light, and he has the fleeting thought of asking to touch it before remembering Ranulf’s words and swallowing it and returning to the reading.
‘However, as a rite of culture and marks of who we are, we also create and fuse bands into our skin. This is done naturally using fire. Because of the amount of gold in our bodies, when we scar, it is, in large part, gold - this is particularly strong for high-heat burn scars, as the scarring will heal to resemble gold bangles and threads. As a result, upon the completion of a task that gets you gold, such as completing a Ha’ji or winning a fight or adding a member to your family, at the next holiday, we use burning pens that reach heats of seven hundred degrees to cause third-degree burns, and for larger designs, like adding bands around the forearms, biceps, or legs (the most common), we use strips of Tungsten, anywhere from a quarter of an inch to two inches wide and thinner than paper, placed into fire until it reaches a similar temperature and then wrapped around the body part that requires the blocks.’
Jesus. Mike winces in sympathy, especially when he reads Will’s annotation.
‘The marks hurt like nothing you’ve ever felt before, even with the sedation and numbing cream, but there’s something about it that makes you feel whole even when you go into shock after. There was only one I didn’t like, and that was mostly just because I wasn’t proud of what I did to get it. Still, the areas are all numbed with minor neurotoxin and aloe so it isn’t too agonizing, and everyone consents, with nobody allowed any until they begin to ask when they turn twelve - it is not barbaric, despite popular belief about Native tribal rituals.’
He can’t imagine having ritual scarring like Will does, even if he did consent and it wasn’t completely agonizing and it’s a cultural thing. The thick bands near his elbows and wrists that were the Tungsten, the threads making up the triangular pattern connecting them, the thick strips over his collarbones - they’re just third-degree burns.
He does still have to admit that it’s beautiful in its own way, though, especially as he reads the meanings.
‘Each location and width means something different. The bottom of the feet means one has made a pilgrimage, and a corresponding band around the ankles and stripes over the feet means one has had a vision while on this pilgrimage. Each block around the bicep signifies a member of their family - one-inch bands with raised triangles indicate family members, such as siblings, parents, and children, while ¾-inch bands with diagonal stripes indicate marriage. However, small flowering designs on a one-inch band indicate a child. Small lines on the fingers, below the pad and above the palm, indicate each time that an Al’Jinai has saved a life, sometimes extending to the palms for some who are hailed as heroes. Thick blocks, up to three inches wide, over the collarbones denote someone as having made an extreme sacrifice for the planet and tribe - the wider, the larger and more personal the sacrifice. Bands around the calves and thighs indicate rank in the tribe, and designs across the torso done with the heat-pen tell the story of one’s life as well as their purpose in the tribe. For the nomads, they also have gold across their forehead denoting their subtribe affiliation. The four oldest nomadic tribes are lions, panthers, cheetahs, and leopards - all found in specific caverns underneath Piya - and the newer ones have insects, reptiles, and other desert animals.’
Will doesn’t leave any annotations on that part except ‘Piya - my home, the capital, and one of three stationary cities. The biggest sector, centered around politics and religion, is known as ‘Ayet-Jirrah, which is where I’m from,’ and all Mike can think about is the thick blocks of gold over his collarbones. What did he sacrifice?
He continues reading.
‘At one point, there was significant division among the nomadic tribes, to the point where many wars were waged. However, the Palnakayo-’
Mike looks at Will’s annotation. ‘Slang for attempted colonizers, meaning ‘rotten bodies.’ Other slang for them includes ‘atlikauitl’ (without heads) and ‘auyani lek’cho’ (evil sluts). It’s customary when discussing them to respond to any of these names with ‘xiutla monan achco chichinan,’ which means ‘fuck them and their bitch mothers’ and, in slang, means that you spit on their attempts at colonization.’
Mike can’t help but huff a disbelieving laugh before he continues reading. ‘However, the Palnakayo began to attempt invasions seven centuries ago, and upon the near-extinction of the Eb’li’kanti, the Snake tribe (considered to be extremely kind, generous peoples, as demonstrated by their name, mostly composed of children and made up of over 450,000 people in smaller pockets before that number was cut to less than fifteen thousand), the rest of the Al’jinai banded together to fight back. Even once we developed defenses against the Palnakayo and stopped being invaded and having it harm our people, we kept that system. All of the current twenty-nine tribes have a representative, known as a Tuli, who meet with the rest of the Tula (council) to make legislative decisions under advisement of the Esha (Grandmothers) out of Piya.
Piya is one of three stationary cities. While the majority of the tribes are nomads, moving in groups of around two hundred people across the deserts, following rain clouds and living temporarily in mesas built thousands of years ago, Piya is the home of the Jheji (Tiger) tribe and a massive trade, industry, and immigration hub. Physically carved into the cliffs overlooking the Piryan Dunes and extending over three thousand feet down into the rock below the surface-’
Mike is so engrossed in the reading that he literally jumps when a knock comes on the door.
“Mike!” Will’s melodic voice calls. “The afternoon session starts soon, and I thought you might want to eat before we left!”
He quickly reaches over and grabs his data pad, and holy shit, he’s spent a long time reading.
“I’ll be out in a minute!” Mike calls, quickly finding a tissue which he uses as a bookmark in the encyclopedia. He sets it with the other books, and as he grabs his clothing (which someone must have brought up - it’s trippy to suddenly be important and waited on) and starts to get dressed, he makes a mental list of the books.
There’s the encyclopedia he was just reading, of course, but he quickly flips through some of the other books’ pages to get an idea - all of them are translated, and he’s decided that he loves whoever the hell it is doing it - and honestly wishes he could just stay here and read until he’s absorbed all of the eleven (he just counted) books.
As well as the encyclopedia, there’s a religious text, what looks like a collection of children’s stories (which Mike is honestly excited to read - he’s curious what kids on Thorara hear), a poetry book, a fiction novel, a collection of political papers, what looks like a medical text, a detailed agricultural and ecological survey, a thin book on social customs and etiquette, and-
Oh, holy shit.
Mike immediately locks in on the book teaching how to speak Al’Jinai - well, according to the front cover, how to speak Jinai and Jinnia, which are the spoken and sign languages.
When Mike walks out, his fingers linger on the cover of that one for a moment long.
He trusted me with this.
Notes:
YAY YAY YAY MORE WORLDBUILDING!!! The political stuff is in the next chapter <3 see you soon!! If you like this, please leave a comment and/or Kudos, and if you want to stay up-to-date, please bookmark or subscribe. Also - what do you think Will's sacrifice was? Place your bets in the comments, folks! <3 see you next time!
Chapter 7: Homesick
Chapter Text
The session is hell.
As soon as they walk into the council meeting room - Mike and Will, as Lucas had gone to be with his delegation before, Max is back in Will’s rooms trying to reach her mother, and Dustin is there guarding her and not welcome as a servant - there’s just a hush over the room, everyone looking at them with fear.
Just like that, Will disappears, giving way to Dhuri.
He straightens his shirt collar, a burgundy red button-up underneath his black suit that’s open just enough to let people see the gold on his collarbones, and stands up straighter as he begins to walk in a completely new way.
It’s honestly impressive how he just switches over.
Will doesn’t sit down, though Mike does. Instead of sitting at the Denorax table?
He sits behind Will’s chair at the plain wooden wedge.
There’s a collective murmur.
And the second that six more delegates silently stand up, walk over, dragging their chairs, and sit behind the wedge with Mike, shouting breaks out.
The delegates who have joined them are exactly who Mike expected - the head representatives from Orkadia (Lucas stays behind the Orkadian wedge with the other junior delegates), Juno IV, Haraken, Ulam, Valzera, and Tseralia. However, what’s unexpected is those that get up carrying papers.
As people shout nonsense and the moderator shouts back trying to gain order, five other delegates - Serina, Kolob Prime, Qilani, Vorthek, and even Keplar-422, known for being stubborn - walk forwards carrying papers, and all of them land on the wedge that Dhuri is still only standing primly behind.
These are planets that weren’t on the list. Mike watches closely.
Will - no, Dhuri - doesn’t even blink, instead looking down and beginning to flip through them with slim, calloused fingers. The room goes quieter, waiting.
“These five planets have compiled, in the last twenty-four hours, proof of their innocence. They have proven that it is specific factions of their military that are unauthorized that have violated my planet and people. They have also provided formal apologies and promises of reparations.” Dhuri says. His voice carries easily, sharp as a whip and his accent less musical. “To them, I say this: if you provide the promised reparations, intelligence on other illegal operations you have witnessed, and the people responsible to the Al’Jinai for punishment or proof of their punishment to my people, you will be awarded the same protections as my people’s other seven allies.”
He takes a deep breath before speaking again. “My people believe in kindness, mercy. We believe in justice, not vengeance. We believe in giving people the opportunity to make things right. Thus, I will give all of you an ultimatum.”
Dhuri smiles, and once more, it’s wolfish instead of sweet. “All of your ships that are still mining? You will release them and their crews to us to handle. You will return to my people precisely what you have stolen, and if you cannot do that, then three times the market value of what you cannot. You will prove that all involved have been punished, and if we do not find it satisfactory, then they will be given to us. The ships that have mined Thorara in the past will be allowed to remain in your possession, but if they even approach our solar system, they will be destroyed immediately upon entering our two suns’ gravitational pulls. If you agree to these conditions and prove your returns, repayments, and justice within the next twenty-four hours, you will be considered within the next five years for trade opportunities as well as granted immunity from the hell that we shall rain if you do not.”
There’s shouting again, but Dhuri talks over it. “Failure to comply will result in all of your ships in the air - except for passenger ships - being blown to smithereens. Our aim is not to kill innocents. Our goal is not to wage war. But one of your civilizations came up with the term ‘even a worm will turn.’ This means that even the meekest, the most gentle, of creatures will fight if pushed hard enough. And let me assure you - despite all of your thoughts about my people being ‘beautiful savages,’ as we have been referred to hundreds of times in your literature, despite all of your trash romance novels portraying us as so stupid that we need to be taught what fire is and simply good as a sex object, despite your colonization attempts and the rape and genocide and murder that has occurred - we are not weak. We never have been. We are smart, we are strong, we are united, and if you do not stand down, you will be burned to the ground.”
There’s practically screaming. Some of the delegates are shouting threats, some of them are pleading for another chance, some are frantically scribbling - whether doing the math on whether war or reparations is cheaper and better or writing papers like the five planets did - and the moderator looks on the verge of tears.
Dhuri takes the papers, lightly tapping them to align them, and holds them against his chest as he walks out.
Mike follows, even as the other delegates continue to fight and even Thorara’s allies and their aids get involved in the fray, shouting in the Al’Jinai’s name.
-
He catches up faster than he thinks he would have, Will stopping behind right outside the door with his head bowed.
“Will, holy shit, that was amazing.” Mike breathes, grinning as he comes up behind him. “And- God, did you see them? They were panicking-”
“I want to go home.” Will says, and it’s then that Mike registers that his shoulders are shaking slightly.
“Okay. Okay.” Mike says, going to touch him before rethinking it. “Um- your place is just a few moments away-”
“No, I want to go home.” Will gasps, and one hand comes up to press into his eyes. “I want to be with my mom and my brother and sister. I want to sleep in my bed. I want to go play with the kids. I want my sun. I want to go home. My world. I don’t want to be off-world anymore. My ears hurt from the hearing aids, I’m homesick, I’m tired, I’m scared that they’re not going to comply and we’re going to wind up fighting this war. And- fuck, I hate being off-world. I just- I want to go home.”
“Okay. Okay. When are we going to Thorara?” Mike asks, hesitating again before gently resting a hand between Will’s shoulder blades. “It’s not long, I think.”
Will sniffs. “Two more days.”
“Okay. Forty-eight hours and you’ll be on the way home.” Mike says, awkwardly rubbing a circle on his back. “That’s not so bad, right? You’ll be home soon. It’s okay.”
Will just stays there, quiet for a minute, before he leans on Mike’s shoulder, eyes still covered. “You’re a really good friend. I hope you know that.”
Mike swallows hard, Ranulf’s words popping into his head. “Thanks. You are too.”
He can’t find the words that night to tell Will that his guardian and the ruler of his planet is trying to make Mike manipulate him.
Notes:
My babyyyy ToT
Chapter Text
That night, Mike doesn’t go back to his rooms.
This is, of course, in part because, the second that Leena and Mira see him, they’re practically sprinting to either talk to or shout at him, and he practically sprints as well, but in the other direction, ending up in Will’s suite once again before they can catch him.
He’s 99% sure they’ll make him talk to Ranulf again or make him read diplomatic papers or yell at him for not sitting with them or something, and he’s kinda scared of that, so he decides that he’ll just hide out in Will’s place and avoid everything to do with his home planet until it’s time to go to Thorara and there’s a specific out that will keep them from yelling at him for, like, twenty hours straight.
When he gets back, Will at his side, arms wrapped around himself and dead quiet, Dustin’s sprawled over the couch, eating some kind of chips and playing a game on a handheld pad.
“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” Will sighs, but his eyes are soft and gentle when he looks at Dustin.
“Doing what? My job is being your friend.” Dustin asks through a full mouthful.
“Your job is technically to be my servant, and I asked you to have food brought up.” Will says, walking over and sitting at his feet, nudging him with a knee. “Because I knew I was going to not be in the mood to cook.”
“I’ll order pizza.” Dustin dismisses, tapping more at his game. “Come on, you like pizza.”
“I do. I also like it when half the galaxy isn’t trying to figure out the least amount of compensation they can give us without being smited.” Will sighs, and when Dustin folds his legs, Will leans against them, resting his cheek on Dustin’s knees and closing his eyes. Mike just stays quietly standing in the doorway, unsure of how to handle this.
After a minute, Dustin finishes the game and sits up, keeping his knees folded for Will to lean on but reaching out to put a hand on his back. “You okay?”
“I want to go home.” Will says quietly. “Ink’a’ xin’el chi najt jo’ a’in chalen chaq laj Henry.”
At that, Dustin’s expression goes this kind of sad-neutral, and he lowers his legs, letting Will’s cheek rest on his shoulder instead as one arm comes up around his shoulders. “Jwal us. Sa’ li hoonal a’in, moko aajunes ta wankat, ut sa’ li hoonal a’in, maajun taarahob’tesinq aawe.”
It feels too personal, and Mike turns away to go read in his room, some unpleasant feeling twisting in his chest.
-
About an hour later, during which time Mike’s gotten about half into the religious text, there’s a knock on the door.
To be honest, Mike’s too engrossed to pay attention.
And thus, Ashaya, the fire goddess, stomped across the coals, and the tremors were such that it was enough to not only light them, but to shatter her enemies into flames-
“Mike, pizza!” Will calls, knocking on the door again.
Mike blinks, trying to decipher the words that don’t make sense because he’s too focused on the religious text that’s way more epic than he expected to comprehend auditory input.
His hands slacken as he tries to remember what pizza is over Ashaya setting the enemies of the Chosen People on fire, and he immediately drops the book on his face, making him jump. “Ah- dammit!”
Will laughs on the other side of the door. “Did you just drop a book on your face?”
“Uh- no!” Mike calls, quickly bookmarking the page before setting the book aside and getting up, walking over to the door. When he opens it, he looks down at Will (he forgot he was shorter, maybe 5’8 to Mike’s 6’1), who’s smiling and holding what does indeed look like a slice of pizza.
“Wait, you guys have pizza?” he asks, brain foggy and getting foggier as Will smiles, flashing his perfect bunny teeth.
“Yeah. It’s not like on the planets that brought it to us, since we use chili oil and goat cheese and lamb and a specific type of cactus instead of the, uh…”
Will shrugs. “Pepperoni, I think? So this is an adventure for both of us since we ordered a ‘normal pizza’ from the moderator’s office and they pulled out a recipe from five hundred years ago and it has tomatoes and a different cheese and pepperoni, and I’m not sure about it.”
“I’ve had it before. A lot. We eat it when the weather gets above negative fifty on Denorax because it lets our one greenhouse grow tomatoes and Etera ships over cheese and meat and such. So, uh… it’s good.”
Will looks at him with something like shock. “Are you kidding me? Negative fifty?”
“That’s on the hot years. On the cold, it’s about negative two hundred fifty.”
He stares at Mike slack-jawed, and Mike smiles nervously. “Alright, what’s your planet like, then?”
“Not cold.” Will says immediately. “Not cold. Our ‘cold’ is before the sun comes up and it’s around seventy degrees.”
God, that’s warm.
“Wait, that’s cold? What’s hot?”
“During the height of the day, when it can reach about two hundred degrees when Thorara is veering too close to the sun.”
Now it’s Mike’s brain’s turn to break.
“You must be boiling.” he says disbelievingly before an even worse thought occurs. “Wait- God, please tell me that’s in Fahrenheit and not Celsius.”
“We use our own units of measurement, but yes, I translated it to Fahrenheit.”
“What’s your unit of measurement?” Mike asks, trying not to get excited. He’s never met anyone who didn’t use the Metric or Imperial systems.
“Jaa’las. Zero is when the gold solidifies, a hundred is when the sand turns to glass. The average temperature is twenty.”
“That’s so cool.” Mike says, and it’s a struggle to not have stars in his eyes as he looks at the boy who’s not only him, pretty and smart and badass and funny, but also someone from a whole other world.
“Yeah.” Will says, offering another sheepish smile before handing Mike a plate with a slice of very-greasy pizza before taking a step back. “Anyway, it’s getting late. I’ll see you in the morning?”
Mike gives up and lets himself look starstruck as Will walks away.
God, this is insane.
How was he just reading in a library like a loser a week ago?
Notes:
For those of you wondering, Will said 'I haven't been off-world this long since Henry'. Feel free to share theories >:3
Chapter Text
The next morning, when Mike feels a little less exhausted, he’s a little bit less ill-with-down-bad-ism, but he’s still a bit of a sucker, as evidenced by the fact that he wanders into the main area excited to see Will.
Will is not there, only Dustin with Ox on his lap, scrolling on his data pad again.
After a moment of hesitation, Mike slowly walks over, sitting on the far end of the couch. Dustin looks up at him, then back down at his tablet. “Hey.”
“Hey. Uh… where’s Will?” Mike asks awkwardly, fidgeting with his hands.
“Shower. He’ll be out in a bit.” Dustin says, not pausing.
Mike manages to sit in silence for a minute before the awkwardness boils over. “So, uh… you’re Will’s manservant?”
“Technically. Legally. Like I said at breakfast yesterday, he does everything for himself. I don’t cook or clean or act as his valet as anything, I just get legal clearance to follow him around.” Dustin dismisses.
“So… are servants a big thing on Thorara?”
“No. It’s considered antiquated. Only the Jinna, the ones chosen by the Grandmothers as special and meant to carry us into the future, and the Grandmothers themselves are allowed servants, which we call Jun’li’juramento. ‘Sworn ones.’ Even then, most don’t have them. It’s a legally binding bond for life.”
Mike blinks in surprise. “So why are you his?”
Dustin’s fingers slow where he’s typing. “What do you know about our people?”
“I read the entire encyclopedia that Will gave me and I’m almost done with the religious text.” Mike says. “Why?”
“So you know about the gold?” Dustin asks.
Mike nods. “I do. You, uh… don’t seem to have much.”
Dustin reaches up and pulls down the neck of his shirt, showing bands over his collarbones. They’re about an inch thick. “I have two family bands for my mom and dad, bands on my legs for my status, and the ones on my torso. I don’t have as many as Will. Most don’t.”
He releases his shirt and returns to his tablet. “You know about his bands?”
“I noticed he had extremely large sacrifice ones.” Mike says hesitantly.
“Yeah. The maximum width. I’m not going to explain too much about it, because it’s… his sacrifice was really fucked-up, and it would violate his trust to talk about it, but he had to be off-world indefinitely. He wasn’t allowed to have his family or friends or anything, and he was going to be alone in a hostile environment as a kid. I bound myself to him because it was the only way that he wouldn’t be completely alone and would have someone on his side. We were thirteen. I gave up my freedom and promised him the rest of my life so that he wouldn’t be alone.”
Mike stares, unsure of what to say, and eventually, he just manages, “That’s a lot to ask of someone.”
Dustin tenses, but doesn’t look up or stop typing on what Mike quickly recognizes as some kind of paperwork, written in their language with its long, apostrophe-filled words. “He didn’t ask. It was a choice I made, not one he asked for. He told me not to do it, actually. He cried and begged me not to, but I did it anyway, and I’m here because I love him.”
Mike flinches at the three words. “Wait, are you…?”
“I’m not in love with Will.” Dustin finally says, looking up at him and making a face, turning off the tablet and sitting up straight. “He’s like my brother in everything but blood. But he’s the best person I’ve ever known, and it’s hard not to love him. It wasn’t even a question when I was swearing myself to him - he’s my best friend, he’s the most selfless and kind person I’ve ever met, and I would die for him.”
Mike shuts his mouth, immediately feeling stupid for the jealousy (?) he felt.
“When we were kids - we met when we were six - he would get between me and bullies even though he was way smaller than me. He takes care of all the kids and the elderly and the animals and plants back home, and he goes and sits with the dying so they’re not alone, and he does everything that nobody else will do. He’s the kindest person I’ve ever met. And as a result, as one of the people who loves him most and as the person who’s seen him at his lowest, if you fuck with him, I will break you.”
Mike blinks. “What.”
“Look, you’re a cool guy. I like you. I’d love to be friends. Having said that, you’re not subtle about Will, as demonstrated by the fact that you flinched and asked when I said I loved him. So I’m going to lay this out real clear since you’re clearly interested: Will doesn’t deserve to be played. He doesn’t deserve to be messed with. If you use him or hurt him or try to control him or any of that shit, I will take it personally. I am sworn to protect him, and on top of that, I legitimately care about him.”
Mike’s stunned speechless, just sitting there awkwardly.
“So you can flirt, you can daydream about marrying him and naming your kids after treaties or whatever shit Solokovs do, because that’s your business, but the moment you lay a finger on him and he doesn’t like it or you make him cry or it turns out you were trying to manipulate him, I will launch your body into a fucking sun or beat you to death with a bat. So watch yourself.”
“You… sound like you’ve delivered that speech before.” Mike finally manages.
Dustin snorts, turning the pad on again. “Oh, yeah. See, we have the problem that Will is very eligible. He’s hot, he’s smart, he’s nice, he’s funny - full package. Half the guys and girls our age on Thorara are falling over themselves for him or El - uh, that’s his twin sister - and pretty much every tribe we negotiate with has offered a marriage proposal for him to unite the Al’Jinai and their tribe.”
Mike’s throat tightens a bit. “He, uh…”
“He’s accepted one, before you ask.” Dustin says flatly, petting Ox and getting a purr, and it’s so domestic for the fact that Mike’s chest is hurting at the idea. “Lucas, actually.”
Yup. Mike, who’s never really had a crush outside of a couple double-takes towards some of the buffer guards at home, thinks the world might be ending.
“Well, not accepted. It’s pretty much guaranteed that he will, though, and both planets are treating it like it’s a done deal. It’s a platonic arrangement, before you ask, too. Will’s kinda terrified of romantic relationships and marriage, and Lucas has a crush on… someone he can’t have, and they’re best friends, so it’s a mutually-beneficial relationship. Will can marry someone he likes and trusts with no romance, so he’s not terrified but everyone’s still off his back, and Lucas can have done his job as a member of the embassy and also marry his best friend. Their agreement is that if they’re both still good with the arrangement at twenty-one, Will accepts and they get married.”
Mike doesn’t know whether to feel better or worse. On the one hand, Will is technically single romantically. On the other hand, he’s also technically engaged, with a whole treaty and timeline and person, and that person is not Mike.
Mike leans back against the couch, trying not to let it show on his face. “So… he’s single but not.”
“Correct. Lucas and Will love each other a lot, but not like that.”
“...and you’re okay with it?”
Dustin snorts, but he gets a far-away look in his eyes. “Lucas is a good guy. One of my dearest friends. He’d treat Will well, keep him safe, and it’s better than-”
“Hey!” Will beams, coming out of his room. He’s wearing more of his linen clothes, this time this peach color, and his brown hair is curling over his ears and along his nape and forehead. “What are you two talking about?”
“Al’Jinai culture. Cleared up all his questions. I have one of the latest peace treaties written up - review it?”
“Sure!” Will says, plopping down between Dustin and Mike and grabbing the tablet, and Mike can’t help but wonder if whatever Dustin was going to say before Will came out is related to why his bands are so thick.
Notes:
<3
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