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There were times where the bridge was ablaze with tense purpose, chatter and sets of commands hanging thick in the air, all underscored by the sound of a determined stride upon the floor. Eli’s mind would, on those days, be transformed into a four-way junction: pre-empted movements of enemies and allies alike, starship analytics, a thousand calculations, puzzling out the grand schemes at play on the battlefield. Tiring work. Often overwhelming. Though, sometimes, the kind of exhaustion that could be satisfying — and would at least stave off the gnaw of boredom.
Then, there were shifts like this. Under half the consoles were manned, their officers far busier with truth or dare and the exchange of mess hall hearsay than their duties. Admiral Thrawn had himself retired to his office, as he had been for the past week, to be disrupted only in emergency. And, while Commodore Faro commanded the bridge with the same sharp efficiency as any other day, she broke off to Eli for many more conversations than usual.
Most of them, about the missing Admiral.
In fact, their conversations steered towards Thrawn with a frequency Eli had grown conscious of. He used to suspect Faro of that. Thought that she intentionally sidled up to the topic — of both Thrawn and whatever this thing was between him and Eli. Except, after tracing these conversations to their source, all that awaited was an uncomfortable realisation. The Admiral featured so prominently in their talks because years spent by his side, and now a little closer, meant his aide had built up an unfortunate knack for bringing him into almost everything.
And he was doing it again.
“I mean, I don’t know why anythin’ would be wrong.” Eli countered his own point, having arrived at the Chiss two minutes into what began as a chat on disappearing mouse droids. Since the Chimaera’s last manoeuvre, Thrawn had become a rare sight — which he supposed must’ve been the conversational link between the two. “We ain’t exactly been busy with much.”
“Oh, who knows,” Faro shrugged, a little disinterested as she leaned back against the viewport. “It’s hardly unusual for him to hole himself up in there.”
“Sure, but that’s mostly to prepare for an upcomin’ battle, which we ain’t got.” Not only to prepare, he knew; to hide away from the world when he wanted time alone. And that was the part that left Eli working himself up. He could understand Thrawn needing time to himself, even if he rarely explained why; but he’d prefer being told to outright avoided. Unless… there was a bigger problem at play.
Faro turned to stare through the window, nodding as if in deep thought. “I think…” The words rolled slowly past her lips, trailing off into a terse pause.
Eli leaned forwards and, a little impatiently, prompted: “What is it?”
“I think,” Faro repeated, sliding him a slightly mischievous look, “anyone would swear you’re missing him, Commander.”
“Aw, cut it out,” Eli scowled, “it ain’t like I—”
“Incoming communication from Admiral Thrawn’s office, sir,” a voice cut in from behind.
“Well, look at that.” Faro flashed Eli a smirk before throwing a command over her shoulder: “Let it through, Lieutenant.”
“It’s…” Under her cap, the officer’s eyes flitted between Commander and Commodore, uncertain of which to address: “for Commander Vanto, sir.”
“Yes,” as if that changed nothing, Faro said, “let us hear it, Lieutenant.”
“Commodore—” Eli blurted.
“What? You said there was nothing private between the Admiral and his aide.”
Faro knew. Most people had their jokes. Reams of rumours had plagued every stage of their military career. But Faro just knew. She had a way of phrasing things that left Eli insisting his relation to the Admiral was strictly professional — and she would always reply with a nod and a smile while she claimed never to have suggested otherwise. Every time, she would technically be correct, then proceed to tease away with knowing looks and double-meanings.
“Commander Vanto?” Thrawn’s voice flooded the bridge. Louder than Eli had hoped; resonant, clear. Everyone was hearing this.
“Yes, sir?” Eli asked. His attempt to force some composure into his tone only made him sound more strained.
“Would you come to my office?”
Faro raised a brow at him.
“What for, sir?”
Hesitant static, for a moment. Then: “I require your… assistance, Commander.”
“Sounds urgent,” the Commodore said with a straight, but not quite earnest, face.
Hoping his blush wouldn’t show, and knowing it most definitely was, Eli glanced around the bridge. Assistance. That was just great. In all likelihood, Thrawn meant precisely that — and with damning sincerity. To anyone else, though, it sounded like a poorly-disguised euphemism. Any subtlety to it, shattered by the emphasis with which he had lulled: assistance.
“On my way, sir,” Eli surrendered before it got any worse. The comm clicked off, and he turned to Faro: “Commodore—”
“Believe it or not: I heard, Commander Vanto,” she said with a light laugh. “Good luck assisting the Admiral.”
“Now why have you gotta say it like that?”
“Oh, please. I’m hardly the first. And I certainly won’t be the last.”
That, at least, was true enough. Nobody watched as Eli attempted an inconspicuous exit from the bridge, yet he could already sense the prattle that would nourish the Chimaera’s ecosystem of gossip for the next few days.
Did you hear? The Commander had to assist the admiral in his office, earlier…
It had been easy enough to kiss the man; a sudden moment after years of prelude, and in the privacy of his own quarters. It had even been easy showing him home to Lysatra; easier than this, at least. The day-to-day living of it all. That was the real battle. Open secret, part-joke. Difficult truth.
Of course, their relationship hadn’t much changed from what it was before, save for an occasional kiss, a touch, a little more than a touch, and a look stolen but now with the knowledge it was returned. Then, a few more intimate revelations: that Thrawn slept better with someone near, that he actually liked to be touched or held (but only sometimes, in certain ways), that he truly wanted Eli near and safe.
None of that changed the facts: they were aide and admiral in the Imperial Navy. Something that sounded too close to a terrible holodrama for Eli’s preferences — or a shade worse. He could almost hear the trailer’s tagline: he was an alien exile leading the Empire’s most feared starship… he was the fiery country boy assigned as his aide…
Eli tried to drown that idea from his head, and the call of his father: look son, you’re on Channel 6!
Whether there was a draft here, or he was just free from prying eyes, Eli felt his cheeks cool once escaping deeper into the ship. He wove his way towards the Admiral’s office, thoughts inching towards a more difficult matter now: what, exactly, did Thrawn need assistance with?
Eli racked his mind, but found little to work with. Had a panel come loose from the wall? Was there some health issue he’d been hiding away? Perhaps he’d simply had enough of his self-imposed isolation — and with that, the Commander’s mind shot nearer why than what. Had Eli managed to upset him? Possible, but unlikely. Thrawn didn’t easily take offence, and Eli couldn’t recall anything particularly cruel. If he was overwhelmed, would he have discussed that with his aide? Probably not. However, he had few obligations at the moment, compared to usual. Then…
When Eli reached his office, he presented his code cylinders with new resolve: if Thrawn wasn’t about tell him what was going on, he would paw at the topic himself. After whatever it was he needed help with — a task Eli found himself all the more baffled at as he strode through the entrance and down the short corridor inside, then froze.
Something felt off. The Admiral was nowhere to be seen in Eli’s view from the doorway. Even for Thrawn’s preferences, it looked strangely dark.
At first, Eli blamed his eyes, not yet adjusted from the bright bulbs of the hallway. But it was more than that. Although the back-wall lighting still glowed before sculpted ysalamiri, they were far dimmer than Thrawn tended to keep them. The usual art and artefacts were on display. Amongst them, Eli recognised his own guitar, brought back after their visit to Lysatra and kept here for safety. Even so, with every holoprojector turned off, the place seemed disturbingly empty.
Eli took a step into the room. Now another.
“Admiral Thrawn?” He called out, cautious in the silent dark.
“Commander,” a voice thrummed from over his shoulder, smooth — and Eli flinched, jolting upwards into something hard and a dull clack.
“Stars above,” he scolded in a hushed tone as he spun, “how many times I told you—”
His breath caught as his vision flickered downwards, then up, then twitched lower again before he could wrangle it back to the Admiral’s eyes rather than the rest of him. His lips faltered when he tried to speak. Numb. Uncoordinated. Whatever words were left near-formed on his tongue went collapsing in on themselves. Washed cold by panic, now scalding with self-conscious heat.
Thrawn was wearing a dress; white glistening upon deep blue. Lithe straps, low cut, his neck, chest and arms mostly bare. Fabric thin, smooth, rippling soft along his body and whispering at what lay beneath like a half-hidden secret. It shifted with his skin as he rubbed his jaw tenderly, and the source of that clack now dawned on Eli: he must’ve headbutted the man in his startled fit.
He might’ve said something, apologised, if he could only spare the attention. Instead, all his focus worked at keeping his legs under him and upright. What little concentration he had left, he sunk in attempted composure. Attempted (rather than successful) because, however dark the room was, he knew the Chiss could discern the violent and still-rising glow of his cheeks.
“Told me what, Commander?” Thrawn wore an air of nonchalance that only choked his aide up more.
Did the dress stop before his knees, or after? Eli must’ve seen, between fractured glances — he was sure it rose above — but he hadn’t had the time to process. Fending off the need to check, he felt his body stiffen as he kept his gaze forced upon Thrawn’s. Like a challenge; a dare.
“Sneak,” Eli managed, weakly, then cleared his throat and fumbled to string together the rest of his words, “up. Not to — on me, sir. Thrawn,” he corrected, now sure they were in private.
“Ah, yes.” Slight guilt snaked in his eyes, though it was hard to tell within that red haze. Their glow singed the darkness around them intensely in their unblinking stare. “I apologise for startling you. Though, I did not intend… to sneak.”
Eli looked away, finally breaking the Chiss’ gaze. “I know that,” he huffed, sense and reason flooding in as the sound of rushing blood finally drained from his ears, “I just got spooked. It’s fine. Now, how’s that jaw?”
“A minor discomfort. The pain will soon fade.”
Although unintentional, Eli couldn’t help a twang of regret at having knocked into him like that.
He brushed the Chiss’ hand aside and checked for himself. There was no mark, but there wouldn’t be; not yet, and likely not at all. He didn’t know why he bothered looking, except perhaps for the simple pleasure of seeing. Of feeling, as he gently cupped the side of Thrawn’s face and smoothed a thumb firm across the cheek. Cool to the touch. A comfortable, soothing temperature — that Eli often found pleasing against his own, the way he ran hot.
Awareness struck his senses like a battering ram then. The Chiss’ attention prying at his features. How they stood a little too close, enough so to feel his breath light on his nose. The presence of his chest, shoulders, broad and bare, or the thigh he’d just swayed into with his own; the way it coaxed his eyeline lower, and the difficulty with which he could find anywhere else to look.
Eli drew his hand back and pulled away. Still feeling Thrawn’s cheek in his palm, he folded his arms, not knowing what else to do with them now.
Such a reaction bordered on ridiculous, not to mention excessive. Hell, he’d been closer, seen the man in a thousand positions worse, and in far more compromising, tastelessly revealing attire. Of all the things he’d been called, a prude was never amongst them. There was just something about a dress — or this dress, or Thrawn in a dress, or Thrawn himself, or…
“Well, what’s goin’ on?” Eli tore into the awkward quiet, a much-needed interruption to his own flustered thoughts. “Why’d you call me here?”
“I’ve recently had some clothing delivered.” Thrawn gestured to a neat pile of bags by the wall, from which the occasional lick of fabric rolled out. Anything from thick and neon green to thin, sheer black. “In the past, people have indicated that my civilian wardrobe is… not considered standard.”
That cut Eli’s mind from the tension, teasing a grin onto his face. Not considered standard was putting it lightly. There was nothing quite like seeing an Admiral in a purple mesh top (that only really covered his arms and neckline) or his surprising collection of odd-looking glasses. Not considered standard at all.
“While I rarely have cause to wear something other than uniform,” Thrawn continued, “I wanted to try something… new.”
“Right.” At last presented with an appropriate moment for it, Eli allowed himself to look the Admiral up and down. The dress did stop above the knee; mid-thigh, just as he’d thought. “And this is… what’s new?”
“Indeed.” Thrawn ran a hand round his own waist in exploration of the fabric, and Eli really wished he wouldn’t. His attention latched there. Its silken texture ruffled under palm and between fingertips, hugging close to his form in a way Eli could almost envy. “However, the zip is in a rather inconvenient area of the back.”
“Wait, you—” an incredulous laugh broke up his words, “you need… that’s what you needed help with? You called me here to zip you up?”
“Zip me up…” Thrawn repeated the words in a clipped rhythm, amusing himself with their unfamiliar texture. “An interesting way of phrasing it. But yes.” His eyes flickered to Eli’s hands, then his face. Studying his expression now, reading for signs of his answer: “Would you mind?”
And any shred of dignity left had just combusted on Eli. Mercilessly gored by the premonition of a hand upon Thrawn’s back; by the proximity he was openly inviting today. Eli felt like he was melting. Ironically, the only thing he could think of to cool himself down was the Chiss’ skin, achingly out of reach.
“Eli?”
“Yeah.” He blinked to awareness, mouth dry and shoulders tense. “Yeah, I — I mean, no, I wouldn’t mind. C’mon, let’s see.”
Eli gestured for Thrawn to turn. He did. What met the Commander there was a smooth blue plane, dress hanging loose by the shoulder straps and splaying out unzipped across his wide back. It flared like that, light as ribbon, until bringing itself together at the height of the hips, where the mouth of the zip lay undone.
Eli crumbled just a little more; a little further into himself. His eyes almost steamed over from the heat in his cheeks.
With a deep breath, he chanced a step closer. A thin line of sweat had formed on his palms, which he wiped hard now on his tunic. Then, he picked at the zip. Its tab was infuriatingly slim — easy to slip or lose — and when he tried to coax it up, the fabric only shifted with the motion.
Swallowing his nerves, he placed his other hand beside the zip, thumb pressed into the Chiss’ lower back and fingers wrapping his waist carefully. Loose, fighting back a shake. He worked at the zip again, jostling it upwards despite the tremble to his touch. It skated in a smooth motion, then caught. He tugged at the zip: once, twice. From the sweat or quiver of his hand, it slid suddenly from his grip, and the force of his movement sent a knuckle grazing the middle of Thrawn’s back.
“Sorry.” Eli’s voice was barely a wisp against the ambient hum of the ship.
“That is quite alright, Eli.” Thrawn replied in resolute calm. “You may touch me.”
Imbued with Thrawn’s blessing, Eli’s touch held more certainty this time. He first thumbed the groove at the centre of his back, a ravine between muscle that rose and fell with the spine’s curvature. Along it he traced, then across to the shoulder blade, where he ran a full palm below and over it. He felt muscle shift as Thrawn rounded his shoulders slightly at the sensation. Spilling past the dress strap, he followed the curl of his arm, pushing hard into his skin and the striking grace beneath it. The movement sent the strap tumbling down, revealing the side of his chest as it lulled with his breathing.
Eli stared for a moment. Lifted the strap back onto Thrawn’s shoulder with a held breath. Shaking himself free from his trance, he returned to the zip; continued guiding it slowly upwards. Upwards, until done — then attaching a brief, self-indulgent brush of Thrawn’s upper-back and neck before letting his hand drift to his side.
He hadn’t noticed he’d been chewing his lip until he went to speak:
“All done.”
“Thank you.” Thrawn turned to reveal the dress pulled tighter still to his body now. “Would you like to touch it? The fabric is rather unusual.”
Although Eli had already felt it when zipping the damn thing up, his attention had hardly been on the dress. He found himself left with only a vague impression of its texture. After checking Thrawn’s expression — blank or faintly expectant — Eli reached out and made a tentative pinch at the fabric.
“That provides only a limited impression.” Thrawn raised his own hand to Eli’s, resting it gently on his knuckles. “Open your hand.”
Eli unfurled his fingers and let Thrawn guide his palm across the dress and his body, pressing deep as they glided from his abdomen to his chest. It was impossibly sleek — and cool, mirroring the skin atop Eli’s.
“What is that,” Eli mumbled, splitting brief glances at the Chiss’ eyes, “silk or somethin’?”
“I believe so.” With his free hand, Thrawn brushed the hair from Eli’s face. His gaze was a wildfire upon his features, searching. Eli knew him well and long enough to recognise concern, betrayed by a miniscule twist of his brow. Quietly, he asked: “Are you alright?”
“Fine,” Eli whispered. He cleared his throat again, freed his hand, and stepped away. The phantom of fabric and flesh resided there, almost haunting. “I’m fine. This just… wasn’t how I was expectin’ my shift to go,” he added with a small smile.
“Mm. What do you think of it?”
“What’s it matter what I think?” Eli frowned. “You can dress yourself.” Debatable, considering his usual choice in clothing; though, he’d clearly picked up a fashion magazine or two. Or else, this was a most fortunate misclick.
“Perhaps. But clothing is not chosen solely for one’s own preferences. It can be a reaction to social expectations; a political statement; part of religious practice. And, occasionally, it may be worn for the specific individuals a person cares for.” Thrawn drew nearer to his aide. “I am curious as to what you think of it, Eli.”
“Well, if you really wanna know, then it’s,” Eli ran his eyes all over him now, laughing not from amusement but pure thrill and clanging nerves, “yeah. You’ve got me swayin’ on my damn knees over here, alright? I mean, hell…”
He relished in the view — the curve of his waist, thighs stripped below the hemline — and in comfort, now knowing Thrawn was perfectly fine with that
“I don’t understand. There is something wrong with your knees?”
“No, no, I only meant that it’s — pretty.” He felt lighter now that word was out; like his lungs were clear and could breathe easy again. Lighter still as he gripped the Chiss’ waist then wandered to his hips. Abruptly turning his back on him then, as if in scolding: “And I’m on duty. But… it is beautiful.”
From behind, Thrawn craned his neck past his shoulder. He nuzzled him gently with his forehead, ridges rubbing into the side of his face. Softer than you would expect. “Really…?”
Almost a flirt; but not quite. Too sincere. As if he were genuinely asking. Checking that Eli really did like the dress. Or… him. And something clicked. Was he fishing for a compliment? It had never occurred to Eli that the Chiss much cared for compliments — or critique, for that matter. Maybe ordinarily, he didn’t; but what he had with Eli hardly counted as ordinary.
“Wait a minute.” Eli turned to face him, flashing a devious smirk amongst his shock. “You actually want me to compliment you — is that it?”
“No.” Only Eli could have intuited the thread of bashfulness there, and it took everything not to grin at the strangeness of it. “I am simply asking for the truth, Commander. Your honest opinion.”
That confirmed Eli’s suspicions. Commander. Thrawn was distancing himself.
Shedding his earlier embarrassment, Eli shifted into new command of the situation. “Well, if it’s my honest opinion you’re after, then,” he lilted, driving the Admiral towards the desk, “you’re darn beautiful.”
Thrawn’s eyes widened a little as he backed onto the surface. His voice was a murmur when it came: “I only asked about the dress, Commander.”
“Oh no you didn’t,” Eli laughed, planting his palms either side of him and leaning in. “You meant about you in the dress.”
“That… matters little.”
“Yeah? Let’s see.”
As the Chiss pulled back, his dress hitched ever so slightly up the thigh. Eli placed a gentle hand there, the way he knew Thrawn enjoyed, soft in his grasp. He was chasing that wide-eyed blend of curiosity and diffidence like a high.
“You’re beautiful, sweetheart,” he whispered. The Chiss’ eyes sunk to the ground, companion to the words that seemed to have fallen with them from his tongue. Dim though they were, the lights were still strong enough to paint the pale, violet blush streaking cheek to cheek — and it made him near giddy, knowing he’d caused it. Chuckling lightly, he said: “See? You like that, don’t you?”
He raised his palm to Thrawn’s face, letting him sink into the touch and roll his head with its motion, like he was seeking its warmth; wanted to stay inside it. And beautiful was suddenly an injustice. Far too weak a word, watching his features shimmer with the low light from behind, brows and cheeks casting their own strong shadows upon his face, hair tousled with a couple strands rolling over his forehead.
Eli lined the crest of his leftmost ridge with the base of his palm, then pressed a light kiss there. “You’re real pretty, darlin’.”
“Thank you, Eli.” Thrawn found his words at last.
The strangest thing Eli had learnt about him was just this: how the ever-capable Admiral, this noble Chiss warrior, could sometimes melt in his hands. His, of all people. A point of subtle pride, and deeper affection. With his odd mixture of nerves and embarrassment galaxies away, he wondered why he was ever so stressed. Then, he remembered.
“In other news,” he said, straightening, “this is why you’ve been holed up in here the past week?”
Aligning the seams of his dress — to perfect it or just avoid his gaze, Eli couldn’t tell — Thrawn simply nodded. “Yes.”
Whatever worry or frustration his absence had caused, it felt absurd now. The thought of him sitting here scrolling through dresses, and stars knew what else he had in those bags, was a rather amusing one. As was the image of him throwing a little fashion show down here while Eli had been pacing about on the bridge.
“Ah. My behaviour concerned you…?” And he must’ve read something in Eli’s face to realise, or else the pattern fell into place.
“I could’ve asked outright. Should’ve. And I will, next time,” Eli acknowledged, “but I’d appreciate it if you might consider sayin’ somethin’. I mean, you don’t need to tell me what it is you’re up to,” and indeed, Thrawn’s privacy meant too much to him, and therefore to Eli, to want to invade that, “but a head’s-up could be nice. Otherwise, I’m gonna think there’s somethin’ wrong with you.”
“I see. That hadn’t occurred to me.” Thrawn said evenly. He seemed to contemplate this like something profound. “I shall keep it in mind. However, that would make a surprise rather difficult.”
“Wait now. You wanted this stuff… to surprise me?”
“Partly.” He paused. “I do need attire for myself. However, I have also read… that it can be considered fun or exciting for a person to see one’s partner in certain clothing.”
Eli couldn’t help but smile. “And where’d you hear that, Mr. Loverman?”
“Sneep Beebur — or, Miss Honey Bun, as she is known on her blog. A Pa’lowick relationship guide that mostly writes for military wives.”
There was a moment of Eli trying to hold in his giggle. A brief, brief moment. In fact, the briefest, split-second of a moment, since he soon realised it was about to go cascading out regardless — and just had, filling the office with full, resonant laughter.
“Her research claims—”
And Eli howled all the more. “So she’s a scientist too now? Sneep — Sneep Beebur? Miss Honey Bun?”
Thrawn took it in good spirits; his personal brand of mirth. A glimmer in his eye, a softness to his look, rare and that only seemed to come out when watching Eli smile or laugh.
“You may laugh, Eli,” he said gently, “but she seems to know her way around a military relationship.”
“Oh I’m sure she does,” Eli huffed, coming through the end of his laughing fit now and wiping a tear from his eye. Some of the downright weirdest things Thrawn had done had been on the advice of self-professed relationship gurus. That time he’d attempted a bizarre, erotic conversation over comm channels was perhaps the epitome of that; something that had sounded more like he was reading from a script and checking for effect. You are a bad boy, Eli Vanto — did that arouse you?
Eli wondered if that, too, had been a page taken from Sneep’s column.
That said, her idea about the clothes seemed a far cry better.
“I suppose none of that matters now.” Thrawn broke off abruptly. A wistfulness faded his warmth, his gaze downcast and strangely forlorn. “I cannot surprise you with what you have already seen.”
“Hey now,” Eli took his chin and lifted it so as to look into his eyes, “maybe you already did.”
“How so?”
“Thrawn, if this ain’t a surprise, I don’t know what is,” he chuckled, tousling the Chiss hair a little. Sleek and fine. “Can’t say I was expectin’ to see this when I walked in here. You already gave me a surprise — and when I needed one, too. It’s been awful quiet lately.”
Something lightened in Thrawn’s look and tone. “I see.”
“Mhm. So… thank you for my surprise, sweetheart.” A little peck on the cheek, then Eli rested his forehead against his. It never stopped feeling unusual, the sense of those ridges bowing against his skin, and yet it was oddly satisfying all the same. A firm and welcome pressure.
He took a deep breath; let the scene settle. Hoped he would remember every detail for years to come.
After a few moments spent like that, they both leaned out at the same time with a contented sigh.
“There are many items I remain unsure of,” Thrawn glanced at the heap of bags by the wall, “and I also would be curious to hear your thoughts on those.”
“Well, let’s have a look,” Eli mock-checked his chrono, as if there were anything in the universe he’d rather be doing, “nope, I got a clear schedule. They ain’t exactly busy on the bridge.”
Thrawn’s lips pressed into a smile, small but precious to Eli. He slid out from their entanglement and set at the bags, organising them on the desk and selecting which garments to demonstrate first. Some were surprisingly tasteful for Thrawn’s definition of ‘fashion’. Others, of course… were an abomination, with one in particular looking like several dead reptiles restitched with some of the parts missing.
All of them, Eli looked forward to seeing.
Reality would soon enough crash in on them — obligation; duty. Another battle, new orders, frantic attempts at sidestepping imminent political doom. And the Admiral would return to the bridge in standard-issue olive-green, his Commander beside him but apart. All expression ironed out. Names twisted back into titles and cold formality.
Until then, though, they could dwell in this moment together, beholding beauty in the dark.
“I love you, darlin’.”
“And I, you.”