"No, no. I fine. Go watch."
"Lover, I like the performance, I do. But I don't enjoy it without you, understand? I'm not going to enjoy it at all if you're in here feeling miserable. If you're sure you don't need a doctor, then I'm taking you home."
It worried him that Portya didn't try to argue.
Once home—Portya's quarters—Diego helped him undress and put him in bed.
"Stay with me."
Diego bit his lower lip, hesitating before he undressed. The desire to protect and take care of Portya unsettled him, but he lay down beside his lover and spooned around him. It was more unsettling to know Portya wasn't feeling well. As he wrapped his arm around Portya's bare torso, he realized this was the first time they'd gone to bed without fucking.
It still felt good. And right.
*~*~*
"Show me again," Portya demanded.
They were at the Pink Pearl, and two plates of half-eaten, deep-fried meat—Diego hadn't yet found out what kind of animal—sat disregarded on a table behind them, with two almost empty glasses of the amber Antho beer. The food and drink might have been Human-style manipulations of Antho available food and drink, but the pool table in front of them was a genuine Earth import.
Diego smirked at Portya. He didn't know if Portya's differently-jointed hand made proper holding of the cue more difficult, or if Portya just wanted Diego to press against his back, arms around him to demonstrate the technique. Portya looked back at him, expectation the only thing Diego could read in his steady golden gaze and beautiful posture. "Sure."
He moved behind him, straddling one of Portya's knees. The backwards jointing meant Diego wouldn't be able to rub his growing erection directly against the cleft of Portya's ass—doubly good as Portya had a habit of leaving a wet spot on the seat of his pants when aroused, which was less obvious than Diego's reaction. Was that why they wore jackets that covered their butts but displayed their dicks?
Portya was tall, and Diego took advantage of that to rub his cheek suggestively against Portya's shoulder. As they leaned over the table, Diego nudged Portya with his thigh. He ran his hands down Portya's arms, felt a tremble. "You hold it like this," he murmured, brushing his thumb over the dark thick pads of Portya's palms.
Another tremble; Diego matched it. Lately Portya was either feeling a little under the weather or so horny Diego was almost—almost—put off. That night however, after all the teasing over the pool table, he was just about to say—
"Diego, take me home."
Diego growled in his throat, an imitation of one of Portya's sounds of arousal, one he easily understood and felt. He was only vaguely aware of people staring at them, of the disgust on some faces.
Portya dropped the cue and tugged on Diego's arm, all the impetus he needed. He followed him out of the bar and down the corridor in a blind, pheromone-induced fog. Portya yanked him into the pneumolift, the two of them falling into the back wall in a tangle of limbs. Portya's kiss was a hybrid manifestation of what Diego had taught him and the swipe of his tongue in his own customs.
"Fuck me, now," Portya demanded, his voice low and raspy. He pulled one of Diego's hands to feel the dampness of his ass.
Diego growled again, pushing between Portya's legs to rub his hard dick over the spot. He freed his hand and shoved it down Portya's trousers, stroking the thick, stiffening cock. God, he wanted a taste, so bad.
The soft tone of the pneumolift arriving at their section penetrated the fog in his head just enough to remind him there could be people out there, who wouldn't want to watch him jack his lover.
How they got to Portya's quarters, he had no idea, only that they somehow made it inside before clothes came off. He pushed Portya onto the bed, or maybe Portya pulled him down, and Diego dived down, sucking on Portya's dick like a starving man, massaging the dark, heavy ball sac and dipping his fingers into the vanilla-flavoured slick produced by Portya's ass. He wiped the slick on the base of Portya's cock, sucking on the tip and using his hand at the base. The vanilla scent filled his nose and he gathered more on his finger.
Portya protested with an inarticulate sound as Diego removed his mouth to rub the slippery substance all over. Vanilla-flavoured cock…but the taste was off tonight.
Off enough to cut through the intense cloud of desire fuelled by Portya's pheromones. Portya hissed as Diego pushed his thighs up, whimpering and moaning, but Diego hesitated before pushing his achingly stiff cock inside. Portya's ass always looked swollen when he was aroused, but tonight it looked more puffy than usual, and the colour wasn't the usual deep rose, but a sort of golden-pink colour.
Diego pressed his finger in gently and Portya's hips arched in response, but the sibilant hiss sounded more like pain than pleasure. "Portya?"
"Fuck me. Diego. Sessra mi." Portya drew his name out, and the sexy rasp of Antho that might be vulgar or an endearment.
Diego groaned and obliged his lover. He would try to find the right words to ask about the changes later. Now he just needed to do exactly as Portya demanded. He penetrated that hot, tight and deliciously slick passage, with a groan of relief, like he'd come home. "Portya…"
*~*~*
Diego blinked in the darkness, not entirely sure where he was or what had torn him from sleep. Portya's quarters, of course, but the bed was empty. The door to the cylindrical cubical of a bathroom was cracked, letting a sliver of pale orange light emerge. He dropped his head to the pillow, breathing in Portya's grassy scent and drifting off to sleep when he heard the sound that must have woken him in the first place.
Was that retching?
Diego had no idea what kinds of illnesses might assail the Antho, but vomiting couldn't be a good sign. The lethargy of sleep was gone and he darted across the floor to fling wide the door. "Portya, lover?"
Portya's strong red body was curled on the floor, his hair a rough, matted tangle. His arms wrapped around his stomach. Acidic smells assaulted Diego's nose. Portya looked up at him, his face pale and drawn. "I fine."
"I don't think so."
"Something I eat."
Diego shook his head. "No, you've been feeling poorly for a few weeks, this is more than just an upset stomach. I'm calling emergency services."
Portya did not protest, which was the most terrifying thing of all.
Leaving the door open, he fumbled with the communication station, finally getting it right. Once he was assured they were on their way, he knelt beside Portya and stroked his forehead and held his hair as he lurched once more to the toilet. Nothing but dry heaves only worried Diego more. "You'll be okay," he whispered, hoping it was true.
Two Antho in medical blue jackets collected Portya on a gurney, pushing Diego out of the way.
"What's wrong with him?"
They ignored him, hooking Portya up to bags and tubes and mobile machines before wheeling him into the hall. Diego, now dressed, started chasing after them as they hurried in long strides toward the pneumolift. They stopped him at the doors. "You no come. No Humans allowed."
Furious, Diego took the next pneumolift to the medical level and found the Antho section by the signs. He was halted just inside the door by an alarmed Antho in a pink smock.
"Administrator Portya," he said, anxiety tearing him up inside. "He was just admitted, I need to know he's okay."
But if they understood him, they ignored him, lifting him off his feet when he refused to turn around.
"No! Please! I have to know he's okay!" He struggled, kicking out, and two more Antho assisted in tossing him out of the facility. They stayed in front of the door, arms crossed across deep barrel chests, glaring at him.
He tried one more time, drawing himself up as if he were a military captain and not the pilot of a civilian passenger ship. "I am Captain Diego Bahaghari! I demand—"
"Human, you make no demands here. Go away."
He drew his arm back to throw a punch before rational thought reminded him he'd never be able to see Portya from a holding cell. "He's my lo
ver."
The two Antho rumbled in their native language, pesserantha the only thing he caught. Antho didn't use tone of voice to convey meaning, so he couldn't tell if they meant it as an insult, but their body language read as belligerent to him.
Leaving the medical level to return to Portya's quarters was like walking away from a gravity well, but he forced himself to do it. He cleaned up the bathroom and changed the sheets on the bed. Feeling like an interloper, he returned to his own quarters at dawn, without having gotten a single minute more of sleep.
When he imagined the hospital shift changed, he decided to call. "Good morning," he began cheerfully enough to the Antho who took his call. "Administrator Portya was admitted last night and I was wondering how he was doing." His throat was tight—he'd imagine the worst when station darkness was heavy in the corridors.
"That information is for family only."
A hand moved across the image to close the call and Diego yelled, "Wait! Please!" The hand paused. "I'm Diego Bahaghari. You know. Portya's—" What was he to Portya that they would understand? "Friend."
The hand resumed and the screen blanked.
EIGHT
Diego decided that whatever ailed Portya couldn't be that bad. He repeated it silently in his head as he left a message to Portya asking him to please let him know when he was home.
As the day went on and he received no message, he tried to distract himself by going over the requisitions. It hadn't been a whole week since Caravan's last supply run—he still hadn't cooked genuine Filipino comfort food for Portya, and damn there he was, thinking of him again. At least he hadn't accidently poisoned him with his cooking. Damn, he'd never once asked about food allergies or any sort of dietary restrictions. Some types of Antho grains had a very…cleansing effect on human bowels. Maybe Earth food…? If he lives long enough to try it.
Why are you even thinking like that? He probably has a flu.
Then why is he still in the hospital?
Maybe it's their way.
His comm station beeped and he practically jumped out of his chair before thumbing the screen on. "Bahaghari," he said, feigning calmness as the screen resolved into a familiar face.
"Yo, Captain Diego," Wilma said cheerily. "Me and the boys are hitting up Backwash tonight, wanna come?"
"Backwash?"
"Oh, that's not the real name. It's an Antho pub where the dockworkers go. Backwash is what the Humans call it. Rudy and I found it just before our last run, but we've been almost every night since we got back. Mingling, you know—per station commander's orders. I heard you and the administrator like to shoot some darts now and then. I figured we could bring a virtual dartboard and teach all the stevies."
"Oh. Um. Portya's sick…" Teaching Antho stevedores how to play darts didn't sound appealing without Portya by his side.
"You can come without him, right? You're not glued at the hips? Although…" she waggled her eyebrows lewdly. "Oh and speaking of. You would not believe what the talk is on you two."
"What?" Not that he cared, but the hospital had seemed indifferent or even disbelieving that he was Portya's lover, now Wilma was saying every dockworker on the station knew?
"No way, not over the comm. You want dish, you'll have to come out and play."
Syncrete had been invented as a clean, easy-to-speak, easy-to-teach language. Through necessity and constant use, it had become complex and messy and full of slang like 'dish' to mean gossip. No wonder Portya struggled. Then again, outside of the diplomatic and scientific community, no Antho seemed to speak any more Syncrete than they needed for their jobs. Still, that was a hundred percent more than any Human spoke of Antho.
"I'll see how Portya's doing," he said, without committing to anything.
"Come make nice with the Antho who unload our cargos."
"If not tonight, another time." That he could promise.
When she broke the connection, he tried the hospital again, but they had apparently blocked his ID signal. Frustrated, he ran through what he knew of the station hierarchy. Commander Miranda Zaya was the only one he'd ever spoken to—did he dare? It wasn't like she could do more than yell at him. He typed in her station ID and asked her receptionist if Commander Zaya was available to take a call from Captain Bahaghari. Zaya knew his rank was civilian, but he wasn't sure her receptionist didn't.
To his surprise the older woman's silvery hair and snapping brown eyes resolved on his screen. "What can I do for you, Captain Bahaghari?"
He felt his colour rising. "This probably sounds foolish, Commander, and I apologize, but I didn't know who else to call."
"Regarding what?"
"Administrator Portya is in the hospital. He—I was with him when he collapsed in horrible pain, and it was I who called the emergency medics. But they wouldn't let me in to see him, and…now they won't even take my calls."
The corners of her mouth turned down. "Humans are restricted from Antho medical facilities and vice versa."
"But why? Does that mean if one of us were dying they would refuse treatment?"
"No, but that's a different protocol. The idiots back home refused the Antho access to our biomedical records, on the reasoning that they might decide to use the information to build biological weapons against us."
Diego stared at the commander. "The Antho?"
"I know," she said with a sigh. "And it gets better. The Antho, who'd never thought that at all, decided that if we could imagine them doing such a thing, it was because we would do such a thing."
A frown creased his brow. "That's probably not wrong."
"Sadly, no. But the fact remains, any difficulty between our species has been caused by our own government."
"But they won't even talk to me! I just want to know he's okay. For all I know he could be dying."
Her gaze was steady on his for several heartbeats before she nodded slowly. A sympathetic smile crossed her face. "Let me make a call. I'm putting you on hold."
Before he could thank her, his screen was displaying a slide-show of nebulae. His fingers tapped absently on the cool metal of his desktop. He felt both silly to have called the station commander and relieved that she was willing to use her authority to help him. It seemed forever before the brightly coloured nebulae were replaced with Commander Zaya's face.
"They said he's stable, whatever that means, and that he should be back to work in a few days." Her serious expression faded as she added, "What did you do to get them so…agitated at just the mention of your name?"
"I didn't know about the no-Humans rule," he said, his face burning. "I may have tried to force my way inside…I thought they were just upset that we, that he and I—"
"Yes, well. That's the best I could find out, so I hope it eases your mind."
"It does." Somewhat. "Thank you, Commander Zaya. I-I didn't know who else to call."
She grew serious again. "Be careful, Bahaghari. If you were a serviceman, I'd have your CO talk to you about fraternizing with the locals."
Diego frowned at her image. "You were the one who told us to mingle with the locals."
"What you're doing is considerably more than mingling. Just remember that Mikesi is an artificial environment, in more ways than one."
Diego wasn't sure what she meant, but he nodded solemnly. "I understand. And thank you again."
Once more she gave him a long look, but rather than saying anything else, she simply nodded and cut the connection.
That was the first time anyone had tried to warn him away from Portya, at least that's what he thought she was doing. He'd heard a few comments, not directed at him, suggesting he was a pervert, and that his relationship with Portya was unnatural. He couldn't entirely argue that, but it was hardly a reason not to see Portya. He had fun with Portya, even when they weren't having sex. And the sex was amazing.
Reassured that Portya was at least not dying, he decided to join Wilma and Rudy and the others at this Antho stevie bar.
NINE
The sign
over the door at Backwash was rendered in Antho with no Syncrete translation. Diego would have taken that as a subtle "no Humans wanted" regardless of station orders to mingle. Wilma and Rudy and the others very likely would have done the same. They must have found it by invitation. Since it also had a Human name, they probably weren't the first Humans invited, either.
Logical thought did nothing to quell the nerves in his gut. Piloting a ship through the vagaries of Folded space, where one miscalculation could result in fiery death, was a stroll in the park compared to mingling with aliens. It didn't reassure him in the slightest that Antho stevedores would also be unlikely to have diplomatic training. This was their bar, their home turf.
Being with Portya wasn't the same as being with other Antho. He felt a connection to Portya, whereas other Anthos made him feel alien, other. It didn't make sense, but it was true nonetheless.
All heads, or so it seemed, turned as he walked in. He ignored the stares to take in the decor. This was probably the closest he would ever see to genuine Antho interior design. The ceiling was hung with looped strings of light in yellow, orange, and red, giving the room a darker, reddish cast. Portya kept his quarters dimmer as well, but not quite as red; giving him a clue as to what it might be like on Beresh. The walls were draped in coarse, burlap-like cloth, woven with blues and reds. Plants dotted the room, most with fleshy, broad leaves in an interesting shade of blue—cyan or turquoise, maybe. Weird, but made sense. Different world, different light. Or they were fake. He wasn't going to pinch one to find out.
He found Wilma, Rudy, and a couple of the ship's stewards and waved as he walked over. The floor was carpeted in something smooth, like velvet on a thick underpadding. He felt like he should take his boots off. Maybe he should. The Antho seemed to wear a sort of closed-toe slide, many of those present had left them under the table.
Wilma poured him a glass of the frothy amber Antho beer, which most Humans had acquired a taste for in the absence of Earth beer.
"Thanks," he said. Noticing that he'd turned their table into a center of attention, he asked, "Why's everyone looking at us?"
Diplomacy Squared Page 5