To Make This Fort Assume the Furniture of Home

Author’s note:

This chapter takes place immediately following chapter eight of Serpent’s Mouth, Serpent’s Teeth, “Loving the Sword for Its Sharpness, Loving the Arrow for Its Swiftness”

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As Yang left to go to the bathroom, Reuenthal sat back down next to Mittermeyer. He stretched out his arms across the back of the couch, pretending to be relaxed, but Mittermeyer could see right through him. 

“I think you scared him,” Mittermeyer said when Yang was out of sight.

“Oh?” Reuenthal asked. “You think he’s running away because I told him the truth?”

“I think you’re pushing things too far.”

“You think so, Wolf? Did I scare you, too?”

There wasn’t any way that Mittermeyer could answer that question. The image of Reuenthal placing the palm crown on Yang’s head was etched in his vision. It was powerful, but too intimate. It wasn’t something he should have gotten to see, though he was glad that he had.

His silence made Reuenthal touch his hair, brush his fingers over the cool gloss of sweat on his forehead. 

“Should I have put it on your head, instead?” Reuenthal asked, as if he had been reading Mittermeyer’s mind.

That wasn’t a question that would get an answer either, but Reuenthal didn’t really want an answer. What he wanted was for Mittermeyer to kiss him, which Mittermeyer could certainly do. He turned to place his hand on Reuenthal’s chest, and pushed him back against the arm of the couch. Reuenthal leaned back with the dignity of pretending like he was going of his own accord, and swung one of his legs up onto the couch so that Mittermeyer was between his knees.

“How long is he going to stay in the bathroom?” Mittermeyer asked.

“He’ll be back.”

That was fine, he supposed, so he leaned down towards Reuenthal, who tried to kiss him hungrily, though Mittermeyer nipped at his lips before he let him really begin. 

Their position on the couch was not the most comfortable, with Mittermeyer propped up on one arm, almost squeezing Reuenthal off the furniture, but it was the kind of momentary discomfort that made Mittermeyer feel aware of himself, made his motions extra deliberate as he wrapped his legs around Reuenthal’s and began fingering open the buttons of his shirt with his free hand. He got it open enough that he could slide his hand down from Reuenthal’s collarbone to his stomach, feeling the taughtness of his muscles underneath his skin. He was cold, but since Mittermeyer was overly warm, this was perfect. He pulled the shirt out of its once-neat tuck and Reuenthal shrugged it off gracefully, only taking his hands off Mittermeyer’s back and hips to pull his arms out of the sleeves. 

Mittermeyer pressed himself onto Reuenthal more heavily, grinding their hips together. He didn’t know why he was taking things so far so quickly— Yang would be back in a minute and they would probably stop— but this was just what being with Reuenthal did to him. It made him lose boundaries that he should have maintained.

Reuenthal’s breathing was heavy and erratic, and he tossed his head to the side, baring his throat, letting Mittermeyer bite at the tender flesh just above his collarbone. It would all be covered by his uniform, so it was alright to leave a mark. Mittermeyer closed his eyes, savored the sensation of Reuenthal twitching beneath him as his teeth and tongue and breath played across his throat. Mittermeyer could feel his pulse.

“Where are you going?” Reuenthal asked, his throat buzzing under Mittermeyer’s lips. His voice was unexpectedly lucid— more than Mittermeyer would have been capable of, and the frankness of it shocked Mittermeyer out of the moment, making him sit up. Reuenthal straighted too, propping himself up on his elbows.

Yang, startled, was headed for the door. Mittermeyer hadn’t even heard him come in.

“I should go—” Yang said. He was staring at Reuenthal with the same expression he had worn all night— or some variation of it. Seeking, but not desperate. 

“No,” Reuenthal said. “Stay.”

Yang’s lips parted in silent surprise, and in the frozen moment as they both processed what Reuenthal had said, Mittermeyer realized that Yang was not looking at Reuenthal, but was looking at him.

Perhaps Reuenthal was pushing things too far, just as he always did. If Mittermeyer so much as blinked, he knew that Yang would give a little, quivering smile, shake his head gently, and turn again for the door, and they would never speak of this again. That was the kind of person that he was. 

It wasn’t that he was afraid— that wasn’t it. From the way he locked eyes with Mittermeyer across the room, it was obvious that he wanted to stay, but hadn’t given himself permission to imagine that he might.

It was the same thing they had spoken about during the evening. Yang hadn’t wanted to ask Mittermeyer to join him, didn’t want to be the one to create that pressure. Yang could satisfy himself with something less.

But Mittermeyer had pledged to follow him. Perhaps Reuenthal was right to push him now: these things must be one and the same.

Although his train of thought felt muddled and sluggish, it only took him a moment to come to a decision. He couldn’t have put it into words, so he just held out his hand towards Yang.

Mittermeyer wondered if he would regret it later, as he regretted so many things. But he thought that the look of utter relief on Yang’s face might innoculate him against regret. It was sweet, the way he broke into a gentle smile and took a few still-hesitant steps forward. This was for reasons of practical confusion more than anything else: the couch was not big enough for three.

Mittermeyer realized this and hastily disentangled himself from Reuenthal so that he could stand. He also wondered where he should go, but then Yang was right in front of him, and so it no longer mattered.

“Come here, Wen-li,” Mittermeyer said, and was surprised at how warm his own voice was. Yang took the last couple steps, and it was never more obvious that he should put his hands on Yang’s hips and pull him forward.

It was funny— Mittermeyer had never thought much about how close in height he and Yang were. He didn’t need to pull Yang down to kiss him— he was just there. Yang figured out what he wanted to do with his hands, reaching for Mittermeyer’s face and brushing the pad of his thumb along his cheek, catching a little on the two days of stubble there. Their eyes met for just a moment, and then Yang tangled his hand in Mittermeyer’s hair, and leaned in the rest of the way to kiss him, still smiling.

Yang was very accommodating when he kissed, unlike Reuenthal in every way, letting Mittermeyer set the pace without any rush or urgency of his own. Yang kept forgetting and then remembering where his hands were and what he was supposed to be doing with them, so Mittermeyer was treated to stops and starts of him combing his fingers through his hair, or tracing his hand along his back.

When Yang pulled away for a moment to breathe and to push some of his shaggy hair out of his face, Mittermeyer realized that Reuenthal was still laying on the couch and silently watching them. He turned to look at him, and rolled his eyes at Reuenthal’s smug expression.

“Are you just going to sit there?” Mittermeyer asked.

“I’m enjoying myself. And I’m patient.”

“No, you’re not,” Yang said.

“Oh?” His smirk was unabated.

Saying anything else to Reuenthal would only cause him to double down, so Mittermeyer turned back to Yang. “Suit yourself,” he said.

Mittermeyer found that when kissing Yang it was easier to undo his belt than anything else, so he did that, which gave him leeway to pull Yang even closer so that he could slip his hands down the back of his pants. Yang laughed and tried to reciprocate, but now he was too close to undo Mittermeyer’s belt, so he could only vainly slide his hands along Mittermeyer’s jacket.

Reuenthal finally stood and came up behind Yang, who didn’t notice him moving. He jumped when he felt Reuenthal’s hands on his waist, but he smiled without turning around. “Took you long enough,” Yang said.

Mittermeyer met Reuenthal’s eyes, and Reuenthal continued to wear his smuggest expression. Mittermeyer couldn’t help but smile back. “Do something useful, then,” he said.

“Of course.” Reuenthal’s voice dipped low, and Yang shivered as he slid his cold hands up underneath his shirt. Reuenthal had to pull Yang’s jacket off first, and Yang complied when Reuenthal tugged it off over his head. Mittermeyer got to work on the buttons of Yang’s shirtsleeves.

Although Yang made some halfhearted attempts to reach behind himself to make Reuenthal come kiss him, his smile and the pliant way he moved when both of them took turns removing his clothes made it clear that he was enjoying it. He had an unselfconsciousness that Mittermeyer envied, as he discarded Yang’s shirt and trailed his hand down Yang’s chest. 

Reuenthal pulled down Yang’s pants and underwear, and Yang had to step out of them to avoid tripping. It was incredible how quickly someone could be undressed when two people made it their goal.

Yang was happy to let Mittermeyer and Reuenthal move in unison to kiss or bite his neck, but when Reuenthal tried to reach around him for his dick, Yang stopped him. “I thought you said you were patient,” he said, lightly grabbing Reuenthal’s wrist.

“I lied.”

Yang laughed, maybe from what Reuenthal was saying, maybe from the way Mittermeyer’s hair was tickling his neck. “You have me at a disadvantage. Two on one isn’t really fair.”

“I thought you liked being at a disadvantage,” Reuenthal teased. “You once said it gives you opportunities to be creative.” 

He tried to reach around Yang with his other hand, but Yang unexpectedly squirmed out of the way in the only direction he could move, encircled by the two of them as he was. He dropped down into a crouch. Even if he had only intended to wiggle out of their grasp, Mittermeyer stepped back to give him room, and it was enough space to make him change his mind and land on his knees instead.

Now, Yang could easily reach to undo Mittermeyer’s belt, which he did. He stopped and looked up at Mittermeyer before he did anything else, hesitating again now that it was his turn to take initiative. His eyes were invitingly open— had Mittermeyer never noticed how nice they were before? Or maybe he just hadn’t let himself notice the way Yang’s eyes were easy to be captured by, like the gravity well of black holes. In response to Yang’s silent question, he touched his cheek, and stroked his hair back from his forehead, though it immediately fell back down into place.

Yang smiled at him, just for a moment, then focused on pulling Mittermeyer’s pants down. Reuenthal left his position behind Yang and came up beside Mittermeyer, though he almost didn’t notice. He had his eyes closed, and he was too focused on the feeling of Yang’s touch: first on his calves, then his thighs, and then on his dick as Yang took it in hand. He was still only half hard, but it was already overwhelming, and only became moreso when Reuenthal turned Mittermeyer’s head so that he could kiss him— finally.

Yang nuzzled the soft flesh of Mittermeyer’s inner thighs for just a moment before licking the head of his dick and slipping it in his mouth. Mittermeyer made a noise of pleasure, one that came from deep in his chest, and he had to restrain himself from thrusting his hips forward and pushing his cock all the way to Yang’s throat. 

“Yes,” Reuenthal said, in response to Mittermeyer’s moan, and Mittermeyer cracked his eyes open to see that Reuenthal had his hand tangled in Yang’s hair. Mittermeyer wanted to admire the sight, but Reuenthal was kissing him again, so he couldn’t see a thing. He closed his eyes once more.

His attention was split between Reuenthal’s greedy tongue slipping across his teeth, and Yang slowly taking more of him into his mouth. The sensations seemed to meld into each other, taking up his whole perception and leaving him completely defenseless. Yang was right: two on one was unfair. He could feel his self control slipping— when Reuenthal sucked on his lip, Mittermeyer’s hips jerked and he thrust into Yang’s mouth. He tried to withdraw in apology, but Yang’s hand, which was clinging to his thigh for support, just rubbed an encouraging circle with his thumb, and he took Mittermeyer as deeply into his mouth as he could. 

“Wen-li,” Mittermeyer mumbled as Reuenthal kissed his jaw beneath his ear. “Please.” He didn’t really even know what he was asking for, but Yang gave it. Mittermeyer was already close to coming, painfully close, and he couldn’t stop himself from seeking it out, pushing towards that conclusion.

But Reuenthal knew that Mittermeyer was close, too. Just before it all went too far, he pulled on Yang’s hair and tugged him back away from Mittermeyer, making him release his dick with a wet pop, spit trailing across his lips.

“Hey—” Mittermeyer said, not quite annoyed, but unexpectedly brought out of the haze of pleasure that made it hard to think. 

“I want my turn, too,” Reuenthal said.

“It wasn’t like I was going to forget,” Yang said— even now, he could joke. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and reached for Reuenthal’s belt, but Reuenthal stopped his hand and pulled him to his feet instead. Yang looked at him questioningly, but Reuenthal just answered the question by kissing him. 

Mittermeyer sat down on the armchair, taking a moment to come down from his previous high, and just watched the possessive way that Reuenthal kissed Yang, devoured him. Mittermeyer wondered if Reuenthal could taste any of himself in Yang’s mouth. 

Mittermeyer had sometimes thought about what Yang and Reuenthal looked like together— nights when the three of them were on Odin, and Mittermeyer left to go home, he would sometimes lay in bed and find himself absently picturing it. Feeling, not exactly jealousy, but something else that he couldn’t name. The reality juxtaposed over the remnants of his imagination gave the scene a dreamlike quality, like Mittermeyer was floating just outside it. The thought and sight made Mittermeyer stroke his dick— slowly. Just enough to keep him present.

Reuenthal pulled Yang against himself: providing pressure, if not touching Yang’s cock directly. Yang seemed lost in it all; his breathing was irregular and he clung to Reuenthal for support, shaky on his feet. Reuenthal scraped his fingers down Yang’s back, right between his shoulderblades, making his breath hitch. 

Reuenthal broke off the kiss for just long enough to look at Mittermeyer, and an electric feeling went through him when their eyes met, one that made him take his hand off his dick. Reuenthal would be annoyed if he came, or at least would pretend to be. Reuenthal’s lip curled in a possessive, cruel smile, and he went back to kissing Yang, tugging on his hair as he did.

He got the feeling that Reuenthal was teasing him, playing a game with Mittermeyer’s patience as well as his own. How long would it take for Reuenthal to let Yang turn around? Yang kept making little movements— shuffles of his feet, twitches of his head, turns of his shoulders— that made it clear that he, too, wanted to look at Mittermeyer. But Reuenthal’s hand in his hair kept him in place, and Yang hadn’t yet decided to fight it.

Perhaps Yang didn’t need to turn around. Mittermeyer could get up. There was nothing stopping him. But he had disconnected himself from the scene, and he was taking in every detail and letting them pass through him, and felt unable to break past the invisible wall he found himself on the wrong side of.

“Wolf,” Yang said, breathy from the way Reuenthal was touching him. “Where are you?” 

His voice, with its note of real want, freed Mittermeyer from his stasis, and made everything simple once again. It was always like this— whatever Yang said to him would feel so bright in an instant of clarity, but would be lost in the murky darkness as soon as Mittermeyer let himself be alone. He moved without really thinking about it, stood, and brushed his hand across Yang’s back. Yang hummed in contentment.

He wondered if Reuenthal and Yang felt the same way as he did, when they separated. He pushed the thought out of his mind, and instead kept moving. He stepped lightly past Yang and strode towards Reuenthal’s bedroom. He knew that they would follow him, and they did. He removed his shirt as he went, tired of having it on, and dropped it on the floor somewhere.

He didn’t bother turning on the overhead light— it was easy enough to see by the light spilling in from the living room. On the bed, he discovered that was where Yang had left his crown of palm leaves. Mittermeyer picked it up as Reuenthal and Yang came in, and Yang gave it a somewhat skeptical glance. 

“You forgot this,” Mittermeyer said. But when Yang opened his mouth to protest, he just tossed it to him. Yang caught the circle of palm leaves and looked at it. Stripped of the power it had possessed when Reuenthal placed it on his head, it had become just an object. Yang turned it around in his hands for a moment, and relaxed.

Reuenthal did not relax, standing stiffly in the doorway.

“Are you done pretending to be patient?” Mittermeyer asked him. He walked over and hooked his fingers in the waistband of the pants that Reuenthal was still somehow wearing.

“It seems like you are,” Reuenthal said.

Yang sprawled on the bed, flopping down contentedly like his strings had been cut, and this made it difficult for Mittermeyer to pull and shove Reuenthal down without whacking Yang accidentally. But Yang rolled out of the way and just watched with a funny smile as Mittermeyer pinned Reuenthal to the bed, hands on Reuenthal’s shoulders. Reuenthal put up some token resistance, but was happy to finally be on th bed, pinned down beneath Mittermeyer. It was what he had been aiming for all night.

Mittermeyer looked over at Yang. “Are you going to do something useful?”

“No,” Yang said. “Absolutely not.” But despite saying this, he reached over and brushed the hair off of Reuenthal’s forehead and touched his chest, which made Reuenthal stay still for long enough that Mittermeyer could get his pants off. That done, Mittermeyer forced Reuenthal’s legs apart with his own, kneeling between his legs on the bed. Reuenthal watched him hungrily, but didn’t say a word.

He spit into his hand just for the tiniest bit of ease, and stroked Reuenthal’s dick, making him jerk up into his hand.

“Wolf,” he said, and for the first time that night, there was evidence in his voice of something other than his feigned control.

“What?” Mittermeyer asked. He knew exactly what Reuenthal wanted, but he would make him ask for it. “Do you want Wen-li to suck your dick now?” Even as he suggested the alternative, he realized the idea had some allure, but he knew Reuenthal wouldn’t take it.

He continued to stroke Reuenthal— with enough pressure and attention that it was more than teasing, but so slowly that it was less than satisfying.

“Fuck me, Wolf,” Reuenthal said.

It was Mittermeyer’s turn to feel warm and victorious. He looked to Yang, who was just watching the motion of Mittermeyer’s hand. “The lube is in the bottom drawer,” he said, and jerked his head at the bedside table. Yang did him the favor of retrieving it, then just watched as Mittermeyer used it.

He and Reuenthal had found the most natural way of doing this long ago, and so it didn’t take long to prepare, circling Reuenthal’s hole with his fingers, then pressing them in, one and two, and finding along the way the spot that made Reuenthal jerk in surprise, always a fresh feeling no matter how many times they had done this in the past.

When he was ready, Mittermeyer pulled his hand free and said, “On your knees.” His tone brooked no disagreement, and Reuenthal didn’t argue, though this was not their usual habit. Reuenthal knelt before him, and Mittermeyer pushed him down to his hands and knees. Reuenthal understood what Mittermeyer intended, but Yang seemed not to, and was silently watching, reclining on the bed with his head propped up on his hand.

Mittermeyer positioned himself behind Reuenthal, who said something that might have been a request to hurry up, and Mittermeyer complied. It always felt incredible to fuck Reuenthal, even at the very beginning when he went slowly. Reuenthal made a noise of pleasure, and Mittermeyer dug his fingers into Reuenthal’s hips as he thrust all the way in.

“Wen-li,” Reuenthal said.

“Mm?” Yang asked. He idly reached out and touched Reuenthal’s face with his fingertips, smiling.

“Let me— please.”

“Come on,” Mittermeyer said. He was barely moving behind Reuenthal, waiting.

“If you insist,” Yang said. But maybe he was just as pleased to hear what Reuenthal wanted as Mittermeyer was. He took his time in getting up from his lazy sprawl to kneel in front of Reuenthal, who looked up at him.

Before he did anything else, Yang picked up the circle of palm leaves and placed it gently on Reuenthal’s head. When he did it, somehow it was less of a crowning and more of a benediction.

The two images superimposed themselves in Mittermeyer’s mind, one dangerous, the other gentle, and he wished he could see Reuenthal’s face. He could only feel the tension in Reuenthal’s body, and in his own.

Yang cupped Reuenthal’s cheek, and Reuenthal opened his mouth. Yang slipped his fingers inside, and Reuenthal sucked on them for a moment, until Mittermeyer said, “Come on, Wen-li.”

Yang relented— he was capable of teasing too— and let Reuenthal take his dick in his mouth. He gave a breathy sigh of pleasure, and Mittermeyer took that as enough permission to really move, thrusting into Reuenthal, who made his own muffled noise. Yang’s hands settled on his head, stroking his hair near his ears and lightly holding him in place. Yang didn’t need to move much— Mittermeyer’s movements pushed Reuenthal against him, and Yang only needed to remain steady.

Meeting Yang’s eyes as they moved as one creature was electrifying— every time he saw Yang’s smile and matched it with his own, he felt a heady elation rise through him, a trill of real happiness that started low in his stomach and warmed him completely.

After a little while, Reuenthal shifted his weight to one arm, and tried to reach for his own dick. Yang didn’t notice— he had closed his eyes and thrown his head back to the sky, anyway— but Mittermeyer did. 

He leaned forward onto Reuenthal with all his weight, forcing Reuenthal to drop his hand to retain his balance. Mittermeyer held Reuenthal’s shoulders now, rather than his hips. The new angle, which permitted only the shallowest of thrusts, still felt incredible, and Mittermeyer increased his tempo.

“I’m close,” he said, though he didn’t know who he was warning.

Yang opened his eyes, and realized that Mittermeyer’s head was now within his reach. He smiled at Mittermeyer and touched his cheek and lips with the broad stroke of his hand. This was enough to push Mittermeyer over the edge, and he came with a gasp, rocked by the sensation and clinging to Reuenthal until it was over.

The feeling of Reuenthal moving against him quickly became too much in his over-sensitive state, and he had to pull out, though Reuenthal grumbled at the loss. Reuenthal redoubled his focus on Yang, and Mittermeyer stood and came around to the other side of the bed to stand behind him.

Yang seemed close as well, his movements stiff and erratic. Mittermeyer pressed a kiss into the crook of his shoulder, and Yang let out a soft ‘oh’ of surprise. Mittermeyer’s hands snaked up his sides and slipped along his chest. As he nipped at Yang’s shoulder, he tweaked his nipples, and this was enough to set Yang off, finishing in Reuenthal’s mouth.

Reuenthal pulled back and coughed, and when Yang had come to his senses, he muttered a sheepish, “Sorry— I should have warned you.”

“It’s fine,” Reuenthal said, sitting up on his knees. Mittermeyer climbed back onto the bed and pulled Reuenthal forward to kiss him, searching for and finding the taste of Yang in his mouth. Reuenthal moaned and again tried to reach for his own dick, but this time it was Yang who stopped him.

“I told you I wouldn’t forget,” Yang said as he pushed Reuenthal’s hand away and positioned himself between Reuenthal’s legs. Mittermeyer took both of Reuenthal’s arms and pinned them behind his back. Reuenthal resisted, wanting to touch Yang, but Mittermeyer wouldn’t let him. 

Yang had to lay down to get the best angle, and when Reuenthal tried to buck his hips into his mouth, he held down his legs. Between the two of them, he was pinned. It really wasn’t fair, Mittermeyer thought, but Reuenthal was certainly enjoying it.

The sight of Yang’s head bobbing up and down between Reuenthal’s legs, the smell of sex, the sound of Reuenthal’s heavy breathing and the way he said Yang’s name— “Wen-li,” with a kind of delirious reverence in it— made Mittermeyer almost dizzy, pushing every other thought out of his mind. In that moment, perhaps, he was happier than he had ever been, or ever would be again.

Reuenthal came suddenly, and Yang swallowed what he could, then wiped the rest on the back of his hand. He rolled over and rested his head on Reuenthal’s thigh, contentedly blinking up at Mittermeyer and Reuenthal.

Mittermeyer let Reuenthal’s arms go, and he suddenly began to feel all the tension he was holding with the wave of tiredness that swept over him. He wished he could be as nonchalant as Yang, but instead he found himself moving on autopilot, getting up from the bed and stretching. He shook Yang’s shoulder.

“Come on,” he said. “This isn’t Odin. You can’t stay the night.”

The fantasy of the moment, as perfect as it had been, was over, and the real world of Iserlohn was seeping back in, dragging him back down to a sluggish reality.

Reuenthal watched silently as Mittermeyer walked around and gathered their discarded clothes, sorting them by owner. His and Yang’s, aside from the difference in uniform rank, were impossible to tell apart, being approximately the same size, so he arbitrarily tossed a pair of pants and shirtsleeves towards Yang, who hadn’t moved. He wasn’t pretending to be asleep or anything like that. He just didn’t want to get up. Reuenthal was tangling his fingers in Yang’s hair, which wasn’t making it easier for him to move.

Mittermeyer went to the bathroom and cleaned himself up, then got dressed, checking himself in the wall mirror to make sure it wasn’t obvious what had been happening. He certainly still smelled like sex, and would need a shower, but couldn’t emerge from Reuenthal’s quarters wet without attracting undue attention, so that would have to wait until he got back to his own ship.

“Come on, Yang,” he said. “Get dressed. I’ll walk you out.”

The sound of his own voice grated on him, the instinctual way he switched back to ‘Yang’ — and would switch to ‘Leigh’ after they went out the door— making him wince. He knew he was spoiling it, and he hated himself for it, but he didn’t have a choice. He couldn’t really meet Reuenthal’s eyes anymore. 

Now that he was finished getting dressed, he had nowhere to put his nervous energy, so he was forced to sit back down on the edge of the bed. This, perhaps, was what convinced Yang to slowly sit up. 

“Well,” he said. “I’ll still be around for a couple days before I’m shipped back to Odin.” He turned the pair of pants Mittermeyer had tossed at him rightside out and began to get dressed. He yawned. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Yang’s voice was pragmatically cheerful, in the kind of way that only he could be.

“Tomorrow,” Reuenthal echoed.

Yang slipped on his shirtsleeves but didn’t bother buttoning them, and just pulled his uniform jacket down over top, messily tucking the trailing white ends of his shirt into his pants. He was a sight, but one disheveled captain probably wouldn’t be too much of a problem. Yang didn’t have far to go to his temporary quarters.

When he was dressed, he leaned towards Reuenthal, gave him one last quick kiss. “Tomorrow,” he repeated. He glanced at Mittermeyer. “You said you’d walk me out?”

“Yeah,” Mittermeyer said. 

Yang vanished into the bathroom for a moment to wash off his face— Mittermeyer could hear the water run. In the moment he was alone with Reuenthal, Mittermeyer said, very quietly, “Maybe you didn’t push too far.”

Reuenthal nodded, and then Yang came out of the bathroom, smiling tiredly. Mittermeyer stood up, brushed Reuenthal’s shoulder with his fingertips as he went, and followed Yang to the door.

“See you tomorrow,” he said, giving one last backwards look at Reuenthal. Repeating it like a mantra.

He and Yang walked out of Reuenthal’s flagship, then into the corridors of Iserlohn, always lit to a daytime brightness regardless of what shift it was. It was disorienting, and Yang wavered on his feet.

Although Mittermeyer’s own flagship was not far from where they were, he walked Yang all the way to his temporary rooms on Iserlohn, the ones that were reserved for soldiers waiting to change posts. The hallway outside Yang’s tiny quarters was empty and dead silent, save for their footsteps.

He wondered what Yang was thinking, during their walk. He couldn’t quite read Yang’s mind like he could predict Reuenthal’s thoughts, since Yang always seemed to be operating on a different level than the one Mittermeyer had access to. They didn’t say anything to each other— perhaps there wasn’t anything else that could be said.

Right outside Yang’s door, they stopped, and Yang tried three different keycode combinations to the door before he remembered the correct one and it clicked open. He stuck his foot in the door so that it wouldn’t close, and he turned to Mittermeyer with a smile.

“Leigh, I—” Mittermeyer began. But Yang took a quick look up and down the hallway, decided it was safe, and pulled Mittermeyer forward by his jacket to place the briefest kiss on his lips.

“Goodnight, Wolf,” he said. “I will see you tomorrow.”

Yang always did have the one thing to do and say that would lift the haze of doubt from his mind. Perhaps that was a bad thing.

“Yes,” Mittermeyer said. “Tomorrow.”

Yang smiled and slipped inside his quarters, closing the door.

The clearing of the fog lasted until Mittermeyer was in his own rooms, until after he showered, until he lay in bed, staring at the black ceiling above him.