Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5273612.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Blake's_7
  Relationship:
      Kerr_Avon/Roj_Blake
  Character:
      Kerr_Avon, Roj_Blake
  Additional Tags:
      Workplace_Relationship, Co-workers, Alternate_Universe_-_Office, Age
      Difference, Underage_Sex, Schoolboys, Pining, Mutual_Pining, Morality,
      Alternate_Universe, Pre-Way_Back, Dystopia, Worldbuilding, Alternate
      Universe_-_Age_Changes
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-11-23 Words: 21825
****** Apparuit Iam Beatitudo Vestra ******
by x_los
Summary
     Alpahs are assigned work duties at fifteen, and thus at fifteen Roj
     Blake begins to work in the Aquitar Project's Computing Division,
     under Doctor Kerr Avon. Neither of them actually believes in love at
     first sight: they just have to live with it.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
The Federation assigned work duties to Alphas at the age of fifteen. The youths
continued on at school, but spent some days every week serving as apprentices
on state projects (or in other industries, if the companies involved had filed
the appropriate requests with the government and had paid the state for the
students' labor). Particularly high-performing students were rewarded with (or
exploited via) roles on especially prestigious projects, which would lead to
better positions for them later in life.
Getting Aquitar was a coup, and Roj Blake knew it. He didn't care, exactly, but
he did know that he should. It was a mark of the state's confidence in him, his
rather pompous tutor explained when Roj didn't respond with quite the
enthusiasm the tutor thought the assignment merited. There were no other
apprentices in this department; he had been chosen from thousands.
Roj didn't bother to explain that the state’s confidence was quite misplaced,
at least as far as his personal loyalty was concerned. He did, however, turn up
at Aquitar's Computing Division on time, in a pressed uniform, and was duly
oriented. His tour concluded with an introduction to the division head.
"Actually, he's the closest person to your age in Computing," the woman showing
Roj around informed him as they approached the director’s door. "About twenty-
five, I think? Though he's a little—well. Shouldn't say." Difficult, then, Roj
concluded. Not well liked. But he had to be clever—being a division head at
'about twenty-five' was hardly usual.
His guide knocked on a door (plaque: Doctor Kerr Avon) tentatively, and got a
'Come' for her trouble.
There were no unembarrassing terms for what happened to Roj then. No scientific
language could clean it up and make it safe. No flat description of the
neurological effects on his brain and the physiological responses of his body
could make 'love at first sight' anything less than ridiculous. Perhaps he was
just ill, suddenly and terribly so—No. Roj knew better than that. No sickness
felt like your heartbeat slowing to a crawl, like your chest caving in, like
time stopping and then rushing back in, as though it were water, dammed up.
It wasn't the Doctor Kerr Avon’s looks (though Roj liked them, quite a lot). It
was a sense of somehow knowing him, absolutely, in the very instant of seeing
him. There was no need to question it, no point in doing so. This was the most
certain thing Roj could imagine.
The way the other man's eyes slightly widened and then immediately narrowed
again, like the quick open-shut of a door, like the twitching-back of curtains
after someone had peered out into the street; the way he cleared his
throat—none of it cured the ludicrousness of Roj’s predicament, but it did give
Roj the suspicion that he wasn't totally alone, he wasn’t the only one affected
by what had happened. And that was certainly something. But how could he have
been alone? Imagine a thing like that, only touching one of them—it was too
strong and too predicated on a sympathy between them for the other man not to
have felt it too.
"Ah," Doctor Avon said, after a moment, regaining his composure. "You must be
the new departmental apprentice I didn't ask for. You were supposed to arrive
next week."
"That’s right," Blake said with a smile. Doctor Avon's eyes narrowed again,
like he resented Blake's ease. "They changed the schedule," Blake offered, not
as an apology, but as an explanation.
"So I see. I'm not certain we can use you," Doctor Avon said curtly.
Roj's guide coughed. "Begging your pardon, sir—Roj has demonstrated a lot of
talent in the logistics and spatial aptitude exams. We thought we could put him
to work on—"
"Running the models," Doctor Avon conceded. "And, of course, state projects
never let go of personnel, if they can possibly help it. A bulky department is
a happy department."
This last was quite sarcastic, and Roj's guide, clearly of the Model Citizen
type, bristled under her pink-faced politeness. Roj found he wasn't surprised
by the other man's unusual degree of open cynicism. It was part and parcel of
the affinity between them. Doctor Avon questioned things on instinct, didn’t
have a lot of patience with institutional platitudes: the same was true of
Blake.
"You did take a state contract," Roj’s guide reminded Doctor Avon.
"Yes, I did, didn't I?" Doctor Avon mused, a little winsome, as if wondering
why on earth he’d done that.
"Could you tell me about these models I'll be running, sir?" Roj leaned
forward, catching Doctor Avon's eye, only to watch it skitter away from him.
"No," Doctor Avon said shortly. "I'm busy. One of the junior technicians can
take you over the lot. Welcome on board—" Doctor Avon hesitated over what to
call him, and then dropped the sentence full stop.
"Thank you, sir."
Roj stuck out his hand, determined. With a slight flinch, barely perceptible,
Doctor Avon took it. Slightly cool skin. Compact, no doubt competent hands,
with unexpectedly soft palms. Roj gave Doctor Avon’s hand one firm pump and
then released it, having memorized everything he could of the older man's touch
in those moments. He'd need that, later.
At the door, Roj glanced back to find Doctor Avon's eyes on him. He kept his
smirk to himself until he was out in the hallway with his guide.
"See what I mean?" she said in an undertone, shaking her head. "No team
spirit."
"Oh, he's all right," Roj said, glancing back at the closed door with a pinch
of longing. They hadn't had a chance to properly talk yet. But they would do.
He'd make sure of it.
"Well, he was nicer to you than he usually is," she said, giving the door a
resentful glance herself.
"A division head that young probably feels the need to prove his authority,"
Roj observed. Though Doctor Avon might also just be cantankerous by nature. Roj
thought he could handle that, too.
His guide looked him over, a little surprised. "Not a bad hypothesis," she
admitted. "You're a generous one."
Roj shrugged, then smiled politely at her. "So where can I find a junior
technician who's not too busy to tell me what to do?" he asked, and she laughed
and turned him over to an appropriate underling.
***
The past year had not been easy on Kerr Avon. Almost one year ago, without
either his permission or his approval, his division had been given the use of a
clever, able assistant from one of the dome’s elite magnet technical schools.
Rather than a boon, or at worst an object of personal apathy, this had been to
Avon a sort of torture. He had been, almost immediately, plunged into a bizarre
carnal obsession with the boy. And boy Roj Blake was, despite his height and
his frankly unnatural composure.
Avon had never felt anything else of the kind in his life. He was horrified and
repulsed by the idea that he might be some sort of child-botherer. But no one
else Blake's age appealed to him in the slightest. That was a relief, but not
enough of one.
Avon was also vastly disappointed in himself. He'd believed himself to be the
sort of person who went in for sophisticated intellectual and emotional
attractions between people who were very much adults. But then he couldn't deny
Roj Blake's intelligence, his wit, or the sickening degree to which he himself
ached to touch Blake—Blake’s already-broad shoulders, his hair, his smooth,
never-shaved cheek. Avon didn't let himself think of Blake while masturbating,
but he knew he had to actively defend against it—to determinedly imagine mature
women, lest lithesome youth or masculinity slip into the likeness of what he
was all too aware he really wanted: his lovely assistant, panting for
instruction or fucking him with the desperation and vigor of his years. Every
time Blake called him 'sir' (and he never called Avon anything else), Avon
broke a little under the weight of his own stupid, unshakable want.
He'd tried being harsh with the boy (and this was the term he used in his mind,
to make it relentlessly clear to himself that Roj Blake must be, to him, as
untouchable as a distant star), to try and make it easier on himself. But the
boy had responded with unrelenting good humor, and Avon's tech team, who liked
Blake and treated him a little like a mascot, had resented Avon for it. It
hadn't diminished his interest in the boy a whit, either. It had made it worse,
in fact, because Blake was gloriously tough. He turned Avon's most withering
criticisms aside with reasonable responses and confident smiles. As though he
knew why Avon was uncomfortable with him. As though he understood that
adversity between them was safe, conducted as it was within the bounds of
Avon's sick doting on him. Wretched little bastard. Though he couldn't know,
couldn't possibly.
But dote Avon certainly did (though—he thought, he hoped, he
prayed—discreetly). Blake-days were ingrained in his mind—he never needed to
consult the schedule. Of course Blake could go home early, if he needed to
(though that was a bittersweet favor, for Avon, and he appreciated that Blake
didn’t often ask it of him). Blake could shift his work hours about as he
wished. Blake could have the plummest jobs, whatever would benefit his
educational development, whatever he particularly enjoyed.
Avon caught himself smiling days later at something Blake had said. Whipping
his head involuntarily to track that crisp school uniform (oh, he knew there
were words for men who wanted what he wanted) moving through the crowded, vast
entry hall of the Aquitar building. He was at turns stiff and formal with
Blake, and too kind––chipping in far too much, anonymously, for Blake’s pooled
office birthday gift. He didn't dare buy Blake anything in his own right—after
all, he wanted to give Blake all manner of things, and if he started, he didn't
know if he could stop. In this case, the birthday in question had also had a
special, private significance to Avon. Blake was sixteen now. Therefore, if
Blake allowed it, Avon could legally touch him. Could fuck him over his
leather-topped desk in his private office, with scandal rather than prison as a
consequence. He shouldn't and he wouldn't, but oh, he could. Avon perversely
thought that a little worth celebrating.
After his early harshness (Avon hadn't initially known what to make of the
sudden, charged gravity the world had acquired when they'd met), Avon
had—unbent a little. He tried to avoid Blake, as best he could, but he was
awful at it. Not a Blake-day went by that Avon didn't let himself swing by
Blake's desk, gnawingly hungry after the boy's absence (Blake-days did not,
after all, fall subsequently).
"And how are you getting on?" he'd ask with a tight smile. Blake would draw him
out with questions about what had transpired in his absence, and Avon would
prop a hip against Blake's desk and cross his arms and tell him, leaving in the
sardonic comments and private jokes he edited out of the official daily
reports. Blake grinned and laughed and sympathized with his frustrations.
Avon liked Blake's ready smile, his rolling laugh. He liked to be the cause of
them. Blake frowned with gratifying commiseration, and Avon wanted to lick the
sympathy out of his mouth, he wanted to kiss the creases laughter caused around
Blake’s eyes. The hollows of Blake's shoulders and neck violently demanded
similar attentions, but Avon didn't negotiate with terrorists.
He didn't just pass Blake gossip, he also used Blake as a PA where possible.
Kept him close, in a purely professional capacity. He liked Blake. And that
made how much Avon wanted Blake more of a betrayal of Blake's youth and
inexperience. It was a person he wanted to violate, not a body he wanted to
fuck. Blake was one of the few people he truly liked, and yet the way he
‘liked’ Blake was inherently disrespectful to him. And Blake seemed to like him
in return. At least, he chatted eagerly, and came to Avon with reports and
questions. Mostly about work. Occasionally about other subjects. Against his
better judgment, Avon had let Blake make something of a confidant of him. At
least Blake never wanted to talk about his youthful romantic misadventures—Avon
didn't know how he'd respond, and didn't want to find out.
Avon looked forward to the end of the torture—to the close of Blake’s year-long
placement, the day Blake would finally leave. It would be bittersweet, and Avon
suspected he might want to leave Aquitar himself, after it happened. But Blake
would be transferred to another project and removed from Avon’s orbit entirely,
and Avon would never look him up again (or if he did, he certainly wouldn't do
anything about it). There would be an end to the temptation. At last a means of
forgetting that generous smile and those arresting, intense, changeable eyes
that regarded Avon so seriously. Hazel—leaning into brown or green, or
stubbornly refusing to give up their indeterminacy, depending on the color of
shirt Blake wore with his Academy tunic.
Avon had lowered himself to fuck a nineteen-year-old professional with hazel
eyes at a clean state-run brothel. But the eyes hadn't been warm and
intelligent like Blake's, and Avon would have paid the same inordinately large
tab simply to hold Blake for a night, if he could have done the thing without
warping the boy—he did know what 'grooming' was, and that he didn't want any
part of it. Or rather he did, and that was why he had to stop himself from
offering to have coffee with the boy to chat about his future, to tell him how
clever he was and to ask about his plans. Blake was clever. And Avon did want
to know his plans. But he couldn't, mustn’tply Blake with attention and
approval and use his own age and position as weapons to mold Blake into
something he could fuck, something that would worship him.
Though they were such awful, pretty thoughts. Blake promised, by the build of
him, to grow a strong, unyielding frame to match his personality, but, just
now, he was still supple. Could still twine sweetly into Avon. He could sit in
his office chair with Blake in his lap, hands wrapped around that still-pliant
waist. Don’t worry, Blake, I’ll take care of everything. Let me take care of
you. Trusting eyes, green with no clothing to confuse the issue, slipping
closed as Avon stroked Blake’s trembling sides. As he lifted Blake gently,
inexorably, and shoved his twitching little darling down onto his cock.
This was why he couldn’t take Blake out for a coffee to chat about his future.
Because Avon thought Blake was destined for greatness, but the future he
personally envisioned for Blake involved the boy whimpering and squirming on a
thing too large for him as Avon whispered, There now, it’s all right, relax.
Involved fucking up into him, clenching his hands on Blake’s torso as Blake
shook his head and set that stubborn jaw and said he wanted this, loved it,
please sir, deeper, he could take it.
But the horrible, dangerous fantasies (how good he could make Blake’s first
time—how gentle and well-planned and caring, no adolescent clumsiness for his
Blake) that made Avon hard under his desk, that infiltrated his dreams and
reeled him in against his will, would finally stop when Blakeleft.
***
“What’s this?” Avon asked, taking the pad from where Blake had set it on the
desk. After the first time (which lived in his memory), Avon was careful never
to touch Blake by so much as accepting anything from his hands. His imagination
certainly didn’t need more fuel.
Eleven months into Blake’s apprenticeship, so one month to freedom. It would
hurt when he left, Avon knew. It might hurt—rather a lot. It was for the best.
“A non-transfer request,” Blake said casually.
Avon felt his whole body still.
“What.”
“I want to serve another year, sir. At least. Rather than being shifted onto
another project.” Blake raised an eyebrow at him. “That is what a non-transfer
request means.”
The brat wasjoking about this. “The whole point of this program is to give you
experience in a variety of sectors. You can’t stunt your career development
because you like the canteen here, or whatever’s keeping you.”
“As it happens I don’t particularly like the canteen, sir. I’m doing good work
on Aquitar, interesting work, and Aquitar’s prestigious enough that anything
else would frankly be a step down and less challenging.”
“It’s unlike you,” Avon observed, “to care overmuch about how prestigious an
assignment is.”
“No, I’m not all that interested in advancing my career in Engineering or
Projects—I don’t know what I want to do, but it isn’t that.”
Here were the beginnings of the intimate, mentoring tête-à-tête Avon had
avoided by never offering it to Blake. Avon wanted both to press and to back
off, to shut the whole thing down.
“Then hadn’t you better find out, by moving along?”
Blake shrugged. “Realistically, my next two options are IMIPAK, which is some
classified weapons development initiative, and Radical Terraforming. I don’t
want to work on weapons even in a civilian capacity, and I don’t think I’d make
it through their psych-battery anyway. That’s out. And the only thing radical
about Radical Terraforming is the name. Rumor has it they’ve been stuck in the
water for ages. Working there is supposed to be about as fun and as worth the
effort as running on a fixed-exerciser.”
Avon knew. It was why he’d squirmed out of Radical Terraforming himself, at
Blake’s age, and gone for the civilian side of Installation Design, and then
Space-Vehicle Computing Architecture. He suggested these programs to Blake,
knowing even as he did it that, outside their computing divisions, where Avon’s
outsize talent and the approval of his superiors had given him additional
leeway, the programs weren’t known for being good to their interns. SV had been
hauled up before the Council last year for using their allotment of young
Alphas as unpaid menial labor they couldn’t be bothered to train. Blake
deserved better than filing. No one else was likely to give Blake the
attention, license and responsibilities Avon did.
“Don’t you think I’m doing a good job, sir?” Blake was visibly a little unsure
of himself. As much as Avon admired his customary confidence, this attitude
made him want to soothe the boy. “Everyone else signed off on it,” Blake said,
rubbing his neck with his hand. “Of course if you don’t want me, if you’d
prefer a different assistant—” He looked up at Avon. Bit his lip. “Keep me on,
sir. Please?”
Suppressing a shudder, Avon pressed his stylus to the pad and wrote his name,
signing his own death warrant. It seemed he could deny Blake nothing.
“Your performance is consistently above-standard. You learn quickly and work
well. We will, of course, benefit from another year of your assistance, if you
are willing to offer it.”
He slid the pad across the table to Blake. What had he done? (Yet even through
his horror, Avon felt an ink-dark shiver of delight. Blake wanted to stay
precisely where he was. With him. Well now, Avon wanted that too. Some days he
thought it'd take nothing at all to get Blake to come to him. Some days he
thought he could even keep Blake sweet and silent after. Those days he
shuddered and took punishing, freezing showers and told himself to stop it.)
“I’m most willing, sir.” Blake gave him a steady, intent look. That really was
too much.
“Don’t call me ‘sir’,” Avon snapped, looking away from the boy. It was too
good. The remembered ring of it haunted his dreams. Yes sir, please sir, oh,
oh, sir.
“Whatever you like, Av’n,” Blake agreed with a smile, pronouncing it like he’d
swallowed the second vowel whole. Oh. God, it was so much worse than ‘sir’, and
Avon couldn’t take it back. Blake watched his reaction, and Avon worried for a
wild moment that some hint had slipped in through his eyes.
“When—do you plan on doing something about our other problem?”
Blake asked this with unusual delicacy, and Avon frowned, wondering what aspect
of their work Blake referred to.
“I don’t take your meaning.”
“These things do happen, you know. Someone twice your age flirts with me every
work-day. He propositioned me in the lift just this morning, actually. I said I
was taken.” Blake was watching him, carefully. “Am I taken, Avon? I’m sixteen
now, it’s not illegal. And it does happen, sometimes, on projects like this.”
Avon felt all the blood draining from his face.
Blake knew. Blake had waited for him to sign another year of indentures and had
then sprung this revelation on him. Blake wanted him. Meanwhile someone else,
some fifty-year old (if Blake was to be believed—and Avon rather thought he
was, though he was also clearly using it strategically, and that in and of
itself showed a frightening degree of insight on the boy's part) regularly
tried it on with his Blake. Not a chance in hell.
“What’s his name?” Avon asked in a silky, not undangerous tone.
“Immaterial,” Blake answered. “I took care of it.”
“If anyone behaves inappropriately to you,” Avon said through his teeth, which
were fixed in a smile, “I will see them—” Avon felt his cheek twitch, “fired.”
“Oo, fired.” Blake laughed. “Nice save. So not yet, then.”
“Any adult who takes advantage of you now is notworth your time,” Avon said,
voice cold. “Don’t let anyone flatter you into believing otherwise.”
“Well, I think you must be a very good person, and quite worth my time, to
restrain yourself when it's very clear you want me.”
Blake caught and held his gaze, inescapable, and Avon knew that even if Blake
was speared on his cock, he’d be the one pinned like a butterfly underneath
him. What was boiling in him was something worse than lust, and lust had been
unimaginably bad.
Avon felt like he was dragging himself out of the bottom of the well of Blake’s
eyes, crawling up the sides, hand over hand. “You're mistaken. I don't want
you.”
“No,” Blake agreed, eyes tight with annoyance, hurt, at the rejection. Avon
wanted, absurdly, to apologize, to say he hadn't meant it. “You're right, you
don't 'want' me. I just assumed you’d prefer a euphemism to the truth. Well.
I'll ask again next year, shall I?”
Avon didn’t answer.
“Avon—” Blake said after a moment, voice a shade more hesitant—an undercurrent,
there, of the child he was. “You know I’m staying for you? Not the work.
Certainly not the vile cafeteria. You.”
And Blake left, having told Avon that Avon was in love. In love. He never had
been, before. Not, then, a strange fixation. The fleeting, inexplicable thought
that had welled up in his brain when he'd first seen the boy ('He'll be the
death of me') had been not a random misfire of a suddenly over-taxed mind, but
the deathly snake-like clench and squeeze of a love that intended never to let
him go. Have the boy or not, it would remain.
Did he dress up a sordid passion with the name? Well, yes—there was in his
longing a sickness, a carnality that ravished his own mind for the want of its
real target. But that was the tip of the knife, the edge and not the blade
entire. If Avon had wanted a tumble, the whole thing would have been easier to
resist and more easily begged off with substitutes. No, he wanted
everything—Blake's future and his ripe, bright soul, to crack open his bones
and tenderly suckle out the marrow. To train Blake like a vine, up against the
frame of him while Blake was still pliant; to break him like a falconer would a
bird of prey; to breed Blake into something that would always need him.
And some of that, at least, Blake knew.
Avon went home early that day. He thought about leaving the job, about breaking
his contract, about fleeing the whole fucking planet—that would show Blake. But
there would be serious professional consequences. It was decidedly not legal to
leave a state contract before time, and doing so without a very powerful ally
to back you (much less to leave Earth without authorization) wasn't safe. And
Avon couldn't quite bring himself to do it, even if he could find such an ally.
And he didn't think it'd help, if he did. Obsession he might have been able to
shake, but love would never let him go.
***
Blake was seventeen. He came into Avon's office with a second non-transfer form
and letters of recommendation from the rest of the department.
"Please sir, may I have another?" Blake asked with an ironic smile, handing him
the datapad.
Avon mostly pretended last year's conversation on this theme hadn't happened;
Blake mostly let him.
It had taken a few weeks, after the last form had been signed, for Avon to
start properly talking to Blake again. It should have taken longer, possibly
forever, but Avon had wanted it too much. And his own unhappiness he might have
borne, but he’d hated Blake's visible dejection too much to keep freezing him
out, even as he knew he should have done so for the boy's own good.
When Avon had forced himself to have a casual conversation with Blake again, he
had clearly seen gratitude and relief in Blake's eyes. It had awed Avon—how
much power he had, how infatuated Blake evidently was with him. And he’d
resented it enormously—that Blake should test one of his few moral resolutions
like this.
I am doing this for you,Avon had thought acidly, I am keeping myself apart for
you, and it's hell, and you don't even appreciate it. But then if Blake had
done the reverse to him—oh, Avon knew he wouldn't have liked that, whatever the
reason. Not at all.
The last time he’d signed a contract like this, Blake had waited until the
proverbial ink was dry before telling Avon that he knew what was going on
between them. This time he was asking Avon to consent to his staying, in full
knowledge of the reason he was staying. And he’d done it via a bit of cheap
innuendo that brought a guilty heat to Avon’s cheeks (and cock). He’d have
spanked Blake very happily indeed.
“Shut up—” and there was a slightly awkward pause, where Avon should have said
a name but didn’t and just breathed instead, steadying himself.
He signed this second Faustian pact, and pushed the datapad neatly across the
table at his tormentor. Keeping Blake wasn’t fucking him. It wasn’t.
“Blake,” the boy said gently. “You always avoid saying my name. It drives me
mad—after all, I call you Avon. At your invitation. So call me ‘Blake’, like
you would one of your friends.” No good telling Blake those were few and far
between—Blake was pressing on, tapping a finger against his lips. “Not like I’m
a child and you’re an adult, if you please.”
“That is precisely the case.”
“For now, I’ll concede you think it is,” Blake offered. “I bet you don't let
anyone call you 'Kerr.' Pity. It's a nice name.”
Avon proceeded to change the subject with a massive wrench, calling Blake out
for a minor mistake. At first Blake bluffed it out with good humor, but Avon
dug the knife in, emphasizing Blake's immaturity, his incompetence, what a
bother Avon found him. Unfair. Blake was far too mature for his age or for
Avon's comfort. Blake looked a strong-jawed young man now, hardly a boy at all.
The error had been slight—Avon could be both kinder to and harder on Blake than
he was on anyone else. Blake, upset, tried to say he'd fix it right now, then,
and retreated out the door. But, in control of the encounter for once, Avon
followed him, dressing him down in front of their co-workers, humiliating him a
little.
There. Blake would back off, and he—he could be safe. Blakewould be safe.
Though he wouldn't thank Avon for it.
Blake stormed off, furious and visibly hurt—though untouched by shame. Avon
didn't know that Blake had any. He’d yet to see evidence to that effect.
Lin, a team-lead who’d watched the tail end of the argument, cleared his
throat. "You could go easy on Blake, you know."
Avon realized he’d been looking after Blake, and turned to look at Lin instead.
"Why should I?"
"Well," Lin said, a bit uncomfortable, "I mean—you know he's had that massive
crush on you for years."
Avon gave Lin an unreadable, wry expression.
"He's one of our best people, despite his age,” Lin continued. “He talks about
you constantly—admires you no end. Your approval means the world to him. So he
only needs a bit of telling, and a harsh word from you goes a bit further than
you might mean it to."
"Mind you, he sees less of your cheek than the rest of us do," pointed out
Owomo, a data analyst who herself saw less of it by virtue of being Avon's
grandmothers' age, and Avon’s being the sort of person who had been raised to
love and fear his grandmothers. "I'd have said you were fond of him, before
that display. For all he's a communal assistant, you can treat him like your
personal property.”
Lin snorted in agreement. “Heaven forbid we lend Blake out to another team
without asking you first."
Oh god. He’d never realized, never thought––But if people knew Avon was ...
fond of Blake, they might start to suspect more damning things. (Somehow Avon
didn't mind them knowing Blake wanted him. Good. Maybe knowing Blake's
affections were engaged would put off anyone unworthy of him, like whoever the
hell it was who had propositioned Blake in the lift—the project was far too
large for Avon to generate a good mental list of suspects, but he watched
everyone who interacted with Blake closely.)
"I'll take your advice under consideration," Avon told his deputies with a
less-than-pleasant smile. And he did. Though not quite as they'd intended.
To subdue his own broiling libido and to manage the suspicions of people around
him, Avon started aggressively picking people up in bars, clinically and
efficiently fucking his way through the Alpha dome scene. He deliberately went
for no one younger than himself, chose no one who looked even slightly like
him. Someone had to control the signal-to-noise ratio, and it was going to be
Avon. Thus Avon made sure a few of his partners were from other divisions of
the project. He made sure there were rumors.
It wouldn't have been illegal to fuck Blake. Not quiteillegal, no, but it would
certainly get Avon dismissed, see his career in ashes. Avon would be hiring
poison. It would be an Alpha child defiled, and that would mean something. No
one would want Avon on any project that took on apprentices, and that was all
the major ones. He’d be marked as a moral deviant in the Federation’s not-at-
all-secret Citizen Records, and Blake would be reshuffled. If Blake had parents
worth their salt, someone would be around in due course to dislocate Avon's
jaw. He richly deserved it. In his mind he'd done unpardonable things to their
son (though Avon had never encouraged the fantasies, or let himself enjoy them
to the accompaniment of physical gratification). And in reality, he hadn't been
proactive enough to ship Blake off the instant he suspected Blake was infected
with his malady as well.
And then one day, while Avon was in private conference with Blake (Avon’s limbs
still stiff from an evening with someone who'd punished him for his uncommitted
crimes, without knowing what they absolved), he noticed that Blake kept staring
past him today. He noticed the flat, listless voice that Blake was using to
answer him.
"What is it?" Avon asked, trying to curb the softness of his tone. "Are you
ill?"
Blake looked it. Pale. His active, mobile features still. This indisposition
was especially strange because Blake had only been unwell twice, in all the
time Avon had known him. There was a doctor on site, perhaps Avon should take
him down.
"No," Blake said succinctly. Which itself was worrisome. Blake was talkative
and gregarious, and customarily detained Avon on any pretext.  
"Blake. Is something wrong?" Avon asked, frowning.
"You're not even being subtle about it," Blake said, suddenly. And Avon
realized that the edge of last night's bite mark must be visible at his neck,
above his collar. He bruised easily, he knew. He realized that Blake could see
it; that Blake had soldiered through the rumors, disquieted, but when forced to
look at proof, his customary fortitude had abandoned him. He'd slogged on
through a meeting he couldn't possibly be attending to the substance of, until
Avon had bullied him about his failure to pretend he was happy about the
situation as well. God, Avon hadn't even considered what this would do to—What
if Blake hated him for this?
Avon stood, awkward, not sure what to do with himself. He walked around the
desk to join Blake, trailing his fingers across the leather top.
"Do you think about me when you do it?" Blake asked, brusquely.
"No," Avon said, staring behind Blake at the door. What if it should open now?
"No, I—Anything but." And sully the image of Blake by bringing it into the
various sordid rooms he fucked Blake's replacements in? Their too-skilled
mouths were never Blake's to him. Their hands never his dear, well-studied
hands.
"What do you want?" Blake asked. When no answer was forthcoming, Blake
evidently resolved to ask all his questions, to keep going until he got one.
"What do you get out of them? What would you like me to do?” Blake’s voice was
rough. It shook, a little. “Do you want me to fuck around?" Avon's hand
tightened, white-knuckled on the back of Blake's chair, but he didn't look at
Blake. Blake pushed on. "Get experience, until I can do whatever whoever's
worked you over this time did to you?"
Blake wouldn't need it, any of it—the equipment, the games others used to rouse
and hold Avon’s attention. If Blake touched him, Avon thought he'd struggle not
to fall apart in his hands at the slightest provocation.
Blake's voice was thick with unshed tears, now. First lowering one leg and then
the other, Avon dropped to his knees next to Blake, clutching the arm of
Blake's chair.
"No," Avon said quietly, not quite looking at him, staring half at that door
and half at Blake's slightly shaking shoulder. "No, Blake—darling, please don't
cry.  Please—I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—I won't. I won't do it again. I only
wanted—"
Avon swallowed against the tightness of his throat. He'd only wanted to slake
his thirst, to make his body forget the reason why it thrummed with insistent,
insatiable demand. He'd wanted to forget Blake, and to make sure everyone knew
that Avon couldn't possibly want him. Some apology thatwould make.
As though unable to control his body, Avon hesitantly stroked his hand over
Blake's sleeve, and shuddered. He'd never admitted it before. Blake had known
it all the same, but Avon had never said. There it was. Blake had won it from
him, at the price of tears. And if Blake left the room, everyone would see his
face, would wonder what Avon had done to make him cry.
Hesitantly, Avon kissed away the tear running down Blake's cheek, and then he
kissed Blake's forehead. He stroked Blake’s face, and then wove his fingers
through the loose curls Blake wore slightly longer than regulation permitted.
Avon never called Blake on that, because he love-hated the soft temptation of
them. Darling, he thought instead of letting himself say it again, feeling sick
and freed by having let it out of his mouth. Darling, darling.
"Promise me you won't," Blake asked, voice low with anger, and Avon nodded
sharply, knowing it was absolute. That his word, given to Blake, was binding
until Blake released him. Fine. A passionate celibacy, a truce he brokered with
his body wherein he allowed himself at last to think of Blake when he brought
himself off in exchange for cruder satisfactions. Anything, so long as Blake
stopped looking miserable. Besides, he’d made his point, established the right
sort of rumors about himself—the safe sort of rumors. They wouldn’t die
quickly.
"Just have me," Blake begged him, and Avon shut his eyes. "If you need this,
let me give it to you. I want to."
"No," Avon breathed.
"Why?" Blake demanded. Avon didn't answer. "Why am I not good enough?" Blake
pressed.
"Never say that," Avon hissed, clenching his hand on Blake’s arm spasmodically.
"Won't you even talk this through with me?" Blake said a little desperately.
No. Avon couldn't risk it. Blake didn't need explanations––he would only
disagree with them, argue his way around them. Better Blake think patent
nonsense, suppose Avon didn't want to dirty his hands with him, than that some
piece of Blake's sophistry, wedded to Avon’s own want, cause Avon to forget
himself, allow him to rationalize one of the world's few remaining outright
sins.
Blake sighed, then pulled himself together. "We'll—later. We can—"
Avon pulled back. Blake rubbed his eyes and his face clean with his hand, and
Avon's heart constricted. They both stood, Avon facing his own desk, avoiding
looking at him. He heard the door handle turning under Blake's hand, and for a
moment he could feel Blake's eyes on his back. Then the pressure lifted, and
the door creaked shut.
Avon walked slowly back to his chair and sat once more. He toyed with a pen and
thought, with a kind of dark joy, that he was glad to have traded other people,
to have forsaken all others for the shadow and the thought of Blake. That he
couldn't wait to try it out.
So much for half-measures and protestations of personal integrity. Blake either
chipped away bits of Avon's soul or showed him the thin inadequacy of what he
thought he believed in. Partly formed values collapsed in Avon. Useless to try
and articulate how vital he thought wealth and security were to Blake, who
wanted and deserved better. More, than just to be safe. Blake wasn't drawn to
the career paths the Federation laid before him, wanted this decidedly perilous
relationship, didn't seem to think a safe life in which he didn't obtain the
things he valued particularly worth the living. And the things Blake valued
weren't to be bought.
Useless, too, for Avon to try and explain the morality that governed him, and
which Blake unraveled by pulling at loose threads. Blake wouldn’t have been
convinced, and arguments that didn’t move Blake sat flat and dead in Avon, now.
Besides, neither wealth nor security would give him what he most wanted—Blake’s
autonomy, his full development, the knowledge that Avon hadn’t warped what he
loved in loving it. ‘Free will’ came closer to the mark, but there it needed
some protective addendum, because Blake would have freely, cheerfully martyred
himself for Avon’s lust without understanding what he might be giving up in
doing it. Avon didn’t know who he was anymore, and he didn’t know whether Blake
was the making or the undoing of him.
***
Avon had known that, even having extracted his apology and his promise, Blake
was still angry with him. Blake's anger burned right at the surface, and was
difficult to miss. He was furious with Avon both for having refused him again,
and for having been unfaithful. Why not? He had been, in both their eyes. He
had given others what belonged rightly to Blake.
Avon hadn’t known quite how angry until he and Blake came to the end of a
tense, loaded exchange about progress reports a few days later, just before
everyone was due to go home. Blake was leading a team now—young for it, but he
was naturally very, very good with people, as Avon had awful proof. He
represented the division to outsiders better than Avon did. Only Blake’s age
prevented Avon from delegating the bulk of his public speaking responsibilities
to Blake—it was still a little hard for people who didn’t know Blake to take
him seriously.
Though everything was, of course, relative. Seventeen-year olds before Blake
had led apprentice riots, in the middle ages and in the last century.
Seventeen-year olds had led armies once as well. Seventeen-year olds and
younger had also once married men Avon’s age and older—Emma and Sense and
Sensibilitywere banned, but Avon knew from a joke or two that Blake had read
them anyway, just as he had in his own youth. But the line between childhood
and adulthood was culturally defined, and here and now, Blake wasn’t yet a man.
What Blake was was incandescently furious. Maybe one day he’d learn to control
his temper and use it as another weapon in his arsenal, but now anger sat in
Blake like a landmine, a thing that had to be answered, that stood to hurt him
as well as its target. So the casual tone in which Blake said, “So I take it
you’re not going to ‘do the honors’ then?” didn’t fool Avon for a moment.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Avon said (after a moment of panic—fear and
arousal spiking in him). Falling back on an earlier strategy, letting ‘I don’t
know’ stand in for ‘I can’t afford to understand you.’
“I said we’d talk about it later, and it’s later." Blake glared at Avon,
levelly, his tone professional, demanding. "You’re not the only person burdened
with a body, and it has to happen at some point.”
Avon’s expression made Blake’s hard look shift into something more
accommodating. That Blake should pity him, Avon thought. It was ridiculous.
“Avon—say you want me to wait for you, and I will.”
“You should have experiences and liaisons appropriate to your age,” Avon said
noncommittally. He kept his face absolutely neutral. Hating it.
He intended neverto have Blake. No passage of time could erase the fact that
Blake, a sensitive child, had picked up on how much an older man wanted him and
had been flattered, had mirrored that want back at Avon. Despite efforts to the
contrary (marred by occasional lapses of judgment), Avon suspected he'd
thoroughly groomed Blake.
There would always be a gulf in their experiences. A power-imbalance, a
prohibition in how formative he’d been in Blake’s life. He knew that wasn’t how
it looked without context—he knew that Blake got the better of him as often as
not, despite his youth. But in reality Avon suspected that Blake’s hyper-
developed powers of articulation and social acuity had outstripped his
development in other fields. That Blake had learned how to get what he wanted
before he’d learnedwhathe wanted. (And Avon sometimes wondered if Blake had
pushed himself to grow up fast for Avon, because Blake had understood what Avon
wanted, wanted of him. What Avon liked.)
Avon had been a little like that himself—he’d been able to do graduate-level
maths at seventeen, he hadn’t been an adult. It was a pity that Blake’s areas
of expertise were so front-facing, that they made for such an effective facade
of maturity. Avon had to constantly remind himself that Blake was a cleverly
constructed Potemkin village, not a man, capable of responding to Avon's
longing for him as such.
Therefore, since Avon would never be able to touch Blake, would never allow
himself to have him, Blake—couldn’t and shouldn’t wait interminably. Perhaps if
Blake met and liked someone more age-appropriate (not cheaply and in haste, in
anger—let Blake fall in love so well he thought Avon just a crush, though even
the thought of it made Avon sick), he could move on. That might loose the ropes
around Avon’s heart. Although Avon never expected to be cured, now, the
pressure on him might be slightly relieved if Blake didn’t love him back. If he
didn't catch himself staring at Blake's mouth in conversations, thinking, You'd
let me kiss you, wouldn't you? You want me to.
Or Avon would simply go mad, jealous of some ridiculous adolescent rival—no, it
was better this way.
“Well, all right then,” Blake said.
Blake’s tone had changed. He was livid. He'd never been angry with Avon like
this before. Avon didn't know what to do with it, any more than with tears.
This from Blake, who smiled if Avon so much as said his name, who worked so
hard to please him. Who allowed anyone in Computing to say what they would
about Avon, provided it was broadly fair, but who stood up for Avon against
people outside the department with fierce loyalty.
“Play dumb if you prefer,” Blake said, the gravity underneath his tone giving
Avon to understand that he was quite serious. “Don’t go into your reasons, for
fear I’ll talk you out of them. We don't ever have to talk about it, if you
won't let me. But,” he managed to give Avon a pleasant, business-like smile,
spoilt only by the hardness of his eyes. “I want you to know you did this.”
And Blake slipped away like water.
He wouldn't. He wouldn't. Little tart, little shit. Avon felt like breaking
something. Why weren’t there more breakable objects on this desk? There was
only the heavy glass paperweight Blake had picked out for him at Christmas—the
swirl of rich color, trapped but strong in the crystal, the only bit of beauty
in this gray, grim office tower. A delightful piece of defiance in a gray, grim
world. It was technically the office’s communal gift. But only Blake would have
thought of it, and Avon couldn’t bring himself.
***
“How was the weekend?” Blake asked brightly, letting himself into Avon's office
and taking a seat without preliminaries. Avon was tense. He and Blake had
fought on Friday, giving Blake long enough to—
“Mine was all right,” Blake said when Avon didn’t answer in good time. “I took
care of that business we discussed.” And from here on out, Avon felt every
sentence like a blow. Blake kept his tone casual, and his eyes heavy on Avon,
drinking in the effects of his information.
“It was about what I expected it'd be," Blake continued. "She was twenty-two.
Shewasn't particularly fussed about my age, incidentally. From a different part
of the project, actually. Brunette, pale—perhaps you never think of me, but I
did have to have something.”
“Please don’t do this to me,” Avon said quietly. He was angry, he was beyond
angry. It hurt so much. He’d said he was sorry, how could Blake? Whoring
himself out like he was nothing. How dare he? Didn’t Blake know what he
deserved?
Had it even been good? It should have been good, for him. Avon would have made
it so good. He couldn’t bear it. Avon had said he hadn’t wanted that of Blake,
but of course it had been his, of course it had, Blake knew that. Merely
suspecting that Blake had done it would have wrecked him, but this, this
poison, from Blake’s own lips—
Well, fair was fair, wasn't it? He'd cheated on Blake with a score of partners.
And Blake, at least, had had the decency not to let Avon see him marked by this
tryst. Blake must be stronger than he was, or must love him less, to have born
that as well as he had.
It should have been him. No, twenty-two was too old, but it was better than
twenty-seven, and Avon had as good as told him to do it. But if this was a step
on the path to healing, then Avon thought it would be easier and more pleasant
just to die.

When Blake said, “I’m sorry,” it was firm. He wasn’t actually sorry for what
he’d done––he thought he’d made the right decision––but he wasn’t angry
anymore. And he clearly didregret having hurt Avon.
Blake was visibly learning about what his anger did and how to use it. In the
midst of desolation Avon felt what was almost a shard of pride in him. Blake
was going to be so incredibly talented and strong when he came into himself; he
was already remarkable. A remarkable bastard, just now. But even so.
“Avon,” Blake said gently, “I know it’s difficult for you, too. But it'd be
easier if you'd set a date.”
Blake was still determined to use this strategically. He hadn’t done this to
the two of them just to let the deed go to waste. Avon admired and disliked his
determination.
“What's the youngest person you'd be prepared to be with?” Blake asked, looking
into Avon’s eyes and making Avon look at his with the pressure of his gaze.
“Someone through university,” Avon said flatly. “Preferably someone I didn’t
watch grow up.”
“Well, that can’t be helped. So another what, four years then? Three and
several months, really. That’s—” Blake exhaled. He didn’t like it, but Blake
supposed that couldn’t be helped either. “Well, thanks for setting a time, at
last.” Blake smiled, reaching out and taking Avon’s hand where it lay on the
desk between them. Only the second time he’d felt the touch of Blake’s hand
like this—and Avon hated the hungry way his brain stored away the contact,
updating his records, so that later he could imagine Blake’s touch as it was
now rather than as it had been when they’d met.
“And I know,” Blake said sweetly, “that because you promisedme, you won't go
back on it.”
“I said nothing of the kind.” Avon could hear his voice rising sharply. Could
feel himself curling his fingers desperately around Blake's.
“Say you don’t want this, and maybe I’ll believe you.” Blake gripped him back.
“Say you don’t love me, and maybe I won’t wait for you. But you can’t, can you?
And you’ll never be able to. Well neither will I. So give us both this instead.
Say three years, say five, say something.”
Blake was, evidently, less sure of himself than he pretended to be. He papered
over his anxiety, his need. He bluffed—his confidence seemed to him a means of
winning Avon. And it was.
Twenty-one. And no one touching Blake––no one else––until then. Blake pure, but
for everything Avon’s imagination would do to him in the interim. Kept
sacrosanct for the purpose.
“Sometimes I wonder if you’re a human child, or something in the shape of one,”
Avon said idly, looking at their joined hands, turning Blake’s palm over and
running his fingers across it. Watching Blake swallow at the contact. Smiling
viciously at that. “Then I think—'no, that’s a lie you tell yourself, to make
everything less awful. Blake is just a boy, like any other.' But then I’ve
never met a boy like you. Cleverness and precocity are common enough, and
relatively unimpressive as these things go. But you—you, my Blake, may well be
a sort of charismatic sociopath, capable of talking anyone into anything. What
would you like me to do, jump off the roof? I should have done it years ago.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” Blake said, an edge of worry in his tone.
“I’m not.” Avon said, running his thumb over Blake’s knuckles. Hands held fast.
This, his unconsummated marriage. His untouched bridegroom.
“I couldn’t bear to lose you,” Blake said very earnestly. “Wither thou goest.”
“You monster,” Avon said with a smile and a sick surge of terror at the thought
of Blake hurt, clenching Blake's hand violently in his own.
Blake gave him a winsome smile of his own. It sat nicely on his young face.
Avon was both relieved to discover he loved Blake more with the passage of time
(it implied he was at least interested in Blake, rather than in children qua
children) and heartsick. Because time wouldn't ameliorate his concerns, and it
felt as though the weight of love in him only grew heavier and harder to bear.
“I’m hardly Machiavelli,” Blake said. “I can't get a man who's been in love
with me for years to touch me, or even give me a date when he might be willing
to. That’s not exactly a resounding rhetorical victory."
Avon glared at Blake, who even having routed him, seemed not to feel himself
sufficiently a conqueror. Blake sighed at his expression.
"Don’t resent me for this. I couldn’t help it either. From the moment I saw
you—which is funny, because neither of us believes in love at first sight.”
"No," Avon's expression turned wry, fey. "We do not. 'Behold a god more
powerful than I, who, coming, will rule over me. Now your source of joy has
been revealed—oh misery, since I will often be troubled from now on.'"
"What's that?"
"Dante."
"Ah. How romantic. Going to write me epics, Kerr?"
"Well," Avon colored at the use of his personal name, "one must do something
with oneself."
"But one mustn't do me."
"No."
"Twenty one, then." Blake brought Avon’s hand to his mouth for the briefest
press of lips, then let it go.
Avon’s breath had caught at the kiss. "I never told you that," he managed.
"You never told me no," Blake countered.
"I just did."
"Different question."
"My weekend was fine, thank you," Avon said flatly (though he'd spent most of
it torturing himself with thoughts of Blake in someone else's arms). "The
Barrasta exhibit was disappointing. Poorly framed and crowded, don't bother
with it. I've finally managed to produce tolerable mochi." You couldn't buy
daifuku anywhere in this dome, and travel permits were a hassle. But Avon had
spent his university years in the Hong Kong tower-complex and had developed a
taste. He had also spent the weekend in a mood to pound something to a paste,
and if it had to be rice, well, so it went.
Blake grinned at him. "Bring me some?"
That positively spoilt way Blake had of asking for a favor, like he just
expected Avon to indulge him—Avon could never resist it.
He rolled his eyes to disguise it. "Check your desk."
"A display of affection at work?" Blake arched an eyebrow. "Oh, you must hate
me being angry with you."
Avon glowered at him. "They're anonymous, and the box looks quite ordinary."
"You sweetheart."
"Shut up, Blake."
"I love you too."
That was much too much. Avon gave Blake his most severe look. "I meant that
no."
Blake gave him a fond look in return, patted him on the arm, and got up to
fetch his present from his desk. "I know you meant it. You mean a lot of
things."
Avon felt so absurdly better for being back in Blake's good graces. For the
promise he hadn't made. For the way Blake had said he loved him, as a joke they
both knew wasn’t one.
***
The team had a small office-party in honor of Blake successfully acquiring a
perpetual assignment to the division. It had been brought about by a rather
difficult bureaucratic maneuver. Doctor Avon, who the team normally considered
rather distant, had won popularity by aggressively supporting their favorite,
jumping through the hoops required to keep him on.
This, coupled with a few other factors, had rendered the team unusually loyal
to their director. He'd become much more of a pleasure to work with, over
time—Blake managed him well. Blake was terribly fond of Avon, and Blake's
preferences were communicable.
Over the past years the team had also shifted, in disposition and in terms of
actual personnel. Blake's initial guide was out. Too administration, too jolly
hockey sticks. Blake had complained to Avon privately, and Avon, having his
personal opinion confirmed, had shifted her over to Mechanical Engineering,
which was a few degrees more sycophantic than Computing.
Avon had protested when Blake had taken against his old school friend Tynus,
who had interviewed for a role on the project. Avon had privately accused Blake
of jealousy (well yes, he hadfucked Tynus, but not since he was Blake's age).
But Blake had pointed out that, as an 'old friend', Tynus was more likely than
anyone to understand the nature of what wasn't going on between the two of
them. Did Avon trust Tynus never to use anything he suspected against him?
Blake didn't. Tynus had about him a lean and hungry look.
"That sounds like a quotation," Avon remarked.
"Shakespeare," Blake answered back evenly. "Julius Caesar, to be precise."
"Studying that in school, are you?" Avon asked nastily.
"Don't get shrewish because you know I'm right,” Blake said. “Not a good look,
Avon.” (He was studying the play in school—and he’d rather hoped to impress
Avon with his fledgling erudition, lightly worn. How ridiculous and stupid he
must look to Avon sometimes. He hated it.)
Resentful but chastened, Avon deferred, selecting a different candidate. Tynus
was likely to get Avon into trouble in ways unrelated to Blake, as well. In
university they'd done something not-quite-legal together. Hong Kong was an
expensive city. But Blake didn't know that, and Avon wasn't going to tell him.
Let Blake think Avon had always been a model of prudence—it would give him less
license. Blake had more than enough chutzpah as it was.
Fortunately the rest of their division was rather more circumspect. They
aligned with Blake and Avon’s sensibilities, but Owomo and Lin and the rest
weren't overtly political. Or if they were, they hadn’t mentioned it. It wasn't
the sort of thing you talked about in the office, if you weren't an obvious
plant. Yet the Computing team members were all too good at what they did not to
find the administration frustrating, and sometimes indicated as much. Owomo in
particular had no fear, and flatly said they'd get on a sight better if they
weren't all drugged—they'd never pulled this shit in the Nigerian domes. She
hadn't asked to be re-allocated.
Tamora tried to shut her up. The department probably wasn't bugged, but someone
could walk by.
"What," Owomo snorted, "is someone going to listen to an old black woman?
That'll be the fucking day."
Blake decidedly encouraged the anti-authoritarian atmosphere. He agreed with
his co-workers’ pragmatic complaints, and his family was political (which,
thankfully, hadn't come up in his permanent allocation hearing). He came back
from a vacation of a few months' duration, having visited an exiled uncle and
cousin on a prison planet, with rather more fixed convictions than he'd left
with.
The team thought it was sweet, how visibly pleased Doctor Avon was to have
Blake back. And how he tried to play it down. And how bad he was at that.
"I don't think the Federation should have access to teleportation technology,"
Blake told Avon privately after his return. “I don’t think I really understood
the military implications, before I spent time in space. The applications
division only ever talked to us about shipping and cutting down on shuttle
manufacture, not boarding parties and hyper-mobile security forces.”
They were having coffee together, alone, quite off the beaten track. Avon saw
less point in denying Blake, now. And Blake had been away three months, and his
return had been like the coming of spring (though it was midwinter and they
were far from seasons, living under glass).
Avon’s lip quirked. "Fortunately for your scruples, they don't look likely to.
Aquitar is going to be another Radical Terraforming. Our people won't be
implicated—it will fail, rather than us."
"It needn’t be. With the right people, undrugged, I think we could crack it.
Computing does well, since you got us classed Lightest Need." This too had been
a boost to Avon's workplace popularity. Human Resources had grudgingly
admitted, in the face of Avon’s crisply argued case, that all of Computing, not
just the top administrators and the department’s lone growing child, needed to
be able to think properly, and that as elite workers on a prestigious project
like this, his people were very grateful to the state and hardly represented a
security risk. Surely the lowest dosage bracket would suffice? Owomo, delighted
to be almost as free of suppressants as she’d been back home, had pinched his
cheek and lived to tell the tale.
"It's the interdepartmental model at fault, not any one department," Avon
observed, turning his mug with an idle hand. "The security protocols that mean
I can’t speak to anyone from Long-Term Planning without a permit, let alone
share records without a deep-vet. The question, for Human Resources, is always
‘why’ rather than ‘why not’. Besides, that string of experiments last year was
more promising than anything else we've done. But,” Avon smiled wryly, “we
moved away from that line of inquiry because Reisfield is out of political and
intellectual favor, whereas this batch is the brainchild of their new
favorite."
Blake blinked at him. "What, really?"
Avon laughed. "And you claim you're not naïve." Not that he wanted anything to
beat the naïveté and idealism out of Blake. It would be such a loss—the
pointless destruction of a beautiful thing, which at times showed its own
wisdom. Besides, he could provide whatever cynicism Blake's approach lacked,
assuming they stayed close to one another. And he wanted to always be near
Blake, able to protect him (and this way, he knew, lay justification and
danger).
"It's just—" Blake leaned back in his chair. "Do you sometimes find it
difficult to believe that things happen so stupidly?That everything's arranged
so against even the best interests of the power-brokers? They dowant the
teleport, but they can't dismantle their own systemic nonsense to, and without
that they can’t achieve their ends."
"That is life, Blake."
Blake rolled his eyes at being patronized. "To a degree, I'll grant you. But
this is an insane system, and it doesn’t need to be."
"People before you have tried and failed to reform it."
"Perhaps reforming it isn't good enough."
"You could move off world." Avon raised an eyebrow at him. Careful, it
warned––even here, in the middle of nowhere, it wasn’t wise to talk about more
radical solutions. Though leaving wouldn’t be easy. The Federation didn’t let
someone as promising as Blake go willingly.
"We could," Blake both agreed and corrected him, "when I'm older. Though it'll
be tough with your priority clearance, and our leaving won't help anyone else."
"And you want to help anyone else."
"No, I want to leave Owomo and Lin and Tamora, and my family on that awful
little planet, and everyone like them and worse off, to rot, what do you
think?"
“Cheating the system yourself would be a difficult feat. But it seems that’s
not enough for you,” Avon said sardonically.
"No, it isn't," Blake agreed, challenge in his eyes. "Lightest Need's not good
enough, either. I was off the drugs for months—it felt a little like the times
you let me touch you. I saw Earth from space—it's still blue and brown and
green. I even walked around outside, on the planet I visited—have you ever done
that?" Blake asked with genuine curiosity and a trace of wonder, with an
evident desire that Avon too should have had the pleasure.
"A few times," Avon admitted, a little undone by how lovely Blake was. Though
it wouldn’t do to let it show—like touching him, bless Blake. How sentimental.
How frankly wonderful. "In Hong Kong you can pay the guards—I saw the ocean."
"Did you really?" Blake said with a little awe.
Avon smiled. "It has this—scent. Like salt-tablets. Don't make too much of
this—a little like sex."
"Like life, I suppose."
"Yes, that's just it. I sat in front of it for hours—the sound is hypnotic. The
tide crept in and in until it touched me, and I realized I could go into it, if
I wanted to. I don't care for the public lidos, but this was quite different."
"We should live by the ocean," Blake said.
"Oh, you'd have to have rather a lot of money, to pull that off," Avon reminded
him with a peculiar grin.

Blake studied him. "Are you working on something, Avon?"
"Not precisely," Avon said. "I've just noticed something interesting. A little
window one might crawl through. And I've made a few inquiries." He sipped his
coffee. "One doesn't want to work on state projects and Lightest Need category
suppressants forever."
"No, one does not," Blake agreed. "No one should."
"You're wasted on them, certainly."
Intrepid, canny Blake watched his pretty mouth anywhere there might be ears and
was deliciously seditious, politically and personally, when they were alone
together. Earth stunted Blake, held him back like Avon had feared he would.
Blake was too big for this world––he needed scope.
Avon would have to find him a better one. It wasn’t enough for Avon that Blake
simply survive the world (which no one managed to do forever, be they rich as
Croesus).
That wasn't a promise, even in his head. Avon wasn’t planning for them to run
off together, or even planning to do Blake a personal favor, per se. It was
just that Blake would do better, on Lindor or Teal, or in Freedom City, if they
were feeling gauche and obvious (was an apartment on each gauche and obvious?
Not that they'd be sharing one or multiple apartments—but surely there was some
safe way for Avon to watch Blake enjoy the marks of his esteem—using binoculars
from his own penthouse, perhaps.).
"I'll update you, if anything comes of it," Avon told him.
Which of them was putting dangerous thoughts into the other's head? Avon never
knew. But he would keep the time-scale in proportion. He wouldn't leave without
Blake, and Blake had to get through university before he'd be allowed another
travel visa. Besides, Blake had a family who would be questioned roughly if he
disappeared. A family, Avon knew, that was actively seeking to acquire
emigration permits to a frontier colony (and from there, one might just slip
away). Legitimate documents could be arranged, given time. It was something to
consider.
Meanwhile Blake was looking at the clever, daring, handsome man who refused to
allow himself to run away with the man he was in love with. Who prized Blake's
autonomy like a dragon did its horde. Who was getting more comfortable with
himself and Blake with the years—more playful, more thoughtful, more daring,
more assured. Sexier, to Blake’s thinking.
"I missed you," Blake said.
Avon changed the subject with a charming grin, beginning a merciless
deconstruction of the public programming Blake had missed, and Blake understood
that this had been stored up for him. It was 'I missed you too', in deed if not
in words.
***
Agent Bartholomew composed a dismissive report on Kerr Avon after two weeks'
investigation. Yes, he had made a few enquiries about the banking system that
looked suspicious, but they had detected no further activity along those lines
since. It was possible he was sensibly wary, and thus being circumspect, but
her inquiries (the standard effort to push suspected dissidents, accelerate
their plans and entrap them) hadn't revealed much in that line. Avon seemed as
apolitical as his psych profile (taken when he'd joined Aquitar) indicated, and
highly enmeshed in his work—a contra-indicator for standard apolitical fraud
and the like.
Bartholomew was a bit piqued, actually. She hadn’t gotten very far with him. It
was always difficult when the subject's attentions were engaged elsewhere. Kerr
Avon's attentions appeared to be long-wedded and celebrating a diamond
anniversary elsewhere. She'd gotten blunter, he'd gotten suspicious and still
more cautious. Bartholomew’s report indicated that Doctor Avon was furtive
because, from what she could gather, he was erotically enthralled with the
apprentice assigned to his department. He appeared to be doing nothing about
it, but his psych profile had 'obsessive tendencies' and 'guilt complex'
written in huge letters all over it. Ergo he skulked about the world looking
like a criminal because of some boy he wasn't fucking.
It wasn't illegal, Bartholomew’s report pointed out. And he wasn't even doing
it—just, it seemed, thinking about it constantly. Bartholomew suspected it was
even making both him and the Blake boy better employees. The boy hero-worshiped
Avon and worked notably hard for him, while Avon paid more attention to his
work than would otherwise have been likely. He’d also recently turned down a
more lucrative offer from the private sector, presumably because it wouldn't
come with his pet. Left alone to pine tragically, they would probably continue
to increase one another's performance indices.
A pity—Bartholomew had liked the look of Doctor Avon, and of that cute
proclivity to monomania in his profile. The neurotic ones were either awful or
desperately, flatteringly intense in bed, and he'd looked like the latter.
She’d had enough of them to judge. She hadn't minded the idea of undercover
work.
Bartholomew didn't have access to the under-18s psych profiles. That was a
different division. She tried later, at her demotional hearing, to point out
that she couldn't have known what Blake was and what he'd be capable of getting
Avon to do for him. But the axe was going to fall on someone, because the
Federation wasn't as interested in fixing problems as it was in lavishly
assigning blame for them. That someone was apparently going to be Bartholomew,
knocked back hard for want of a more open mainframe.
***
Flushed with two drinks and good cheer, Roj Blake bounded into the bathroom and
stopped short. Hunched over the sink, staring at his own reflection as though
he didn't much like the look of it, was Avon. Avon, whom Blake had invited to
come to the work-drinks in honor of his birthday. Avon whom he'd asked to come.
Avon who had, apparently, made it as far as the pub itself—had perhaps watched
the table full of his co-workers for a moment, watched Blake—before veering off
into the bathroom to grip the lip of the counter-top.
That wretched expression. God, Avon made everything hard on himself.
Avon caught sight of Blake's guarded, sympathetic face in the mirror and gave
it a wry smile, pulling himself to rights as though Blake hadn't seen him
looking wrecked. Perhaps he didn't know how bad it had been. Perhaps he hoped
to bluff it out.
"I’m not—feeling well,” Avon explained. Such a thin lie—or if he truly wasn’t,
the problem wasn’t illness. “Happy birthday, Blake."
Blake stepped forward, putting his hand's on Avon's shoulders, leaning into his
back a little. Avon shuddered and closed his eyes. "Don't."
"All right." Blake stepped back.
Avon straightened and turned and opened his mouth to say something, but Blake
was standing very close and staring at him, his expression tender. They were
the same height now. They hadn't used to be. Blake innocently wetted his dry
lips, and Avon made a desperate sound and shoved Blake into the stall behind
him, slamming the door shut after him with his palm. Blake wasn't slow on the
uptake—he grabbed Avon's jacket (nice—he'd dressed for this) and pulled Avon to
him, wrapped a hand around the back of Avon's neck and brought their mouths
together. Then Blake held himself still and closed his eyes as Avon pushed into
his mouth, teaching him how to kiss. Blake made a thready, needy sound—he
hadn't known he'd like kissing this much (his strategic loss of virginity had
included barely any). He loved kissing, he loved kissing Avon, finally getting
to, and in answer to the sound Avon shivered under his hands, breaking away to
gasp into his mouth. (Quietly, it was all done quietly, this was a public
bathroom, anyone might—)
Blake––afraid that any pause would give Avon time to recover his judgment and
push him away, that Avon might run––pulled him back urgently.
"Don't stop," he whispered, suspecting Avon would like it. "Avon, love—" Avon
whimpered into his mouth. "Please don't—"
They kissed until Blake was hard, drunk on it, hardly even thinking of wanting
anything more. Blake could feel Avon was hard against him too, almost as
responsive as himself, though only one of them was a desperate eighteen-year
old. There—indisposed like this, he wouldn't go. Blake relaxed the tight hold
he had on Avon's neck, and Avon slid away from Blake's mouth to suck his
throat. Blake hissed appreciatively, thinking, Please oh please leave a mark.
"Is this my present?" Blake asked, running his hand through Avon's hair like
he'd always wanted to.
"It isn't much of one," Avon said.
"Give me another, then," Blake suggested, sliding to his knees, maintaining
eye-contact, because if he dropped it, the spell might break. Avon would lose
that rapt, caught expression and think 'What thehellam I doing?' and not let
him—
Blake palmed Avon's erection through what Blake knew very well to be Avon's
best trousers, and Avon shut his eyes. His head thunked back audibly against
the wall of the stall, and he trailed unsteady fingers over Blake’s cheek. Very
deliberately, Blake pulled down the tab of the zip. Wet his lips. Looked up at
Avon, who was breathing hard, chest going like bellows. Blake had never done
this before and he was nervous, but he wanted it so badly, almost couldn’t
process that he’d felt Avon’s cock through cloth, that Avon had actually
touched him—if he were clumsy, Avon would forgive that, would show him what to
do.
“Blake,” Avon whispered harshly, and Blake knew, always knew, he was loved and
loved well, but now it clenched his chest into a knot. Only Avon could say his
name like it was another word for ‘beloved’.
Blake swallowed. He reached out his hand.
Avon caught Blake's wrist before Blake could touch him. Avon stared at his own
hand in a daze, putting together why he’d done that. What reflex action of
decency had prevented him from letting the mouth he adored nuzzle sweetly at
his cock.
"We're in a bathroom stall," Avon said, as if confused.
"Anywhere," Blake said roughly, bringing up his other hand. Avon caught that
too, and gently pushed Blake back by the wrists. Zipped himself up hastily and
barged out of the stall, out through the pub's back door (next to the loos, no
one saw him go), into the alley. Blake followed close behind, having clambered
to his feet when Avon had charged out.
Avon sucked in the cool night air through his teeth, then laughed unpleasantly.
A touch hysterically.
Blake moved to touch him, but Avon held out a hand, silently telling him to
stay where he was. Blake thought about taking it in his own, kissing the palm,
and watching Avon shudder like that again—but Avon wanted not to be touched,
and Blake wanted Avon to be happy. Blake was fairly sure he’d been about to
make Avon very happy indeed, but if Avon didn’t want to be happy, then—
Blake took a few steadying breaths. “Are you all right?” he asked Avon,
observing his tight, clenched shoulders. The way Avon had brought his arms up
around his torso, wrapping them around himself almost protectively.
Avon laughed properly at that. “Am I all right? No. But then that is hardly
new, and I can hardly blame you for it.” Avon paused a moment, and when he
began to speak again his tone was more caustic. “I nearly made you suck me off
in a fucking bathroom stall, and you are asking me how I feel.”
For god’s sake, Avon thought to himself in an agony of self disgust, Blake’s
first time sucking a man off should be a secure, instructive, if at all
possible romantic experience. It should, at the very least, take place in a
god-dammed bedroom. (A part of Avon’s brain insisted that the only correct
element of the staging had been the players).
“You didn’t ‘make’ me do anything,” Blake said, eyes narrowing. “And from my
perspective, it’s the ‘nearly’ that’s the problem.”
“When a sober adult pulls an inexperienced eighteen-year old who’s been
drinking, it is hardly a model of—”
“Oh give it a rest,” Blake hissed, hurt. “If you won’t let me have you,” and
his fingers clenched in his palm, because he was still half-hard and still
half-breathed the smell of Avon, good cologne and heady sex, still half-felt
the soft stroke of Avon’s fingers on his face, “then at least don’t insult me.
I’m not some liquored-up ingénue you took advantage of, and I’ll kiss you in
any state you like to prove it. You can stop mentally chastising yourself on
that score, as well. You stoppedme,” Blake said with a hint of bitterness. “And
if you hadn’t, two soma and lemonades wouldn’t make you a rapist. Having known
me as a child doesn’t make you—”
“Going to say the word, Blake?” Avon asked, smiling coldly. “The one we so
studiously avoid? No, I suppose having knownyou as a child doesn’t make me
that. What about having wanted you? Oh,” he laughed awfully, “youknowhow I
wanted you.”
“You fell in love,” Blake said with an exhalation of breath, pity and
frustration mingling in him. “You couldn’t help it. I don’t know how we
understood one another from the beginning, but I can’t regret it. You could
have had me the day we met, and you know that. But you didn’t. I don’t know
that it would have been a bad idea, but you made a moral decision and you lived
by it. I can respect your probity,” Blake gave the word a gently mocking spin,
“even if it’s tormented me. You wanted to wait for me to be an adult, and now
here we are. My eighteenth. You already agreed to see this through—we don’t
need to wait another three years, what’s the point?”
“The point, my darling Blake,” Avon said, his most sarcastic tone inadequately
disguising the simple truth of the endearment, “is that you can have no idea
what you want.”
“God, you’re a paternalistic arse sometimes.” Blake crossed his arms over his
own chest, warding off the chill evening air and hurt.  
Avon sneered. “What a good word for it—I’m far too much of a father to you to
get to touch you like that.”
“You're nothing like. Are you ever going to forget that you knew me when I was
young and stupid? I'm an adult now. I love you.” Blake caught his gaze and made
Avon look at him when he said it. Avon visibly flinched, but recovered.
"Doesn't that matter to you?" Blake said, almost pleaded. "Doesn't it matter
more than my age?"
Avon summoned up a protective, distancing coldness—his only weapon against
Blake's raw vulnerability. “You were never stupid, Blake. That is a key
component of the problem. You were clever enough to catch and reflect the fact
that I wanted you. Flattered, I think, by adult attention. You shaped yourself
around it, and you performed wanting meperfectly. But you don’t perfectly
understand yourself, and you never will, where I am concerned. This is wrong,
Blake, if anything is. It will always be wrong.”
Blake shook his head, his eyes over-bright. “It’ll be ajoke when I’m thirty and
you’re forty, you and I will laughabout this. If you never intend to see this
through, if you push me away, you’ll regret it 'til the day you die, Avon. And
so will I.”
“There are worse things than regret," Avon said, soft and certain. "It’s a part
of life.”
“Like what, hurting me by having me? You think that's worse than regretting
what might have been? Not for me, Avon, and not for you either, I promise you.”
“If you entered a relationship now, you’d become or remain what I needed you to
be—you’d feel honor-bound to uphold a commitment. Not to drop me, after all
this. Consider that you might outpace me, Blake—you’re growing and changing in
ways I don’t entirely align with. You’re more political now than you used to
be."
"And you resent that?" Blake asked, his eyes narrow.
"No," Avon said harshly. "Other than the fact that it may drive you to do
something unwise. It's what you value, therefore it’s just what you should
do—the point is merely illustrative. You've matured since you decided on this,
and your preferences have changed. They will continue to evolve.”
“I decided on you," Blake said levelly. "There isn't any 'this'. You’ve grown
too, you idiot. You’re not twenty-five anymore, or so awkward no one on the
project wants to have a conversation with you. You have no faith in yourself. I
wish you’d take some of mine. If you could see you like I see you—" Blake shook
his head. That was never going to happen. Avon needed him, no matter what he
thought. He needed Blake's trust and support, Blake's unshakable belief in his
abilities and better qualities. He needed all the things Blake couldn’t help
giving him, unstintingly. "So we’ll grow up together, it’s what people do.
You’re twenty-eight, you’re not done yet.”
“What if you wanted someone else?” Avon insisted. “What if you wanted to be
someone else?" Blake opened his mouth to say there wasn't anyone but Avon for
him, there never could be, he didn't want to be any version of himself that
wasn't Avon's, but Avon pressed on. "Or, if you lack all self-preservation, do
you know what it would do to me to know I’d hurt you irreparably, or to suspect
that you were only mine out of habit, or a childish preference?”
“You think I just want ‘an older man’? You think when I saw you, I thought ‘oh
he must be clever, he’s handsome, I’ll cultivate a crush, shall I?’ Habit?
Every fucking day I fall in love with you, like it's brand new, worse than
ever—oh what's the point?” Blake huffed, throwing a hand in the air. “You’re
never going to believe me when I say I want you. That I’ll want you in three
years, in thirty. There’s no sense in talking it out, because you don’t trust
me.”
“Of course I trust you,” Avon corrected him, because that couldn’t stand. “That
is never in question. Things possibly beyond your control, I doubt. Never you.”
Blake’s eyes softened at that. “I do know.” It was hard to stay thoroughly
annoyed with Avon when Avon was essentially reminding Blake how much he
respected and loved him—was insisting on the point.
“Good,” Avon said. It was important to him that Blake understood his worth—knew
he was worthy of trust, and that Avon had it in him.
“I’ll just have to want you according to a schedule.” Blake gave him a fond
glare. “Maybe you’ll get it when you’re ninety.”
Blake seemed to have found his unshakable conviction again. Avon found it
frightening, reassuring and arousing in turns—it put him back on his guard.
“We’ll see, won’t we?” Avon smiled thinly.
Blake regarded him levelly. “Yes, we will.” He ran a hand through his hair,
mood turning to something less grim.
“I don’t suppose you’d go in for half-measures?” he asked dryly. “Not willing
to hold me while I bring myself off, or anything like that? Just you watching
me while I did it would be fairly good. I love the way you look at me. It’s
what I think about, half the time.”
“Don’t,” Avon said sharply, his throat working, his face pale.
Blake shrugged, the gesture more casual than he felt by miles. "No, I didn't
think so. But it's—” he made a face as he picked his next words carefully,
given that 'hard' wouldn’t really do, "not easy. And I can’t help but feel we
waste the time. And your quaint honor turn to dust,” he waved his hand,
compressing the argument into a line, a neat synecdoche.
“And into ashes all your lust,” Avon mocked back, echoing his earlier
conviction of Blake’s mutability.
“Not that again, we said we’d see. By which I meanyou’llsee. My lust, by the
by, is a serious matter. Don’t be cavalier.”
“That’s awful, and you started it.”
“I’d have finished it, if you’d let me,” Blake said with a self-deprecating
grin. “Can we manage it, then?” He waved a hand back in the direction of the
pub. “Drinks with the lot of them?”
Avon’s lip quirked. “Just about. I hate these things. Why did I indulge you?”
Blake smirked. “Because you generally indulge me, unless you’ve managed to
convince yourself that not indulging me will keep me safe.” Avon looked
distinctly embarrassed by that, which Blake wasn’t unhappy with. “They’ll have
sent out a search party for me at this point.” Blake jerked his head back
towards the interior, which contained their co-workers. “I’ll head back. You
follow—”
“—in ten minutes,” Avon agreed with a nod. He’d circle the pub, and come back
in around the front. There would be no reason for anyone to think that the two
of them had been out here together.
“Avon?” Blake said from the back door, turning to look at him.
Avon raised an eyebrow.
“Thank you for my present. It was what I wanted.”
And he left Avon to rub his face with his hand in a gritty back-alley, annoyed
at how Blake’s bursts of sentimentality could smote him, when they hadn’t any
business being anything but ludicrous.
***
"No," Avon slurred at the Christmas party a few months later, "not—Anyone but
Blake."
Owomo rolled her eyes. "Your drunk arse needs to get home somehow, Director,
and I'm not taking you."
"But—" Avon tried feebly.
"Give him here," Blake said, and Owomo gently shoved Avon over and went back to
the party.
"Relax," Blake said quietly to him. "I swear I'll respect your virtue, if it
means that much to you. And I know it does." He rolled his eyes.
Something unholy lit in Avon's drink-muddled eyes. "Do you promise me, Blake?"
Blake sighed. "You really can't hold your liquor, can you? What was in that
punch?"
"Blake," Avon whispered against his cheek.
Blake swallowed. "All right. Yes, Avon. I promise."
"Good," Avon smiled. "Take me home, Blake." He laughed, pressing himself into
Blake a little. "Get me into bed."
Blake stiffened. "Are you going to be awful about this?"
Avon grinned. "No more than you always are."
"Oh good."
Blake called them a transport, and Avon rattled his address into the computer.
Blake manned the transport when it came, handling the control, and Avon laid a
hand casually on Blake's knee. Squeezed it. Watched Blake swallow. Kept his
hand there. Then ran it idly up and down Blake's thigh. Not too close to his
cock—which he watched swelling through Blake's trousers under his attentions.
"Stop that," Blake muttered, darting a glance over at him.
Avon smiled beatifically at him. "Stop what?" Fingers swirling idly, drawing
patterns. Blake was properly hard now, and Avon licked his lips. Let Blake
watch him do it.
Avon had noticed, at Blake's eighteenth, the surprising bulk of the erection
pressed against his own thigh. Blake had grown up nicely. When he’d thought,
before, about fucking proper (fairly frequently, in other words), Avon had
usually thought about fucking Blake. But after that incident, Blake fucking him
brutally with that long, thick cock had started to figure more regularly in his
fantasies. No finesse—Blake should punish Avon for wanting him. Blake should
fuck him to pieces. Avon knew he deserved it. He wanted to gasp under the
blows, wanted Blake to use him for his own satisfaction, wanted to suffer for
this.
Of course he'd never let it happen. But at this moment, his chastity was
Blake's problem, for once. And he could look at Blake with sex blatant in his
eyes, and Blake could rip himself apart resisting it. See how he liked it.
After another mile the melancholy phase of drunkenness kicked in, and Avon lost
himself in the morose circle of thoughts that he'd drunk too much punch to
escape in the first place. The new fear he’d been entertaining was the same as
his old fear—the difference in their ages. And yet it also represented a fresh
complication. Of late, now that Blake was enrolled in university and his life
seemed to have sped up exponentially, Avon was terrified that Blake would
outgrow him. He was convinced he was truly in love, whereas Blake was an
infatuated teen who would, in time, discover he didn't care about or for Avon,
who already felt he had to struggle to keep pace with Blake.
"What are you thinking?" Blake asked, darting a curious glance at him. Avon’s
hand sat idle on Blake’s knee now, the teasing caresses having drawn to a
close.
"I am thinking––‘What does it say about me,’" Avon responded with too much
drunken frankness, "‘that I sometimes feel as though I’m running to keep up
with someone ten years my junior?’"
"From the way your fingers were slipping across my inner thigh a moment ago, I
have to admit, I hoped for better things,” Blake said, a little genuinely
disappointed. “You could Humbert Humbert harder, love. What does it say," he
mused. "I don't know. Perhaps that you’re obsessed with proving yourself. That
you're always striving to winnow out what you believe in and live up to it, and
as such will always be a challenging partner. That, in part, you’re why I value
those forms of integrity, those ways of interacting with the world. That I’m
lucky to have found you, no matter when I did it."
"The worst thing about you," Avon said with consideration, "isn't actually your
age. It's that I'm not the man you think I am, and you make me wish I were."
"Well," Blake said brightly, "do and be better, if it bothers you. Though I
don't think you have much to worry about. You have good principles, and you
largely live by them. Sometimes you want a bit of reminding, but so does
anyone. Here we are, then. Virtue intact." Blake got Avon to the door of his
apartment, and stayed outside.
"Not coming in?" Avon suggested, making the invitation blatant.
"Is it that annoying when I do it?" Blake asked.
Avon smiled at him, seductive and vicious. "Worse." A little thrill ran up his
spine. Blake could have him tonight. Avon wanted it badly. He wouldn't even
resent Blake for taking advantage of him.
Blake swallowed. "I'll remember that. You don't need any help from here.
Goodnight, Avon."
"Kiss me," Avon said suddenly. Blake froze. "Please," Avon continued, "just—"
Carefully, Blake wrapped his arms around Avon. Almost reverently, he kissed
Avon's cheek and forehead—a conscious echo of the first time they'd kissed,
when Blake had been seventeen. A reminder of what Avon had, in sobriety, been
willing to give him.
"More," Avon breathed, pressing against him, seeking Blake’s mouth with his
own, clutching Blake’s arm with desperate fingers. "Blake I need you—Like this,
I could—More."
"Ask me tomorrow," Blake murmured, turning and going, taking the stairs to
avoid having to wait for the lift, and thus giving himself any time to
reconsider.
***
Blake sat in the police station, glaring stolidly at the officer who was
booking him. Outside, sirens and the shouts of dispersing student protesters
continued to clamor—but things were wrapping up. The demonstration had made its
point, for whatever good it would do.
"Well Mister Blake, were you one of the leaders of this rabble?" the inspector
asked, looking up from examining Blake's wallet.
Blake leaned back in his chair, propping his chin on his knitted hands. "Who
says a free association of people dissatisfied with compulsory education
assignment needs a leader?"
"Need or no, there are always a few trouble-makers better organized than the
rest. Someone put all this together. It’s my job to find the ring-leaders." The
officer looked up, raising an eyebrow at him. "Your work card says Aquitar." 
Blake tensed, for the first time since he’d been brought in. "That's right."
"Bit of a high-profile project, that. Now why would someone assigned a plum job
like Aquitar feel badly used by the state?"
"Why indeed," Blake deadpanned. "After all, the labor exploitation looks so
good on my CV. It may even lead to fruitful decades of being taken advantage of
and made to work on military projects against my will. Lucky me."
"You're a stroppy one." The inspector shook his head. "You know you Alphas do
better than the rest of us. Mustn't grumble."
"I know," Blake agreed. "And I'm sorry about that. I'd be happy to talk about
your position, if you like. I'm interested. What do you want, Officer Parkim?
Did you get to choose your job?"  
Officer Parkim regarded him evenly.
“Bit obviously manipulative.”
Blake shrugged. “So’s the administration. I’m not trying for subtlety, I’m just
telling you what you already know. And I do want to know about your job
assignment, believe it or not. The problems aren’t unconnected.”
"As a matter of fact, no. Though most of us in my grade do—it's your lot that
get assigned carefully. They don't bother quite so much about the likes of us."
Blake took his lumps, Parkim gave him that. Determined and decently good-
humored, even as he was being arrested. He seemed all right. Well-intentioned,
plenty of pluck. Young, probably confused.
Parkim would hate to book him. Parkim might not even have to, if he could pull
a string or two—and Blake had strings Parkim could pull.
"Look," Inspector Parkim said, "I'm going to call your boss at Aquitar. Get a
character reference."
Blake's eyes widened. "Please don't. There's no need for that. I'm happy to
take the mark on my record—" 
"It's not really up to you, is it?" Parkim said with a shrug, taking out his
communicator and getting connected. He'd determined to do Blake a favor, and
Blake was just going to have to put up with it.
Blake listened to the one-sided conversation with his head in his hands. 
Twenty minutes later, Avon was charging into the station. Blake happened to
know he must have left a very late departmental meeting to do it, and wondered
what excuse he'd given. 
"Thanks for coming down, sir," Officer Parkim said. 
Avon looked livid, but perhaps you had to know him to understand that. He
didn't so much as glance at Blake, simply took the seat Parkim proffered and
addressed the inspector with polite authority. 
"Thank you for alerting me. Blake is one of our most talented engineers. It
appears he's also made a stupid, childish mistake. The other Aquitar directors
and I would would be greatly displeased if there were complications here.
Needless to say, this has been some sort of misunderstanding.” Parkim nodded,
and Avon continued. “Blake won't do anything like this again, I can assure
you."
"Glad to hear it, sir," Parkim said, casting a dubious look over at Blake's
sullen expression. "Have you told him that?"
"Oh," Avon said through a particularly unpleasant smile, "I shouldn't worry
about that, Officer. By the time I'm through with Blake, he'll be inescapably
clear on the point. I am going to impress it on him. With a branding iron, if
necessary. There will be no repeat of this incident. Will that be all?"
Parkim nodded. "At present. Though Roj—bear in mind your boss here's doing you
a favor. There won't always be someone who cares about you around to bail you
out. Learn to keep your head down, eh?"
Blake's looked peculiarly humiliated. 
"Thank you for contacting me about this," Avon said to Parkim.
"No problem, sir. Didn't have to come yourself, you know."
"I wanted to ensure that this was dealt with directly, and that we understood
one another about the matter of his record. Get your coat, Blake," Avon
snapped, still not looking at him. Blake didn't get up instantly, and Avon
grabbed his arm, like he was going to haul him up out of the chair and then out
of the station by the ear.
Blake shook him off. "Excuse me a moment, Officer—what about the others?" 
"Blake," his boss hissed, looking him in the face at last. 
Blake didn't answer him. Instead, he regarded Parkim with that steady, fixed
gaze. 
Parkim sighed. "Warnings all around—they're Alpha students, and no previous
offenders in this batch. They'll be released in the morning."
"If they’re being held, I want to stay with them."
"Out of the question," Avon said.
"I mean it," Blake said, still looking at Parkim. "I'm not going if they don't.
Give me a warning, too. Whatever you need to do. I was part of it, and I'm not
dodging punishment while people I acted with suffer."
Definitely one of the ring-leaders, Parkim concluded. Not that he'd greatly
doubted it. The charisma was something of a give-away.
"Going by the look on his face, your boss doesn't seem to agree with you. And
he has more pull than either of us. Look Roj, I'm not going to let you back in,
but you can bear the good news—tell them I'm going light with this one. Check
they're all right for yourself. That," he said in response to Blake's opening
mouth, "is all I'm prepared to allow."
"Take it, Blake," Avon commanded, and Blake shot him an annoyed look, not
insubordinate but not duly deferential.
They must be close, Parkim thought, Director Avon's coldness notwithstanding.
Blake was embarrassed to be shown up in front of him. Aquitar HQ was across the
Dome––Doctor Avon must have come running. Immaterial, but it was the sort of
thing Parkim was in the habit of noticing. Doctor Avon was trying to protect
him. Maybe Blake inspired that sort of thing. Hell, he wanted to go easy on
Blake, even though he suspected the boy would only get up to more trouble, if
given an inch. 
Blake exhaled. "All right. I'll go and see them. Thank you," he said, a little
ironically. "'God works wonders now and then; Behold a copper, an honest man.'"
Parkim shrugged. "Just doing my job."
"Would it were a better one," Blake said with a rueful grin. Well, fair enough.
Parkim didn't rejoice in some of the things he'd had to do over the course of
his career, and a few of them kept him up nights. Wouldn't be so bad if Blake's
people had made their point. They had one to make. What the hell was Blake
doing assigned to an engineering degree rather than politics, which was so
blatantly his first, best destiny? For that matter, what were half the brutes
he had to manage doing assigned here, when men like them had no business being
trusted with weapons and power over people? It had only been a demo, nothing
violent in it. Had to break it up—policy was policy, and Parkim knew what his
job and life were worth—but still. Honest, eh? Gave him a sort of wistful
feeling.
"Would it were a better world," Parkim said with a reluctant bit of a grin.
"Off you get, Jons will take you."
***
"Just you wait until I am through with you," Avon whispered to Blake with a
kind of furious, menacing relish.
Blake was spared the necessity of response (he was leaning towards 'Is that a
promise?' but the guard was right there) by their arrival at the cells.
"Roj!" Mari Lopez shouted. People started to stir and look up. Avon hung back
with the guard.
"We thought they were beating you," Dav Reynol said frankly. Mari and Dav had
been his co-organizers in the action (the police must have suspected as
much—they were alone, and everyone else who’d been brought in was in a cell
behind them, which Blake couldn’t get over to from this side), and Mari was
Freedom Party—had inducted Blake in.
"No such luck," Blake said dryly. "Right, here's the situation.” He raised his
voice so the people in the far cell could hear too. “Warnings, I'm afraid, and
an overnight. They've cleared me, so they're not letting me stay—"
"Why would you want to?" Mari asked with a snort. "Don't take solidarity too
far—there won't be enough pillows to go 'round as it is."
"Worst sleepover ever," Dav agreed, though it was clear the levity was forced.
None of them had ever had a run in with the law like this before. They knew
getting a warning wasn't damning, but neither was it fantastic. They were all a
little scared. 
"I think your inspector's on the level, for what it's worth. Meet me tomorrow?
Let me know you're all right."
There were some grunts of agreement, and the people in the further cell started
talking amongst themselves. Unfortunately, Dav spotted Avon lingering sourly in
the doorway. 
"Well well—who's that?"
"A friend," Blake said tightly.
"Why Blake," Dav purred, "that's never himself."
"Shut it, Dav," Blake growled, even as Avon's gaze sharpened curiously.
"Himself?" Mari asked.
"The reason Blake doesn't date anyone," Dav clarified. "The person for whom he
turns down all other offers. The mysterious fiancé, of whom we have heard so
little. Well, Blake?" Blake didn't respond. He could feel himself going red in
the face. "Oh that'sdamning," Dav chuckled. 
"The fiancé? No way." Mari shook her head, trying to get a better look at Avon.
"He's way too old for Blake, maybe it's his dad—Oh," she said in a taken-aback
voice, feeling the laser focus of Avon's absolutely vitriolic stare even from
several yards back. "Oh no, shit, it is the fiancé."
Blake coughed. "We'll just be … going. Now. He's not—particularly happy with
me, at present."
"That is an understatement," Avon said quite clearly.
"Not bad though," Mari muttered quietly. "When I said 'dad' I meant like, a hot
dad—"
"Shut up," Blake said through clenched teeth.
"Blake, you are done here," Avon said, striding out. He snapped his fingers in
the doorway and then passed into the corridor, without looking behind him.
Blake, embarrassed at that display (Mari and Dav wouldn't let him hear the end
of it in a hurry), followed him.
"Right," Blake said when they were ensconced alone together in a personal
transport, "I know how angry you are—"
"You cannot begin to guess how angry I am," Avon corrected him. His grip on the
control shaft was unnaturally tight. His knuckles white.
"Well, you have no right to be," Blake shouted, flustered, suddenly boiling
over. "I didn't ask them to call you, I didn't want you to intercede—" 
"Is that supposed to be a point in your favor?" Avon looked ready to slap him. 
"This is something I care about—it isn't aboutyou. Frankly you could support
me," Avon turned a vicious glare on Blake at that, "but it's also none of your
business."
"None of my—" Avon seethed. "I should have left you to sit in a cell over
night?"
"It's just a cell! Don't do me any favors in future."
"How dare you," Avon hissed. "When you endanger yourself you involve me, and
you know you do. Those warnings aren'tjokes, Blake. And I know you intend to
escalate your involvement. You organized that protest, you didn't simply take
part, correct? Don't bother answering. That demonstration had you written all
over it. You are an idiot." An idiot who’d rallied several thousand students,
which Avon was refusing to find impressive right now.
"Where do you get off judging what I do?" Blake said. "We're not in a
relationship—your decision, by the way—so I hardly think—"
"No, and neither are you my fiancé!"
"No," Blake agreed sarcastically. "No, I'm just the man you're waiting to be in
a serious relationship with. It's very different. I should have fucked the
university students who brought it up. Right as always, Avon. Let me just go
back to campus and announce my availability, set up my dating calendar. How the
hell was I supposed to explain it?" Blake huffed. "And I did notice your utter
failure to affiance me, thanks." 
Avon's throat worked. "Don't joke about that."
"About what?" Blake asked honestly lost at this point.
"You and other people."
"Oh for god's sake! The least important part of this argument—"
"It isn't to me." 
"No," Blake rolled his eyes, "you aren't my intended or anything."
"Are there a lot?"
Avon hadn't meant to ask. It had just slipped out of his mouth.
"Of what?"
"Offers." 
"It wouldn't matter if there were," Blake said listlessly. "You own me. You
know you do. Even if you don't use me. Well.” Blake exhaled. “Thank you for
coming, I suppose. My hero."
Avon snorted. "I'm not anyone's hero."
"Don't tell me what I think.” The argument having died down, Blake looked
around him, taking stock of the situation. “Avon, we're past curfew."
Avon glanced at the chronometer and realized Blake was right. Shit. 
"You don't have allowance to travel at this hour?"
Blake shook his head. "You only have yours for late meetings, remember? Campus
is going to be sealed off by now."
Avon hadn't thought about it. They were going to his, at present—pointed in
that direction. He'd wanted, without thinking it through, to take Blake home.
To install him somewhere safe, where he could look at him and be assured that
he wasn't in custody. "You'll have to spend the night at mine, then."
"What a pity," Blake said flatly.
"On the couch, you conniving little—And you will never do this to me again."
Avon couldn't take it. When he'd received the call he'd feared the worst—the
police station, 'Do you know a Roj Blake?' For a hideous, heart-stopping
instant he’d thought he'd be identifying a body. They turned onto his street. 
"That's not going to happen," Blake said calmly. "Be reasonable. You know a lot
of what the administration does is wrong. It's not going to stop unless people
make themselves heard."
"I also know it's dangerous to oppose it," Avon said, a little
desperately. “Why should it be you, Blake?”
"Look," Blake said as he got out of the transport after Avon and the vehicle
whizzed back off to the depot, "I love you more than life and all that, but I'm
not going to turn off my brain and my ethics for this relationship any more
than you ever have." They entered the lobby.
"You're claimingI’ve inspired your lunacy?" Avon asked, visibly stewing,
nodding at the doorman (who watched them fight, as they boarded the lift, with
an amused expression). 
"Like I said," Blake smirked as the lift doors closed, "my hero."
"You insufferable arse."
"I wish you would suffer it," Blake said with a mock-sigh. "Are you really
going to make me sleep on the couch, Avon?" He pouted. "We could share your
bed. Surely that's more sensible."  
"Take the couch," Avon hissed. "God, I hate you."
"Liar." They'd come to Avon's apartment, and Blake lounged against the
doorframe while Avon keyed in his entry code.
"Never to you," Avon corrected him automatically as they walked in, and wished
he hadn't.
Blake stopped looking around with keen interest (he’d never been here
before—he’d only even made it into the building at the Christmas party, having
never been invited), and his eyes widened. He thought about it. "No, I suppose
you never do. Then do you hate me less than you love me?" 
"Get some blankets and pillows—they're in the linen closet there. Handle it
yourself. I'm going to bed."
"That's a yes, then. Goodnight, sweetheart."
Avon glared at Blake. Turned on his heel. Marched off to his room. 
***
It was a rest day. Blake woke up to the sound of Avon doing something in the
kitchen. Making coffee, he guessed. Avon was never quite himself before having
his initial cup. Blake usually made sure to bring it to him first thing, on his
Aquitar days. Other people had caught on and filled in for Blake when he was
absent, like primitives making offerings to a bleary, angry god (though none of
them would have had the gall to usurp Blake’s duty when he was present).
Blake listened, feeling luxuriant—there was a music in the sound of the man he
loved going about his morning routine, moving quietly so as not to disturb him.
He kept his eyes shut. He stayed that way when Avon walked closer to the couch
and looked at him. Even with his eyes closed, Blake could feel Avon’s nearness,
the weight of his gaze. Blake’s heart throbbed a little, at being so intensely
observed. His breath almost caught when Avon traced very gentle fingertips over
his cheek, and then passed them through Blake's curls. He hadn't intended to
deceive Avon like this, but it would be awkward and a little cruel to undeceive
him now. After a moment Avon left, shutting the door to his own room. 
Twenty minutes later, Blake faked his own waking, and Avon came out to join
him. Blake raised his eyebrow to ask if he could have some of the coffee, and
Avon waved him off, the gesture a sardonic ‘of course’, sticking out his own
mug for Blake to refill it. Blake took it from his hand with a brief, gentle
pressure of his fingers on Avon's wrist, and dressed it as Avon liked. 
"Listen," Avon said, "this small project I've been working on. It operates by
unraveling the computerized calculations that govern people's credit—the system
that allows loans. It essentially liquidates all private debt, and in the
ensuing chaos, I intend to defraud a few, shall we say, undeserving
organizations and individuals. I'm not exaggerating when I say it will entirely
undermine confidence in the Federation banking system. The records will be
utterly destroyed. It will take that system years to recover, if it ever can.
Private individuals will be unharmed, unless of course they collect dividends
from the banks—in which case I am not terribly worried about their greater
solvency."
"Forbearance," Blake breathed, impressed.
Avon grinned at him. "On an epic scale. It will take time, Blake. I anticipate
finishing slightly after you graduate university. I will be left rich beyond
the dreams of avarice. And you, if you promise me not to do anything stupid
while I set it up, can have the entire, corrupt economy in ruins. How is
thatfor sympathizing with your ideals?”
“Avon,” Blake breathed, in about the nicest tone Avon had ever heard.
Avon held up a hand to forestall him. “However, the greatest blow ever struck
against the state logistically depends on your record remaining scrupulously
clean." 
"Are you bribing me, Avon?"
"Oh yes. Keep out of trouble, help me do this—I will need assistance, Blake,
and you're the only one I want to involve, the only one I know I can trust—and
I'll accomplish your aims on a grand scale, and make you as rich as I am in the
bargain." When one was a billionaire, one could afford to be very generous with
one’s accomplices.
"What's yours is mine?"
"I thought in your own right," Avon deferred, as he thought 'even unto half my
kingdom'. 
"You are," Blake said decidedly, "without a doubt, the cleverest and best of
boyfriends."
"I am not," Avon smirked, unable to be entirely severe in the face of Blake's
awed, delighted grin, "your 'boyfriend'." (Surely 'lover'—though granted, they
hadn't. Partner, at least in a financial sense? Avon had actually rather
enjoyed last night's suggestion of 'intended'. It had a pleasing ring of
possessive predestination to it.) 
"No," Blake agreed, "not just yet." He chewed on his knuckle in thought (Avon
watched), then looked up. "My family—"
"I've thought of that," Avon nodded. "Exit visas aren't impossible. We won't
rush it. We have two years, after all."
"What do you need me to do?" Blake asked, all business, and sat on the couch
next to Avon, thigh pressing against his, as Avon showed off his scheme.
At work, some weeks later, Avon frowned at him.
"I'm surprised at your restraint," he said.
"Mm?" Blake responded.
"You haven't dropped 'round," Avon explained. "I thought I'd have to chase you
out with a broom, after I'd actually allowed you into my apartment. I know you
memorized the door code." He hadn't bothered to hide the sequence. 
"Well, in line with our conversation after your Christmas party debacle, I
thought I'd better be an adult about this," Blake said, a little chagrined.
"Learn to respect your boundaries."
"…I see," Avon said.
"Avon," Blake asked carefully, getting it, "did you… want me to drop 'round?"
"We have a great deal of planning to do," Avon said vaguely. He didn't talk
about the scheme in any detail anywhere but in his apartment, which he
regularly screened for bugs. Thus he and Blake hadn’t spoken about the plan
since the first day in his apartment, and while they both had component tasks
they’d been getting on with, Avon had further details he wanted to clarify and
get Blake’s opinion on.
"Well in thatcase," Blake said with a smile that crinkled his eyes. And he was
waiting for Avon, when Avon came back from a late meeting the next week, their
next good opportunity. He'd ordered food.
Avon—tried not to enjoy it too much. He knew Blake might have gone through his
flat thoroughly, looked at all the bookplates and music-cubes, gone through the
drawers. He almost certainly had—Blake didn’t sleep on opportunities. He found
the thought of Blake going through his things, proprietorially, both strangely
sensual and dear. Later it occurred to Avon that Blake might possibly even have
found the flat's single, framed photograph of Blake himself—his university-
entrance portrait shot, his tunic slightly rumpled, his expression warm and
quite, quite lovely, to Avon. Though the picture was well-hidden, and thus it
was unlikely. 
Avon didn't let Blake stay so late that curfew would catch him out and he'd
have to stay over again. He had at last formulated a bittersweet answer to the
question of Blake. One that satisfied his conscience, if not his aching need.
So––right now––he could enjoy a few evenings and rest-days in Blake’s company.
Storing them up against a long, unending winter to come. 
***
Roj Blake whistled while he dressed. His roommate Parr eyed him suspiciously. 
"You're cheerful."
Blake shrugged, grinning at his reflection, taking a lot of time to pick out
his best clothes. "It's graduation, I'm allowed to be."
"You'rereally cheerful, even for graduation," Parr observed. 
"Date tonight," Blake said. "After the family party."
"Aren't you engaged or something?"
"Yes," Blake said, declining to expand on this. He liked Parr a lot, but he
hadn't even told his closest Freedom Party associates (Blake was still
involved, though far less publicly than he had been—he helped Mari plan actions
and the like) that his ‘fiancé’ and the boss he always went on about were the
same person. Someone had suggested it once, and Blake had denied it without
lying, laughed it off—"My boss has never asked me to marry him, no." Which
didn't change the fact that an understanding nonetheless existed between the
two of them.
"I'm not coming to your graduation," Avon had told Blake severely, a week ago.
"Good," Blake had said with a grin. "It'd only make you morose about the age
business, and we're finally getting to the end of that. Besides, my parents
will be there. I've spent six years never mentioning you to them, and it might
be awkward. My daddy would break your jaw, Mister Avon," Blake said, the tone
if not the played-up words a credible imitation of his fifteen-year-old self. 
Avon's eyes went huge and black. "Doctor," he corrected reflexively.
"Yes, sir. Mm, I'd forgotten you liked that."
"I—prefer my name."
"And I'll finally get a fitting venue to call you by your Christian—though the
circumstances will hopefully be decidedly un."
"You can't have everything."
"Want to bet?" Blake asked cheekily. "I'll be at yours at ten on the day, if
that's all right? I can't get away any earlier."
Avon nodded. "We'll talk then."
"'We'll talk then'," Blake mocked back. "Honestly. You'd better be prepared to
drown me in sentiment, during and after the consummation."
"I’m not a very sentimental person," Avon said. 
Blake looked at him for a moment, then started to laugh fairly hard.
"What?" Avon snapped. 
"Nothing," Blake assured him. "How is my framed photograph doing, by the way?
Keeping well, is it 'darling'?"
"I'm going," Avon said. "I've a meeting."
"No you don't, I know your schedule. Go and sulk. I'll see you at ten." Blake
kissed Avon’s cheek too swiftly for him to dodge.
***
Avon’s apartment was unlocked, which should have been his first clue.
When did he find the time? Blake thought absurdly, staring around at the empty
flat.
At 10:01 precisely, Blake’s datareader pinged with a note. Here we bloody go,
Blake thought, drawing it out of his coat pocket with a roll of his eyes and a
distinctly unimpressed expression. He hadn’t carefully chosen his best jacket
just to deal with Avon’s distancing bullshit. 
And there it was, the full-on, discreet ‘here’s how to finish the fraud without
me, instructions below, etcetera etcetera.’ Oh, that just figured. 
Right, then. Two options. Blake was devastated and panicked, but neither was
helpful at present. He was also angry, and angry he could work with.
He bothered the doorman about when Avon had left—the doorman recognized him and
just told him, when Blake half-charmed, half-bullied it out of him. Only an
hour ago. Good. Avon wouldn’t have done too good a job on this, because he
didn’t actually want it to work. Not with his full heart, anyway. You could
always tell when Avon was committed to a thing—it was water-tight. When he
didn’t think it was important, or it bored him, or he really thought it was a
bad idea, he got slack.
So: gone to the nearest spaceport or the nearest high-speed rail station.
Probably traveling to Hong Kong dome, at a guess, which he knew well and Blake
didn’t. Which he could thus easily disappear in.
The doorman thought Avon had crossed the street—no, actually he was sure of it,
because Avon had almost been hit by a transport (distracted, then—upset) and
had looked furious about it. 
Rail, then. Avon would have needed to cross over to that side to catch a
transport to the rail station.
Avon didn’t have permission for a relo, either, Blake thought as he hailed a
personal transport of his own—Blake would know if Avon had quit work through
official channels, which was probably why he hadn’t. Avon must’ve called in a
favor and arranged a high-level pull-out with people he’d worked for in Hong
Kong. They were important enough to smooth over a broken state contract, from
what Blake understood. (Just professionally, Blake thought it was ludicrous
that Avon was planning to leave with no handover period. He was a division
head––did he think no one would notice? And of courseAvon didn’t care that
everyone else would have to take up the slack—Blake loved Avon, but Avon could
be a selfish, thoughtless fuck.)
Blake scanned his datapad for transports from London Dome to Hong Kong—he
wouldn’t catch the express train in time, and Avon would take the express.
Blake checked his own account, temporarily fat with graduation-present money
(Avon was going to owe him). He changed the transporter’s destination to the
spaceport.
***
Avon emerged from the train terminus in Hong Kong and blinked at Blake, who was
waiting for him outside the gate. 
“Nín hǎo, Avon,” Blake said sarcastically.
“What,” Avon said intelligently.
“Did you know you can pay a shuttle pilot a frankly stupid amount of money to
take you somewhere else on-planet, and that it's much faster, even, than the
express?”
Avon blinked. “I did, actually—it was a plot point in a mystery novel.”
“Speaking of mysteries––”
“I explained the situation in full. You got my letter, I presume?”
“Oh,” Blake said darkly, “I got your letter, all right. Coward.”
Avon swallowed. “If you like. I—never could do it, in person.”
“Well, it was more of an insult to my intelligence than the in-flight magazine,
but I did read it. I even remember how it goes. Allow me to paraphrase. ‘Here's
the scheme, you won’t make yourself a necessary burden attendant on my
attaining my ambitions’—when did you write this, by the way, 1800? ‘The money
is going to automatically transfer to both of us, I needn’t oblige you by
accepting a relationship I don’t need or truly want to get it, you love me
dearly and tenderly and eternally’—thank you for finally saying it, though
frankly it’s not very much in evidence just now, Avon—‘and I should take that
and bury it and, I don’t know, date the next twenty-one year old I see.’ Which
of us is immature, again?”
Avon's jaw clenched. “Precisely. Go and find someone who doesn’t need to date
ten years below himself. Leave me alone.”
“I can’t. I haven’t got any money, for a start, and I’m not wiring my parents.
You. My father. Broken jaw. We’ve been through this. They’re headed out to the
colonies tomorrow, anyway." 
Avon looked bedraggled and wary, and his eyes were too big in his face, which
was held too firm, like he'd been pointedly not crying. Blake looked at him and
relented. "I'm sorry, you're not immature. I appreciate everything you've ever
done for me. I do. You're stupidly noble. You respected me and you waited for
me and this is, I very much hope, the last hurrah of your 'I'm not worthy'
shite."
He smiled tenderly at Avon, a touch amused. "Listen: I've never met you before
in my life. My name's Roj Blake. I have a decent engineering degree, dubious
career plans, and, thanks to a mysterious benefactor, quite good prospects. You
look like hell at present, but as though you'd clean up nicely. In fact, I
think you’re gorgeous. How would you like to go to bed with me? What are your
thoughts on running away together?"
Avon smiled at him, never quite able to resist Blake’s humor. “You’re a little
young for me, Roj Blake.”
“That’s quite shallow of you, Kerr Avon. If you were twenty one, or I were
thirty one, would you be able to think of a single decent reason why you and I
shouldn’t be in love?”
"There would be no problems if you were my age," Avon said wistfully. If that
were the case, he’d have no decent reasons. No indecent ones. All of him wanted
all of Blake. Even, especially, the difficult, exasperating bits—the
stubbornness and decency that saw Blake arguing with him in the Hong Kong
monorail terminus. "Supposing you would even be interested."
Blake laughed, tiredly. "You could make emotional problems for yourself if we
lived alone on a perfect paradise island supplied with infinite food and
freely-growing, lubricant-dispensing palm trees. You would find a way."
Blake sighed. Rubbed his face with his hands. "I'm angry and exhausted, you're
upset and not admitting it. Cancel the transfer order, call in sick tomorrow,
take me to whatever hotel you booked for the night and we'll just sleep. It's a
criminal waste of my best jacket, and you know damn well I had other plans, but
we'll sleep, and in the morning we'll make the most of your sick day. And then
we’ll go home. And we’ll see this through together, like we planned." 
"I'll put you up for the night—" Avon started. "It's a suite, there's a lounge.
I’ll take the couch. We can discuss this—"
"No." Blake said, looking up at him. Voice less certain than it usually was.
Even so, Blake was a man, now. He looked it. He acted it. Intelligence and
force and resourcefulness. Avon was struck with how adult he was, in this
moment.
"No more evasions,” Blake said with decision. “No more conversations where you
don't say yes and you don't say no. No favors. Look, I chased you all this way
because I am sure of you. But if I'm wrong, if you're never going to get over
this—if you never want to see me again, really, then give me what a slow-return
fare costs and I'll—let you alone. I’ll transfer out of Aquitar tomorrow—they’d
let me, after a graduation—and I’ll work somewhere else until this goes
through. I’ll won’t bother you, you’ll never hear from me. I'll try to do
something else with my life. Though I can't imagine what that should be, and I
don't want to, and god dammitAvon I need you to not be ashamed of this, you
break my heart. No—" he held up a hand to keep Avon where he was. "I'm not
crying to make a damn point, I just can't control it. Ignore it. Yes or no.
Pick one and mean it." 
Blake was offering never to speak to Avon again, if they parted now. He might
manage it, too. Blake was stubborn. As bad as him. Worse, perhaps. He would
hurt Blake so much in saying no and leaving, Avon could see that. Well. He'd
eviscerate himself––he had done.
"I'm probably never going to get over it," Avon said. Blake's eyes widened and
he stared at Avon like he'd been shot. "I've never been ashamed of you. I—"
Avon swallowed. "Yes."
Blake regarded him, his jaw trembling a little. Yes. "You mean that?"
"I said it, didn't I?" Avon said sharply. He stretched out a hand. It hung
stupidly between them. "Will you let me—?"
Blake nodded. "All right."
Avon moved closer and held Blake, which was a little unwieldy now that Blake
was ever so slightly taller than him. But he supposed he'd grow accustomed to
it. After being unable to touch Blake for so long, he suspected he’d find it
difficult to ever let him go.
"I hate crying," he murmured into the side of Blake's face.
"Because it's vulgar, I imagine," Blake said with a soft laugh.
Avon smiled wryly. "It isn’t when you do it. And I hate you crying for rather
less aesthetic reasons."
"Try not to make me, then."
"I suppose I will." It would be the work of his life, Avon knew. Blake might
have chosen an easier partner, less intrinsically sharp and awkward, less
likely to bring him to this pass and others like it. But Blake seldom did
anything the easy way. And neither did Avon. Fierce joy pulled through Avon
like circulating blood. At last.
"How much was the shuttle?" Avon asked. Blake told him. Avon swore feelingly.  
***
"By the by," Blake said three months later, "you might want to take a look at
this."
Their private shuttle had just lifted off from a frontier world en route to the
more remote planet they were building their secure compound on. They'd paid for
the shuttle in cash, and hired a pilot strongly recommended by the
rebels—foundational works had already begun on their facilities.
"Hm?" Avon accepted a datacard and pushed it into his reader. Studied it for a
moment. "Blake," he said slowly and distinctly, sitting up in his chair, "what
am I looking at?"
"Rather a lot of classified information from various departments of Aquitar,"
Blake said complacently. "Normally, for security reasons, they're very good
about keeping divisions from talking to one another much—"
"I know."
"Which is of course part of the reason they're getting nowhere fast—"
"I know."
"But they seem to assume the Apprentices won't have the intelligence or
inclination to smuggle data around. Apprentices travel comparatively freely,
and people don’t bother much about their security permissions, signing them in
and out at different terminals to do this or that unpleasant task. I stayed at
Aquitar longer than an Apprentice is supposed to stay on any one project. And
you did, with some reluctance, lend me out to other departments at times. Over
the years I made friends, kept abreast, gossiped. And I kept the information I
handled. It was interesting, and I knew I'd only get a slap on the wrist if
they found me out. It would have looked like a child's careless mistake.
Besides, I did it in drips and drabs. I suspected it might be politically
useful, or that you'd like it as a present. Or a sort of dowry, if you like.”
Blake tapped the exposed lip of the datacard with a finger. “With this data and
help from the experts in the think-tank you’re building, perhaps we can work it
out."
"Blake," Avon said, turning his head and staring at him in wonder, "Blake, I
love you."
"You can do better than that, Avon," Blake chided. "That's top-of-the-line
technology, industrial espionage of the highest order—you're holding what, the
equivalent of a hundred million credits’ worth of data? That’s as much as we
stole, over again. Oh, don't worry, I’ve made a back-up. See how much you've
taught me?” Blake shook his head. “I'd never have thought to steal it, if not
for your bad influence." 
Avon laughed the nicest laugh Blake had ever heard out of him. "Roj Blake you
scheming, manipulative, handsome, incredible bastard, I love you to pieces,
pieces reassembled in perfect molecular order at the point-of-destination. Come
and sit on my lap and let me adore you." 
"Wellnow," Blake drawled, mocking Avon's customary tone and expression, "all
right. If you insist."
End Notes
     beta'd by Aralias, first reader Elviaprose
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