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With consciousness, came the pain. And the shame and the rage, but first, the pain. His jaw hurt. His wrists hurt. His... everything hurt. And he felt so fucking weak.
Ges had slipped him something, Aral was immediately certain. Because Ges could leave him black and blue and bleeding but only when Aral chose not to stop him. Well, when Aral was falling down drunk, Ges could do as he wished. But otherwise he just wasn’t as strong, or as wily and wicked a fighter, as Aral. Ges was lazy to boot; if it was too much effort, if Aral was determined to deny him whatever he wanted, in bed or out of it, then Ges let it go. For the time being. He knew sooner or later Aral would be back, for the sex, the pain, the humiliation, or any combination of the three, and Ges would be happy to supply.
But last night, Aral had been in need of oblivion, not sex and violence. He'd just wanted to lie quietly next to Ges and get very, very drunk. He'd been prepared to enforce that wish, and was not particularly inebriated yet, when he'd found himself underneath his lover, unable to push him off. First his aim felt off, then his limbs went weak, and soon they simply did not respond to his will. So Ges was easily able to hold him down, ignoring Aral cursing and shouting in his face. Ges took his pleasure, all the while whispering degradations into Aral's ears as if reciting love poetry.
"Just look at you, Lord Vorkosigan. Such a little whore, aren’t you. My whore. Ready for me anytime, anywhere. You said so yourself. I know what you need. I know why you’re here." And truthfully, Aral never had said no, not once, not even last night.
Aral had eventually stopped trying to struggle. Stopped cursing. Just shut up and allowed it. Because Ges was right after all, wasn’t he? It was why he came to Ges so often. To be used. Made cheap. Humiliated. Punished. As he deserved. He was not the proper son. He had definitely not been the proper husband. He most certainly was not the proper Vor man. He was a murderer and a sodomite and all the other things his father said he was. So, what the hell, he had no right to say no. Not to Ges.
But Aral was awake, now, and while his head was muddled and his body throbbing, and he was still uncertain whether he'd really wanted that or not, he was suddenly enraged. And he wasn't above teaching Ges a little lesson right back. He disentangled himself carefully from the other man's body. Their clothing was scattered about - he didn't recall that part of the evening somehow. Aral still hadn't replaced his service sidearm, even all these years later. But he found his service knife readily enough, still in the scabbard attached to his boot. He grabbed it, climbed back onto the bed, straddled Ges and launched a backhand to Ges' jaw.
Ges woke with a exclamation of pain and shock. Seeing Aral astride him, still naked, he had recovered quickly and assayed a lascivious grin. "Why, good morning, Aral." He stopped with a gasp when Aral slipped the blade tip under the curve of Ges' perfectly formed chin.
"Don't ever do that again, you faggot," Aral intoned in a harsh whisper. "Or I'll peel your face off to match you sister's."
Ges immediately began to apologize with such sincerity and sweetness in his protestations of innocence that Aral's anger quickly turned to doubt. Hadn’t they talked about trying that drug? Ges wheedled. Hadn’t Aral told him all about those fantasies? Doesn’t Aral know by now that Ges understands exactly what he needs?
And whether it is because of his shame or pure instinctive denial – or perhaps because Ges was just that persuasive – Aral let himself be convinced: of course they had talked about it. Of course he’d asked for it. Of course he’d wanted it.
Of course. How could it be any other way?
********
The next time was worse, so much worse, because this time Aral knew. He could not deny the fact that Ges didn’t ask, hadn't consulted; there was no grey area, in the way of so many of their encounters over the years. Ges wanted Aral to know what was happening to him.
It started as an argument when Aral had said no to some grand scene of Ges’ devising. Aral was starting to get sick of himself. Sick of Ges. Sick unto death. Some nights, Aral felt he might be reaching his limit and was searching for the strength to break away, end it. He should have known Ges was likewise beginning to feel desperate to keep Aral under his thumb.
The argument was ugly and petty but nothing out of the ordinary. Aral didn't think anything of it when Ges backed down - the man could be lazy about arguing, too. Aral thought nothing of the soft words and tender caresses - that was how Ges had been, in the beginning - Aral was almost overwhelmed with happiness to see that side of his lover again. He thought even less of taking the glass presented to him in placation.
He should have been on guard, known better, thought more.
But Aral, sprawled on the sofa in Ges' flat, was trying hard not to think much about anything, until he started to feel the now familiar weakness.
"You son of a bitch! I told you not to fucking do this again!" He tried to stand, tried to get his knife or his hands to Ges' throat before his body betrayed him, but it was already too late and he fell at Ges' feet.
The restraints weren't necessary but Ges used them anyway, trussing him up right there on the carpet, not even bothering to try to get him onto the bed. Then he sat on Aral's back, laid Aral's own knife almost gently against the side of his throat.
"You still believe you are so much better than me, don't you, dear Aral?" Ges hissed in his ear. "No matter how many times I've shown you what you really are. You know I love that stiff neck of yours, but I think I've indulged your petty ego way too long. You are my little bitch, boy, and it's about time you learned that once and for all."
Ges took the blade away from Aral's throat, rolled him onto his back, and began to cut away his ship knits, none too carefully. "Too bad you aren't in that precious uniform of yours. That would be fun. Perhaps another time."
Aral began to curse him, creatively, in all four Barrayaran languages.
"Such a mouth on you, Aral!" Ges purred, warming to his task. "Maybe I should shut you up first." Ges slapped him across the face and forced the hilt of the dagger into the side of his mouth. "Don't dare bite, you bastard,” he growled, unbuttoning his trousers.
When he’d finished, he pushed Aral flat on his stomach, sat once again astride Aral’s back. He took his service plasma arc from its holster and put it against Aral's forehead. "I could blow your face off, make it look like a suicide, just like my sister," he said in a voice too calm for sanity.
And that was when Aral went bone-deep cold with fear. Because those words sounded horribly like a confession. A confession to a murder that was supposed to have been a suicide. A murder Aral had been partially convinced was his father's way of ridding Aral of his faithless wife, of Piotr's own disgrace in having made the match. Once Aral had surfaced from that initial grief and despair, and had been able to think about it a while, he'd been nearly certain of it. That had made taking up his various rebellions, Ges included, so easy.
But if it had been Ges who'd taken her life - and his words had an ugly ring of bald fact to Aral's ear - if he could do that to his beloved sister, he could do it to Aral, too. And Aral was deeply afraid he would, if Aral pushed.
It wasn’t the idea of dying per se that terrified him. He’d faced death enough in the mountains of his childhood, in the home of his own family, in the deep darkness of the Nexus to have come to peace with a soldier’s mortality. No, it was the fear of dying badly that gripped him. A wasted death. A death that would prove his father right and undo what little service he had rendered to his home world.
He must get out of this. Somehow. Must live to redeem the small portion of honor of which he was still possessed.
So he endured. Bit down on the terror. Shoved it aside. Went to a place in his head where he could not feel what was done. Could not hear what was said. Just had to breathe and live. He thought of the mountains. He thought of sailing. He counted his breaths and thought of nothing.
But then Ges was saying something that caught Aral's attention. "...Little Padma, eh?" Aral was shocked almost all the way back to awareness by the fact Ges was talking about his cousin, the last remaining relative of his own generation, the grandsons of Prince Xav. His little brother in all the ways that matter. "He's almost 15 now, isn't he?” Ges continued. "About the age we were when we first met." Ges went on like that for some time, his soft voice full of horrors that could be inflicted on a child.
Aral had talked a great deal of his love for his cousin in those earlier, softer days, when Ges was an actual source of comfort, if somewhat spikey at times. He hadn't known he was handing Ges a weapon, a handle on Aral, to be wielded in the later, harder times. Aral had ceased all mention of the boy some while ago, when he'd realized, when he'd started to see what Ges actually was, even if he still needed what Ges had to offer. He should have known Ges never forgot an angle. Not one.
And Ges may have been lazy, but he was also abnormally patient.
Aral felt the grip of terror once again. But only for a moment. Don't be in such a hurry to give yourself to the enemy, boy! the echo of the General his Father's voice in his head. So he pushed away the terror again. This is not a useful emotion right now, he thought. Nor is this white hot rage. Eat them both for now. I must get out of this. I must live.
Because Ges, all unknowing, had handed Aral a gift, the very key to his release he'd been looking for: a reminder that there was someone else who mattered to him. To whom he mattered. Little Padma. Not so little now of course. Last time he'd seen his cousin, Padma was taller than Aral by a few centimeters. And angrier than Aral had remembered.
Yes, he had to get back to Padma, to protect him. Had to turn the rolling disaster of his life around. Needed to find a way to make it all worth something. Make himself of service again.
Finally Ges seemed to realize he wasn't reaching Aral. He grew bored and frustrated and eventually too tired and drunk himself to continue. He left Aral on the floor, crawled up into his bed, and fell into sleep.
********
Aral didn't know how long he laid there, waiting for the weakness to subside, for the darkness to recede. Eventually the dawn arrived and the strength flowed ever so slowly back into his hands. It was surprisingly easy to release himself from the restraints. Ye gods! but Ges was a lazy man, even in this. Ges was snoring softly on the bed and did not so much as twitch while Aral tied him to the bedframe, much more efficiently and effectively. Ges would need someone else to release him.
Aral wanted so badly to kill Ges. Wake him and then strangle him, watching the life ebb out of his eyes. Or peel his face off, as Aral had threatened previously. But Aral knew he couldn't. Killing in the heat was one thing. Killing in cold blood - okay, his very, very hot blood just now but still... Regardless, he could not. His mind was clear enough to make that calculation. The suicide - or 'suicide' - of a faithless high Vor wife, that was one thing. The death of her brother, second son of Count Vorrutyer - himself a man who'd already shown his willingness to raise his banner against a sitting Emperor - that could not be made to disappear. It would lead to disaster, for Aral personally and the planet as a whole. He had lived through one civil war. He had no wish to revisit it.
So Ges got to live. Aral would have to be satisfied with hoping there would be retribution for him one day.
Aral emptied his stash of spare clothing. The Count his Father would forbid him Vorkosigan House from time to time so Aral always kept a few things at Ges' for such exigencies. He took the time to shower, depilate, dress, painfully and slowly. He picked up Ges' service side arm, clicked the safety back on and slipped it into the back pocket of his uniform trousers. He left the knife where it lay. Then he slipped out the rear door of the flat into the small back garden, jumped the fence, and began to walk.
He walked for hours after that. He couldn't go home. Obviously. But he had nowhere else to go. At least not right away. He was going to miss his shift but making up the demerits wouldn't cost him much effort. A worry for later.
Eventually he found himself at the front door of Vorpatril House. Technically, Prince Xav had left Padma's guardianship to Aral when he'd died not long after Aral's arranged marriage. Aral had decided Count Vorpatril's was a safer, more appropriate roof under which Padma could reach his majority. The Count would never, could never, turn Aral away, no matter what shape Lord Vorkosigan was in when he showed up asking after the boy. That morning was no different.
However, the Count sent an Armsman to bandage up the more obvious wounds that Aral hadn't bothered to back at Ges'. He further insisted on Aral eating breakfast and drinking a liter of water before he would let the boy come to him in one of the more intimate receiving rooms of the Residence.
Padma was on fire with rage when he entered, though working hard not to show it. He had grown yet another inch, Aral noted. Aral sat still, waited for the boy to come to him. Eventually Padma registered the patch job, rushed to him with sincere and unabashed concern.
"Your uncle made sure I was attended to, boy," Aral assured him. Though he didn't try too hard to stem the tide of anxious words and caring gestures. It was far more comfortable than watching Padma try to keep an impassive face despite his seething fury. A very long hour went by while the boy ran down from anger, through worry, and back around to anger again.
"Fuck Ges Vorrytyer!" Padma hissed, belatedly handing Aral a pair of analgesic tablets.
"Too late," Aral replied, expressionlessly.
Padma huffed a humorless laugh. "Not funny, Aral."
"I know," Aral said, remorsefully. "I'm sorry."
They sat in silence for some time.
"This," Aral said, waving his hand vaguely over his own body, "will not happen again, I swear to you. We... broke up."
Padma sighed in deepest relief.
"Thank God."
Padma had circled back around to worried.
Aral put a hand on Padma's shoulder, trying to reassure him that he had it all under control now. Nothing to worry about here. Padma was completely unconvinced but allowed himself to be placated because Aral was clearly set on Being Seen to Be Okay.
"Padma, I have not done right by you, these pass few years," Aral said, matter of factly. "I aim to make it up to you. And to my own honor. No more drinking. No more wild nights. No more Ges."
"About time," Padma whispered, teary eyed. "Don't leave me again, Aral. Please. We grandsons of the Prince need to stick together."
"From here 'til the end, Padma," Aral intoned sincerely. "My word as Vorkosigan."