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Thirty-two days.
Gregor frowned at the calendar in his personal organizer. He tapped the screen with his stylus to move forward and then back again, counting the days individually just to be sure he hadn't made an error in his calculations. He hadn't.
"Sire?"
He glanced up. Henri Vorvolk, seated across from him, gave him a somewhat disconcerted smile. "Ah - sorry," Gregor said. "I was distracted there for a moment. What was I doing?"
"Setting a time for the next budget committee meeting," Henri said, the smile morphing into a slight frown.
"Right." Gregor shook his head. "Sorry. Er . . . a week from tomorrow. 1400?"
Henri nodded and noted it in his own organizer. Gregor did the same - it would be passed automatically to his secretary, who kept the official schedule. Gregor frowned down at the date in the upper left hand corner of the small screen. He tried to remember if there had been any time since then that he'd simply forgotten, but no, the last time had been after Vasha's birthday ball. Thirty-two days ago.
"Sire?" Henri was frowning at him again. "Is everything all right?"
Gregor glanced up. "Oh - yes, of course."
"Because you're glaring at your calendar. Has it offended you in some way?"
A rare joke from Henri. Gregor decided he must really be making the poor man nervous. He managed a chuckle. "No, no, it's just . . ." Gregor leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. Did men talk about this sort of thing with each other? Especially when one man was with woman and the other man was very much not. Gregor pinched the bridge of his nose. "Henri, you've been married longer than I have."
"Yes, Sire," Henri agreed tentatively.
"Is it normal - that is, I've heard that sometimes things get rather - with children, you know, I think it can be hard to - dammit."
Henri now appeared thoroughly alarmed. "Sire?"
"Dry spells," Gregor said, looking away. "In a marriage."
"Dry sp - oh."
"Yes."
"Er. Oh. Well, Tatya and I - that is, if there is some, er, discord -"
Gregor shook his head. "No, no. We're fine." At least he certainly hoped so. "I suppose we've both just been rather tired recently." More than tired, really. Miles was running himself ragged planning for the United Galactic Alliance summit that would take place on Komarr in a month's time, and Gregor was in the middle of fiscal planning season, which he suspected might work as an aphrodisiac for Henri, but did very little for his own libido.
Still. Thirty-two days, and that hadn't even been proper sex, just some rather tipsy fumbling once they'd collapsed into bed at the end of a very long evening. The last time they'd actually taken a few hours and paid attention to each other was . . .
He couldn't remember.
"Being tired might explain it," Henri said, appearing relieved. "And you were a bit under the weather last week, weren't you?"
Gregor nodded, grimacing. "A bit under the weather" was an understatement. The boys had picked up a nasty stomach virus somewhere, one of several new strains that resisted antivirals, and passed it along to him. Vasha and Aral had both gotten over it within twenty-six hours, but Gregor had spent three days either in bed or in the bathroom, unable to keep anything down, living off tea and whatever supplements his physician had injected him with to prevent him from getting dehydrated.
Miles had been as sweetly attentive and worried as Gregor could have wished, but it had been the exact opposite of romantic. He dimly remembered Miles even making a joke to that effect at one point, while sitting on the edge of their bathtub and watching Gregor throw up everything he'd eaten that week. "And they say romance is dead," he'd said, smoothing Gregor's hair back from his face.
Gregor thought he'd probably moaned something in reply about wishing he were dead - he'd had quite a high fever at the time and didn't really remember. Miles had only meant it as an off-hand remark, Gregor knew, but just now it felt uncomfortably apt.
"Sire?" Henri said.
"Oh, yes," Gregor said with a sigh. "It's all right, Henri, I'm sure. I just - I'll see you next week, if not before."
Henri's relief was palpable as he made his escape. Gregor sighed to himself. He had a three hour stretch now with no meetings, though he certainly wasn't lacking in work; he shouldn't let this distract him.
Thirty-two days was a long time. How hadn't he noticed?
"You were busy," he muttered to himself, shuffling papers about on his desk. "Miles was busy. The boys were ill. You were ill. It doesn't mean anything."
But what if it does? a voice in the back of Gregor's head said. You used to be the romantic in the relationship.
He supposed he had been. Love letters, surprise excursions to the symphony - usually not flowers, because so many of them made Miles sneeze. Dinners in the glassed-in balcony, so significant for them both. He couldn't remember the last time he'd arranged something like that - they had the boys to think of, and taking time for just the two of them felt selfish when they had so little to spend together as a family. They'd always made time at the end of the day before, after the boys were in bed, but apparently that wasn't enough.
Gregor spent the next twenty minutes staring at a report on agricultural subsidies on the South Continent. He was aware that something was going on in the back of his brain but not sure what. He underlined random lines in the report and made notes in the margins, but it wasn't until he was about to flip to the next flimsy that he realized he'd written one word across the bottom of the report: BONSANKLAR.
He stared at it. Then he smiled and reached for the comlink to his secretary.
"Seating arrangements," Miles grumbled, settling himself in the air car. "Ask me how long it took us to decide on seating arrangements this week."
Gregor settled in across from him, belted himself in, and gave a contemplative sigh. Two weeks left till the summit; that meant they were down to the minutiae. Minutiae gave Miles headaches. "Let's see. Twelve planetary delegations, each consisting of three delegates of varying ranks, plus the nine members of the UGA Council - eight hours?"
Miles glared. "Eight and a half."
"Ah."
Miles twisted to look out the window as they lifted off, flying below but much faster than the usual air traffic, flanked by two other aircars filled with agents and armsmen. "Where are we going again?"
"Dinner with a few of the progressive counts."
"In another district?"
"René couldn't get away."
Miles looked back at him. "O-kay." Gregor shrugged. Miles crossed his arms over his chest and gave him a long, even stare. Then he put his feet up on the seat across from him, just beside Gregor. "Gregor."
"Yes?"
"You do realize what a lame excuse that is, don't you?"
Gregor turned his palms out in a sort of shrug. "I was really counting on your distraction to get you into the car without questioning me."
"Huh."
"It seems to have worked."
"Yeah. You going to tell me where we're going now?"
Gregor considered this. Then he shook his head. "No."
Miles's feet came down with a thump. "Um."
"You'll figure it out soon enough."
"Or I could ask the driver."
"You could," Gregor said, flipping open his handviewer, "but where's the fun in that?" He inserted the book disc he'd brought with him - poetry, not work. No work for the next two days, for him or for -
"Hey, have you seen my book disc on post-war Escobaran-Betan relations?"
"I imagine the armsmen have put it neatly on your bedside table in the Residence by now," Gregor said without looking up.
There was a pause. Gregor read the same line four times, waiting for it. "And who took it out of my handviewer to begin with?" Miles asked at last, very mildly.
"Me."
"Gregor -"
"I think you'll see that I replaced it with Gerard Romanov's latest novel," he added, "which I know you've been wanting to read."
More silence. Gregor scrolled down his handviewer without reading. Another two weeks without sex, and it wasn't that Gregor hadn't tried; they were both simply too tired at the end of the day, and even if they weren't, one of them was usually asleep by the time the other came in. Their schedules were all out of sync, he'd realized. One of several things he wanted to talk about this weekend. In between other activities, of course.
"Gregor," Miles said at last.
"Mmm?"
"Is this a vacation?"
Gregor did look up then. He smiled. "Yes. Well," he amended, "more a break than a vacation. Two days were all I could manage."
"And our children?"
Gregor raised an eyebrow. "With your parents at the long lake. They probably won't even notice we're gone."
"Hmph," was all Miles said, but Gregor knew him well enough to read that as a concession. He scrolled back to the beginning of his book disc and actually tried to read the first poem. It was rather older than what he usually read, but some of his favorite Escobaran poets had been heavily influenced by Neruda. I love the handful of earth you are / Because of its meadows, vast as a planet, / I have no other star. He did so love the sonnet form; ancient, not unchanging, not inflexible, but perfect in its fourteen lines, in its polite, well-turned couplets. He'd never quite got the hang of it himself, at least not enough to show his efforts to anyone but Miles, who had no taste in poetry but was beautiful when he blushed. He loved it, though, when other people did it well, and Neruda certainly did.
Nearly five minutes of silence went by this time. Gregor had decided that Miles would probably need at least the trip down to Bonsanklar to get used to the idea of a break; he'd been working too hard to make that shift instantly and easily. He was confident he could override any protest, however vehement, so he was pleasantly surprised when Miles's next question was simply, "Why now?"
He looked up. "I thought it was probably a good time for it."
"With the summit two weeks away?" Miles shook his head. "Afterwards, maybe. But now?"
"I thought we might take the boys and go to your parents' afterwards. I wanted you to myself for a few days."
Miles frowned. "Why?"
Gregor finally set the handviewer aside altogether. "When was the last time we had sex, Miles?"
Miles looked entirely thrown by this. "It was - um. Vasha's birthday, wasn't it?"
"Yes. And when was that?"
Miles gave him a funny look, like he thought Gregor had lost his mind, started to speak, and then stopped. He counted on his hands briefly and looked up, eyes widening. "Six weeks?"
"Six and a half," Gregor corrected.
"We haven't had sex in six weeks? And I didn't notice?" Miles blinked. "When did you notice?"
"Two weeks ago."
"Why didn't you say something?"
Gregor shrugged. "I thought this would be nicer. If I'd just said something, well, we probably would have done something about it sooner, but I thought the time away might be good for us. There were reasons we didn't notice. Things kept getting in the way, and I thought it would be best to . . . remove them. Or us, rather."
Miles blinked again. "Oh." He sat back, with a faintly comical, rather bemused expression. "Er, you said Romanov's new book was in here?"
"Yes."
"All right. I'm, er, gonna read for a bit."
Gregor nodded, smiled to himself, and picked up his handviewer again, and reread the first poem, the one that had made the hair on the back of his neck stand up: You are my replica / of the multiplying universe. He shivered, raising his head to look at Miles, whose dark head, just beginning to be peppered with gray, was bent over his own handviewer.
Gregor licked his lips, which were suddenly dry. They still had two hours to Bonsanklar and he knew he needed to let Miles unwind, but the temptation to lean across and draw Miles to him with a hand on the back of his neck, pull him in for the sort of all-consuming kiss they hadn't shared in six weeks, was overwhelming. There was enough room back here and they'd certainly scandalized their driver before. He'd probably just smirk.
I have no other star. Gregor drew a deep, somewhat shaky breath, and scrolled to the next poem. The first was just a little too provocative at the moment.
It was not quite the right time of year for a trip to Bonsanklar, which lay southwest of Vorbarr Sultana on the rocky coastline of the North Continent. Miles twigged to where they were going about thirty minutes out, when their driver swept them over the coastline and they turned south. His mouth formed a perfect oh, and he turned to grin briefly at Gregor before peering out the window again. It would be a bit blustery; Gregor had checked the forecast that morning and it had said it might even storm. He didn't have the slightest problem with that. Hiking wasn't on the agenda this time around, and a spring storm with a bit of thunder and rain suited his purposes just fine.
The house was one of several properties that were his - as the Emperor he wasn't technically supposed to own anything, but as Count Vorbarra he had a number of holdings. One of them was this house, given to his grandfather Ezar by the local count some sixty-odd years ago now. He'd only been here a handful of times, since he and Miles both preferred the comfortable familiarity of the house at the long lake. The last time they'd come had been nearly ten years ago, back when they'd still been a secret. They had come a bit later in the season then, after the weather had grown warm enough for swimming and hiking, and stayed for an entire week. It had been the first real vacation Gregor had had in years, and it had been wonderful. He'd wanted to go back to that now, even if only for a few days.
The house had changed a bit. The caretakers took their job seriously, and Gregor remembered approving funds for the most noticeable change about two years ago - a porch with a screen that faced out toward the ocean, which was mostly gray today, with a few bright patches where the intermittent sun hit it. He'd thought at the time that it would be a very nice addition and perhaps they might get down there more often, but it hadn't happened.
He paused in climbing the stairs to the porch and took a deep lungful of fresh salt air. Vorbarr Sultana's air had really gotten much cleaner in the last five years, since they'd passed more stringent regulations on emissions standards for aircars and lightflyers, but it was nothing like this. He felt a low-grade headache he'd not even been aware of dissipate, and paused to rub the back of his neck in bemusement before following Miles into the house.
The interior was just as he remembered it - soft, natural light, beautifully carved furniture, fireplace, high ceilings. It was a little impersonal, he supposed, but also elegant and restful. A bit like a seaside inn where they were the only clients. Gregor sighed quietly. This had been just the thing.
"Sire," one of the armsmen said, "when would you like us to serve dinner?"
Gregor checked his chrono. It was already rather getting on towards evening - past 1700 - and the sun would be setting soon. "In two hours, let's say," he said. "On the porch, if possible."
"Yes, Sire," the armsman said, and bowed himself away discreetly. Gregor looked after him for a moment, bemused, and wondered if the armsmen gossiped among themselves about him and Miles. It wasn't something he liked to think about, but they probably knew exactly how long it had been for the two of them, not to mention what they'd come here to do.
Gregor considered this and decided he didn't care.
Miles was in the bathroom of their suite, divesting himself of his cufflinks. He'd already discarded his shoes - Gregor narrowly missed spoiling everything by tripping over them and breaking his neck - and belt. Gregor leaned in the doorway and watched him. Miles glanced up and caught his eyes in the mirror. "What?" he said, flushing.
"Your wide eyes are the only light I know," Gregor said quietly, "from extinguished constellations."
The flush deepened. "What's that from?"
Gregor shrugged. "Something I was reading on the way up here."
Miles turned to face him directly. "You going to be reciting poetry at me all evening?"
"If you like."
Miles surveyed him, the corners of his lips quirking up into something awfully close to a smirk. "Maybe later."
"We have two hours till dinner."
"I see. Whatever shall we do?" Miles asked with a faux-innocent raise of his eyebrows. He squeezed past Gregor and went to sit on the bed. Gregor joined him, loosening his own collar and cuffs, and then bending to remove his shoes.
"Six weeks," Miles muttered. "I'm vaguely afraid I might've forgotten how to do this."
"I'm not," Gregor said, and kissed him. It was the sort of kiss he'd longed for in the aircar, breathless and a bit messy. It made his pulse race and his head spin; it would have reminded him of being a teenager, he suspected, except he'd never once felt like this as a teenager. He'd never felt like this until much later, when Miles was his and they suddenly couldn't get enough of each other. Six days would have been unthinkable back then.
Miles made a low, plaintive sound in his throat, and their fingers were suddenly scrabbling at the buttons of each other's shirts. Miles's hands were increasingly impatient, finally ripping the last three apart in a way that would make Gregor's tailor scowl. Gregor felt much the same impulse, but forced himself to slowness. It had been six weeks and they had plenty of time; dinner would keep if it had to. Miles wore an undershirt beneath, and Gregor caressed him through it, soft warmth against his fingertips. Miles made that noise again and bit his lower lip. Gregor felt an echoing throb somewhere else entirely, and with that, the last of his patience fled and he decided they were both wearing far too many clothes. He made quick work of the rest of the buttons on Miles's dress shirt, pushed it off his shoulders, and dropped it in an unceremonious heap by the side of the bed. Miles's hands went for his belt and trousers.
The most obstructive articles of clothing having been dealt with, they fell back on the bed - or, rather, Miles shoved Gregor flat on his back and sat on him, smirking. Miles's hair was mussed and there was already a small mark showing on his collar - below where his clothes would usually cover it, but noticeable just now, with him clad only in his undershirt and boxers. Gregor felt his breath and his pulse quicken, and he reached, stroking his hands down Miles's sides. "God, I missed this," he murmured.
"Me too," Miles said, appearing momentarily bemused. "Even though I managed not to realize it."
"S'okay," Gregor said, and gasped as Miles moved, "it - happens."
"Not anymore," Miles said, and bent so his lips hovered just over Gregor's. "Not anymore, all right?"
"'Kay," Gregor managed, and then Miles was kissing him and working his boxers off at the same time. Gregor plucked at his shirt until Miles finally stopped kissing him long enough to pull it over his head. He took care of his own undershirt while Miles stripped off his boxers and then, then, it was exactly right, and he knew he'd been right to be patient, because this they could not have had in the aircar, this hot, almost feverish slide of skin against skin. Your skin throbs like the streak / of a meteor through rain. God, yes.
Gregor didn't realize he'd said it aloud until Miles raised his head from his journey down Gregor's body and said, "What?"
He felt himself flush. Then he repeated it and was gratified to see Miles's eyes darken. "Sounds like an interesting poem."
"Mmm."
"Tell me the rest of it."
Gregor closed his eyes, remembering. Then he tugged at Miles until he joined him at the head of the bed, resting his head on Gregor's shoulder. There was a fine sheen of sweat on his upper lip. Gregor kissed it. "Your hips were that much of the moon for me," he murmured, nudging Miles until he rolled onto his back. Gregor followed, straddling him, and it was Miles's turn to gasp. "Your deep mouth and its delights," he leaned forward and traced Miles's lips with the tip of his tongue before backing off to murmur, "that much sun. And your heart." He rested his head just over Miles's heart, closing his eyes, and could not help but remember another time he had done this, years ago now, in a moment of great fear. He had rested here, just like this, and contemplated with exquisite terror what it would be like to lose Miles forever. Again.
He very carefully did not do so now.
"And your heart," he repeated softly, "fiery with its long red rays, was that much ardent light, like honey in the shade."
Miles's hand curled in his hair. "Gregor . . ."
"So I pass across your burning form," Gregor murmured across Miles's collarbone and down, down, knowing that Miles couldn't feel much, not with all the scar tissue there, but wanting to kiss it anyway, like a benediction, "kissing you." He raised his head, meeting Miles's eyes for a long moment. "Compact and planetary," he finished at last, voice shaking, "my dove, my globe."
"Oh," Miles breathed. Gregor bent his head once more. "Ohhh . . ."
In the end, dinner was delayed enough that they missed the sunset. Somehow, Gregor didn't think Miles minded all that much. He certainly didn't. He had the armsmen light candles in tall, clear glasses, so that the wind off the sea wouldn't blow them out. They ate listening to the crash of the waves on the rocks; their fingers twined together on the edge of the table.
After the armsmen had cleared the table, Gregor went inside and retrieved sweaters for them both. He came back out to the porch to find Miles sprawled in one of the chaise lounges, bare foot hooked over the side and swinging. Gregor handed him his sweater and pulled his own on over his head. Then he nudged Miles over and joined him in the chair, curling around him. He kissed Miles's neck, just below his ear. "I love you," he whispered.
Miles found his hand and twined their fingers together. "Love you, too," he sighed. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"All of this," Miles said, rolling over on his back to look up at him and gesturing to encompass and the house, the sea, and Gregor himself. "If it'd been up to me - well, I think we can all be thankful it wasn't up to me."
Gregor shook his head. "I think things would have gotten better on their own after the summit."
"Yeah, but the summit's two weeks from now. That'd have been two months, Gregor! Longer!"
Gregor laughed and kissed him lightly. "Your horror at the thought is reassurance enough."
"Hmm," Miles said, but appeared somewhat mollified. He turned his face into Gregor's chest and sighed. Gregor lay his head back and closed his eyes. Beyond the porch was the sea and the beach, beautiful, dark emptiness, and they were an island of light in the center, at the heart. The armsmen were close by, of course, and somewhere out there their agents were walking the perimeter, but Gregor could pretend otherwise, for a moment at least.
"Miles," he said, "I'm going to suggest something. And if you think I'm absolutely insane for even broaching the idea, I want you to say so."
Miles looked up at him, eyebrows raise. "That's usually my line, but okay."
Gregor took a deep breath. "Do you remember how, before the boys were born, we used to talk about having a daughter eventually, as well?" Miles nodded, brow furrowing. "I'd like to do that now, if you would. Before too much time passes - she'll already be considerably younger than Vasha, and -"
"Yes," Miles said quietly.
"Yes?" Gregor repeated, blinking. He'd expected a lot more discussion. They were here, after all, because they'd barely had time to breathe in the last six weeks, and here he was suggesting they go and have a baby. Hell, he thought it was an insane notion.
Miles nodded. "You're right. If we're going to have her, it should be now." He grimaced. "Before Vasha hits his teens and I forget why I ever wanted to procreate at all."
"But," Gregor stopped. "We're not too tired?"
Miles laughed. "Probably. But do you really think we'll be less tired in a year or two?"
"Ah. Good point."
"Anyway," Miles shrugged, "I want to meet her."
Gregor nodded. "Me too."
"Good, then," Miles said, as though that settled everything, and Gregor supposed it did, at that. He tightened his hold around Miles. Astonishing that it could be that simple.
I have no other star.
Fin.
Pablo Neruda, trans. Stephen Tapscott
from One Hundred Love Sonnets
Sonnet XVI
I love the handful of the earth you are.
Because of its meadows, vast as a planet,
I have no other star. You are my replica
of the multiplying universe.
Your wide eyes are the only light I know
from extinguished constellations;
your skin throbs like the streak
of a meteor through rain.
Your hips were that much of the moon for me;
your deep mouth and its delights, that much sun;
your heart, fiery with its long red rays,
was that much ardent light, like honey in the shade.
So I pass across your burning form, kissing
you--compact and planetary, my dove, my globe.