Arc 9 | Chapter 337: I Promise Not to Get Handsy

“Olivier clearly has no idea how to soothe someone,”

was the first thought Emilia had as she was pulled from her nightmare—from her past and future; future?—by the man’s near-frantic calls. It wasn’t that he was doing a terrible job of calling to her, one of his hands a grounding force in her hair while the other had laced through her own.

There was no good way to deal with someone coming out of a nightmare you knew none of the details of—Emilia had helped Simeon through a few, when dreams of his parents forcing him into dresses and makeup tore at his soul, dragging him into a shell where he couldn’t even try to explain what memories were tormenting him until months later. Luckily for Olivier, she had already known he was there, sitting on the bed next to her. Had she woken in the panic she so often did on the increasingly rare occasions she dreamed of that night, she might have lashed out at him.

A hand in her hair, biting into her scalp while Warren held her still. Sometimes, Emilia wondered if he’d been drunk—not to mention likely drugged—as well, his brutality so opposed to the loving, wanting words he had whispered to her. If his bruising grip had said he was aware she wanted to get away, his sweet nothings said he had no idea—or that he was convinced that, if he could just be nice enough to her, she’d forgive him, date him? Who knew.

“Sorry. Sorry,” she muttered, the fingers of the hand Olivier had laced his own with relaxing from the death grip she had on him. Each finger stretched and flexed, the phantom feel of rocks and dirt under her nails lingering until Olivier was tentatively pulling his hand away.

It was easy to grab his hand back, pulling and tugging until she wasn’t laying flat on her back—too easy to fall back into her nightmare past like that—and curling around his arm, her forehead pressing to his thigh.

The man’s hand didn’t move from her hair as she shifted and breathed in the scent of him, some sort of alcohol floating around him… Mikra, maybe, from northern Dion. Or maybe tikrun, from the Northern Tribes? Emilia had never had the latter, but they were both made from the same fruit that only grew along the border between their nations.

“Mikra,” Olivier answered, his voice low and soothing against her frayed mind, too out of it to run realize she’d asked what he had been drinking. The lawyer’s voice was the perfect distance from both Warren’s late-teens voice and Penns lilt, and Rafe’s perpetually too-sharp tones, even when he was being a sweetheart. Nothing to drag her back to that night in Olivier’s voice, nothing to make her yearn for Rafe when he couldn’t—wouldn’t, but always would—be there for her. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen… tikrun? Offered anywhere.”

Humming in agreement, Emilia managed to get something out about how it was usually only used in ceremonies in the Northern Tribes. “They’re kinda private? Or, like… different? Compared to most of the other Free Colonies? More… traditional? I know they put even more stock in the

will of the aether

than the Grey Sands? A lot of their culture relies on that, and I think it puts a lot of people off?”

“I imagine it definitely puts Baalphorians off,” Olivier noted, perfectly willing to go along with her babbling because despite how uncomfortable he clearly was—not with soothing her, Emilia thought, but just with not knowing if he was doing a good job of it—he was still kind and caring. “I don't think I’ve ever heard of our nations having much of a relationship.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, telling him about the few times her father had gone to the Northern Tribes. “He never brought me and… I dunno, I never felt the draw to go? Didn’t feel right.”

“Right, as in…”

“As in, I swear there was something telling me to not go there.” Emilia shrugged before pushing herself more firmly into Olivier’s thigh. She wanted him closer, but didn’t know how to ask without cracking the moment, and she really didn’t want to be alone. Probably, if he left her, she’d go find Grenner or another of the clones' rooms—there were at least two others on the ship, but Emilia had a feeling there might have been more—and curl up next to one of them.

“Usually, he visited for the rare events where multiple tribes came together. That’s probably a big part of why Baalphoria doesn’t really care about relations with them: the tribes are so fragmented and nomadic, I don’t think they see much of a point. Along with their more traditional lifestyle… I mean, I don’t even think xpherns are that common there?”

“What sort of ceremonies bring them together?” Olivier asked—the man really was the best, gently dragging her mind away from the nightmare.

Emilia still wanted him to curl up next to her—be a warm body she could snuggle against and feel safe with. Instead, her free hand shifted under his thigh, pulling him closer while her other hand tightened around his hand—pulled it closer as well, until he must have been uncomfortable. Still, he didn’t ask to be released, his fingers continuing their trail through her hair.

“I don’t know,” Emilia admitted, trying to explain that she knew and didn’t at the same time. “The last time he went, it was for the advancement of one of their… I don’t really think they’re

religious

leaders, but something close? Daddy didn’t really talk about it much, but…”

Lips twitching, Emilia told Olivier that she had the sense something had happened during the advancement ceremony that had made her father uncomfortable. “He’s pretty tolerant, and has so much experience with odd beliefs from everywhere, so I can’t imagine

what

happened. Daddy never talked about the specifics, but he said that there was something special about the person they were advancing? Like, not every, ah… I think the word was syna? Don’t trust me on that, but I think not every syna gets a big gathering and celebration? If he knew what made this one special, he didn’t tell me.”

“Mm… have you had tikrun?” Seriously, the guy was so good! How was he so awkward in some moments, and so ridiculously perfect in others!?

“No. Almost, once. Yujao was gonna go and steal some from a nearby tribe when we were visiting a little town in northern Dion. Very nice hot springs.”

“What happened?”

“Hurinren found out and stopped him. There’s no way that guy would let his precious Yujao do something so dangerous.”

“Are the Norther Tribes that dangerous?”

Emilia made a considering sound as she rotated backwards on the bed, hoping to coerce Olivier into joining her because she really wanted those full-body snuggles. Unfortunately, all she accomplished was chasing him away, his hands slipping away from her hand and hair before he rose and moved to turn on the bedside lamp. Then, he was gone, across the room and so very far away as he rummaged through his luggage. At the very least, he glanced back towards her, eyebrow raising in a silent prompt to answer his question.

Well, at least he wasn’t completely done with her?

“It’s a bit hard to say. Some of them are known for being really friendly with both outsiders and other tribes, but others… Well, as much as they’re all kinda grouped together by, well, pretty much every other nation as

the Northern Tribes

, they’re apparently quite different? At least, that’s what I’ve heard from a few people. Like, there are a few tribes that are aligned and constantly in conflict with Falrion, but if you asked a lot of people, they’d just say

the Northern Tribes and Falrion are at war again.

”

“But that’s not accurate,” Olivier concluded as he vanished into the bathroom. The door lingered open behind him, although he did step as far out of view as possible. Was that for her? So she wouldn’t be alone? That was… sweet, even if she would have preferred he come back and slip into bed in whatever clothes he was wearing—or nothing. Emilia wasn’t picky.

“Yeah. So, overall, I don’t get the sense most of the tribes would have done more than send Yujao back to Dion—I don’t think any of them want a war with Dion. I’ve heard a number of northerners are powerful, but their entire population is nothing compared to even just the Dionese army. A few of the tribes might have done more, though, especially given Yujao is important to Hurinren.”

From the bathroom, Olivier correctly guessed that Yujao could be used as leverage to make Dion—or at least Hurinren—do something or other. “Would it have worked?” the man asked as he returned from the bathroom, still wearing his sweats, but changed into a tight tank top that was not helping Emilia’s general attraction to him.

While she had guessed he was pretty fit until the looser clothes he generally preferred, fucking stars. A lot of the low-devs she knew didn’t bother to work out or gain muscle, and of the non-devs she knew, Andre was only slightly more muscular than the wiry stick that was his twin brother, while Vrin was barely 5’7 and had long ago given up not being fat and scruffy. She was skin and bones everywhere but her ass and thighs, and even Hurinren, for all he trained, leaned into tall and lanky—although he had begun to fill out in the last few years, thanks to a comment from Yujao about liking the look of muscle on a man.

Olivier wasn’t as muscular as some of Halen’s terrible friends, but his arms still bulged slightly, and there was definitely a six- or eight-pack hiding under that shirt. Pity he didn’t sleep topless.

“Hurinren would tear the world apart for Yujao—me too. I don’t know if either of us could mobilize many other people, though. Yujao… it’s complicated, but even though there are other powerful people who like him, starting or joining a war for him would be difficult.”

Emilia watched as Olivier slowly folded the shirt he had been wearing previously, tucking it into his suitcase and then just lingering there, unsure what to do because he wasn’t about to join her in bed unless she asked, she realized. That was nice, for him to not just trust he was reading her body language correctly.

“Olivier?”

“Mm?” The man didn’t even bother looking her way.

“If I promise not to get handsy, will you come sleep here? The couch is terrible, and too short for me, let alone you, and I’d rather not be alone… or disturb your sleep with another nightmare.” It was always a risk that she’d fall straight back into dreaming of the night. Usually, when she was home and there was no one easily available to climb into bed with—rare, given none of the Laprise boys would ever turn her away, and they lived right next door—Emilia didn’t even bother going back to sleep.

It was easier to suffer a near-sleepless night than wake from yet another memory of hands violating her body. Sleep-deprived grumpy was better than traumatized, most days.

“Alright,” the man said, so soft it was nearly silent.

Emilia contented herself to watching him as he shuffled back into the bathroom, using a skill to hold the door almost closed while he peed. Not being able to see his butt was sad, but hearing him pee and wash his hands was just so normal—almost what she would expect from most of her friends, although they were more a mix of people who would close the door and people who didn’t care if she saw their butt—that by the time he was slipping into bed next to her, their hands naturally finding one another's, she was smiling.

“What?” he asked, a touch of suspicion entering his eyes even as he reached to turn off the light on the other side of her, the scent of him laying down over her as he hovered above her, safe and familiar despite how little they actually knew one another.

“Nothing,” she said, shifting until she was just a little closer to him. “Thank you.”