Helotry

Chapter 4

Heading downtown, the hover-cab whizzed along the airways, careening around skyscrapers until the corporate spires dwindled into the low-rise district: home to recreation halls, video arcades, and restaurants.

They alighted on the roof of Terra's Tavern, one of Tréy's favorite eateries, specializing in Kishari cuisine. Inside the tavern, nassidium lamps cast a purple-gold hue on plush sofa dens; each den was a private pocket for hungry customers nestled along the walls of the establishment.

"Everything nassidium," Darik said, shaking his head.

"I never really though about it." And suddenly felt guilty for always admiring the metallic aesthetic of Kishar without giving a moment's thought to how the substance was obtained. He had more reason than most to feel guilty about it too: he owed his opulent lifestyle to his father's fortune, a fortune won through the suffering of people like Darik. They ensconced themselves in a sofa and Tréy ordered a bottle of red wine with the house platter special. He needed the wine to quash his dark thoughts.

"I never be in so fancy place." Darik stroked the nassidium cutlery, tracing the swirls of gold through pale blue metal.

"The food is good," Tréy said as the waitron returned with the wine. Having sniffed and sampled the burgundy liquid, he poured a generous glass for both of them. The Thakkan copied Tréy and raised his glass.

"To new friends and to freedom," Tréy said, touching the goblet to his forehead before taking a sip.

"Thakkan way is different." Darik entwined his arm with Tréy's, and then raised the glass to his lips. Tréy mimicked the gesture, their foreheads almost touching as they both bent mouth to glass. The brief moment of skin-to-skin contact sent a bolt of electric down Tréy's spine, heat that pooled in his belly as he regarded Darik.

"There is other custom I can show," Darik said with a glint in his eyes. "You want to know?"

"Sure." Tréy smiled, trying to shrug of the discomfort of realizing where his money came from and how it had been carved from flesh as much from the ground.

Darik took a swig of wine, but didn't swallow. He leaned toward Tréy, pressed their lips together, and let flow a stream of wine, mouth to mouth. Tréy lapped the tart residue from Darik's lips and Darik's tongue slipped between his teeth. The kiss was unexpected, making Tréy's hands tremble and his blood flow hot as molten ore.

The waitron interjected with a polite 'excuse me' in its electronic voice, red lights flashing as it laid the platter on the table. Tréy disengaged his lips to mutter a 'thank you'.

"You hungry?" Darik asked.

"Very," Tréy said, and Darik chuckled. Tréy tore his gaze away from the inked skin of the Darik's neck and turned his attention to the assortment of Kishari delicacies spread across the nassidium tray. Nassidium everything. There was no escaping it.

Tréy popped a frog's leg into his mouth. Darik grimaced as he bit into the tiny drumstick, chugging down wine and wiping his lips.

"Terrible," he said, deep frown lines creasing the delicate ink at his temple.

"Try this, then." Tréy offered the man a chunk of pink pataya, sweet-smelling and sticky. Darik nibbled on the piece of fruit, nodded his head while chewing, before coming back for more. Holding a chunk of the fibrous fruit between his teeth, he beckoned Tréy toward him with an index finger. Tréy obliged and crushed the fruit against Darik's teeth as their mouths met in syrupy kisses. The pataya made his lips tingle as the shock of sweetness rolled across their tongues.