Fandom: Friends at the Table: PALISADE

Ship: Kalvin Brnine/Jesset City

Rating: Explicit

Wordcount: 2,423

Genre: PWP, post-episode

Notes: Contains spoilers for PALISADE 52: A Palette of Colors Pt. 7.

Jesset is clingy until they get to the hover car, then quiet on the ride back to the Blue Channel, and once they get there, he keeps his distance. Brnine lets him. They're all tired, and besides, Brnine has already caught a few curious looks from Levi; they're not in the mood to deal with more of that. After a debrief, they see August—and Future—off to Joyous Guard, and busy themself with ship maintenance.

Hours later, though, once night has fallen outside, Brnine finds themself knocking on the door to Jesset's quarters.

It takes a second, but they hear some movement in the room and then Jesset opens the door. He's wearing shorts and a loose tank top, and he looks exhausted, slumped in on himself. "Oh," he says. He rolls his neck as if he's stretching it out. "Hey."

"Hi. I, uh, just wanted to check on you. You good?"

"I don't know that I'd say good, exactly, but..." He lets go of the door and gestures vaguely. "You know. Better than before. You want to come in?"

He takes a step back, and Brnine follows automatically. "Uh...sure. Yeah. Thanks."

It's Routine's old room, but it doesn't reflect much of its previous occupant. Gone are the posters, the old books of poetry, the ash tray that Routine had kept using no matter how many times Brnine asked him not to smoke on the ship. After a few months of Hunt keeping the room the way Routine liked it, dusting it for him and watering his plant, Midnite helped him pack up Routine's things; they did it quietly, no fanfare, for which Brnine was grateful, and stored the boxes in the Blue Channel's storage bay. That Routine might return some day and want them back had seemed at the time a foolish hope.

The room remains mostly bare now, showing only a few signs of life: linens on the bunk, Jesset's phone plugged into the wall. Jesset himself sits on the edge of the bed and looks up at Brnine. "How are you? Sorry there's nowhere to sit."

Standing awkwardly against the closed door, Brnine says, "It's fine." From this vantage Jesset looks strangely small, and it takes a moment for Brnine to realize why: he's not wearing his prosthesis. They've seen him with a lot of different right arms over the year, but they can count on one hand the number of times they've seen him go entirely without. "I'm fine, too. I was just checking on the crew—Levi, mainly—and figured I should make the rounds, so..."

Jesset is stretching his neck again, but he looks up at that. "How's he doing? That got pretty intense down there. I know he thinks he's a hotshot now, but I worry about him."

That makes Brnine smile a little. "Yeah, luckily I have experience with young hotshots. He got a little shaken but he'll be fine. We had a talk and—dude, is your neck like, okay?"

"Huh?" Jesset rolls his neck one more time and then looks up. "Oh, my shoulder is just tight. Honestly, a lot of my muscles got pretty fucked up by the whole, um, Motion thing, but this one is a hard reach even with a right arm. I'm just trying to stretch it out."

Finally, a problem Brnine can help with. The room is small enough that they cross it in two steps. "Move over."

"What?"

Brnine gestures for him to move aside on the bunk, and Jesset does. They crawl in behind him. "Basic Apostolos field training includes musculoskeletal manipulation. A soldier with a tight muscle is an inefficient soldier. Is it here?"

Jesset jumps a little when Brnine touches him, but doesn't move away. "A little lower and to the right. Even more right. It—ow."

"Got it," Brnine says. When they dig their thumb into Jesset's trapezius, he gasps. "Sorry. Forgot to warn you that this might hurt."

They feel his laugh under their hand more than they hear it. "It's fine. I'm not scared of a little pain."

Brnine kneads the muscle and rolls their eyes. It's such a classic Jesset line. "You know, it wasn't that long ago that you were a young hotshot."

"Don't remind me. I'm old and wise now." A beat. "Okay, obviously not wise, scratch that part. Um, you can go a little deeper, by the way."

Brnine does. They both fall silent for a while, Jesset breathing slow, deliberate breaths, and Brnine focusing on the task at hand. Even through the fabric of his tank top, Jesset's body is a reassuringly warm and solid presence.

"I wasn't as bad as Levi, was I?" Jesset asks, breaking through Brnine's reverie.

They still for a moment, thinking about it. "Depends what you mean. You were a little less arrogant, probably?"

"A little?" Jesset laughs incredulously, and this time it comes through loud and clear. Brnine resumes working on his shoulder, using both hands now. "That kid tried to give me tips on piloting my own mech."

"Man, the first time we met at AdArm you tried to tried to tell me how to repair a mech I designed."

"I didn't know you designed it! And that wasn't arrogance, I just wanted you to think I was cool. I was trying to make friends."

Again, Brnine smiles at that. They're glad Jesset's facing away from them. "Well, look at us now. Old friends and still working together."

"Yeah. Old friends."

Another silence falls, leaving Brnine with their thoughts. It's weird to think that the annoying kid who tripped over his own tool box at AdArm, who tried to tell Gucci his name was Jeremy Catfish or some shit, is now a leader of a movement that has consumed Brnine's entire life. At that first unfortunate meeting they couldn't wait to get away from him, and now they talk to him more than they talk to almost anyone.

They've known Jesset for seven years now, and today was as close as they've ever come to losing him. Death dogs Brnine, it has since the day Millennium Break formed, and it never gets easier to bear.

Brnine presses hard on a knot on Jesset's shoulder and he lets his head drop forward, taking a shuddering breath. He looks vulnerable like that—the soft edges of his hair curling just below his hairline; the collar of his tank top sagging low, exposing tender flesh—and for the second time today, Brnine gives in to impulse. They release Jesset's shoulder, sweep the hair away, and kiss the nape of his neck.

A sharp inhale, and Jesset goes still. Brnine can't believe he thought nobody would miss him if he died. They kiss him again, this time at the knob of his spine, letting their lips linger against the warmth of his skin.

Jesset takes one shaky breath, then another. When they finally pull away, his hesitant voice asks, "Brnine?"

They don't respond, so he turns to face them. His eyes are wide and Brnine is surprised to see tears clinging to his lashes. His lips part like he's about to say something more.

Brnine doesn't want to talk about it. They kiss him.

There's no hesitation in Jesset. He opens his mouth to them, puts his hand on their arm—albeit gently, like he's unsure of its welcome. But Brnine isn't feeling gentle. They shift to their knees and deepen the kiss, guiding him where they want him. When they slide their free hand into his hair, he shivers, and Brnine can feel it everywhere their bodies meet. There aren't enough places where their bodies meet.

Jesset's head bumps the wall when they press closer. He yelps, but when Brnine mutters an apology, he says, "It's fine, I don't care." He pulls them in until they're straddling his legs, wraps his arm around their back. Brnine presses a kiss to his jaw and he grabs a fistful of their shirt, holding on like he's scared they're going to leave.

That's a feeling Brnine's familiar with. Tears, horrifyingly, prick the backs of their own eyes. They cup Jesset's face with both hands and kiss him again, and again.

Things get hazy. Eventually Brnine breaks away and rests their forehead against Jesset's. Both of them are breathing hard. "You're, uh, not a terrible kisser, City. That come from being old and wise?"

The mocking tone they're aiming for doesn't quite materialize, but Jesset huffs a little laugh anyway. Abruptly, it becomes too much to have his eyes on them, and Brnine pulls away to press a line of kisses down his neck.

"Wouldn't you know better than me?" Jesset asks finally, breathless.

Brnine snorts. They've never claimed to be wise. They slide a hand down his front, and when they cup Jesset through his shorts, he makes a strangled little sound. He's stiff already, stiffening further in their hand, and Brnine's blood pounds in their veins, rhythmic and heavy. Insistent.

"Please," Jesset says, barely above a whisper. There's a whine to his voice, like saying it costs him something. Brnine squeezes their eyes shut and commits that sound to memory. "Please, Brnine."

They can't deny him in the face of that. Jesset pants harshly in their ear as they knead him through the fabric of his shorts, and when they sink their teeth into the junction of his shoulder and neck, he makes a sound like a whimper. He's still clinging to them, and abruptly Brnine realizes they're clinging back: while their right hand is occupied in his lap, their left has his shoulder in a vice grip. They make themself let go and then pull the collar of his shirt aside, pressing kisses to the newly exposed flesh. On his back they spot something they haven't seen before, the edges of a tattoo, high up near his shoulder.

Jesset is making sweet little sounds and shifting against them, but suddenly it's not enough. "Let me," Brnine mutters, putting both hands to the drawstrings of his shorts. But Jesset giggles and it makes Brnine pause; they pull back to look at him.

He doesn't look unsure, or afraid, or anything like that. He's staring at Brnine like he can't quite believe they're there. "Sorry," he says, and laughs again. Brnine hears the giddiness this time. "Just...you have no idea what I'd let you do to me."

There's nothing to say to that. Brnine kisses him, swallowing the confession, and it hits their stomach liquid hot. They get his drawstring open and, with a little manoeuvring from the both of them, pull his shorts and underwear down to his thighs. A quick glance around the room betrays nothing that might be helpful in this situation, so with nothing else for it, Brnine gathers a bunch of saliva in their mouth and spits into their hand.

"Fuck," Jesset whispers fervently. Anything else he might have wanted to say is cut off by a cry when Brnine wraps their hand around him. The skin under their hand is soft and hot, undeniably alive, and Jesset buries his face in their neck as they stroke him slowly.

Brnine wraps their free arm around his back. They want to crack themself open, take him inside themself; they want to get stitched up and heal over him. Instead, they kiss every part of him they can reach—his temple, his hair, the shell of his ear—and let him muffle his cries against their skin.

Even at the slower pace they've set, it doesn't take long. The sounds Jesset's making become more urgent, almost like sobs; finally, choking out Brnine's name, he shudders against them and spills into their hand. They hold him through it. When it's over, they wipe their hand on the back of his shirt and rest their cheek against his head.

It takes a while for him to come down, to breathe normally again. Even after he has, they stay for a while as they are.

The collar of Jesset's shirt is still wonky from where they pulled at it, and Brnine starts to trail their fingers over the tattoo on his back. With Jesset slumped against them, they can see it more clearly than before. "You got a Millennium Break tattoo," they say eventually.

It isn't a question, but Jesset rouses himself to answer. He shifts, pulling just far enough away to rest his forehead against Brnine's shoulder, giving himself space to speak. "Yeah. I did."

It's faded, a little blurry. A longer scar on his back crosses over one of the legs of the M. "When?"

"Um, Fort Icebreaker. After..." A pause, then an exhale. "After Gur and Valence. Millie knew a guy."

Brnine breathes through it. They trace the M once more with their finger. "How's, um. How's the shoulder feeling?"

For whatever reason, this makes Jesset chuckle. "Better than before." Silence falls again, and then Jesset pulls away, sitting back on the bed. "Brnine..."

The tone suggests he has something more to say, or to ask. What this was, maybe, or if they want anything from him; whether they're okay. Brnine heads it off. "I should go."

They pat Jesset on the shoulder and swing their leg off his lap so that they can get up. He looks flushed and dishevelled, worn out, and he glances up at them only briefly before he gets to work tucking himself back into his shorts. "Okay."

"I promised Cori I'd help her with an upgrade to her comms." This has the benefit of being true, although Cori didn't indicate that the request was time-sensitive.

Jesset nods and folds his legs up under him. "You're a good captain, Brnine." He runs his hand through his hair, but it's damp from sweat, and this leaves it sticking up. Brnine can't help it: they lean in and kiss his forehead one last time, soft and lingering.

Jesset doesn't pull away, and when Brnine finally straightens up, his eyes are closed. He doesn't open them again. "Get some rest," Brnine says softly. It comes out too affectionate, too tender, and they clear their throat. "I'll, uh, see you in the morning."

They leave quietly the way they came. Under the bright fluorescents of the corridor they see signs of their crew's presence everywhere: bootprints on the floor that Asepsis hasn't yet gotten to, the vertical garden Thisbe installed when she first moved in. Eclectic's cap, newly mounted on the wall, a testament to his existence.