Touching Perfection

1 Mischief

Gabranth glowered at the queue before him to the Registry with an increasing sense of inevitability, and not for the first time quietly cursed his mentor and superior.

Trust Judge-Magister Zecht to approach him half an hour before five on a Friday, grin merrily and say, by the way, Gabranth, have you filed that Spilzerg affidavit yet?

Why no, sir. You were supposed to have finished it last week, were you not?

No need to be cheeky, lad. Go along to the Registry, now.

Was that affidavit not due today, sir?

Then you should be running along now, should you not?

Bloody Zecht. Gabranth shifted his weight to his other foot, listening to the oiled slither of shoulder plates with a sigh. The manila folder containing the affidavit in question was tapped in an impatient staccato against his hip, as he alternated between wishing that the Judge-Magister who was the source of just about all the troubles in his current life would die, preferably painfully, and wishing that everybody currently in front of him would do so.

No such luck, and, given all narrative convention following an already terrible day, the Registry closed, just as he was four places down the queue. Disappointed, the queue dispersed, and Gabranth shook his head slowly and took deep, calming breaths. Granted, the consequences for a late filing on this side of the Bench wasn't too drastic; it was only practitioners that tended to have to pay scrupulous attention to deadlines.

But if it caused yet another professional conduct complaint filed against Zecht, or somehow became the root of mistrial proceedings… Gabranth shuddered to think. Zecht in a bad mood was a considerable test of patience.

Just as he was considering simply taking leave for a month, the single door to the squat set of offices that comprised the Registry of the Justice Department opened. The Registrar-on-duty was a middle-aged lady running comfortably on plump, her round, pleasant face slightly marred by a hawkish nose and a shapeless chin. Her gray-black clothes hung off her in heavy folds, reminding Gabranth a little vaguely of a small hillock of fallen curtains.

She was speaking with a tone of motherly indulgence. "…the best banana bread I have had was in Liatz. It had chocolate crumbs melted into it."

"I am sure you can bake better, Lilia." A familiar and rather unwelcome velvety voice informed Gabranth that the bad day had come full circle: that annoying brat of a Chief Aide to Judge-Magister Zargabaath was here. Ffamran Bunansa. The fifteen-year-old was dressed in a tight-fitting pale blue shirt tucked into white leather breeches that folded into knee-length black boots with several unnecessary silver buckles hugging the thighs. He blinked owlishly when he recognized Gabranth, glanced at the folder, then smirked. "A little late there, Chief Aide?"

Gabranth forced a thin smile for the sake of the Registrar, muttered something hopefully polite, and turned on his heel. He didn't need Ffamran's sarcasm, not today.

The boy, however, was surprisingly quick: the folder was snatched out of Gabranth's fingers before he could react, and Ffamran sidestepped an instinctive grab for confidential documents. "Judge Ffamran!"

"Affidavit for… hm, State versus Spilzerg." Ffamran opened the folder to take a look. "My, my. Isn't this the hops poisoning case?"

"Ffamran," the Registrar clucked her tongue at him. "Confidential documents, child."

"But I find the case highly entertaining," Ffamran was in one of those moods, that Gabranth had till now only seen rumors of: that sometimes, the prodigy-Judge tended to act his age, regardless of whether it was appropriate. He would admit, however, that were circumstances different he would likely have found the pout adorable: now, it only fed his ire.

He would not lose his temper at a child. Gabranth folded his arms, tightly curling fingers into heavy sleeves to remind himself. "Are you quite finished?"

"Somebody had a bad day," Ffamran remarked to the world at large, though he edged a little closer to Lilia as he said this. "It does look as though this was supposed to be filed today. What a shame."

"Ffamran," Lilia took the file from him firmly, looking a little reproving. "Don't be rude to your peers."

"Yes, mother," Ffamran said, archly, causing Lilia to roll her eyes heavenward in an ostentatious plea for patience, then turn back to Gabranth with a kindly smile that he had never seen grace her features before. Usually, behind the Registry counter, Lilia was a terror to Judges and cadets alike: she was curt, impatient and unforgiving with mistakes; even when he had been a cadet she was notorious for her draconic temper.

"I'll get this stamped now. But tell Judge-Magister Zecht not to be late again, please."

Surprise and pleasant relief made Gabranth blink several times before replying. "Thank you! Thank you very much."

"You wait for me here, brat," Lilia waved a pudgy finger under Ffamran's nose, as she marched back towards the Registry.

Ffamran winked at him, then, and Gabranth realized that the childishness, in the boy's case, was likely more often than not an elaborate act of manipulation, if playful and without malice. It forced him to reevaluate certain assumptions.

He mouthed thank you, and Ffamran chuckled, grinning impishly. "If you kiss me I'll call it even, Judge Gabranth."

There was really no call for there to be these many shocks to his system on a Friday afternoon. He managed to sputter a shocked, "What?" before realizing his main train of thought was 'maybe in three years', and having to rein that in sharply.

The grin took several heartbeats too long to turn into a smirk. "My dear Gabranth, please do not tell me you've never been…"

"Propositioned by a fifteen year old? Yes." Gabranth said as sternly as he could, gathering back his poise.

"Ouch. I suppose that should have hurt, were I so minded," Ffamran drawled, and chocolate-brown eyes seemed to turn a little distant, as though genuinely injured by the comment.

"What about coffee, instead?" Gabranth extended an apology in the form of a wry smile without thinking. "You, and Lilia."

"Hardly as exciting," the boy scoffed, but the mischief was back, perfect in its unashamed cheek.

2 Aprons

Ffamran loved this best. The smell of dough and the comfortable warmth of the kitchen, the snow-dusting of flour over the thick, polished oak-and-steel table, the militant arrangement of pots, bowls, packets, cups, weighing-scale, spoons, rolling-pin, cartons and his mother's hands. Small and elegant and skilled, kneading the dough with curls of fingers and twists of the flat of her palms.

She smiled at him when she saw him staring. "Well, sweetheart, have you come to a decision?" Lady Liadrin Bunansa was a petite, dainty woman, seemingly out of place in the kitchen yet obviously most at home, reaching out absently to the bowl of sifted flour to her right without looking. Mixed blood with a little Rozarrian and a little Bhujerban, in her raven-dark hair and almond eyes, the natural tan that was so very unfashionable, nowadays, amongst the women of the Archadian elite. Not that he or his parents gave very much of a damn, but then, the Bunansa family was notoriously eccentric.

"Banana bread," he said, with as much conviction as a distracted eight-year-old could muster. "And chocolate."

"What, both at the same time?" Liadrin teased, even as she looked thoughtfully towards the pantry.

"At the same time," Ffamran stuck his tongue out. "It should not be hard for a lady of your culinary experience."

"No need for that cheek, Ffamran," Liadrin said dryly, even as she dusted off flour-covered hands and wiped them absently down the front of her apron. Another out-of-place piece: the apron was dark blue, and made of some sort of odd, stiff fabric that looked like it was more suited to a construction site than to a kitchen. "Onroe?"

Onroe, the Cook, was the technical master of the kitchen, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a florid gray beard that reminded Ffamran of an ageing bear. His family had long served Liadrin's, and she had 'poached' him over (her words) on marriage. He was dressed soberly in chef's whites, and he stepped forward quickly to Liadrin's side. "My lady."

"Do we have bananas?"

"Yes, my lady." Onroe turned his beetle-browed natural frown to Ffamran. "Though I advise that the young master entertain fewer flights of fancy."

"'Tis bread, Onroe," Ffamran pouted. "I could easily have asked at chili, or… or condensed milk."

"Perish the thought." Onroe grumbled to himself as he ambled over to the considerable pantry: more of a storage room in itself. The Bunansa estate was old-fashioned: large, with many servants that needed to be fed, most of whom equally as old-fashioned. The butler Olfen continued to polish family silver with his thumbs, the maids curtseyed on sight, and it seemed to have affected Onroe in the style of his cooking. Excellent, but traditional.

Liadrin was looking at the bowl of bananas (handed over reluctantly by Onroe) and the dough, when squawks behind Ffamran informed him that the master of the house had seen fit to scandalize the servants via entering their domain. Warm arms wrapped around him from behind the low-backed chair, and there was a bristly kiss on the back of his head. "And how are my favorite people?"

"I notice you left 'son' out for 'people' this time, Father," Ffamran smirked. The last time had brought a hypothetical consideration of the interpretation of 'And how is my favorite son', in the context of which other 'sons' his father could have had, and ended in Cid getting panicky that his beloved wife might be getting the wrong idea.

"I thought it would only be fair that I included your mother." A poke to the nose told Ffamran that his father certainly hadn't forgiven the last incident, but walnut-brown eyes were amused, at the edge of his vision. The monocle was adjusted as Cid peered at the bananas, then at the dough. "What are you making, my dear?"

"Banana and chocolate bread, your son's instruction," Liadrin said mildly. Behind her, Onroe's nod was disapproving.

"Oh." Cid paused. "What about adding pepper to that?"

A sharp look backwards showed that Cid was perfectly serious. "The molecular structure of bananas, chocolate and pepper, that applies to taste-sensations, appear to be similar and therefore likely complimentary, especially when…"

"Thank you, dear," Liadrin interrupted sharply, even as she began to peel bananas into the bowl. "But I think the world is not yet ready for scientifically constructed food."

"Taste is scientifically constructed in our…" Cid yelped, as Ffamran decided to be merciful and elbow his father sharply in the ribs before he could unwittingly spark Liadrin's ire. "Haha. Er." Cid adjusted his monocle. "Of course, my dear."

"Chokingly saccharine. I give it a two out of ten, for dispute resolution," Ffamran remarked, earning a prod, this time in his flank, that made him squirm irritably and glare at his father (though, not having yet come into his growth spurt, and being all of eight, the glare was somewhat lacking in fierceness).

"The boy's become remarkably impudent since he became too heavy to carry," Cid remarked to Liadrin mildly.

"Like father, like son," Liadrin replied sweetly, and chuckled, as both males in question replied with a wounded "I resent that", at the very same time.

3 Tailwinds

Ffamran revved up his hoverbike at the very edge of the Central Clocktower and made sure with a quick check on the edges of his helm that his visor was up and clouded. Anonymity was the byword of the Monday Overdrives: names and faces only got in the way of the fierce joy of speed. Beside him, the last two contenders did the same, the glossair-charged engines of their bikes humming into life, waiting for the announcer to shoot. Inset cameras along the course would track their progress, and if he turned his head, he could see the Clocktower's spectator-circles, drinking and cheering, on select rooftops, the liquid screens behind them focused currently on his helmet, larger than life.

It wasn't particularly legal, but Ffamran had found, as he grew older, that illegality often turned out to be a good yardstick by which fun was consequently measured.

A sharp retort had him crouched forward and his hands twisting before his mind registered the start-gun. Under him, the hoverbike's engines roared fully into superdrive as he and the others dived off the Clocktower. The first test was of daring, as they plummeted down past glass windows and the massive clock face, the wind whistling past and tugging at his leather jacket, past the Severance mark to the Underground, the lower tier of Upper Archades. He bared teeth in a grin, as his opponents banked sharply, and did so only a meter above the grime. The bike bucked fluidly into horizontal, and streaked forward, scattering rubbish in his wake, as he cut upwards to clear the rubble, streaming towards the first checkpoint.

They swerved around the chase of Quakern Pass, close at each other's heels, and up over Middle Park, trying to lose each other through the manicured trees and tearing up the cultured grass, scaring roosting pigeons. Beside him, the girl-shaped rider was laughing, wildly, in the sheer ecstasy of speed, and he was sure his lips were stretched in an answering feral grin, as they shot off the Middle Park platform into the dizzy drop of Overston Street, banking sharply before the Maiestern Cathedral's Southern Spire in another scatter of squawks and feathers.

Ffamran caught a glimpse of a pitted stone gargoyle, too close to his aft glossair rings, as he followed the ultraviolet blink of the next cue, chambering gears to take another plunging drop following ancient brickwork, hot on the first rider's heels.

Falcon was the girl, and Hawk, the other: if they had any real names Ffamran was none too bothered to learn them – to them, he was Kestrel. The last three seasons had them all on the Clocktower on Fridays, and there was little competition left in their races: they were the best, and they knew it. This showed when they came across a private black cab, speeding to some unknown destination, highly unusual for this time of night, as they dived over the Bridgework Towers to the narrow Umbersign Avenue. Hawk gestured mischievously, and they drew level with the cab: himself to the right, Hawk to the left, Falcon at the front, crowding it for a moment, then diving, following the ultraviolet blink, perpendicular down the Towers.

Above them, the cab stopped, in confusion and likely shock, as they banked just above the Severance and roared up again into the more crowded junction of Umbersign and Easton, dodging oncoming traffic that slowed into a snarl of angry drivers behind them, swooping onwards towards the Central Square checkpoint, to whistles and cheers from the spectator-circle atop the roof of the State Central Library.

This season Hawk won, by a heartbeat, and he shook Ffamran's hand, then Falcon's. "Good ride."

Falcon giggled, muffled under her helmet. "See you again next month, boys."

--

Ffamran was a little surprised to see the lights on as he rode his more sober, normal hoverbike back to the apartment he shared with Gabranth, the supercharged one locked in his family estate. He parked it in the garage of the building, and took the lift up, whistling, the thrill of adrenaline not having yet left his system.

He was therefore a little annoyed to see Gabranth seated on the armchair in the living room, apparently reading a book: a sure sign that his lover had been waiting for him, and that there was soon to be a disagreement. Hoping to defuse it quickly, he took off his helmet, tossed it onto the sofa, and managed to sidle onto Gabranth's lap. The tight black leather jacket, breeches, boots and gloves had previously been met, to his experience, with appreciation, but today Gabranth sighed, dropped the book over the edge of the armchair, and wrapped arms around his waist.

"Where were you about an hour ago?"

"Out with friends," Ffamran said promptly, curling arms around Gabranth's tensed shoulders and brushing a kiss over his lips. No response. Pissed, evidently. "There wasn't any need to wait up. And you normally work late on Mondays."

"The plaintiff withdrew his claim, in the current matter," Gabranth explained, his eyes narrowing, "And you are lying."

"Oh?" Ffamran fought a frown. He could not have…

"I was coming back from drinks with the others in a new place of Zecht's choosing, when three… hoverbikes drew level with my cab," Gabranth said, flatly, "And do not try to deny it. I can recognize you anywhere."

"Hoverbikes, plural," Ffamran said, with a quick grin, even as his mind worked quickly. "Out with friends, as I said."

"Ffamran," Gabranth took a deep breath, "When I saw you, ride that damned bike headlong into traffic, for a moment, each moment, I thought you might… and then you did not answer any calls…"

"Shh." Ffamran pressed his lips against Gabranth's, nibbling and sucking, until the other man opened his mouth with a low groan of relief-anger-frustration and curled fingers around the nape of his neck, crushing them closer. When the brutal kisses became gentler, affectionate, Ffamran relaxed, and shifted to bare his neck for bites. "You need not worry so."

"Hn." The sound was non-committal, as Gabranth unzipped his jacket to rub fingers over the thin white cotton beneath.

"I've been doing this for years."

"What?" Gabranth looked up sharply. "But I have never…"

Ffamran grinned, self-satisfied. "Because…" The rest of his reply was muffled in a rough kiss and a growl, and a shift under him as Gabranth curled his body a little deeper into the armchair and pushed up a thigh, forcing Ffamran flush up against him.

"And you are not doing it again."

Ffamran frowned. "Why not? I love riding supercharged bikes."

"Not at that speed, or in this manner!"

"But I… nmph!" Ffamran growled and bit his lover's lower lip sharply in reproof, when finally let up for air. "Then how else do you propose I entertain myself at night, Judge-Magister? You work late. And I can tell you the thrill of Overdrive is like nothing else."

Gabranth looked so adorably nonplussed that Ffamran momentarily forgot his irritation with newfound restrictions, smirking, even when pulled into a tight embrace under the older man's chin. The silence was comfortable, as he listened to a slowing heart and stiffly measured breaths, amused and thinking of concessions and trade in perfect moments.

Finally, "I could take work home."

"Is that your idea of a concession, my dear?" Ffamran drawled the last two words, with enough sarcasm to sting, and earned a more conciliatory, gentle kiss.

"Then what do you suggest?"

Ffamran hesitated, shifting knees to either side of Gabranth's hips, allowing the other man to pull off his jacket and shirt and nuzzle the hollow of his collarbone. He did not actually have very much of an idea. He loved Overdrives, but he could tell Gabranth had been genuinely shocked… frightened, even, by the incident: fingers were moving restlessly over his back, thighs, his hair, shaky in their relief.

"I could go for the Breaks, those aren't as intensive." He paused, "On the days when you are not about." When Gabranth smiled, Ffamran added, "This also applies on the days where you are about, but bore me."

"Harsh," the older man murmured, even as Ffamran shifted to allow a warm thigh between his, and rubbed against it with an unselfconscious purr of pleasure. "You are high maintenance, Ffamran."

"Never denied it," Ffamran stole fingers towards the catch on Gabranth's breeches, toying first with fingertips on the growing bulge, teasing out a throaty growl.

"Brat."

"Never denied that either, old man."

-fin-