Chapter Text
The Emperor's Birthday was always a glittering affair, with pretty people dressed up in pretty clothes and the public areas of the Imperial Residence decked out to the nines. Miles handed his coat off to an ImpSec agent masquerading as a footman for the occasion, and stepped into the ballroom, scanning for people he knew. Gregor would be in the other room with the moneybag ceremony for at least another hour. Miles would have to go in shortly, but first he wanted to find . . . ah, there he was.
Ivan stood in a corner, looking trapped and pained as Count Falco Vorpatril lectured him urgently on something. It wasn't the first time, Miles knew, that Vorpatril had cornered Ivan since he had officially been named Gregor's heir three months earlier. The content of the speeches was familiar - one of the greatest opportunities handed to a Vorpatril since the Time of Isolation, do not besmirch the family name in this, boy, do not humiliate your mother or me, etc. In short, "Don't screw up." Miles watched for a moment and then decided to take mercy on poor, besieged Ivan.
"Count Vorpatril," Miles said cheerfully. "Good to see you. Are you enjoying the party?"
"Your generation is going to be the ruin of Barrayar, Vorkosigan," Vorpatril growled in reply. "Mark my words."
"Oh, I don't know," Miles said, smiling pleasantly. "I think we're doing all right so far. But if you'd like to continue a discussion of our faults, I saw Count Vormoncrief and Count Vortala over by the food. I'm sure they'd be happy to agree with you. I, on the other hand, think it's a load of bollocks."
Ivan went pale. Vorpatril looked gobsmacked at having been spoken to in such a way. Miles took the opportunity to grab Ivan's arm and haul him away, with a polite, "Enjoy your evening" over his shoulder.
"Did you just talk back to Count Vorpatril?" Ivan asked in an alarmed undertone.
"I might have. What's he going to do, send me to bed without any supper?" Miles shrugged it off. "I'm just tired of him and his cronies. They might not like the way we're taking Barrayar, but frankly they're stuck with us." He took a deep breath and added lightly, "And I find that I'm less inclined to put up with them in my old age. Have you seen Gregor yet?"
"No, I barely got in the door before six different people tried to get my attention. I don't know why I ever agreed to be part of your - your ruse."
"It's not a ruse," Miles said, lowering his voice. "At least, this part of it isn't. You're very much the Imperial Heir."
"I know," Ivan said mournfully. "Anyway, what did you want?"
"Company while I stand in line, actually." They snagged glasses off a passing tray and made their way next door. Gregor was seated on the camp stool, receiving each Count with formal solemnity. And, Miles observed with a snort of laughter, perched on the table behind him and looking entirely as regal as the Emperor was Negri, now about twice the size he'd been when he'd popped out of their picnic basket. He sat with his paws together, watching over the proceedings with haughty disdain.
"He threatened to do this, but I didn't think he actually would," Miles said, grinning.
"M'mother mentioned it to me," Ivan said. "She tried to talk him out of it, but he said that it would keep his blood pressure down during the parade of geezers. Also, it's his birthday and he can do as he pleases."
"Very true."
Miles, standing in for his father, was one of the last people to kneel and place his hands between Gregor's, before handing off the bag of gold and giving a glowering Negri (who had come to regard Miles with jealous suspicion) a quick scratch behind the ears. The rest of the evening was a comfortable blur of dancing and dinner and then toasts and yet more dancing. Gregor's arm was noticeably bare of young heiresses, and Miles smiled behind his hand at some of the talk, grimly pleased. That place was his now, whether everyone knew it or not, and he found himself more gratified than he expected at Gregor's insistence upon holding it for him.
A little before midnight - and fifteen minutes after Gregor had retired - Miles trotted rather tipsily off to his groundcar. Pym drove down the street and turned as though heading for Vorkosigan House, before doubling back and dropping him off at the obscure side entrance that he often used. It was on the opposite side of the building from the public areas, so there were no drunken partygoers or curious passers-by hanging around.
"Thank you, Pym. Have a good night." Miles sidled up the stairs in the shadows. A Vorbarra Armsman let him in without comment, and he made his way up to Gregor's private apartments unimpeded. All the palace guards and Armsmen knew him now; most of them had probably guessed the truth. Miles was not particularly comfortable with that, but there was nothing they could have done to prevent it.
He found Gregor in the study, sprawled full-length on the couch with one booted foot hooked casually over the armrest. He had a book open across his chest, a glass of wine within reach, and if he were any more relaxed he'd slide right onto the floor. Miles surveyed him from the doorway, amused.
"Problem?" he asked.
Gregor looked up, smiling openly in welcome. "Not a one, thank you," he said. "Except maybe that you're all the way over there."
"And I bet you can't walk in a straight line right now," said Miles, laughing. He crossed the room, considered his options, then shrugged and stretched out, feet tucked up by Gregor's and chin propped on his chest. He lifted the book to set it aside, glancing down at it as he did.
"Makes me think of you," said Gregor, watching him.
Miles lifted an eyebrow, tilting the book and reading a few lines. The other eyebrow shot up, and he felt his mouth form a silent "o" as a prickle of heat rushed up his neck.
"I think I would have liked to be a poet," said Gregor. "If I'd chosen something, I mean. I think that would have been it."
"Really?" said Miles, who had a very difficult time imagining Gregor as anything other than what he was.
"Yes. If only it would mean you would blush at my filthy limericks, and not anyone else's."
Miles shot a dubious look down at the book. Those were neither limericks nor . . . well, "filthy" just wasn't quite the right word. "Are you jealous of -" he checked the flyleaf " - an Escobaran who's been dead for seventy years?"
"Anyone who can put that look on your face . . ." murmured Gregor, watching him through half-lidded eyes.
"Hmm," said Miles, setting the book aside and resolving to investigate further at a later date. He leaned over the edge of the couch, eying the bottle next to Gregor's glass. "We were supposed to share that," he said.
"Really?" said Gregor, blinking guilelessly up at him. "I thought the idea was I would drink it and then you would have your wicked way with me."
"Well," said Miles, who had contrived to have the bottle of century-old Vorkosigan red waiting for Gregor when he came upstairs. "That was plan B." He paused, cocking his head. "But I don't really think I have to get you drunk for that, do I?" he said.
"No," said Gregor, smile sliding into something soft and crooked and all Miles's.
Miles hugged him, sudden and hard. Gregor made a small ooof, then hugged back. "Happy birthday," Miles said into his shoulder
"It was," Gregor said on a sigh. "Thank you."
They lay still together in the quiet. Not a sound reached them from the party still staggering on downstairs, or the rising fall winds outside. It was a bloody powder keg they were sitting on here, Miles thought lazily, with Barrayar and Cetaganda locked in an icily polite dance step and Komarr circling restively, to say nothing of their very own people. Mine, Miles thought, in a moment of suspended peace. The whole crazed lot of them, because they are his and what's his will be ours.