He could have let himself in, of course. But he didn’t. Surely that was a good sign. Noam clenched his hands against the sink counter and made himself exhale, nice and slow. “We’ll talk after I get dressed. All right?”
“All right,” Dara said. His footsteps retreated into the bedroom and then away, the bedroom door clicking shut.
It wouldn’t look good to rush to obey the second Dara wanted to talk. Still, Noam barely managed to wait about ten seconds before he stepped out into the bedroom, scrambling to grab civvies out of his dresser drawer. He heard voices down at the end of the hall as soon as he opened the door, Bethany’s and Taye’s, but not Dara’s. Even so, Noam sensed Dara’s wristwatch and the buttons on his uniform, warm against his skin. Noam entered the common room, where Dara was sitting in an armchair.
“You ready?” Noam asked.
Dara nodded, pushing up to his feet. “Want to go for a walk?”
He meant outside, of course; you couldn’t talk treason in the barracks like it was just any Wednesday.
“Sure.”
Dara trailed after him out into the corridor and down the stairs to the ground floor. The street was quiet this time of night, just a few cars idling beneath the black sky and glittering streetlights. It was hot even for June, humid air clouding his lungs.
The farther they got from the complex, the more Noam thought he ought to say something—I’m sorryorI’m glad you want to talk—but nothing came. His throat was too dry to speak.
“We should keep walking,” Dara said when Noam slowed. “The more distance between us and those guards, the longer we’ll have before someone comes to retrieve us.” A beat. “Don’t worry—I’m not going to hurt you.”
Noam wondered if this was what passed for an apology in Dara-land.
“I know you’re not,” Noam said.
“That’s not what it looks like.”
“I can’t help my face, Dara.”
“It’s not just your face,” Dara said. “You think I’m unstable. That I might get violent.”
“Not really. Maybe you’ve been a little moody lately, sure.”
A lot moody.
Sixteen times.
“You said you wanted to talk,” Noam said.
“Yes.” Dara exhaled long and heavy, glancing at Noam like he thought Noam might have changed his mind about listening. “I think there’re some things I ought to tell you. Things I should have told you a long time ago.”
“Okay,” Noam said, but Dara didn’t speak again, at least not immediately.
After several silent moments, Dara unearthed a flask from his back pocket and took a long pull.
“Okay,” Dara echoed at last. “So. I was fifteen the first time I slept with Gordon.”
He hesitated again, fidgeting with the flask.
“How did it start?” Noam nudged gently.
“That doesn’t matter. But it did, and we... it wasn’t the way you’re thinking.” Dara drank again. “I know it was stupid, getting involved with high command like that. I think I hoped it would get back to Lehrer somehow, and he’d have to... I don’t know. Pay attention to me, for once. I wanted him to be angry.”
Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to make Dara talk about this. Dara was... Noam had never seen him so on edge, not if you didn’t count the time after they had sex. He kept fiddling with the flask, kept reaching up to tug at his hair. His temples glimmered with sweat.
“It’s okay,” Noam said, reaching over to touch Dara’s wrist, only just remembering not to grasp. Dara’s skin was summer-hot. Dara let his hand drop from his hair and, after a beat, he laced his fingers together with Noam’s.
“Not really,” Dara whispered.
“General Ames is dead. You never have to see him again.”
