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The snowed-in post-betrothal-ceremony party was probably the longest festive gathering Gregor had ever stuck out to the end, and certainly the most joyous. Joyous, joy, enjoy: the words bounced and jingled around the inside of his brain, as he stood there amidst the colored lights and the velvet hangings and the comfortable furniture. He had enjoyed himself. In fact, a fact possibly unique in Residence celebrations, he was still enjoying himself. It sounded like something people should do to each other rather than to themselves. Laisa put joy into him; but not only Laisa. All his friends, here in the parlors adjoining the grand ballroom, all of them were enjoying him, making him joyful, and he rather thought he was doing the same back to them. He'd had about ten glasses of wine, so he was not entirely sure, but certainly joy was permeating the atmosphere, as if some joyful terrorist had smuggled a canister of gas past ImpSec and opened it, and it didn't really matter who breathed the infected air first or in what direction.
He experimented, gusting out a sigh, and across the room Olivia Koudelka let out a long delighted laugh.
Yes. Enjoyment.
The association was a little slow to form, but after a moment it occurred to him to glance about for Duv Galeni and Delia. No sign; he stepped into the next room to continue his search, and didn't spot them. Making their own joy somewhere, he suspected, which they well deserved to. Oddly, he felt no similar urge to wander off into a private room with Laisa, to kiss and whisper; they'd have time for that, though, he knew too well, never as much time as they wanted. But for now, for this moment, he belonged here, in the midst of his friends, gracing them with his presence, if not actually speaking to any of them at the moment. Standing perfectly still, he imagined flinging his arms out to embrace them all. His friends, his subjects: that contradictory relationship that, for the first time, he understood with his whole soul and felt to be acceptable. Bloodlines and proclamations and treaties meant nothing; he was king of everything because he had somehow, miraculously, charmed and pleased this lovely woman into agreeing to marry him. It was all his doing. Well, without Galeni and Miles, false starts and rebounding favors, he might never have met her, but after that it had been Gregor, and not Emperor Gregor either. Just... him.
But he was the Emperor here tonight; he couldn't not be. Marriage was not a private act when you ruled an empire and everyone had been waiting for you to marry and beget heirs for your entire adult life, sometimes getting rather snippy about it, in a deferential yet exasperated sort of way. Yet -- he smiled to himself -- it wasn't an Emperor who'd tremble his way through the vows, or climb into bed with his wife. His beautiful, bountiful, delightful, desirable wife; his completely-unrelated-to-him, answer-to-all-prayers wife. His, at Midsummer.
He couldn't wait. Though he was very good at waiting. Better than Alys Vorpatril, that was for sure. Less exasperated.
They'd stood here together, not he and Alys, he and Laisa, just where he was standing now but some hours earlier, holding hands and an audience, greeting all the partygoers who wanted a word, a glance, the king's touch: an ever-shifting, overlapping mass of faces, like... like a net of iron filings, dragged in by their double magnet; like Winterfair revelers warming their hands at a fire. And then they'd drifted and swirled away, pulled by other forces, a few lured away to their beds, but most scattering and clumping into knots and clusters of conversation, which had grown smaller through the evening, splitting into twos and threes as people found those they most wanted or needed to talk with.
At the other end of the room, he saw Laisa in intense discussion with Cordelia Vorkosigan, both using their hands to gesture and touch and assent. The magnet pulled; she felt his eyes on her and turned; he waved. But he didn't move to join them. He was enjoying solitude. Leaning on a wall in his best Simon Illyan guise, he drew in breath, sipped his wine, watched the ebb and flow of beloved humanity.
Simon himself was not in the room. He and Alys had spent most of the night in mutual orbit, not necessarily talking but always within reach of each other, circling, intersecting, including and then excluding conversational partners, an intriguing dance revealing of grace and awareness; with the memory it occurred to Gregor that he'd done Alys a disservice in thinking she was poor at waiting. Recently, though, Simon had gone off to a quiet corner with Miles, and Alys, finally done with worrying the details of the gathering, was sitting with Drou and Kou on the edge of the room, looking out at the next generation, probably wondering how they'd got so foolish.
He lifted his glass in a silent toast to the beauty of his world, and drank, his eyes dazzled by the twinkling silver lights above. When he lowered the glass Aral was occupying the neighboring bit of wall.
"What were you drinking to?" he asked.
"Foolishness," Gregor said. It was the first word he'd spoken aloud in quite a while, and with it he realized how drunk he'd become.
"I would drink to that too, had I a drink, but I seem to have put it down somewhere."
Aral was just as smashed as he was. "I'm floating," Gregor said. "In a shiny bubble, like the Cetagandan haut ladies. Flying. It's glorious."
Aral didn't need to come to attention to be formal in his request; parade rest altered only slightly, to a hint of a bow. "May I join you in your bubble, Sire?"
"I want everyone in my bubble. Yes, Viceroy, you may." In the absurdity of the moment, Gregor felt even more regal than he had before. Aral shifted over, closer to him, their shoulders touching. They'd embraced, earlier, in front of everyone; this seemed more intimate. "You used to come to my room, before I went to sleep," Gregor said. "You'd sit down and say 'All is well in your empire,' and ruffle my hair, and then you'd tell me a funny story, something that had happened that day. Those were my favorite reports, ever."
"I don't think I did that after you were seven or so. You remember that?"
"Like yesterday. I miss you giving me reports. Even the ones that weren't funny."
"I still give you reports about Sergyar. Which could be stories, if you'd like. More or less amusing."
Gregor smiled and shook his head. They were silent again for a minute, and then he said, "Cordelia and Laisa are talking."
"Are you afraid that secrets of your childhood are being spilled?"
"What? Oh. No. I just thought it was a nice parallel. Mirror images." Aral snorted. "I don't mind if Laisa knows all my secrets. You and Cordelia know all each other's secrets, right?"
"Yes," said Aral. It was satisfying that he was so sure. The flat declaration reminded Gregor of someone else, some other determined surety... oh. Miles.
"Miles and I used to play a game, when we were kids," he said. "You take turns, and either you ask the other person a question and they have to tell the truth, or you dare them to do something."
"I remember that game. I used to play it with my brother." So many years, in Aral's face; it was strange that remembering his childhood made him look older. Or maybe not so strange. Then he grinned and age dropped away. "I bet Miles's were all dares. Best to tell me now that we nearly lost our emperor, parachuting off the Residence roof."
"Curiously enough," Gregor said, "he refrained from suggesting that. I do recall running around that fountain with the fish in it so many times that I threw up. And climbing up the... well, you probably don't want to know. There were always Armsmen about; I couldn't have got into too much trouble."
"And what did you dare a daredevil with fragile bones to do?" Aral asked.
"Oh... steal things. Get into the secret passageways and listen to conversations. Mostly I asked for truth, though. He always gave it to me." They contemplated this together for a moment. "I'm still asking him for the truth," Gregor finally said. "And he'll find it for me. He's a good man, Aral. You did well."
"Yes," said Aral, turning to look him in the eyes, "I think I did."
Gregor's vision blurred. "I'm so happy," he said.
Aral smiled, blinked, ruffled Gregor's hair. "Well," he said, "the truth emerges without request. Tell me, while you're at it, if you remember being this happy before."
"Not... since I was seven or so. Or maybe never. I think never."
"Then Laisa has achieved what we failed to. I'm sorry. Or glad. Unprecedented," he mused. "Familiar, too. And I was older than you."
He meant when Cordelia arrived, Gregor realized after a moment's thought. "Being loved," he said, and then he couldn't think of anything to add.
"Oh, I was loved before that. So were you," Aral said with another hair-ruffle. "But it has to be... the right time. The right person. Oh, and sex helps. Sex, love, respect, a bright future; it's all" -- he flung a hand in the air, and Gregor was glad for the cleaners' sake that he no longer had a glass -- "a package. Tied up with shiny ribbons. Or a bubble," he added, focusing on Gregor again. "I didn't think I'd have to let anyone else into mine but Cordelia and all those children we were going to have. Didn't know I'd need it to go wide enough for the whole planet. Planets. You know that. Laisa knows that. It's a good start."
Gregor nodded. "I wish we could run away together and live in a hut in the Black Escarpment. But that's not the way it works."
Aral gave him an affectionate grimace. "My hut was on a beach on the south coast. You would have fantasies that include freezing to death. Mind you, keeping Laisa warm would be a great way to go." He clapped a hand over his mouth. "Ha. Truth escapes." Leaning in close, he added, "Your fiancée is sexy as hell, and I'll always look forward to hugging her. There."
"Thank you," Gregor said, amused, heady with joy. "I heartily concur."
"Not that we've on those terms yet. I hope..." Aral paused. "You going to put me on your wedding circle? The Butcher of Komarr?"
"There is no such person," Gregor said, suddenly completely sober. "And yes. My father will stand on my wedding circle." Tears sprang into Aral's eyes, spurring remembrance of every tear they'd shed for each other, from pride and hurt and long weary service, and more memories still. "I told Miles that when I was twelve. Must be true. Didn't think it would take so long. Glad I waited." Gregor swallowed the last of his wine, then reached out and crushed Aral to him. "So happy," he repeated; he could keep saying it all night.
"I dare you," Aral whispered fiercely in his ear. "I dare you to stay happy forever."