Turned To The Sky Rating: NC-17, Slash

Author's Note: This was written for sotto_voice for the Rogues and Wraiths ficathon. Prompts were Eiattu, rain, punch

There's rainwater in the streets; a short thunderstorm, Wedge guesses, while they were at the reception. He didn't notice this at first. He knows it now, though.

Wes snickers. "Have a little trouble keeping your balance Wedge?"

Wedge blinks, and hoists himself back to his feet, rubbing his injured thigh. "Ow."

Tycho grins at him. "Need someone to hold your hand on the way back to the apartment?"

Wedge shoots him a glare. At least there weren't flatcams around to spot that fall — judging by the Adumari obsession with footage of the pilots, the video would probably be halfway around the continent in ten, fifteen minutes. And then Wedge would never live it down. At least, this way, he has a hope of his pilots getting interested in something else long enough to forget — like a shiny object, perhaps.

All the same, it wasn't entirely characteristic of Wedge to slip and fall. Even with puddles and slick streets.

"You think that punch was alcoholic?" Wedge asks, only slurring a little, as he and Tycho drop behind the other two pilots.

"Yeah," exhales Tycho. Wedge spots it now, the deliberation of Tycho's movements, the slow, steady footsteps. Tycho is drunk. Really very drunk, if Wedge isn't mistaken.

That's probably a bad idea, on all counts. Especially if there's a challenge or an assassination attempt from the Adumari.

"C'mon," says Wedge, "we should get back to the apartment."

* * * * *

Wedge has been drunk enough to tell when he's really sloshed out of his mind, and this isn't it. He's a little buzzed, maybe — the alcohol content can't have been that high in the punch at the party. He didn't have very much of it, either. Just enough to throw off his reflexes, if he were attacked or challenged.

Tycho, on the other hand —

He sprawls back on Wedge's bed, leaning against the headboard. "Are you planning on doing another tactical meeting?" Tycho asks.

"Wes and Hobbie are probably already asleep," says Wedge. "No real point, is there?" He eases down next to Tycho, with a sigh. "I really think it's about time I should retire."

Tycho half-laughs.

"What?" Wedge asks.

"It'll be a cold day in hell before Wedge Antilles retires from active service in the New Republic military," says Tycho, softly, and he kisses Wedge.

Wedge's conscious mind doesn't really register the movement until a couple seconds after it happens, but the tingling, the shock of lightning down his stomach compel him forward. It's enough for him to tilt his head and return it — and whoa, Tycho responds to that, pressing in and licking at Wedge's mouth —

Wedge breaks away. "Tycho," he breathes, "this is a really bad idea."

"Shut up," says Tycho, and he twists, pushes Wedge back to the bed. Wedge isn't entirely sure why he isn't resisting — there's a voice in the back of his head, niggling that he should, he should — because hey, it really is a bad idea, but Wedge's blood thrums and he feels high on life, high on Tycho. The alcohol is no excuse; this is him, he wants this.

Tycho kisses him again, full-on this time, and the slide of his tongue makes Wedge dizzy. He can't tell which way is up or down anymore — and he can't remember why it's so important that he know.

"Tycho," Wedge gasps, and then Tycho's hand is right there, right there. The room is too hot, too tight —

"I need this," Tycho murmurs against Wedge's mouth, only retreating to pull off the dress uniform jacket, start on the rest of his clothes. Yes, that's good, Wedge can agree, because right now he wants nothing more than the feel of Tycho's skin sliding against his.

Wedge almost can't believe what this is doing to him. Sex is usually intense, sure, but it doesn't feel like this, it doesn't feel like his heart is going to beat out of his chest, it doesn't feel like he'll collapse and die if Tycho doesn't keep touching him.

Tycho moves down over Wedge's chest, and Wedge inhales, gasps. He can barely make himself look — Tycho presses a kiss to the inside of his thigh, sliding a hand up, and eases the first few inches of Wedge's erection into his mouth.

Wedge muffles a cry into his fist; the licks are long, even, and perfect, so perfect ...

Tycho retreats, abruptly. "Wedge," he begins, "listen, one of the ladies at court ..."

Wedge's breath is coming too quickly. "You're talking about this now?" he gasps, incredulously.

"Listen to me," says Tycho. "She gave me a lubricant, told me to have some fun — you know how weird they can be — Wedge, will you let me —?"

Wedge's eyes widen; he gets it. Oh yeah, he gets it, and there's a second of total panic before Wedge's control reasserts itself. "Ah," he says.

Tycho drops off of the bed, and digs the bottle out of a pocket, climbing back on top.

"Tycho," Wedge starts, but Tycho cuts him off, kissing him over and over until Wedge whines into Tycho's mouth. Yes, of course he'll say yes, because this is Tycho, and they've saved each other's lives more often than they can count, and he's probably the one person in the galaxy Wedge will never give up on. He knows Tycho.

"Please," and he sees the grin dance around the edge of Tycho's mouth.

Tycho eases his legs up, and Wedge wonders at the smooth, almost predatory quality of his movements. And why it just seems to make him harder.

He can't quite see what Tycho is doing, but he feels it, he definitely feels it when Tycho's fingers touch, a delicate swirl just around his hole. Right afterwards, a tingling feeling spreads all the way up to the base of his spine. Wedge groans, "Oh, Sith ..."

"Feel good?" Tycho smiles, and slides fingers inside.

Wedge tosses his head against the pillow. It's too much. Tycho should have warned him how intense this would be, how disturbingly intimate, and how amazing it feels.

Wedge twists, uncontrollably, at a spasm of pleasure.

Tycho laughs. "You like that?"

"Do it again," Wedge growls, and Tycho does, pressing harder. He could come from this alone, Wedge thinks, closing his eyes. Force, it's so good ...

But then Tycho's fingers pull free, a weird, slipping sensation that Wedge isn't entirely sure he likes. He props himself up, to try and find out what Tycho is doing, but Tycho pushes him back again. "Take a breath," says Tycho.

Wedge inhales, deep, and he feels the head of Tycho's erection, about to push inside.

"Breathe out," and Tycho's voice trembles, a little out-of-control. Wedge does, slow and steady, and Tycho starts to push against him. Too much, Wedge thinks, and not ready, but then Tycho slips inside and Wedge wants him further, just a little further —

When Tycho is all the way in, Wedge whimpers breathlessly against Tycho's chest, and Tycho runs a hand up his thigh.

Wedge can't speak, can't think, but Tycho knows what he wants, knows exactly what he wants. Tycho's hands slide along his skin, slick with sweat, and Wedge arches against him, urging him on, urging him faster, harder, more ...

When the pleasure takes him, he spasms, all the way through, and shivers through the rest in Tycho's arms.

* * * * *

The first thing he's aware of is a thrumming headache. Not pounding; pounding is when little mini Wookiees are beating the inside of your skull; this is much milder. Not bad at all, really, just annoying. Wedge has had much worse.

The second thing he's aware of is the warmth against his back, the arm snug around his waist.

The third thing? An aching soreness, inside him.

Oh, sithspit, Wedge thinks. "Tycho?" he queries, craning his neck to see the clock. Half an hour until they have to be ready to go.

There's a muttering noise from behind him, and Wedge shifts, slides out from under the covers and gropes for some clothing. Any clothing.

"Wedge?" Tycho asks, sleepily.

"Hey, we have to get ready." Wedge avoids touching the bed, instead pulling his shirt the rest of the way on.

Tycho frowns, with his eyebrows. Wedge shoves away the well of affection — it has no place here.

"Okay," Tycho says, finally, and he gets up.

* * * * *

After their morning round of challenges (and victories) that day, Cheriss escorts the four pilots to a lunch at a bar close to the spaceport. A shrine to pilots, as always. It looks almost like the bars dedicated to famous holodrama stars and singers, Wedge thinks, glancing around.

Tycho is watching him again, though. It's almost disconcerting, but it's Tycho, and nothing about Tycho could be disconcerting. Of course it couldn't.

When Wedge takes a break to go to the bathroom, though, Tycho follows him.

"Wedge," Tycho asks, into the mirror, "are you all right?"

"Fine," says Wedge, shortly. He turns on the strange, Adumari-style tap, letting the water cascade through his fingers. Like rainfall.

"Then what is it?" Tycho crosses his arms, leans against the edge of the sink. "Are you mad at me?"

With a bare shake of his head, Wedge flicks the tap off. "We don't really have time for this right now, Tycho," says Wedge. "We have a planet to win over, it's not the time for personal ..."

"Wedge, I was inside you last night."

Wedge's fingers tighten, spasmodically, on the edge of the basin.

"How much more personal can it get?" snaps Tycho.

"We can't do it, Tycho," insists Wedge. "Not while both of us are on active duty. I won't let it happen."

Tycho's jaw goes slack. "Wedge, it's not like it hasn't been done before."

"I said no," emphasizes Wedge. "Don't push it."

He doesn't look back at the expression at Tycho's face as he walks out the bathroom door.

* * * * *

"I am so bored," Wes sighs, shifting on his chair.

"Wes," says Wedge, "we get one hour of free time, and already you're jumping out of your skin?"

"You say 'free time' like it's a good thing to be trapped in here. Away from girls."

Wedge rolls his eyes.

There's a short silence.

"I'm thinking of a planet," says Wes. "Hobbie, guess which one it is."

Hobbie bites his lip. "Kashyyyk."

"Wrong!" Wes announces. "Guess again."





Hobbie covers his head with a pillow, groaning. "I give up," he mutters, muffled.

"It was Eiattu," Wes tells him. "I'm thinking of another one."





"Eiattu," interrupts Tycho, without looking up from the datapad he's reading.

Wes' face falls. "Okay, that was right." He pauses for a moment. "Okay, I'm thinking of another one."

Hobbie opens his mouth ...

"Eiattu," says Tycho.

Wes sighs. "Okay. Another one."

"Eiattu," says Tycho.

"Hey!" cries Wes. "Stop guessing Eiattu!"

"Stop picking Eiattu."

Wedge snorts.

"I have another," says Wes. "Let's see if you can guess this one, big shot!"

"Eiattu," says Tycho.

"Hah!" Wes stands, a finger upraised in triumph. "Wrong!"

Tycho fixes Wes under his gaze.

Wes wilts. "Okay," he mutters, "you were right."

Wedge laughs, for real this time, and Tycho shoots him a coded grin. Wedge feels almost as though his stomach dropped through the floor — it's Tycho, the look on Tycho's face does this to him, every single time. It takes him long seconds to remember, to be awkward, to look away.

He doesn't look up when Tycho stands and retreats to his room.

* * * * *

At the party that night — seems like Adumar is just an endless series of parties — Tycho gets him alone, near a tray of some very small fruit cubes that Wedge is reluctant to try, due to the alarming fluorescent green and orange color.

"They're good, you know," says Tycho.

"Yeah?" asks Wedge, glancing around for an easy out. Some dignitary, perhaps.

"Are you going to try one?" persists Tycho.

"Well," begins Wedge, and then he feels Tycho's hand slide onto his cheek. Almost before he knows it, there's a touch at his mouth; he opens, and something slick and sticky slides past his lips. Tycho's hand is still on his jaw, and suddenly it's too much, way too much —

Wedge swallows, and, to his surprise, the fruit really is good, kind of tart and sweet combination. And Tycho — Tycho just fed it to him.

Wedge can't quite explain his suddenly racing heartbeat.

And then, over Tycho's shoulder, he spots her.

Iella Wessiri.

* * * * *

It's still awkward between Wedge and Tycho when Wedge finds Iella's apartment, talks with her there.

But that conversation — it's also amazingly awkward. A verbal minefield, something Wedge has never experienced, not with Iella Wessiri. She tells him to leave — to leave — and Wedge hesitates.

"Iella," and he's scared that what he wants to say is written all over his face.

Iella looks down. "You're not in love with me, Wedge," she says, softly.

"How do you know?" Wedge protests. "You can't know what I'm thinking — "

"You think I didn't see you and Tycho?" she asks.

That shuts him up, and fast. His jaw works, but there are no words — he honestly does not know what to say. He wants to tell her that Tycho and him — it's nothing, just — just nothing. But he remembers the look in Tycho's eyes that night, and he can't — he can't say it.

"I don't want to lose you," he manages, finally.

She takes a breath. "It wasn't just sexual tension between you and Tycho," she says. "It's wrong to pretend that it was. And it's wrong to pretend you want me just because you need my help."

"Iella," but he can't continue. He does want her, he does, and the choice he has to make is killing him. "I could have, you know," he starts.

She shakes her head, cutting him off. "Wedge, just don't." Her voice is steady, but Wedge thinks she's probably just as wobbly as he is, inside.

"I need your help," he tells her. "And I need your friendship."

Iella ducks her head. "I'll do what I can," she says. "But I can't promise anything."

It's enough.

* * * * *

Sometimes Wedge forgets.

He forgets how well his pilots work together, how much they can read each other's minds. He forgets how important they are to him, and how much he needs their friendship.

The floor of the transport beneath Wedge's feet turns red with blasterfire, and he sidesteps just before the first few shots come through the floor. He shoots a glance over at Tycho; their eyes lock, and there's something there, just below the surface.

Don't die, Wedge thinks, and Tycho ducks his head, almost in a nod, almost like Wedge spoke out loud.

* * * * *

"You really should get some sleep, Wedge."

Tycho's face is drawn and pale; Wedge knows he probably looks worse. He sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. Iella, and Wes and Hobbie, watch from the other side of the room. "I can't," says Wedge. "Not until ..."

Tycho touches his arm. "It'll keep," he says. "Right now, we need you rested."

"We need to talk," Wedge blurts, and he blinks a few times, trying to wake himself up.

Tycho's mouth twists, but he follows Wedge.

* * * * *

"I get it, Wedge," says Tycho, as soon as they're alone. "You're in love with Iella, and that's fine. Far be it from me to stand in the way of you being happy."

"Oh, you idiot," says Wedge.

Tycho looks taken aback. "I'm sorry?"

"I never get to say that to you," says Wedge. "Just let me savor the moment, okay?"

Tycho's expression gives way to puzzlement. "Wedge ..."

Wedge brushes a kiss across his mouth. "I don't want Iella," he murmurs. "I want you," and then the kiss is deeper, much deeper, and Tycho makes a soft noise of acceptance.

When Wedge pulls away, Tycho's mouth quirks in a smile. "You're not kidding, right, Wedge?" asks Tycho.

"I wouldn't joke about this," Wedge tells him, firmly.

Tycho nods, and he kisses Wedge, so briefly. "Are you sure?" and Tycho's voice is hiding something, holding it so far back that Wedge can only guess at it.

"I'm sure." I don't want to let another one of you slip through my fingers.

"Then, how about that nap?" Tycho asks, nodding towards the bed.

Wedge sighs. "If you insist." He lets Tycho tug him down, and they snug together under the covers, Tycho's head pillowed on Wedge's shoulder. Wedge is asleep almost immediately.

* * * * *

When he wakes up, he's alone, a trickle of drool under his cheek. He grimaces, wiping it away with the flick of his wrist. His eyes feel dry, but he's rested, and relaxed, and he wants to know where Tycho is.

Outside, he finds some food waiting for him, and without his conscious signal, the others gather around him.

Wedge's mind races, and then he realizes that he has a plan.

* * * * *

Just before they take off, Wedge pulls Tycho aside. "Be safe," he says softly, and he brushes their lips together.

Tycho stands with his eyes closed for a moment; finally, his eyelids flicker open, and he touches Wedge's cheek. "May the Force be with you."

One more kiss, and they separate, to go fight a war, just like they always have.

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