It made him happier than he expected to see his old man in the clothes he’d gotten him: cleaned-up, clean-shaven, his eyes more blue than grey in the cool electric light. He looked good. Content lifted his shoulders and took years off his face. Ysen had always been the sort of person that thrived on the approval of others, but this was something else.
He was just a little bit drunk by the time Tuhor left the card tables and came back around to sit with him. “I am sssso bad at sabacc,” Ysen explained, leaning too far forward. “I get, get, get, get, get get, get, I get nervous. I could’ve won. I got nervous.”
The captain laughed. “You want to know something?” he asked. “I’m no good at it either — but they can’t read my face. That’s half the win right there.” He turned toward Ysen, forearm on his knee. “Here,” he coaxed. “Give me your best sabacc face.”
“I can’t do it,” Sen declared. His face went blank and still for the space of half a second before it broke. Before Tuhor could laugh he sputtered out a, “no!” and a “no, wait. I’m going to do it again.”
He tried again and Tuhor laughed at him again, so he leaned in and made the face again, right up against his — and then the captain was kissing him, slow and easy and before he even knew how it had happened. His fingers curled around the lapel of the old man’s new shirt. His breath burned with whiskey and he smelled like soap and cologne that he couldn’t ever remember him using before. Beginning to end, something about it made his heart skip beats.
Too much. He threw his arms around Tuhor’s neck. “I like you so much,” he insisted, dragging his fingers down the sides of his face, digging them into his shirt. “Don’t ever go anywhere. I don’t even care if you’re a creep old man. You’re the, you’re the, you’re the best thing.”