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It starts with a simple glove.
It isn’t rare, given the lives they lead, for things to be forgotten in the most peculiar places. An attack can come at any moment, and one must leave whatever they are doing to throw on armour, rush to the lower decks and fight. This is how hats are usually left abandoned in the latrines, shoes are haphazardly thrown onto servitors’ heads, and bags and fanny packs end up among the piles of trash that are incinerated every day and expelled into open space.
Then again, this glove is different.
It’s different because Abelard knows perfectly well who it belongs to and when it was last on its owner’s hand, and it wasn’t anywhere near a sudden call to action. It’s different because it is unpaired, lying alone on his sheets, neatly arranged atop a perfectly made bed — left on purpose, perhaps, even though Abelard could never begin to fathom why his Rogue Trader would ever think of doing something like this.
He blushes at the thought.
His Rogue Trader.
The possessive has assumed a completely different meaning over the last couple of years, since they became romantically involved. Every day that passes, Abelard finds himself amazed by how such a young, strong, magnificent man could ever have become interested in an old shoe like him — an inexplicable mystery, but one he appreciates nonetheless. Every smile, every touch, every soft kiss is received with the reverence one might reserve for an undeserved gift, and that is how Abelard feels every time the other looks at him with devotion, or gropes him in public while attempting to be discreet. (It is still the same Rogue Trader, after all. One can hardly hope that love makes him less crass about certain aspects of their relationship.)
It is not really his fault, just the way people are raised on a Death World. One can hardly learn how to love properly when all one’s energy is devoted to surviving. Besides, he has made progress during their two years together. Back at the beginning, he did not even attempt discretion.
Absent-mindedly, Abelard brings the glove to his lips and kisses it softly. The Trader’s scent lingers there, faint but unmistakable. He closes his eyes, imagining kissing those perfect fingers, calloused from a lifetime of holding knives, yet so tender against his face when their owner chooses to be. He strokes the glove against his cheek, chasing the memory of the sensation, then blushes at his own foolishness. No one is there to witness it, yet he feels embarrassed all the same.
He carefully places the glove back on the bed, attempting to regain some measure of composure.
Later that day, on the bridge, he approaches the Trader cautiously.
The issue is, they have agreed not to go public. Mind you, everyone knows about them; but the Trader never confirmed anything, and on the Trader’s ship, what the boss does not acknowledge does not exist. That is the unspoken rule.
Thus, everyone politely looks away whenever the Trader’s hand lands on the Seneschal’s knee during a meeting and drifts a touch too high to still be considered on his knee, or whenever the Trader slips and calls him “Daddy” during a formal briefing, leaving little to no room for doubt about what sort of foul play occurs behind closed doors.
Still, despite all that, Abelard knows he cannot allow himself the same liberties His Lordship claims for himself, and always makes sure to have a proper excuse to approach him, a respectable reason to seek him out in public. And appearing on the bridge holding his Lordship’s glove is a line he does not dare cross. Thus, he leaves it in his quarters and speaks to the Trader only when he is close enough to be heard by him alone.
“You forgot something in my quarters,” he says softly, glancing around to make sure no one is paying attention.
“I forget nothing,” the Trader replies with a smirk.
Abelard frowns, his suspicions suddenly confirmed. “You left it there?” He asks. “Does it mean something?”
“That’s for you to decide.”
Abelard frowns again and opens his mouth, but before he can ask anything further, a siren blares; and once again they armour up, ready to throw themselves into battle, living on adrenaline and quietly fearing for one another’s lives.
The truth is, the Trader is ready to marry.
More than once he has caught himself staring almost mournfully at his bare ring finger, wishing for a golden band engraved with Abelard’s name to adorn it. Truly, it had all begun as sex — pure, raw, hot, overwhelming sex, and Throne, Abelard had been good at it; every bit of the trouble the Trader had gone through to get him into bed had been entirely worth it — but somewhere along the way it had quietly shifted into something else, something softer and more sentimental, something quiet and peaceful. The Trader has never had a relationship like this before, one in which a bed can be shared in chastity and hearts beating can somehow feel more exciting than cocks throbbing. He’s low-key disgusted with himself when he catches himself staring at Abelard’s smile rather than at his bulge, but he supposes this must be the love people are always gushing about, and accepts it as simply another part of his life.
So, that’s settled. And the second issue – would Abelard agree to a marriage? – should be easily settled too, since the Trader knows that Abelard loves him just as much.
At least, he thinks he does. Truly, maybe he just hopes it. He has the other man quite literally eating from his hand, always trying to make sure he is well cared for, as happy as he can, always looking ready to flog himself whenever the Trader has the slightest cause of distress – he always concludes that it must be his fault, that silly old man, as if he has appointed himself as his guardian against the harsh reality of the universe, and any occasion on which the Trader catches a glimpse of it must mean he has failed in his duties – and yet, sometimes the Trader finds himself doubting it, for is that not simply Abelard’s job?
After all, the man served House von Valancius with unwavering devotion long before their relationship began. He still throws himself into his work with the same relentless determination, still places the Trader’s needs above his own, still acts as though his entire purpose in life is ensuring the dynasty survives another day. Perhaps the way he wrecks the Trader in bed is merely another form of service, another duty willingly undertaken because it is something His Lordship desires.
The Trader hates the thought.
And so, despite being ready to marry, and being almost certain that Abelard would say yes, the question remains whether he would say yes because he loves him, or because he believes it is expected of him.
The Trader could not bear the latter.
No – better to wait for Abelard to take the leap himself, if that is what he wants.
Of course, there’s nothing wrong with giving him a small nudge in the right direction, is there? Just a few hints, enough to make him understand that the Trader is ready, willing, and entirely open to the idea.
Perhaps he should start by ensuring that, when the time comes for Abelard to propose, he has some way of determining the correct ring size.
And so, it starts with a glove.
"The annals of Ancient Terra record a curious tradition. When words no longer sufficed and honour demanded satisfaction, a warrior would cast his gauntlet upon the ground before his adversary. To do so was to invite contest, judgment, and, if necessary, blood."
Abelard frowns. His research about the most common meanings regarding gloves across the universe has been fruitless, up to now, and this new discovery is certainly no less disappointing than the previous ones. Of course, every Rogue Trader has to be well-versed in Terra’s history, so it is entirely possible he knows about such a peculiar tradition and decided to adopt it – then again, this Rogue Trader? It’s also entirely possible he somehow tricked everyone into thinking he’s a great historian when he doesn’t really know jack about anything. Also, the glove has been placed, as far as Abelard knows, not cast; and what reason could the Rogue Trader have to challenge him? Abelard’s job is to serve him, support him; not fight him in any measure or form.
Abelard is reawakened from his reflections by a decided knock at the door. He glances at the clock and sure enough, it’s time for the mysterious date the Trader has planned for him. He opens the door to the younger man’s smile, and follows him along the corridors, his usual composure cracked by the slight worry for the meaning of the glove.
It turns out, the mysterious date is a visit to the ship’s tailor to have a new ceremonial uniform crafted for him. “You need something new,” the Trader announces; and before he can even think to protest, Abelard is standing in front of an old man kneeling at his feet, pinning fabric around his ankles.
“Milord,” Abelard says, ignoring Jean-Jacques’ disappointed grimace. The Lord Trader insists that Abelard calls him by name on their informal dates, but Abelard always refuses to do so in front of people – the Trader doesn’t like the reminder of the distance that decency mandates between them. “Why do I need a new uniform?”
“The other one is not in the best shape anymore,” the Trader replies. When Abelard tries to protest, he interrupts him: “Not your fault, Abe. I know you keep it in pristine condition, but its colour faded over time. It’s basically dark grey now. You need something blue.”
“Shall I throw the other one away, then?” He asks, frowning.
“Not necessarily,” the Trader replies. “You might use it in the least important ceremonies. And you might use some part of it with this outfit, the shoes perhaps, or the cuff links. You’ll need something old, after all.”
Abelard is a tiny bit confused, but he’s used to not being able to follow the other’s trail of thought. The ideas in the Trader’s mind seem to chase one another in directions inexplicable to anyone else, and being made part of the process is as exquisite as it is incomprehensible. Abelard dares not pretend to understand everything – but he oh so loves the chance to assist. “Alright, dear,” he smiles, only to blush when he remembers the presence of the old tailor, who’s fixedly staring at something else. He rushes to say something – anything – to divert the man’s attention. “Ah- I’ll also need a new cloak.”
“No you don’t.” The Rogue Trader interjects. “You can take mine. You’ll need something borrowed.”
What peculiar fashion advice.
In fact, the Trader is an expert on old Terra’s traditions, and given the fascination Abelard has for the topic, he had been sure his seneschal would catch up on his attempt to force him into what was clearly a wedding attire.
Obviously, he had been disappointed.
So disappointed, in fact, that later, when the date had moved somewhere more private and the dressing session had inevitably turned into an undressing session, he had found himself unable to perform adequately.
Mind you, Abelard had still left perfectly satisfied through other means, but that had never happened to the Trader before. He was young, healthy, and perpetually horny. The whole affair had left a bitter aftertaste hanging over an otherwise wonderful evening.
He is still thinking about it now as Abelard waits for him to get ready for their date, standing rigidly in the middle of chambers far too large for a single occupant. Abelard has always refused to share his bed there – something about not wanting to desecrate the sanctity of a Trader’s rooms with his unworthy body, to which the Trader had replied that he was allowed and in fact supposed to desecrate everything he laid his hands upon, but to no avail. Even now, he doesn’t dare take a step freely in his rooms, preferring to stay still unless ordered otherwise.
"Abe," the Trader tries again. "It's going to be a while. I'm behind on paperwork. Please sit down somewhere. Make yourself at home."
"I cannot, Lord Captain," comes the expected reply. "I would never presume to make myself at home in your private chambers. I'm perfectly comfortable waiting."
The Trader sighs, returning to his paperwork. How can he ever hope to marry the man if they wouldn’t even be able to live together properly? He cannot leave his rooms – too many secret passages and unmovable relics, he’s been told – and Abelard can’t even sit down in them, let alone live there. Even if they do get married, he thinks bitterly, there will always be the Trader’s chambers and Abelard’s room, never their home.
He gasps. That’s it! That’s the answer! The way to make him see! They must buy a house together. It could be in Dargonus, where Abelard’s family is; sure, they wouldn’t be able to spend but a few days at a time there, but having a place to call their own, not where one is visiting the other, but one they both have equal claim on, it would change everything.
He surges on his feet, excited. Abelard winces. “Lord Captain?”
The Trader hesitates. He will tell him, he will, but not now. Now, he must act. “I’m sorry, Abe,” he says quickly. “I must postpone our date. I just remembered…” He fumbles for an excuse. “Two diplomats are coming to visit us on Dargonus, I must order the Navigator to set the course immediately. Forgive me, love.” He leaves a quick, thoughtless kiss on Abelard’s lips and runs out.
Abelard frowns. “Alright,” he murmurs worried to an empty room.
“So? What do you think?”
Abelard looks around, puzzled. They are on Dargonus, preparing for the visit of the two diplomats, and earlier that morning the Trader has requisitioned him to go visit “real estate opportunities” – or so he put it. Abelard assumes they are simply looking for temporary accommodations for the visiting diplomats, and that the Trader is only bringing him along as compensation for the cancelled date. He's not going to complain — he enjoys spending time with him — but he would much rather the Trader simply talked to him and explained what in the Throne's name has gotten into him lately. It’s obvious something is on his mind – the glove, the incident with the failed erection, the cancelled date; individually, any one of those things might have meant nothing, but together, they are beginning to look suspiciously like a pattern.
“It’s a nice house,” Abelard agrees, non-committing. It is a nice house – too nice for two diplomats in visit, for sure, but maybe they are important enough to warrant such courtesy. He wouldn’t know – the Trader didn’t open up about it, he apparently doesn’t even trust him anymore. Abelard isn’t sure what he did wrong – maybe it’s because he still hasn’t caught up on the glove’s meaning. He must redouble his effort, he decides. He can’t lose the Trader over something so silly.
“It’s very homey, isn’t it?” The Trader insists. Abelard is pulled from his thoughts and despite himself smiles fondly at the Trader’s enthusiasm. He must really want to impress the diplomats – it’s nice to see he’s finally taking his job seriously. And so, he tries to encourage him by matching his same enthusiasm: he smiles, and nods, and says, “It’s perfect, love.”
The Trader bites his lower lip, eyes shining in excitement. Abelard thinks he’s wonderful. “Well then,” the Trader smiles. “Shall we make it official tonight over dinner?”
Abelard nearly lets his disappointment show. He had hoped they could spend some time alone together, that night, instead he’s now stuck in a formal dinner with the Trader and the two visiting diplomats.
Still, duty is duty; and thus he agrees, pretending an eagerness he does not feel.
Abelard is wearing his formal uniform.
Not even his usual formal uniform, his official formal uniform; the one he reserved for state functions, military ceremonies, and occasions during which people are expected to discuss business.
"Abe," the Trader asks carefully. "Why are you dressed like that?"
Abelard looks down at himself.
"... What do you mean?" He asks, confused. He checks for everything – misplaced badges, visible underwear – but everything is in order. “Am I not appropriate? You said we were having dinner."
"Yes."
"With the diplomats."
The Trader closes his eyes, realizing the misunderstanding, the entire afternoon replaying itself inside his head. And there he had been thinking everything had gone wonderfully. "Oh, Throne."
Abelard immediately straightens. "What happened?"
The Trader buries his face in his hands.
The house.
The comments.
The 'make it official.'
Abelard had genuinely believed—
"Oh, Throne," he repeats.
"Lord Captain?"
The Trader looks around desperately.
A normal person would explain. A normal person would simply admit that there had never been any diplomats.
Unfortunately, he is not a normal person; he’s far too ashamed for that.
"Terrible news," he announces. "The diplomats died tragically in a severe warp turbulence…”
Abelard does not remember reaching the bridge; one moment he had been standing in the corridor outside the restaurant, watching the Rogue Trader vanish into yet another emergency of his own invention, and the next, he was surrounded by the steady pulse of the voidship’s heart, the bridge lights too sharp, too orderly, too indifferent to human distress.
Voices pass through him without meaning; a report about course adjustments, a confirmation of some supply schedule, issues sounding more and more irrelevant and unimportant during his own crisis.
Then, a hand lands on his shoulder, firm and not familiar.
“Seneschal,” Heinrix says. “You look a bit absent. Is everything alright?”
Abelard blinks slowly, as if surfacing from deep water. “I… apologise,” he says automatically. “It is… A difficult moment.”
Heinrix frowns slightly. “Do you need anything? I can help.”
Abelard hesitates. “No,” he says; then, after a pause: “Unless you happen to know the universal meaning of leaving someone a glove.”
Heinrix frowns. “I don’t know about universal, but on my planet, leaving a glove is used to signify the formal ending of a bond. A refusal to continue association. A quiet declaration that one will no longer hold hands.” He backtracks immediately, as if trying to make the concept sound less catastrophic than it felt. “Of course, it is a very localised custom. Probably irrelevant.”
Abelard stares at him, voice tight. “Heinrix,” he asks slowly. “By any chance, have you ever told the Rogue Trader about this?”
Heinrix blinks. “What? No. I mean — maybe once? I don’t know, he tends to latch onto weird cultural symbolism and then never let it go. Could’ve come up in conversation. Could’ve not. I genuinely don’t keep track.”
Abelard gets very still. “I see,” he mutters.
“Why?” Asks Heinrix, confused.
Abelard’s expression did something complicated, quickly switching through understanding, horror, resignation, and despair.
“…No reason,” he says carefully. “It is simply… Consistent.”
Heinrix narrows his eyes, but Abelard can’t find in himself the strength to talk anymore, for suddenly everything makes sense in the worst possible way.
It is not usually him who goes to the other’s quarters unannounced in the middle of the night, but this time it cannot be helped. This time Abelard, the patient, steadfast Abelard, cannot wait until morning to know whether his doubts will be confirmed. He needs an answer, and he needs it now. And so he finds himself at the Rogue Trader’s door in the middle of the night, knocking furiously, only doubling down when the knock is not immediately answered.
A sleepy Trader opens the door after the fourth knock. “Abe?” He asks, confused, rubbing his eyes with his fist. “It’s three in the morning, and we have to be up at six. What are you doing here?” He seems to wake up suddenly when a thought crosses his mind, perking up with hope. “Are you here for sex?”
Of course, Abelard is not particularly reassured by the fact that the Trader is quite clearly still interested in his old body and what it has to offer. After all, the Trader is young. He has needs. The fact that he would still accept Abelard means nothing.
“It’s not that,” he replies, taking a deep breath. “I… I think I understand.”
Simple. To the point.
He bites his lower lip, waiting, but the Trader is too tired to understand immediately and furrows his brows, staring blankly at him.
“I haven’t said anything, though,” he points out, worried. “Are you delirious? Is this the dreaded old age?”
Abelard shows him the glove, then, his lip trembling — in fear, anguish, or excitement, the Trader cannot tell – he repeats, “I understand”.
Then the Trader connects the dots. His face clears.
“Oh!” He says, blushing slightly. “Good. That’s good.” He bites his lower lip, giddily. “And… You’re here to do something about it?” He asks.
His hopeful demeanour is what destroys Abelard. He wonders how long the Trader must have wanted to leave him, forced to stay by decorum and by Abelard’s own stupidity and inability to read his signals.
“I am,” he replies, taking a deep breath, fear settling into certainty in his body.
“So, do you—”
The question hangs in the air, but Abelard does not need anything else to know how it ends. Of course, now that he understands, there is no other way out. He must quit.
“I do,” he whispers.
He has served the Von Valancius house for decades, and it is so painful to end it like this, with his heart broken in more than one way. He tries to convince himself that he should be honoured to have been granted the privilege of loving this incredible man for the two years they have spent together, but he realizes there is no memory sweet enough to drown out the sorrow.
The Trader, on the other hand, looks so happy, as if he has just been granted the gift of a life instead of the end of a love.
“You do?” He repeats, incredulous with excitement. Abelard nods, delivering the final blow, certain that this will give him the confirmation he needs. If by any turn of fate he has misunderstood everything, this is the Trader’s chance to clear the air.
“I will vacate my rooms at your earliest convenience,” he says hesitantly.
He does not stop him, does not blink, does not hug him and call him silly in the way he has done so often in the past when Abelard was wrong in the most endearing way. He simply smiles, and that is all the confirmation Abelard needs. It hurts more than a stab to his chest.
“Awesome!” The Trader exclaims, and Abelard cannot understand how in the void he can be this happy.
Of course, he clearly does not love him anymore, yet they have shared two years of their lives and Abelard has always served him to the best of his abilities. Shouldn’t he at least show a little sadness? Did he really mean so little to him?
The Trader disappears back into the room, and Abelard stands still outside, frozen, not having been dismissed, listening to him rifling through papers at his desk. It is a brief wait before the man walks out with what must clearly be dismissal forms.
“Of course, as usual,” the Trader says, thrusting the papers into his hand. “I know you will not wish to make a big deal out of it. I assume you can just sign this and return it to me tomorrow. I will take care of everything else. Then we will have the proper procedures once we reach Dargonus. I would not announce it to the crew just yet…”
“It is better this way,” Abelard agrees. After all, he does not want to answer the crew’s questions about why their seneschal has been dismissed. Better to disappear into the night without giving them the chance to ask.
After that, Abelard is dismissed, and walks away with a slight bow of his head. He walks back to his quarters in silence, moving like a ghost along corridors that feel too long, too silent, as if the ship itself is holding its breath. His steps are measured, controlled, exactly as they have always been, but something inside him is not.
Once inside his room, able to fall apart without indiscreet eyes, he closes the door carefully behind him and opens the document with trembling hands, trying to read it through the tears clouding his sight.
At first, it is exactly what he expected: formal language, administrative tone, procedures, hollow concepts in big words; it’s the kind of paper that ends lives with polite sentences and orderly formulas. He skims it, unable to fully register the content as his mind keeps derailing towards happier times. So he reads it again, and again, trying to register the meaning; and then, around the fourth attempt, something begins to not add up.
“No,” he whispers, frowning. “It can’t be.”
He reads it a fifth time, slower now, as the words rearrange themselves into something completely absurd.
The Trader’s door opens with the kind of violence only sleep deprivation allows. The Trader is there, hair dishevelled, eyes half-open, expression already murderous. “Abe, I love you,” he says flatly, “but if you wake me up like this again I will personally have you spaced.”
Abelard does not react to the threat, nor to the endearment; he simply holds up the document between the two of them. “This is a marriage license.”
The Trader squints at it. He raises an eyebrow and rubs his face with one hand, sighing deeply, looking at Abelard as if he’s the most idiotic man alive. Abelard is starting to think he probably is. “Of course it is,” he replies, patiently. “How else would we get married?”
Abelard’s expression does not change, but something in him collapses inward. “And who exactly,” he asks slowly, trembling, “talked about getting married?”
It takes them a long time. Neither of them goes back to sleep, that night, and when the time to go back to the deck arrives, they send word about a delay in operations. If anyone questions why the two are indisposed together, they question silently.
The explanations come in fragments, each part intertwined with comfort words, vows and kisses: the gauntlet, the signals, the new uniform, the assumption, the terrible misunderstanding, stupid Heinrix and his silly planet with idiotic traditions. They talk about how vacating quarters could mean dismissal for one, moving in together for the other; how proper procedures can in fact represent either a wedding or a discharge; how one’s forever home can become the other’s retirement quarters.
“The glove,” the Trader says at one point, now sitting on the edge of his bed, passing a hand through his hair while sipping a warm cup of tea. “I left it so you could figure out my ring size. Obviously.”
“What I don’t understand,” Abelard replies tiredly, hand softly stroking the other’s arm, amazed at still being able of doing this despite everything, “Is why you couldn’t just propose to me yourself. Why did you have to wait for me to catch up? Why did you expect me to propose to you?”
The Trader pauses. He feels like an idiot, now, for thinking that Abelard could ever fathom to accept a proposal just because he was his superior, but he’s sure as void not going to admit that out loud to the other man, not when he’s just finished reprimand him for not going straight to him the moment he had doubts about them. “Because I am the Rogue Trader.” He scoffs.
Abelard closes his eyes. If he senses there’s something more, he doesn’t say. “Idiot,” he muses. Then he leans in for a kiss.
The next day, the Trader buys a ring; and for once, Abelard is absolutely certain of what it means.