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“This is ridiculous,” Thrawn muttered, and if Gilad didn’t know the Grand Admiral better, he’d think he was grumbling.
“It’s not ridiculous at all, sir,” he said. He straightened the epaulets on Thrawn’s shoulder and bit the inside of his cheek to hold back a smile. “Stand still, let the makeup artist do his work.”
Thrawn dodged an eyeliner brush with a twist of the neck. “There are far better candidates for this in the enlisted corps,” he said.
“Ah, but none of them have your regal bearing,” said the photographer.
“Or your coloring,” added the makeup artist, and this time Gilad took a liberty and held Thrawn’s chin in place so the artist could do his work. Thrawn’s red eyes bored into Gilad’s with a heat that matched the warmth rising in his skin, burning Gilad’s fingertips. Anyone watching them might think the Grand Admiral was just angry – after all, not many subordinates could hold their superior’s head still without getting a finger bitten off. But Gilad had seen the way Thrawn arched his back in bed when his hands were pinned, the way his eyes went glassy when he was ordered to kneel. This heat might be simple anger at being manhandled, yes, in part; but at its root, it came from somewhere else. He smirked a little, and the flush bloomed, visible on Thrawn’s cheeks.
“Mind the blood,” the photographer said. The makeup artist shifted his hand so he wouldn’t smear the daubs of red paint artfully scattered on Thrawn’s costume.
“Ludicrous pomp and circumstance,” Thrawn growled.
“You must admit, sir, you cut a rather flashy figure,” Pellaeon said. The makeup artist pulled away and, since no one was looking for the moment, Pellaeon tilted Thrawn’s head to the side so he could admire the fire of red eyeliner on Thrawn’s lids. “It suits your skin tone, sir,” he murmured, and Thrawn jerked his head out of Pellaeon’s grasp. He paced irritably to the X marked on the floor where he was supposed to stand, blasted on all sides by portable spotlight drones, and flicked his cloak behind him.
“This uniform is not in regulation,” he complained.
“Since when do you give a fig for regulations?” Pellaeon asked, but before Thrawn could answer, he added, “And it is in regulation, sir. As of today.”
The photographer raised his camera. Thrawn, oblivious to it – or perhaps deliberately flaunting it – found his datapad and checked the uniform regulations with a pinched line between his eyebrows. The update was right at the top, Pellaeon knew: winter cloaks, authorized for planet-side missions as protective cover. With a subtly put-upon expression, Thrawn surrendered his datapad to an aide and posed wearily before the lights.
“Good,” said the photographer. “Now bend your knee – put your foot up on the dead body.”
The dead body in question was a remarkably lifelike dummy made up in Rebel-ish clothes – whatever unfashionable rags the New Republic was peddling these days. Thrawn eyed the mannequin with distaste and placed his boot against its plastoid hip. The camera clicked; the photographer’s assistant propped a sheet of colored tissue paper against the nearest spotlight and cast Thrawn in an ominous red glow.
“Powerful,” the photographer said, and Pellaeon, watching with his chin tipped down and energy growing between his legs, agreed. He made himself unobtrusive, hovering behind the propaganda crew as they manipulated Thrawn’s arms and legs for the perfect pose. Thrawn bore every touch with thinly-disguised bloodlust. He had a thing about touch, Pellaeon knew – a cultural hang-up, where only intimate partners could touch a Chiss in certain areas, almost all of which were being violated right now as the tailor pinned Thrawn’s trousers and the photographer guided his right hand to the phaser hanging on his belt.
“Good, good,” the photographer said, retreating back to his spot. “Chin up, now! Widen your eyes a bit. Try to look more masculine.”
Pellaeon stifled a laugh at the affronted look on Thrawn’s face. After thirty agonizing minutes of minuscule posing changes and costume tweaks, the assistant flicked the spotlights off and Thrawn’s shoulders relaxed by increments.
“Shall we do a shirtless shot?” the photographer asked the room.
“No,” said Thrawn, drowned out by Pellaeon’s, “Yes!” A flustered, murderous red gaze pinned Pellaeon to the wall.
“Sir,” he said with great dignity, “you of all people understand the importance of sex appeal in propaganda.”
Thrawn bared his teeth. The tailor was already behind him, arms encircling Thrawn to unclasp the cloak, while the assistant tugged briskly at Thrawn’s tunic. It wasn’t long before Thrawn stood bare-chested before them, his muscles rounded and powerful, his skin dotted with silver scars. The assistants studied his body as if it were a prop, murmuring among themselves about any tweaks they’d need to make in post, while Thrawn flinched at every touch and shifted his feet to hide whatever was going on between his legs. Partly because of humiliation, Pellaeon supposed, and partly because of what he must certainly see as a lover’s touch, inappropriately intimate, recorded on camera … all in front of, and on the orders of, the man who shared his bed. Thinking about the prints almost made Pellaeon giddy – literally drove the blood from his head. A moment of total but unwilling submission frozen in time; all these artists unaware of the role they were playing in the foreplay. Pellaeon turned away to hide his laughter and busied himself by talking to the photographer instead.
“Will all these photos be printed?” he asked.
“Oh, no, sir,” said the photographer, studying his shots so far. “Only the best of the best.”
“And if I make a private order?”
The photographer’s eyes slid sideways. Pellaeon raised his eyebrow.
“For internal morale, of course,” he said, and heard Thrawn positively hiss behind him.
