It had been many years since the three had met. They brewed some tea over the small fire in the hearth, and they gathered around the rough wooden table, and discussed what had become of them.

“There was nothing for me anywhere,” the dark swordsman said. “I walked and walked. When I didn’t walk, I fought. So many people tried to kill me. They’re all dead now.” The dark swordsman showed no remorse for the trail of corpses that marked his path through the country, nor did his companions expect it. “I warned them,” he said, “Before every fight I told them, ‘You’re going to die. There’s only one man good enough to kill me, and you’re not him.’”

The pale swordsman removed his glasses, carefully wiping away the fog. “I married,” he began. “We had no children, but we were happy. I became a retainer for a wealthy lord. He liked me because I had no fear. I knew there was only one man who could kill me.”

The woman’s long, pale fingers danced around the edges of her cup. “Why are you on this road,” she asked, “after all this time?”

“My wife died. Nothing mattered.” The pale swordsman placed his glasses on the table. The were dirty, the lenses cracked. “I walked, and I walked. Eventually I met a man, one who made me remember what it feels to be afraid.”

A drop of blood rolled thickly down from the dark swordsman’s mouth. He wiped it away, bright red smear across his face. “Alive,” he said.

“It was summer,” the pale swordsman said. “Warm.”

“Cold,” the dark swordsman argued.

“And you,” the pale swordsman said, turning to face the woman, “What brought you to this place before us?”

The woman smiled the smile of a girl. “I walked,” she said. “I walked alone, so far, until I could go any further.” The woman’s fingers, long and pale, far too pale, danced on the edge of her cup. Beneath paper-thin skin, veins and tendons flexed and shifted. “I walked in my mother’s footsteps, until I reached this place. Then I waited.”

“You need our help,” the dark swordsman said.

“To find a samurai who smells of sunflowers,” the pale swordsman said.

The woman closed her eyes. “I want to tell him the things I couldn’t tell him,” she said. “I know where to find him, but I can’t go alone.”

“You shouldn’t go,” the dark swordsman said.

“You shouldn’t follow us,” the pale swordsman said.

“I know,” the woman said. She drew a coin from the faded sleeve of her kimono. “Heads or tails?” she asked, though it didn’t matter, it never had.

Three travelers walked down the road together on a cool summer night. They had planned this journey many years ago, though they hadn’t known it then. Behind them a coin lay in the grass at the side of the road, face-up.

Only once. Bruce had only broken once, he’d only known that body once, but he’d seen it in his dreams a hundred times, and he’d seen it in Dick’s face hundreds more, in his pleading blue eyes and his soft voice when they were alone. Many years had passed now, and still there had never been another one like Dick Grayson, there could never be another one.

“I’m going to take him from you,” Damian told him, his fists clenched at his sides. “I’m going to take him because he’s mine.”

Bruce didn’t say anything for a long moment. He had broken only once, but he’d cracked a thousand times, lined from head to toe with them, ready to collapse, intact past all sense, all reason, all logic. In his dreams he saw Dick’s young, lean body, and heard his voice, there will never be anyone else like you. He remembered, too, a small smile, not so long ago. You know, he has your eyes.

“I hope you do,” Bruce said, finally.

They both knew it was a lie.

Taisei’s face was buried in his arms. “I panicked,” was the muffled reply. “I may have also been drunk.”

“You were definitely drunk, dude.” Jiro held up the ruined, glittery remains of what until last night had been a surprisingly classy Valentine’s card. “I guess we should have hid it from you when you finished it, this outcome was uh pretty inevitable to be honest.” He shrugged and tossed the valentine back on the table. “Too late now, I guess. Just buy him something, there’s plenty of time.”

Taisei shook his head miserably. “He hates when I buy him things, that’s why I wanted to make him something.”

“So make him some chocolates like a normal person,” Jiro said, realizing how absurd that notion was as soon as it came out of his mouth.

“He told me he hates sweets,” Taisei wailed.

Jiro, who had seen Yuudai eat half a cake when he thought no one was looking, rolled his eyes. Taisei was still having a breakdown, though, so Jiro bit back his exasperation and patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. “Come on, it’s not that back. It’s kind of…” Jiro tried to search for a word that was not a complete and utter lie, “…charming?”

Taisei sniffled. “You think so?”

“Just give it to him,” Jiro said. Taisei nodded and smiled. Maybe Yuudai would insult him so hard Taisei would finally lose interest in him and Jiro’s life could go back to normal. One could only hope.

* * *

Yuudai stared at the card, not saying anything.

“And so I remembered that, back in English class, our teacher had us make cards, right? So I thought, since you don’t like sweet stuff, maybe that would be good?” Taisei had been explaining the nightmarish clump of glitter and paste for about five minutes straight, and was starting to run short of breath. “I think the macaroni is supposed to be a cat, does it look like a cat? Maybe it’s not a cat I blacked out while I was doing it.”

Yuudai walked away without saying anything.

He hates it, Taisei thought, trailing miserably behind as Yuudai walked into the kitchen. What if he throws it away, right in front of me? What if he throws it on the stove and burns it?

Yuudai, however, did neither of these things. What he did do is walk to his fridge, grab a couple of fish magnets, and stick the valentine on the door. Then he shuffled over to Taisei, and kissed him on the cheek.

“You wanted to go to a movie, right?” Yuudai mumbled, blushing. “Let me grab my coat.”

It was all Taisei could do not to cry.

“Are you done yet?” Taisei whined, his chin resting on the counter, the rest of him bowed and twisted to accomplish such a feat. “How long does it take you to count stuff? It never takes Jiro this long.”

Yuudai flicked a wadded piece of paper at Taisei’s head, wishing he had something more substantial. “I finish at the same time every day,” he groused, “don’t come so early if you hate waiting so much.”

Taisei perked up and grinned, much to Yuudai’s confusion.

“What?” Yuudai snapped, feeling his neck getting hot.

“Usually you’d tell me not to come at all!” Taisei said triumphantly. Yuudai threw a pen at him this time, but Taisei managed to duck it. “Anyway, I lost my watch, I had to guess.”

“You have a cellphone, don’t you?” Yuudai grumbled from under the counter, where he’d ducked to lock up the cash box and certainly not to hide his bright red face.

“Oh, I forgot about that.”

“Idiot.” Yuudai, his complexion back to normal, popped back up, dusting off his hands. “I’m done, let’s go.”

Taisei practically clapped with joy as Yuudai closed up the shop. “I found the coolest place when I was out with my coworkers yesterday, only no one else knows that it’s cool yet, so you’ll like it, I promise.”

Yuudai looked at Taisei suspiciously. “Is it another cat cafe?”

Taisei looked hurt. “How did you know?”

Yuudai bit the inside of his lip to keep from laughing. “No it uh… it sounds cool.”

“And then we can go shopping!”

“No.”

“Spoilsport.” Taisei took Yuudai’s hand and dragged him down the street, talking and talking and talking. People stared at them, but Yuudai didn’t notice.

“Hey,” Yuudai said, “Are you a gay martian?”

“Maybe!” Taisei replied. “You can never rule anything out I guess!”

Yuudai smiled. It was really kind of nice to have a friend.

He closes his eyes. Sometimes it’s her, the one he hates, dead and bleeding and satifying. Sometimes it’s a girl he doesn’t know, a girl he wants dead but can’t kill. Sometimes she is dead, too, and it is unsatisfying. This time, though, it is the boy.

He never wanted to help the boy, not really. It had been tactically advantageous. He holds out his hand. It is advantageous now to kill him, though he does not know why he thinks that, in the dream. The boy holds out his hand, too. He doesn’t know he’s going to die. “Jack,” the boy says. It is a name he has not heard for centuries, a name he only hears when his eyes are closed.

This dream always stops here, and Spades opens his eyes. There is a pang, a stirring, something he doesn’t understand. He never wanted to help the boy, he tells himself, not really. He looks at his palm, and the long thin scar, almost faded now. He wonders if he really moves his hand, at that final moment, or if he adds that after he opens his eyes.

Your smell hits me, darker and sweeter than the other two who share your color. I turn my head and I see you, dead glassy eyes, blood spattered across your pale face like stars. I can feel you dripping down my face like the juice of an overripe peach. A moment later the vision clears, and you’re looking at me with concern and more fright than you will ever admit. I wipe my hand across my mouth, but only a black smear of lipstick comes away. When I am alone here, the dark void pressing against me, I often fantasize about killing you.

You lean forward and you kiss me. Gamzee says the others are still alive, he says we’re all having terrible dreams, nightmares we can’t wake up from. He talks to them, sometimes, he says they’re all here if we’d just look closely. When I dream I dream of your sweet red blood, when I’m awake I see the ghost of your mauled body. Your arms are around me now. I want to cut your wrist and paint my naked body with your blood, I want to watch the life seep out of you, I want to slit your throat so you can’t scream.

“I love you,” you whisper, so quiet, words I doubt you’ve said to anyone else before. In my dreams your blood is studded with stars, and when I drink it I drink of a universe.

Of all the possibilities I had prepared for, your utter indifference was not one. I had expected your anger, and I hoped for your love. No, that’s not right, either. I was sure you loved me. I don’t think I would have let myself feel the way I did if I hadn’t been sure. I’ve never loved anyone before, or at least, I have never acknowledged such a thing. I don’t know what I’m doing, but I know I have three years to figure this out, three years I had to fight for, and I will not waste them.

Kanaya’s skin glows faint in the dark, a slender silhouette in negative space. Rose touches her arm, and Kanaya winces away. Her skin is cold and smooth, like marble, like the skin of a corpse, and Rose wonders what it would be like to run her hands down Kanaya’s body, but they are far from that now. “You never did tell me about the phosphorescent skin,” she says instead. “You know, I had quite the opposite problem, for a time.”

Kanaya’s hand is on the spot where Rose touched her. She does not turn her gaze from the pressing dark in front of them, but after a time she smiles, just a little. “Do tell,” she says.

I didn’t expect you to love me back, why would I, how could I, no one ever had before. Why should you care if I stayed? The fact that you did was terrifying. When you got close to me I could smell the cosmos glittering in your rich red blood, and I wanted to split you open and drink you up, and that was even worse. Why didn’t you let me stay, why couldn’t you let me stay, why did you have to love me back.

“We call them vampires,” Rose tells her, “They are very popular among girls my age, these days, though I’ve never had much interest.”

“I see.” Kanaya plays with the hem of Eridan’s scarf, cinched tight around her waist again and still stained with green blood. “And what is the popular Earth lore of these creatures?”

Rose stares wistfully into the dark. Some of her hair has come loose, and Kanaya wants to brush it back, but they are far from that sort of thing. “Traditionally,” Rose says, “Vampires must live in the darkness, or face death in the light.” She turns, and smiles, just a little. “Now I wonder if it isn’t quite the opposite.”

My breath caught when I saw you. I always believed this to be a romantic exaggeration of terrible teen fiction, but it happened, I saw you and breathing didn’t matter, nothing mattered. I don’t think I really understood what it was I felt about you until that moment. Maybe if I’d understood before then, things would have been different.

Every day is the same endless blackness. It’s hard to tell if they’re even still moving. “Motion is just a frame of reference,” Rose says. “We can assume we are in motion because Jack hasn’t torn out our throats yet.” Her hair falls on her shoulders now, one of the few things by which they can mark the passage of time, though even that is unreliable, in this place.

“You told me it wouldn’t be so dark,” Kanaya says.

“Have you ever tasted red blood?” Rose asks softly.

As I sit here, thinking back on it, I wonder how things would have been if not for Vriska. If I had met you before, or perhaps long, long after, would it have all been different? Would we have wasted all that time if I had not been so frightened? Was it really worth it, in the end?

Kanaya cannot see the knife, but she’s knows it’s there. “You do not have to do this,” she says, but her mouth his dry and her words strained and heavy. Rose draws the knife across her palm, and rich red blood pools into the lines on her hands and drips, drips, drips down her long pale fingers. Kanaya stares and stares.

Rose reaches out and touches a bloody finger to Kanaya’s cheek. She traces out a pattern that she memorized long ago, Spica, Zavijava, Porrima, Auva, and more. The blood looks almost black on Kanaya’s white skin. Rose traces a thousand secrets there, encoded in her blood.

I don’t know why I’m doing this.

Rose smears her blood across Kanaya’s mouth, painting her lips blacker than black. Her heart is pounding. Kanaya’s head is light and giddy with the rich iron scent of Rose’s blood. She licks her lips. Rose leans in close.

You’re only going to hurt me.

“When did you read my walkthrough?” Rose asks, a lifetime ago. This is an awful idea.

* * *

It is night on an alien world. She sits in the green grass and looks up at the stars. There was a time when no one bothered looking, a time when there was hot dry sand under her feet, but she isn’t supposed to remember that. It doesn’t matter though, none of it does. She lies down and lets the glittering starlight wash across her bare skin. They don’t mean anything, not particularly, and their names are best forgotten, but she never will. “I miss you,” she whispers, but the universe is long dead before anyone knows it.

A face popped into Long Ma’s vision, obscuring the sky. Are you okay? Xiao Bo signed, looking worried.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Long Ma told him. He raised his arm, a little shaky, and poked Xiao Bo’s nose. “I almost won that one.”

Xiao Bo smiled, a hundred-watt bulb in the dark. You’ve still got a long way to go, he replied.

“Xiao Bo, that’s so harsh. I was recruited to be a pro, you know.” Long Ma tugged on Xiao Bo’s jersey. “Lie down with me. You’re tired too, right?”

Xiao Bo made a face that seemed to say it’s cold, but Long Ma was insistent as usual, and so he lowered himself down onto the court and lay down, his hands clasped together on top of his stomach. They stayed there for a time, their heavy breathing slowing back down to normal. Long Ma shivered, and Xiao Bo inched closer to him, until their arms pressed together. Long Ma smiled.

“You seem like you want to ask me something today,” Long Ma said after awhile. He turned to look at Xiao Bo. “Is something wrong?”

Xiao Bo shook his head, and then signed something that Long Ma didn’t quite understand. He caught one word, though.

“You want to know if I regret not going to America?” he asked. Xiao Bo nodded. “Don’t be stupid. I’m really talented, right? I’ll have another opportunity to go pro, but this,” and Long Ma grasped Xiao Bo’s hand, “This time in my life, I’ll only have once. I don’t want to regret it.”

Xiao Bo was blushing. He looked like he wanted to reply, but Long Ma wouldn’t let go of his hand.

Long Ma gazed steadily at Xiao Bo. “I love you, you know,” he said.

Xiao Bo covered his face with his free hand and sat up, trying to get away, but Long Ma held him back. “You understood me, right?” Long Ma said. “You already knew, didn’t you? No one else makes me feel the same way you do. Everyone in the stadium could have told me to stand up, but if you hadn’t been there, Bing Di would have the trophy instead of us.” Long Ma was almost shouting now. “You know that, right?”

Xiao Bo was peeking out from between his fingers. He nodded slowly.

Long Ma’s grip tightened. “What’s your answer?”

Xiao Bo frowned at Long Ma for a moment, then gently pulled his hand away. He signed something, a very simple answer, but Long Ma shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know that one,” he said. Xiao Bo looked frustrated, his hands balled up into fists. Long Ma wondered if he should just go.

“I’m sorry,” Long Ma said, finally. “I’m sorry, forget about it. Let’s play another match.” He stood up slowly. “I’ll definitely win this time, then we’ll see who still—”

But Xiao Bo was on his feet now, grasping Long Ma by the shoulders, looking worried. Long Ma really hated that look. He should always be smiling. The world deserved to see it.

What could Long Ma say? It’s fine, I understand, I’ll always be your friend? Maybe he shouldn’t say anything. Xiao Bo’s hands were still on his shoulders. “I love you,” he said again, because it was the only thing he could think of, the only thing that was true.

Xiao Bo smiled, surprising, beautiful, the same smile Long Ma had seen that first night they’d met, the smile that had taken his breath away. He leaned down and pressed his lips softly to Long Ma’s, the simplest answer he could think of. It said more than a thousand matches.

“The classification of hues is a societal construct,” Bubblegum said quietly. Her heart was pounding and her head felt light and airy. She stared at Marceline’s bare collarbones, but she dared not reach out to touch them.

Marceline tilted Bubblegum’s chin up. “Tell me you want it, Bonnibel.”

Bubblegum’s face grew flushed, and tempting. She couldn’t, she couldn’t. “I..”

Marceline kissed Bubblegum, just below the jaw. Her fangs left faint lines on her pale pink skin. “Tell me you want me to drink all the colors out of you,” she said, her rich voice raising goosebumps on Bubblegum’s skin. “Tell me you want me to suck you dry, tell me you want me to use you all up.”

Bubblegum put her arms around Marceline and pulled her close. “I..” she said again, and stopped, unsure. She could feel Marceline’s heart pounding against her chest.

“Tell me,” Marceline whispered in Bubblegum’s ear. “Tell me this time.”

Bubblegum closed her eyes. “I want you to love me,” she said.

Marceline didn’t say anything, but Bubblegum could feel her smile, and that was enough.

“Don’t talk such rot,” the tall one snarled. “Magic, really?”

“Sherlock, I don’t think you’re helping our case,” the smaller one muttered.

“Well it’s complete rubbish! Sherlock pointed his chin towards his black square. “My mobile is certainly not magic, is it, John?”

John shrugged. “You certainly do perform some impressive feats with it.”

“Now who’s being unhelpful?” Sherlock scoffed. “All magic is is science one doesn’t yet understand.”

Merlin smiled at that. He rather liked that idea, magic being science. Gaius did science. Science was well respectable. Uther, however, did not take what one would call an open attitude to such a notion, and had the pair’s exectution scheduled for the next day.

“I really think they were telling the truth,” Gaius told Merlin over dinner. “I don’t think they were using magic at all.”

Well, there was only one response to that, wasn’t there? Merlin was getting to be an old hand at breaking people out of the dungeons, anyway, so he didn’t forsee much difficulty in breaking out this pair. As it turns out, it was even less difficult than he’d imagined, because as he slinked around the corner towards the cells he ran straight into Sherlock, already out of his cell. The short one, John made as though to subdue Merlin, who hastily explained that he was not, in fact, there to re-arrest them. The three of them made their way quickly out of the castle, and slipped through back alleys and stables and secret passages until they’d put Camelot well at their backs.

“We were on a case in Wales,” John explained once the three had reached the woods. “Sherlock was investigating some ruins, and when we came out, we were here.”

“Meaning we got lost on our way back,” Sherlock muttered darkly, “and came across your backwards period civilization.”

John rolled his eyes. “Yes, Mr. Theories-to-suit-facts here refuses to believe we travelled back in time, though that is CLEARLY what’s happened.”

“It’s a completely ridiculous notion and I refuse to acknowledge your wild speculations,” Sherlock said, curt even for him.

“Well, laying aside the time-travel issue,” Merlin said, “Which ruins were you searching, and what did you do there?”

“They weren’t far from here,” John said, peering around in the dark. “Maybe a half-mile further in this direction. And we didn’t do anything, we only looked.”

“I took a staff,” Sherlock said.

John and Merlin both stopped dead and whipped around to stare. “You took a staff?” they said in incredulous unison.

Sherlock shrugged. “I didn’t think it was relevant,” he said, “Because we didn’t magically travel 1500 years back in time.”

“Where is it now?” Merlin asked.

“I left it leaning against the wall, it turned out to be unrelated to the investigation.”

Merlin rolled his eyes. “Well, let’s try putting that back then, shall we?”

“Let’s,” John said, glaring at Sherlock.

The ruins were indeed quite close, and Merlin marvelled that he hadn’t heard of them before. Sherlock lead them to the place where he’d removed the staff, a giant temple covered in carvings of what John told Merlin were ‘clocks.’

“They’re like sundials,” John said, “only they don’t need sun to work.”

“That is a gross oversimplification,” Sherlock said. The other two ignored him.

“Well then,” Merlin said, “a building covered in timepieces, that you tampered with, and then sent yourselves into the past.” He held up his hands. “Seems pretty obvious to me.”

Sherlock glared daggers at Merlin, but John grasped him by the elbow. “Better not follow us,” he said, “it might take you into the future as well. We’ll be back in a moment if it doesn’t work.”

Merlin watched the building carefully. It wasn’t long before something began to happen. The clocks carved into the walls started to glow, and the hands, carved into the stone, began to spin, slowly at first, then faster and faster and faster. Over the door, a numbered dial began to tick, one two three four, on and on in time with the spinning of the clocks. Merlin could feel the very air around him crackling with powerful magic, stronger than anything he’d ever felt in his life, and he gripped at a tree branch to brace himself against it.

Finally, moments or ages later, Merlin couldn’t be sure, the spinning finally game to an abrupt halt. 1400, the dial flickered, and then sputtered out, everything innocuous carvings once again. Cautiously, Merlin peeked into the temple, but the two were nowhere to be seen.

Merlin nervously looked back at the spot where the dial had been, then shrugged helplessly to himself. It was probably fine. He’d probably just misread it.

“I wonder what Gaius made for breakfast,” Merlin said, and made his way back to Camelot.

“It wasn’t my Jack,” the kid had said, and there was something in his eyes again, and you’d turned away from the monitor because you knew the inevitable conclusion.

“Draw, Spades,” she had said, and her blood flowed like a blue sky studded with stars. Yours is candy-apple red, like the brains and guts spattered on the floor in front of you. You raise your staff to strike again. You made this town, but you can’t remember why, you can’t remember the alternative. A young boy grasps your hand in the dark, and bright red blood spills between your fingers. The metallic tang of it lingers in the back of your throat as it pools on the ground, sinking into the dust of a long-dead planet. You hold your knife and remember the rich, thick scent of her death, the universe spilling out of her veins.

You’re standing over a young boy, and he reaches out his hand to you in the golden dark. Your arm drips with bright red blood. There’s something in his eyes that makes you want to turn away. You’re not supposed to remember this part. You’re not supposed to remember that his tears are pale red. You’re not supposed to remember the metallic tang of his blood.

hey kid

You hold out your knife and watch the bright red drops of blood drip on the floor. The boys eyes are wild, but there’s something there, a kind of respect, and something else that keeps you from walking away. You’re not supposed to remember the green light playing off his outstretched hand. Candy-apple red blood spills out between his fingers. For a moment you could swear you see it studded with stars.

You slip your staff back into the deck and cross out another Felt. You remember a hand grasping yours in the dark, and you pocket your deck. You made this town because you knew the inevitable conclusion.

When you smash the white faces you can see the cogs and springs pour out, falling to the floor. You hate them most of all, after the ticking (infernal ticking). Some of them are still stuck together, and you crush them under your black boots. They don’t even know that they’ve stopped working, they never knew what they were doing in the first place, never knew they were the heart that made the beats. It’s that ignorance that infuriates you, and you stomp on them again.

You pick up a spring from the floor and hold it up to the light. So small, so very small. It couldn’t have known, could it? How could it have seen what you see?

The ticking is in your head and it’s heavy in your chest and tight in your throat. No matter what you do it keeps going, steady and rhythmic. If you counted them, what number would you be at? How many more would be left? You smash in all the faces, and you smash them in again, but it’s futile, there’s too many of them, hundreds, thousands, you’ll never get them all, you’ll never stop the ticking.

You cradle the spring in the palm of your hand. It never knew, couldn’t have known. You have to stop everything to stop the ticking, you have to watch the cogs spill out the broken face, you have to destroy kill maim desecrate massacre kill destroy kill kill kill draw.

The spring goes in your deck of cards and Hearts asks you what you’re doing. You tell him it’s none of his fucking business, and you draw the Ace out and smash it into the clock-face, loud and erratic, crick crack crunch, but the ticking doesn’t stop, and you remember that agents don’t need to sleep.

She came back first, which Gamzee found intolerable. No one could figure out why he walked across the room and punched her in her pixie jaw, not even Karkat, not even Vriska herself, who could never figure out why anyone felt anything. She fell to the floor with a thud, and she gave him a dark look, one that suggested nothing Gamzee was interested in.

She didn’t try to deny killing Tavros, though she could have, because no one was sure if Gamzee was even capable of telling the truth about what happened in those murky hours, and Eridan was for the moment beyond anyone’s questioning. When Karkat asked her, she laughed her short, staccato laugh, “Yeah, that was me, who else would bother?” and Gamzee wanted to hit her again, keep hitting her, blue blood spattering across his face and up the walls and smeared across the floor where she tried to crawl away. Karkat, only now beginning to understand, gently squeezed his hand, and Gamzee felt the sudden swell of viciousness ebb away. “He’ll come back, too,” he told himself again, “They all will.”

Aradia returned next, or perhaps never left, she wouldn’t say and it didn’t matter, anyway. Karkat anxiously asked her about the rest, as though she’d know (of course she’d know). She blinked at him and said, bewildered, “They died,” and that was all.

The computers still worked, a little bit anyway. Gamzee could load up the timeline and watch Tavros smile as he stood shaky on his new legs. He could scroll backwards, and watch him crying as he left Vriska to die in a pool of her own blood. He could watch Vriska’s colors bleed out, over and over again, and he could stroke himself and watch his own colors explode across the screen and against the back of his eyelids. He could watch Tavros’ body tumble into blackness and land with a crunch far below, but he didn’t. He could watch their first kiss whenever he shut his eyes, and feel the prickle of Tavros’ hair against his fingertips.

They all came back, eventually, but none of them had seen him, none of them knew how to get him, none of them knew where to start. Gamzee stared up at the ceiling, cold stone against his back, Karkat stretched out beside him, their arms touching. At some point there was a kiss, soft and languid, but nothing else. Nothing was ever that easy, or simple.

“This is going to hurt,” the girl with the dog-ears said, and then she plunged her hands into Gamzee’s chest, rich purple blood pouring down her arms and dripping heavy into puddles on the ground. Gamzee screamed, and the girl’s eyes were soft, pitying, but still she dug and pulled and prodded. He could feel his heartbeat slowing, feel the blood draining away, leaving him grey and empty. She was breaking his curse, unraveling what had been decided in the dawn of creation. Death has no meaning without permanence. Blackness creeped into the corners of Gamzee’s eyes. Amid the swirls of color, the spectrum twining back on itself, Gamzee saw the girl’s eyes light up, and she drew her hands back, holding something small and good cupped in her palms.

The blood was gone, the pain was gone. Gamzee was laying on the stone floor, and he could feel Karkat pressed against his back, still sleeping. Above him was Tavros, smiling wide enough to show all his teeth. Gamzee wondered if she really had killed him, but then Tavros pressed his fingers to Gamzee’s mouth, and Gamzee closed his eyes. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

“I knew you’d come back.”

It wasn’t permanent, this restaurant job, just something to scrape together enough money to go somewhere else. It was one of the few jobs anyone would give her that didn’t involve taking off her clothes, and so she welcomed it. She met a lot of interesting travelers, sometimes went away with them if they were interesting enough and she had money enough to manage it, but more often she would write down their stories in her diary and sleep in the corner of an empty building or untended shrine, much as she had before. Sometimes she would do this for months, other times only for a week or two, before the road inevitably called her again, to search for something half-forgotten.

When Mugen finally recognized her, about halfway through the rice bowl she knew he couldn’t pay for, he narrowed his eyes in that expression of dumb disbelief that had become so familiar to her. He made a crude remark about her breasts, to which she twisted his ear until he squawked like a chicken. Fuu had to bite back a smile.

“You living here then?” Mugen asked, as she sat cross-legged legged beside him and sipped at a cup of green tea. “You some prettyboy’s woman these days or what?”

Fuu shook her head. “I’m nobody’s anything,” she said.

“Yeah,” said Mugen, “Me either.”

It was an abandoned shack on the edge of town that Fuu called home for the moment, and it was there she lead the road-weary Mugen in the dark, and it was there he slipped her kimono off her shoulder and placed his palm against her bare skin, waiting. “Yes,” she told him, and pressed her mouth to his, as perhaps she should have all those years ago. Her fingertips traced the scars across his stomach, some from his own stupidity, too many from hers. His skin tasted like salt.

Fuu woke up shivering, and she knew he had left. For a moment she was angry, but this soon faded away. Coincidence had brought him to this town, and she had brought him to this cold, drafty shack; he had no reason to stay. She shivered again, and picked her kimono up off the floor, beating the dirt out of it with the flat of her palm.

As Fuu pounded at the dust, a paper caught in the fold of her sleeve fluttered to the ground. Curious, she draped the kimono across her shoulders, letting it hang open in the front, and bent to pick up the paper. It was a map, scrawled over in messy red ink. Several towns were circled and then violently crossed out. Fuu’s heart pounded. She knew those towns, she knew the path they traced along the map, the same one she had slowly traced with her feet these past years. This town was the last, circled but not crossed out. Fuu held the map close to her heart, and felt her eyes fill up with tears.

The restaurant owner begged Fuu to stay. She had been there several months, and the owner had grown attached to her. He offered her a small raise, and a room in his family’s house, but she smiled sadly and refused. “There’s a certain person I need to find,” she said firmly, and despite protests she gathered up her few belongings and set out, with a surer step than she had known in a long while. She headed south, in search of a samurai who smelled of the sea.

The first time they kissed had been unlike anything Tavros expected. Gamzee had been gentle, and he had the most serious look on his face, comical beneath the ridiculous makeup. Tavros laughed at him, and Gamzee had finally smiled.

“You have no idea,” Gamzee had said, “how fucking long I have waited for this.” And he tilted Tavros’ chin up, and he kissed him so, so softly. Karkat’s stupid movies were always going on about sparks and fireworks, but they were a weak analogy for what Tavros felt at that moment. His heart had pounded nonstop. With that kiss he had grown wax wings to soar above the planet, and he didn’t know if Gamzee was the sun or the shade.

“Would you have killed me if she didn’t already do it?” Tavros asked quietly. Gamzee held Tavros’ severed head in his hands, blood dripping on the floor, too much blood. Gamzee tilted the head up and kissed the cold lips so, so softly. Tavros pressed his palm against the wall and watched Gamzee’s dreams fill with rich, blue blood, far too much blood and still not enough.

When Gamzee touched Tavros along the ribs, his whole body shivered. One hand tangled in Gamzee’s hair, the other gripped one of his horns, pulling him closer. Their kiss was hard and desperate. Tavros’ wings had melted in he heat where their bodies touched.

“I don’t want to wake up,” Gamzee muttered against Tavros’ skin. His tears were leaving little purple trails down his face. He wiped them away with the back of his hand, smearing his makeup and the brown blood clinging to his lips.

“No,” Tavros tried to say, but his mouth was full of blood. In the distance he could hear cruel, mocking laughter, short and staccato and familiar. Tavros realized he couldn’t feel his legs.

“Don’t you see?” she said, putting her arms around Tavros’ neck, “He woke up, he’s gone, you have to love me now.” She was smiling serenely at him. She always got what she wanted, didn’t she?

Tavros leaned with his back against the wall. His arms were smeared up to the elbows with rich, blue blood. He was looking up into the sky. Slowly, he raised his hands, straining to touch the clouds, but he had long forgotten how to fly.

* * *

“John,” Sherlock called one afternoon.

John peeked his head out of the kitchen, where he was making a valiant but doomed attempt at baking after watching too many cooking programs. “What?”

“I got a text,” Sherlock said, pointing at the mantle where he’d left his phone.

John rolled his eyes, but he knew it was useless to complain about it. He snatched the phone up and clicked open the inbox without a word, though when he opened the new message, his eyebrows nearly shot off his face, blowing his cool facade.

Sherlock frowned.

“‘Sherlock,’” John read, “‘In London for the month, would like to see you, we really need to talk. VT.’”

At these initials, Sherlock sprang up off the couch, and then awkwardly sat down, clearly infuriated with himself. “Text back ‘no,’” he said curtly.

“Yeah, but who is it?” John asked.

“Just send it,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m doing it,” John muttered, tapping at the keyboard, then swearing and tapping again. “They need to make one of these for actual human thumbs,” he complained.

“Have you sent it?” Sherlock asked.

John dropped the phone unceremoniously into Sherlock’s lap. “Keep it in your pocket next time.”

* * *

“You’ll never guess who was in here looking for you,” Lestrade said as Sherlock and John strolled into the station.

“Unless it’s the woman slicing up these girls, I’m not interested,” Sherlock said flatly.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Yes, the killer just waltzed right—wait, did you say it’s a woman?”

Sherlock was grinning his pleased, I’m-so-bloody-clever grin. “Most certainly.”

Lestrade was frowning. “It’s an unusual MO for a female serial killer,” he muttered.

“It is a most unusual woman,” Sherlock answered.

“Were the initials VT?” John asked.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. “John,” he said, “I’m good, but I’m not quite that good.”

“No, I mean,” and John addressed himself to Lestrade, “the person who came looking for Sherlock, were the initials VT?”

Lestrade’s face broke out into a smile. “So,” he said, “the doctor’s got his very own mystery on his hands.”

“Something like that.” John’s cheeks were going red.

Lestrade nodded. “Then all I’ll tell you’s yes,” he said. “Wouldn’t want to spoil the fun.”

Sherlock’s face was it’s usual mask of calm, but John noticed a fistful of papers crumpling beneath his fingers. “Did you tell him anything?” he asked quietly.

Lestrade gave Sherlock a hurt look. “Of course not,” he said.

* * *

John had asked Sherlock once who his flatmate before John had been.

“I lived alone,” Sherlock had told him without looking up from his laptop. “My old flat was cheaper than this.”

John had almost believed him, but later that night he woke up with the smell of cigarette smoke tickling at his nose, and he knew Sherlock had been lying. He watched wisps of smoke creep past his window, dissolving into the night air, and he wondered who Sherlock was thinking about.

* * *

“Victor!” Angelo exclaimed, ushering Sherlock and John to their usual seats. “Waltzed right in like nothing doing! Well, you’ll be sure I didn’t sit him down here, Sherlock, it’s your table, not his.”

“Very kind of you, Angelo,” Sherlock said.

“You’re better off,” Angelo nodded sagely. “John here’s better in near every regard.”

John frowned playfully. “Near every?”

“Well,” Angelo scratched his chin, “Victor was taller.”

“I’d really rather not talk about it,” Sherlock said, shooting Angelo a sharp, angry glance. Angelo looked like he wanted to say something else, but he bit back whatever comment he had and took their orders. “Black coffee,” Sherlock said curtly, and that was all.

“So you did have a flatmate before me,” John said once Angelo had gone.

Sherlock glared at the candle in the middle of the table, then dug out his wallet and threw his debit card on the table. “I’m going back,” he said.

John watched him walk down the street, hands shoved in his pockets. He never had managed to convince Angelo that he and Sherlock weren’t dating.

* * *

Once when John had been making some effort at cleaning the flat he had found a few news clippings that had fallen out of one of Sherlock’s many overstuffed folders. Old cases of his, as far as John could figure, or at least ones he’d been interested in. He spotted Lestrade in one of the pictures, and smiled to himself. Then something in the back corner caught his eye: a tall figure in a wool coat with his face turned away from the camera, and a young man with an arm around his shoulders, laughing.

For a moment, John wondered if he shouldn’t show them to Sherlock, pretend he hadn’t seen him in that photo and then point out, oh look, that’s you, isn’t it? He’d have to answer then, wouldn’t he?

Eventually, John shoved the clippings back into their folder, and put the folder in a drawer with the rest.

* * *

“Hello,” a young man said, sticking out his hand. “My name’s Victor Trevor, I love your blog.”

John looked Victor over. He was about Sherlock’s height, though more sturdily built and of considerably ruddier complexion. Light brown hair was brushed back from his hair in a style that John’s cowlicks made impossible for him. His nervous smile showed a row of straight white teeth. Handsome, really, though nothing remarkable.

“You’re not coming into the flat,” John said.

Victor drew back his offered hand. “I know that,” he said quietly. “I just wanted to tell him something.”

“Then you can text him,” John said curtly.

“Please,” Victor said, his expression pained. “Please, will you just tell him something for me?”

John crossed his arms. “Go on, then.”

Victor bit his lower lip, and then, “Tell him I was wrong.”

John frowned. “About what?”

Victor smiled sadly. “He knows what,” he said. “Please just tell him that, will you? It’s important that he knows. Well, it’s important that he knows I know it, I suppose.” Victor turned to leave.

“Were you and he…” John began, and then stopped, not sure what he wanted to ask, or to know.

Victor stopped, and John could see his shoulders rise and fall with a heavy sigh. “I convinced him to put himself into a position where he could be hurt,” he said carefully, “Against all his instincts, and all his better judgement.”

“And then you hurt him,” John said.

“And then I hurt him,” Victor said, and walked away.

* * *

“I consider myself married to my work,” Sherlock had said, and behind the awkwardness, John had seen something in his eyes that almost looked like fear.

* * *

“Wrong?” Sherlock asked, looking up from the paper.

“Wrong,” John said, sipping his tea.

“Oh.” Sherlock shrugged. “He wasn’t, though.”

“Are you going to go see him?” John asked.

Sherlock held up the paper over his eyes, and didn’t answer.

“Sherlock.”

“Do you like the violin, John?” Sherlock asked, flipping a page.

John shrugged. “I like it when you play it as though it’s an actual instrument, other times I’d like to toss it out the window.”

“And when I don’t speak for days on end, does it bother you?”

John thought for a moment. “Sometimes, but more often it’s a nice vacation from you constantly trying to prove you’re clever.”

“I smoke,” Sherlock said, with something akin to hesitation, “Though I’ve told you I quit.”

“I already knew that.”

Sherlock lowered the paper a little. “I’ve also done other things.”

John gave Sherlock a look. “I already knew that, too.”

“And?”

“And what?”

Sherlock closed the paper and made an annoyed face. “And do you like being my flatmate?” he asked, as though it should have been obvious.

“Yes,” John replied without a moment’s hesitation. “There’s no one else I’d rather live with, really.”

Sherlock nodded to himself, satisfied. “Good,” he said.

“Are you going to see him?” John asked again.

“No,” Sherlock said.

There were a lot of things John wanted to say, questions he wanted to ask, enough to take a lifetime to answer. Instead he spread out his half of the paper on the table, and said, “Look, Lestrade’s trying to grow a moustache.”

Sherlock glanced over. “He looks like an idiot,” he said.

John grinned, and poured Sherlock a cup of tea.

Diane sipped daintily from a cup of chocolate. She was perched on the edge of a plush stool, set in the corner as a courtesy. The chocolate was from a cafe a few doors down, fetched by a young page as soon as the tailor had seen the Tremontaine carriage pull up. “If I hadn’t come, neither would you,” Diane said airily. “You’d show up to your grand performance in a suit six seasons old, and too short for you besides. No, that won’t do.”

“I hardly think my wardrobe will make much difference on the outcome.” Alec shifted uncomfortably, and was admonished by the tailor for it.

Diane tsked. “This is theatre, David,” she said, setting down her cup with a soft clink. “If you don’t look the part, no one will take you seriously.”

Alec smiled ruefully. “It won’t matter, because I am an appalling actor,” he said. “Even when I look the part, and live the part, it’s never quite convincing enough.” To this, the duchess had no response, or chose to answer with disinterested silence, Alec could only tell about half the time. It was true, though. The students, they had known. Richard had known, if not all of it then at least some, enough to realize from the moment they met that Alec did not belong in Riverside.

The tailor finished his measurements, and asked Alec to wait a moment. He stood, shoulders slouched, looking around the room while Diane rose to point out samples. “This green,” Alec heard her say, “and perhaps something in black…” Green with gold brocade, he could almost hear Richard say. It hadn’t been so long ago. They had stood just there, arguing over colors. Alec’s eyes fell on a bolt of bright blue cloth, draped elegantly across a table. It was still as captivating as the first time he had seen it, for the same reasons.

“Oh, David,” Diane clucked, the usual playful tone she took with him gone flat, “Is that really necessary? If you can’t make it through a simple fitting then we may as well call the whole thing off.”

For a moment, Alec hadn’t any idea what the duchess meant, but then he felt something on his cheeks, something warm. He pressed his fingers there, and they came away wet. Alec stared in disbelief, while Diane lost interest and went back to the samples.

“Have you still got Richard St Vier’s measurements?” Alec asked after a time, still staring at his hand.

“Yes, my lord.”

Alec looked up. “Make him something in the blue,” he said, pointing across the room at it. “Nothing too showy, or he’ll never put it on.”

Diane raised an eyebrow. “A good choice,” she said, letting Alec hear a note of pleasant surprise in her voice.

“Yes,” Alec said, letting his arms fall back to his sides. He thought of warm hands against his back in the dark, a kiss on the curve of his neck. “It matches his eyes.”

Arthur flushed and hid his hands under the table. “It most certainly is not,” he said loftily, “and it’s not any of your business in the first place.”

“That was magic.” Merlin’s voice was quaking now, his hands balled up into fists at his side. “You were doing magic, right here where anyone could walk in on you.”

“You’re the only one who just walks into my chambers, and I gave you the day off,” Arthur countered, as though this was really all Merlin’s fault. Merlin erupted.

“I’ve been keeping my magic a secret for years, YEARS,” Merlin shouted, grabbing Arthur by the shoulders and shaking him, “and you’re doing it like there’s nothing to worry about, like it’s just a bit of stupid fun, you cow-poxed lily-faced dollop-headed PRAT!”

Arthur wriggled out of Merlin’s grip and stepped back to stare at him. “You do magic, Merlin?” he asked, jaw slightly agape. Merlin wanted to slap the stupid look off his face, so he did. Arthur yelped in pain.

“Of course I bloody do magic!” Merlin shouted, “Are you completely thick? How do you think you survived all of your half-baked quests, your charm and intellect?”

“And my courage,” Arthur added sulkily, which earned him another slap. “Stop doing that!” he said.

Merlin stood so that his face was only inches apart from Arthur’s. “I have saved the kingdom with my magic more times than I care to count,” he hissed, “and I haven’t been able to say a thing about it, I didn’t even get knighted when you were passing knighthoods out like sweets, and all this time you were doing magic in secret?”

Arthur smiled at that. “Now that you mention it, not exactly,” he said.

“Oh?” Merlin asked. “And what’s the technicality.”

Arthur held up his hands, palms out. There were some strange little metal devices affixed to each palm. Arthur slapped them together, and a cloud of colored smoke and sparks sprayed forth. “The ‘magic’ part,” he said. “That would be the technicality.”

Merlin looked like a startled deer. Reeling, he backed away until he ran into the table, against which he slumped helplessly. “Oh god,” he croaked.

Arthur was laughing. “I already figured it out, about you,” he said, removing the devices from his hands. “I told Gaius about it, and we both agreed this would be a lot more entertaining than just telling you I knew.”

“You are the worst prince,” Merlin said, staring at the floor, waiting for his heart to stop racing.

“Oh,” Arthur added, “and you’re mucking out the stables for that slapping bit, that was completely uncalled for.”

Merlin groaned.

There’s just no going back on a commitment like that, Tavros reasoned.

“On My WaY ;o)” trollian blinked back, and Tavros wondered what he had gotten himself into. What did sloppy makeouts even really consist of? Karkat’s dumb movies were full of them, but Tavros didn’t feel like they were a very comprehensive instructional guide, and he was no troll Will Smith in the first place. Maybe he could roleplay it; Gamzee could be some kind of jester/bard hybrid class, and Tavros could be a skylark who knew how to make out.

“Oh man,” Tavros said to himself, “That’s a pretty dumb idea, isn’t it?”

“No such thing as a dumb idea, just unfortunate outcomes.”

Tavros nearly fell out of his chair, he wheeled it around so quickly. “H-how are you here already?” he squeaked.

Gamzee spread his arms wide. “I don’t question the miracles, brother, I just motherfucking enjoy them.”

Tavros laughed nervously. “A, uh, miracle got you here, then?”

“That’s what I figure.” Gamzee shrugged and pushed his hair out of his eyes. “Sometimes when I’ve been hitting the slime pies pretty hard I get some blackouts and shit and then miracles happen.”

“I don’t know how to have makeouts,” Tavros blurted out, and then his cheeks went dark and he hid his face in his hands.

Gamzee was smiling. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, kneeling in front of Tavros and pulling his hands away. “We’ll just mash our motherfucking lips together until we figure it out.”

“That uh sounds…” Tavros looked into Gamzee’s eyes, and he swallowed hard, “Good?”

“Really good,” Gamzee corrected, leaning in.

Tavros’ heart pounded. “Fucking excellent,” he said.

And it totally was.

Tony set down a cup of coffee on the table beside Steve and sat in his own recliner. “All settled in yet?” he asked. “Jarvis been taking care of you?”

“Oh, I don’t like to bother him,” Steve muttered absently, turning a page in the notebook he had become utterly engrossed in.

Tony rolled his eyes. “He’s a robot, Steve, that’s what he was programmed for.” He leaned forward and squinted at the notebook. “What are you so into over there, anyway?”

“I was bored, so I found something in your study to read.” Steve glanced up, “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not really.” Tony settled back and took a sip of his coffee. “Tech notes don’t seem like your kind of thing, though. You want a real book? I can get you something about war heroes. Or cowboys, do you like cowboys? You seem like the kind of guy who’d like cowboys.”

“You sell yourself short, Tony, this is really good.” Steve grinned and cleared his throat. “‘Tony stared into Cap’s clear, azure eyes and sighed, contented…’”

Sadly, Steve did not have opportunity to read Tony’s voice in a charming falsetto, because Tony had leaped out of his chair and began to attempt wrestling the notebook out of Steve’s hands. Steve quickly stood up and held the book above his head.

“You promised you wouldn’t do that!” Tony whined, making a most valiant effort to jump high enough to grab the notebook.

“I haven’t finished reading it yet!” Steve said. “There’s still four more books to go! Really, Tony, that’s pretty impressive for a… what, fifteen-year-old?”

“Those are private,” Tony said, planting his hands on his hips and drawing himself up to his full, unimpressive height. “They are my private writings about private things and give it back now please.”

“Well gosh, I suppose I could do that,” Steve pondered, “Or we could do the thing that made Tony sigh contentedly.”

Tony cocked his head to the side. “Really?” he asked.

Steve smiled. “Only if you’ve got a domino mask handy, of course.”

Tony grabbed Steve’s hand and lead him down the hall. “If you have to ask that question, you definitely haven’t read chapter twelve.”

Tonight, the girl has short dark hair brushed back from her forehead and pale, smooth skin. Everything is different, no coquettish laugh or suggestive glances, only bright green eyes boring into Thor’s, and long slender fingers splayed across his chest. Thor hesitates, and those fingers grip tightly at his shirt, and Thor places a hand on the girl’s narrow hips and leads her out the door.

In his room, Thor undresses the girl in the dark. She wraps her pale slender arms around Thor’s neck and kisses him. Her lips are soft and warm, but her naked body is cool and hard under Thor’s hands, and he thinks of Sif. Thor presses the woman down, and his lips move to her neck, just below her jaw. He sucks at the skin there, and the woman whimpers. “Don’t,” she says, but Thor can already see the red mark on her white skin.

“You have beautiful hands,” Thor says. The woman looks at him, almost puzzled, and then he face softens a little and she smiles. Thor’s chest tightens. He has not seen that smile lately, that small secretive grin that has always been his alone, since they were children. Thor slowly spreads the woman’s legs. It has already been worth it.

In the morning the woman is gone, as Thor knew she would be. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and pulls on his clothes, squinting in the sunlight that streams through his window. With heavy, shuffling steps Thor makes his way to the dining hall, where his mother and brother are breakfasting. They greet him, and Thor mumbles something in return, making his mother laugh and his brother hide a smile in his napkin. When Loki turns his head, a dark bruise peeks out from his high collar, just below his jaw. Thor licks his lips.

“Relax,” a man’s voice answered, and the figure raised its hands, though the package was still clutched under one arm. “You’re a difficult man to get a hold of, Red Arrow.”

Roy’s eyes narrowed and he raised his bow, pulling the string taut. “Luthor,” he snapped.

“Call me Lex, please.” The figure stepped forward, and the weak light from the street fell on the familiar face. “May I call you Red? Or perhaps Speedy, I think it suits you much better.”

Roy wanted to whizz an arrow past Lex Luthor’s ear in an attempt to get him to shut up, but he knew all it took was a drunken bum wandering somewhere off in the shadows down the alley for that to go very wrong. Instead he cocked his bow slightly to the side, as though he now truly meant business. “Drop the package,” he said.

Lex Luthor actually laughed at that. “What do you think it is, a bomb? Surely you know me better than that.”

“I know that your assistant had a gun hidden in her arm,” Roy shot back. “Now drop it, Luthor.”

Lex shrugged and placed the package gingerly on the ground. “Suit yourself,” he said, kicking the package about halfway between the two of them. “I brought it for you, anyway.”

Roy frowned. “What’s in it?”

“A bow,” Lex replied nonchalantly. “A very nice one, or at least, that’s what I’ve been told. It was certainly a very expensive one.”

“I already told you,” Roy said, finally lowering his bow, though not taking his withering gaze off Lex, “I don’t want your blood money.”

Lex chuckled again. “Just think of it as a gift for services rendered.”

“I don’t want LexCorp’s gifts, either,” Roy said.

“It’s not from LexCorp,” Lex said, looking Roy up and down. “Call it a… personal interest.”

Roy was bristling now. “It’s the same thing!” he said. “You can’t buy me off, Lex. Sliding some new toy my way isn’t going to put me under your thumb.”

Lex smiled. “Under my thumb is not the position I want you in, Red Arrow,” he said, his voice smooth and deeper than Roy had heard it before.

Though perhaps not as well-versed in this area as a young man of Roy’s age might hope to be, something in Roy’s head finally clicked, and quick as the Flash he pulled his bow tight again, his eyes gone wide under his mask. “No,” he said firmly.

“You’re not going to shoot me,” Lex said.

“Are you positive about that?” Roy asked, “Because I’m not one hundred percent on it myself.”

Lex lowered his hands and strolled up to Roy, stopping to pick up the package where it lay between them. He handed it to Roy who, in his shock, took it without thinking. “You know how to get in touch with me,” Lex said. “And, before long, I’m sure I’ll figure out how better to get in touch with you.” He whistled, and a sleek black car shot around the corner and stopped on the street behind Roy. “Until then, Mr Arrow.”

Roy didn’t watch Lex step into the car, didn’t even move until he heard the roar of the engine fade in the distance. Then, and only then, did he level a stare at the box in his hands. After a moment’s contemplation, he ripped off the heavy brown paper, and opened the box.

Roy whistled low. “Damn,” he said, “That is a nice bow.”

“You’re leaving me,” Jason says, and then after a pause adds, “Again.” He tries to keep his tone flat, but Sasha can hear the accusation, can feel it biting at her. She feels the soft flex of Jason’s arm as he turns a page in his book, and she wants to sigh.

“Do you think I’m beautiful without the mask?” Sasha asks. “Am I still worth knowing with an ordinary face like this?”

Now Sasha has Jason’s attention. His book falls open on his lap, and he turns to stare. “It was never the mask that I found beautiful,” Jason says, and again, there is something there he doesn’t want to be, because that’s Jason’s biggest weakness and his strongest asset, that inability to detach. He grabs Sasha by the wrist, and if it were anyone else she’d be terrified. “It was what the mask turned you into that I wanted,” Jason tells her. “I wanted the animal lurking in the back of your head, I wanted the violence and the fear and the anger I saw in your eyes.”

Sasha shakes her head, strands of red hair falling across her face. “You wanted another one of you,” she says. “You fell in love with yourself.”

Jason’s grip on Sasha’s wrist tightens, almost painful now, but she doesn’t pull away. “What if I did?” Jason says, and his voice is smaller and quieter than Sasha has ever heard it.

Sasha looks across the room, to the polished red helmet sitting on the table. “What did the mask turn you into?” she asks softly.

Jason mulls the question over for several long minutes before he answers. “A man,” he finally says, firmly.

Sasha purses her lips. Shaking off Jason’s hand, she walks to the little table and picks up the helmet, staring at her smooth young face in its polished surface. She clicks it open and brings it to Jason, fits it over his head, tucking up the long red hair he’s refused to cut after all these months. Another touch and the helmet whirrs and clicks again as it closes. Sasha’s palm is pressed against the helmet, at the cheek. ”Maybe the next time we meet, it will have turned you into something more,” she says sadly. She leans forward, and places a long, lingering kiss on the place where Jason’s mouth should be. Jason reaches a hand up and runs his fingers through her hair, but then she breaks away and steps back, and his hand is left hovering in the air.

Sasha is staring at Jason now. There is a heavy lump in his throat. He wants to say so many things, but in the end he is silent as Sasha turns and walks away.

Jason smashed the window of Dick’s shabby Blüdhaven apartment and pushed Dick into the bed, one hand on his throat, the other at Dick’s fly. Dick made a weak effort to push him away, but nothing near true resistance. What a slut, Jason thought to himself, disregarding the hefty dose of tranquilizers he’d slipped into Dick’s faggy chamomile tea.

Jason slipped off Dick’s jeans and then undid his own fly while Dick glared daggers at him. Jason could feel the heavy rise and fall of Dick’s chest against his thighs. “My first wet dream was just like this,” he said, and he shoved his cock into Dick’s mouth.

Dick groaned, and one hand twisted limply in the sheets, while the other moved to stroke himself. He really is a slut, Jason thought as he thrust in and out. Dick sucked on him, hard, and Jason wondered who else he’d done this with, as though he even had to guess.

“You’re an asshole,” Dick said when Jason was finished, cum and drool dripping from his mouth onto the pillow.

Jason zipped up his pants. “The only difference between you and me, Dickie-Bird, is that I stopped giving a fuck,” he said, and he stepped gingerly out the broken window and down to his bike, hidden behind a dumpster.

The trip to Gotham was a long one, but Jason didn’t mind, it gave him plenty of time to think. The police station had excellent security, but the building beside it did not, and it was barely any effort to scale it and leap across the rooftops. They really should pay more attention to the roof, Jason thought as he hefted his crowbar and smashed the bat signal to pieces.

Maybe it hadn’t all been about power.

There is an empty chess board sitting on the ground, in the shade. Erik lowers himself down, feels the cool grass between his fingers. He looks at the board, and scours around for the pieces, but can find none. Slowly, he taps his fingers along the squares, eight by eight, and he remembers their last game, tracing the moves with which he’d been beaten and wondering what he might have done differently.

“What are you doing here?” a voice asks, flat and annoyed, and Erik looks up with a start. Charles is sitting cross-legged on the other side of the board, and he is frowning.

“I could ask you the same,” Erik says, and he looks down to see the board covered in carved wooden pieces, the game already half over. “I assume you’re the one who brought me to this place. Did you think I wouldn’t recognize it?”

“I didn’t.” Charles reaches out and grasps a rook with his slender fingers, moves it halfway across the board. They have done this before, Erik realizes, but he can’t remember exactly where he made the losing move, perhaps it’s already happened. “You’re not the one I wanted,” Charles continues, and he stares into Erik’s eyes.

Erik rests a finger on his Queen, then draws it back. “Who did you want, then?” he asks, moving a pawn instead.

Charles sighs and moves his Knight, and now Erik can see his mistake. “I want the man you chose not to be,” Charles says. He rests his chin on his hand and glances to the side. Shaw’s lifeless body lies there, his blood spreading slow and sticky on the grass. “He has no place here,” Charles says, “And neither do you.”

Erik stares at the board, but he knows there is no salvaging the game. He knocks over his King, and he stands to leave, back to the brown-grey world he is familiar with, back to the dark and the cold and the rain-wet gravel sliding under his feet.

Charles stands as well, though he doesn’t move to follow. “Was it worth it?” he asks.

Erik stops, and turns around. There is a single tear falling down Charles’ cheek, and Erik reaches out to brush it away. Charles does not stop him. His back is pressed against the tree, and his fingers creep up Erik’s arm.

“No,” Erik says, “it wasn’t.”

As the policewoman wrapped Shauna in a blanket and wiped the bloody handprint off her face, she explained that Shauna’s father had done some terrible things to her mother. “I’m sorry she thought this was the only way,” she said. Shauna could see her mother pressing her forehead against the glass window of the police car, the bruise on her face a deep grey-purple. That was always the clearest part, when Shauna thought back to that day, more than the bright red of the kitchen, more than the cold gleam of the knife that had clattered to the floor or the screams that had woken her from her nap, that pale, bruised face stood out stark against the haze, like a warning.

Shauna met Mark in her first year of college, in her psychology seminar. His smile was bright, and when he kissed her he was so, so gentle. They dated for six years before they got married, because Shauna had to be sure of him, Shauna had to know everything was just so. Her mother was only eighteen when she married, twenty-two when she cupped Shauna’s face with bloodstained hands and told her she loved her. Shauna wouldn’t make those mistakes.

On their first anniversary, when everything was still happy and perfect, Shauna asked Mark if he loved her. “Of course,” he said, sipping his drugged champagne. When he passed out, Shauna strangled him with a length of brown twine. It was harder than she thought it would be, and for a breathless moment as she leaned panting against the dining table she thought she saw him move out of the corner of her eye, but when she scrambled to her feet to check his body was still heavy and cold.

Shauna cut out Mark’s heart and roasted it, slowly licking the blood off her fingers as she waited. She was beside herself with excitement. When the timer went off Shauna pulled the heart out of the pan, her hands blistering, and she tore into it like an animal. Her stomach felt warm and full. She could never be alone now.

It was days before anyone called the police. They found Shauna in the dining room, curled up against her husband’s body, bloody juices staining her mouth. She put up no fight when they dragged her to her feet and cuffed her hands behind her back, and when they lead her out to the car she grinned wide. She had sworn she wouldn’t end up like her poor mother.

The first evening Damian had gone to punch out a thug only to see a flash of silver batons, his breath caught in his throat and his body reacted instinctively, twisting and jumping and ducking in tune with Dick’s movements. There was a smile, and a stupid pun, and it didn’t make any sense, all of it, it made even less sense than the day Dick had packed all his things and refused to look Damian in the eyes. Damian wondered if this is how his father felt even now, with all the Robins that had come before him. He wondered, as he pushed off Dick’s back to kick a thug in the face, if this is how Dick felt about Damian’s father, even now.

When the fight was over, Dick slipped away into the night before Damian could say anything, though he did not know what he would have told him even if Dick had given him the chance. Batman came up behind him, and asked him if it was Nightwing he’d been fighting with, and Damian realized that Dick had not said a word to his father, and he couldn’t help but smile. One of them had to, he reasoned.

The night before Dick left, Damian had gone into his room and laid his head on Dick’s chest listening to heartbeat and feeling the rise and fall of his chest. Damian couldn’t say why he did it. Dick’s pulse was quick and heavy, his breathing uneven. It was far from soothing, but it was something not unpleasant, and neither of them said a word, then or after.

Once, Damian went to Blüdhaven, alone, and he sought Nightwing out in the dark alleys and the crumbling rooftops. It was three nights before he found him, hanging off someone’s fire escape. Damian had expected to find him in battle, and he didn’t know how to handle him there, looking out sadly across the scum-ridden city he’d made his own.

Damian almost left then, unsure of how to approach, but then Dick was looking at him, and Damian’s feet moved to the edge of the roof, and he leaped nimbly to the platform below. His hood was pulled up, and all he could see beside him was Dick’s black-gloved hand gripping the railing. Black gloves, black spines, like before. Suddenly, Damian was back in Gotham, he was ten years old again and Dick Grayson was cracking terrible jokes and smiling too much, sullying the good name of Batman. He was ten years old, and looking at Dick Grayson with a longing he wouldn’t understand until much later.

There was a tug at his hood, and a flash of red streaked across Dick’s chest, and it was the present again. Dick smiled sadly at Damian, and told him to go home.

It was years before Dick came back to Wayne Manor, to sleep in the room next to Damian’s, the one that had always been his. For three nights Damian laid in his bed and strained to hear the rustle of sheets, the soft creak of the bed as he moved. On the fourth night, Damian threw back the covers, and he walked next door, his feet slapping noisily against the wooden floor. Dick was standing at his window, staring out at the distant lights of the city. Damian put his hand next to Dick’s on the windowsill.

“I’ve missed you,” Dick said, and Damian brought a hand up to softly cup Dick’s cheek. He wondered if his mother had known she was creating him for this one moment, as their lips came slowly together.

It is morning. Bruce Wayne stands alone in the Batcave, his palm pressed flat against an empty glass tube. Batman & Robin, the small bronze plaque says, with a date that means nothing to him.

“It is to be expected,” his companions agreed among themselves. “He pines still for this Jane Foster, he shall recover in time.” All that could be done, they concluded, was to try to take his mind from his short-lived romance.

“Stay awhile longer,” Sif insisted, while Fandral and Volstagg bellowed drinking songs off-key, swinging their tankards and sloshing their ale on the floor.

“I have had enough for one night,” Thor said, smiling that strange new small smile and setting aside his half-finished drink. Sif protested again, and Thor could see the naked pity in her eyes. She placed a hand against his chest. He took his leave.

Thor’s room was dark when he returned, save for a single candle one of the servants had left burning. Thor shed his armor wearily, letting it lay where it fell, and then he stumbled to the small table in the dark. He moved to snuff the candle when the flickering light caught something in the corner of his vision. He turned to look, and he drew in a sharp breath.

With slightly trembling hands, Thor took the object from its spot on the shelf. The golden surface was pitted and scarred from their battle. Thor rand his thumbs along the rough edges. The metal was cool against his fingertips, like his brother’s icy touch. He had teased him about that, when they were young, and Loki would smile at him, and press his cold fingertips to the back of Thor’s neck.

“What did I do?” Thor asked softly. He turned the helmet over in his hands, but like his brother’s cryptic smile, it held no answers for him. He stared into the dull gold surface, and his brother’s face flickered at him, angry tears welling in his eyes. Thor pressed his forehead to the brow of of the helmet, and wept.

“Considering we’re only five stories up, doubtful,” Jenny answered, swinging her legs back and forth. “There’s no one out here, anyway.”

“We’re out here.” Carol contemplated the handful of coins she’d dug out of the smashed vending machine in the hall, then tossed them all over at once. They looked like a fistful of glitter in the hot summer sun, glinting silver and copper as they showered down on the empty street. Carol picked up her baseball bat. “You know, I think what I regret most is never having a midlife crisis. I thought, you know, I’m young, I’ve got time to build up a life for myself and then ruin it.”

“We could do it now,” Jenny suggested, hopping down from her perch. “There’s still time to make bad decisions.”

Carol scoffed and kicked open the door to the stairwell. “Bad decisions require consequences!” she called, sliding down the railing, waiting for the clomp of Jenny’s boots to follow. “How can you have consequences now? What’s the point?”

“What’s the point in throwing loose change off a scuzzy hotel roof?” Jenny’s voice echoed. She hopped over the railing to catch up to Carol, her hair streaming behind her, dull copper in the dim stairway. She hit the step with a loud thud. “Come on,” she said, an arm around Carol’s shoulder, “it’ll be fun. Use your imagination. What do people do when they’re forty and insane?”

“Buy a car,” Carol said.

“Excellent. And where do we get the money?”

A slow grin broke out over Carol’s face. “We rob a bank,” she said.

* * *

The plastic masks weren’t necessary, but they were trying to create a mood, so they stopped by the only costume shop in town and took their pick out of what was still there. Carol found a Scrooge McDuck, the same as her first Halloween costume; Jenny chose a black mask with large pink feathers glued to the sides. Before they left, they drew dollar signs in silver sharpie on the sides of a couple black trash bags, for good measure.

There wasn’t much left when they got to the bank; looters had already got most of it, months ago, when it seemed like it might still matter, somehow. Carol smashed in the few intact computer monitors she could find still tucked away in their offices while Jenny fished around the vault.

“Is twenty thousand enough for a ridiculous car?” Jenny called.

Carol rolled her eyes. “Do you have any concept of what money is worth?” Her bat swung into a plate glass door, and the sound was the most satisfying thing she could imagine. “Actually, let’s just say we talked down the dealer, I’m bored and this mask is getting really… moist.”

“I told you to pick something more breathable. Do you have a car picked out?”

Carol smiled.

* * *

Carol parked the motorcycle in the middle of the square, by the fountain, filled now with rainwater and algae. “I have always wanted to do that,” she said, twirling the keys. “I’m a little bit attractive to you right now, right?”

“A lot attractive.” Jenny pulled Carol to sit on the lip of the fountain. When they sat, she didn’t let go of her hand. “Was your midlife crisis everything you hoped it’d be?”

Carol shook her head. “I feel like I’ve got one bad decision left to make.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Carol bit her lip, and brushed Jenny’s hair behind her ear. “I’ve loved you since third grade, you know that, right?”

“I know.” Jenny pressed their foreheads together and laughed. “I’ve loved you back since fourth. I wish I’d said something.”

“Close your eyes,” Carol said.

It was harder than she thought it’d be; Jenny’s thin shoulders felt like they’d snap as Carol pressed down, trying to keep her from thrashing. Jenny’s arm rose out of the water, grasping, and it was all Carol could do not to press her lips to that white wrist. It felt like it hung there for hours, for months, but it could have only been minutes at most.

When she finally stopped moving, Carol pulled Jenny out of the water, brushed her hair from her forehead, hanging wet like rotting reeds. She kissed her then, cradling her head in her lap, lips not yet cold. Carol had known for years she would die alone, and for the first time, she was glad. She sat there holding Jenny’s body close, and waited for the flesh to peel hot from her bones.

Roy had started down the dark road to his own apartment when he heard it, a rustle in the blackness and a deep, familiar voice. “Don’t,” it said, from somewhere behind him.

Roy stopped, and a cold grin twisted across his face. “Seems you keep closer watch on me now than you ever did when I was your ward.” He turned around. “What do you want?”

Ollie stepped out of the shadows. His face was bare, and pained, and it gave Roy a start. It had been a long time since he’d seen Oliver Queen without his mask, without any of his masks.

“How long?” Ollie asked, softly.

Roy shrugged. “A couple months before I left.”

Ollie looked down and fiddled with the hem of his jacket. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“You always are.” Roy tossed the bag idly from hand to hand. “What are you going to do about it? Are you going to beat me up and take it like some street punk?”

Ollie stepped forward, and he grasped Roy’s wrist. Roy flinched, but there was no force behind the grip, only a warmth Roy had long forgotten. His skin tingled with the memory of it. Safety, it had meant once, and kindness, and love.

“I was proud of you,” Ollie said after a long silence. “I’ve always been proud of you, and I should have let you know that.”

Roy took a deep breath, and he wrenched his arm away. “It’s too late for that now,” he said, and he turned accusing eyes on Ollie. “Isn’t it?”

Ollie didn’t take the bait. He put his hands on Roy’s shoulders. “You are my partner,” he said. “You’ll always have a home with me, and a place by my side, as I hope I’ll one day have a place at yours again.”

Roy didn’t say anything. The little baggie crinkled in his hand, and Ollie looked down, and if Roy didn’t know any better he might have thought Ollie was going to cry.

“You don’t have to do it alone,” Ollie said, and his voice cracked a little.

They stayed like that, for a time, Ollie’s hands on Roy’s shoulders, Roy standing stiff and quiet while his heart pounded hard in his chest. When Ollie left, with a sad smile and an awkward wave, Roy still stood there, shivering under the dirty streetlamp, for perhaps a quarter of an hour. He watched the clouds move across the dark sky, and then he dropped the baggie and kicked it into the gutter. He would be back tomorrow, probably.

But maybe he wouldn’t.

The man reached out his hand and wrapped his long, slender fingers around the handle. The scientists and S.H.I.E.L.D agents paid the man no mind, swerving to avoid him but never noticing what made their steps turn, and Clint wondered why he of all people was witness to this quiet moment. Slowly, he lowered his bow, and he held his breath.

The man gave a few experimental tugs at the hammer, and Clint knew from his own furtive experiments how useless it was, like the hammer had been fused into the bedrock. Now he had both hands on it, pulling and pulling without the barest hint of movement. Clint could see the strain in the man’s long, slender arms, the faint quiver before he released the handle with an angry huff. Clint bit back a smile. He had suspected as much.

The proverbial branch snapped, and the man turned to leave, his jacket swirling dramatically behind him. He looked up, and he caught Clint’s gaze for the briefest moment. Clint realized that he still wasn’t breathing. He saw a wounded buck with bright green eyes, and then the man was gone, no puff of smoke or swirl of light, just gone. If someone asked, Clint couldn’t have said if he’d ever been there at all.

“What are you staring at?”

Clint turned around and saw Natasha, her hand on her hip and one eyebrow raised. “Nothing,” he said. He carefully folded his bow back up. “Did you see the video of that intruder from last night?”

“Yes.” Natasha strolled over and picked up an arrow from the floor and held it out. “He’s not a mercenary, I can say that much.”

Clint glanced back at the spot where the man had stood. “No,” he said, “he’s something else entirely.”

Charles, hunched over his desk, jumped at the sound of Erik’s entrance, and that in itself was reason enough to worry. “Erik, hello,” he said as he hastily fumbled the cap back on a bottle of whiskey. “I’m afraid I’m rather indisposed tonight, what with settling everyone in. We’ll have to cancel our chess game for tonight.”

Erik crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “You know that’s not why I’m here, Charles.”

Charles smiled weakly. “No, I suspected not,” he said, and he turned away. “I thank you for your concern, Erik, but I’d rather be alone right now.”

Erik walked across the room, and he placed his hand on Charles’ shoulder. “No you don’t,” he said firmly, and he felt Charles hand reach up to cover his own.

“It’s my fault,” Charles said.

“It isn’t,” Erik replied almost immediately.

Charles shook his head. “I lost my temper,” he said. “I got cross with them for acting like teenagers, for trying to make the best of a difficult situation, and for bonding with what are probably the first fellow mutants they’ve ever met.” He tilted his head back and looked into Erik’s eyes. “If I had taken them with us like I wanted, they would have all been safe. Darwin would be alive. Maybe Shaw would have spared those soldiers, if he’d known the children weren’t there.”

Erik spun Charles chair around, and he gripped him tightly by both shoulders. “They went too far,” he said. “You were a parent disciplining misbehaving children, you had no way of knowing that they would be in danger at the base. You did nothing wrong.”

Charles tried to push Erik away. “If I’d been more compassionate, more understanding, if I hadn’t…” and he dropped his gaze to the floor, “If I hadn’t felt embarrassed by their behavior, after vouching for them in front of you.” Charles pressed his face into Erik’s chest, and Erik could feel wet tears soaking through his shirt. “It’s all my fault. I was responsible for them.”

Erik put his arms around Charles’ gently shaking shoulders. “We both were,” he said. “I don’t know what to tell you, Charles, but I have known evil men, and I have known guilty men, and you are neither, or I wouldn’t be here right now.”

Charles’ arms moved hesitating to Erik’s waist. “I need you,” he said, softly, muffled against Erik’s chest.

Erik waved his hand, and the door shut with a loud click.

It started on an unbearably hot August afternoon. Bruce Wayne, being a spartan and a maniac, had never saw a reason to upgrade Wayne Manor with air conditioning (though high-tech computer terminals in the bathrooms, well of course that was necessary), and so Wally and Dick were camped out in Dick’s room, fighting for space in front of the fan.

“Don’t you have a pool?” Wally asked, panting and slamming back a bottle of Gatorade. “You’re rich, I know you have a pool.”

“Bruce had it drained for cleaning,” Dick said, elbowing Wally to the side. He closed his eyes and let the air blow his hair back. “If I had a pool to swim in, I wouldn’t have asked you here to share my misery.”

Wally scooted over and rested his chin on Dick’s head. “It’s still weird to hear you call him Bruce.”

Dick rolled his eyes. “The Batman had the pool drained, then. You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re a terrible friend, and I’m bored.” Wally threw himself flat on the floor, savoring the very brief coolness of the hardwood. “We could take one of the bikes out, find somewhere with air conditioning. Or a breeze.” Dick, after all, had recently got his license, and with it access to Bruce Wayne’s impressive collection of vehicles, conventional ones that they could drive in broad daylight. Wally was itching to try one out.

“I don’t feel like going anywhere,” Dick said, and Wally wanted to strangle him.

“Well,” Wally said, “Did you just ask me over to sit around in your room and try not to die of dehydration? Because if you did then you are an even worse friend than I thought, bro.”

Dick grinned and laid down beside Wally. “For your information, that’s not why I invited you over, bro.”

“Oh?” Wally turned his head and cocked an eyebrow. “Did you have something interesting in mind?”

“Yep, Dick said, a mischievous glint in his blue eyes, and he grasped Wally’s tshirt and dragged him in for a kiss.

At this point, Wally perhaps should have stopped to wonder if perhaps it was a bad idea to make out with the Batman’s sixteen-year-old ward in the Batman’s mansion under the watchful gaze of Dick’s Batman posters. Four-and-a-half years of sexual frustration, proved this matter nearly impossible to concentrate on. Dick’s fingers crept along the side of Wally’s face, and “nearly” got tossed out the window, too.

“This is an aster,” Wally muttered between kisses. “I hate what you do to the English language, but this is a god damn aster.”

“I’ve been wanting to kiss you since I was twelve,” Dick said, slipping a hand up Wally’s shirt. “Does that make me a perv?”

“No, but me wanting to kiss you back makes me one.”

Dick kissed Wally’s neck. “That’s fine, then.”

Wally, now completely divested of his shirt, rolled over and raised himself up over Dick. He studied his face, the flushed cheeks and the full lips and the naked hunger in his eyes. My god, he thought, is this really happening? Dick dug his fingers into the hair at Wally’s nape, and that certainly felt real enough. The fingers that dug into his arm, those were real too, and it was a moment before realized that they weren’t Dick’s. Someone dragged him up halfway to his feet and shoved him across the room, making him his the wall hard enough to make his vision go starry.

Wally was about to yell at whomever it was who had barged in, when he suddenly remembered just whose house he was in, and who was the only likely person to walk into Dick’s room like he owned the place, mostly because he did.

“Batman,” Wally squeaked. Bruce was looking down at him with an expression Wally had never seen on his face before, and this was it, he was sure of it, this is how he was going to die. It would be slow and painful, and Bruce would bury his body somewhere below the Batcave, and Dick would leave a single rose on his grave every Sunday.

“Bruce!” Dick yelled, and Batman turned away, and Wally’s terror ebbed slightly as Dick told off his mentor. “I’m sixteen, I can do whatever I want with whomever I want!”

“Not under my roof you can’t!” Bruce yelled back. “We went over the ground rules, Dick!”

“When I was twelve!”

Wally, seeing the opportunity to beat a hasty exit while the two argued, quietly gathered his things and sped out the door almost fast enough to break the sound barrier. He should probably have been fearing for his life, or wondering where things stood between Dick and himself, or dancing with joy over a kiss he’d been waiting years for. However, he had only one thought as he made his way back home:

Dear god, the Batman saw me with a boner.

“It’s very lonely,” Alex said, “Being different.”

Armando swallowed and licked his dry lips. “You don’t know the half of it,” he said. Alex’s hand moved further up his thigh, and Armando reached out to stop it.

Alex stared straight into Armando’s eyes. “Was I wrong?” he asked. He felt like there was a vice on his chest and something hot lodged in his throat, but he tried not to show it. Armando’s dark, slender fingers laced together with Alex’s, and Alex took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

“The others might come back,” Armando said, quietly. They were sitting in the lounge, the pinball table blinking lazily behind them. He stood up, and Alex followed, their hands still clasped together. They made their way out into the courtyard, stumbling together into one of the darkened corners, and maybe there were CIA agents skulking about, but neither of them cared. Armando pressed Alex into one of the cold cement walls, and he kissed him hard on the mouth.

“What are the odds?” Armando muttered, though to himself or to Alex it was impossible to tell. Alex gripped him by the collar and kissed him again. It was almost enough to make one start believing in fate.

“Why are your hands always ice cold?” Thor asked, rubbing his arm where Loki had touched it. They had been discussing their father’s latest life lesson–joking about it, to be accurate–and Loki had cuffed his brother playfully on the arm, and elicited something that Thor would never admit was a shriek. “Do you go off gallivanting in the mountains when you tell me you’re practicing your sorcery?”

“You’re just too hot-blooded,” Loki replied, only half-joking. He held his hands to his face and felt nothing amiss. “I don’t feel anything.”

Thor laughed. “They’ve probably gone numb!” he exclaimed, and he took Loki’s pale slender hands and clasped them in his own, rubbing them together to warm them. “There, that’s better, isn’t it?” he asked.

Loki said nothing, only stared at Thor’s hands, rough and ruddy against his own. This wasn’t the first time Thor had teased him about this, not the first time he’d tried to warm him, but something was amiss. Thor’s hands weren’t just warm, but searing hot, like he’d thrust his hand into a furnace to watch the skin blister and peel from his bones. The hair on the back of his neck pricked upward.

“Loki?” Thor asked, his face showing mounting concern. No secrets, not with him. Loki pulled his hands away.

“Your palms are sweaty,” Loki said. He turned his nose up in the air, and Thor laughed as he always did.

“And yours are as soft as a maiden’s,” Thor said, slinging his sword over his shoulder. “A little practice with a blade would remedy that, brother.”

Loki wriggled his fingers. “I prefer the hands-off approach,” he said.

Thor shrugged. “I will be in the training ring with Fandral and Volstagg if you change your mind,” he said, waving as he headed out. “If not I shall see you at dinner.”

Loki waved back and watched his brother depart. When he was certain he was alone, Loki held his hands, still burning where Thor had touched them, once more against his cheeks. Again, he felt nothing, no particular warmth or coldness seeping into his skin. It would be a very long time before he realized what that meant.

* * *

Thor was not one to knock, nor, indeed, to ask permission to do much of anything, but Loki had never become quite used to the way Thor would barge into his chambers as though he owned them when few would dare even knock meekly at the door. Of course, Loki reasoned, he would own them eventually, that much had become painfully obvious over the years, but that still gave him little right to walk in and fling himself on the bed next to Loki without some basic formalities.

“Father’s decided to present me with Mjolnir,” Thor said. He cupped his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. “The ceremony will be in two days’ time, you are the first I’ve told.”

Loki contemplated closing his book, but decided to instead needlessly flip the page for dramatic tension before answering. “Are you nervous?” he asked, sneaking a sideways glance at his brother. He was not looking back.

“Perhaps,” Thor said, and then, “No, not nervous. Excited, I think.”

“It is a great honor.”

“So I am told.” Thor turned and propped himself up on one arm, staring at Loki. “You will be at the ceremony, of course.”

Loki glanced at Thor and raised an eyebrow. “Is that a question or an order?”

“Call it a strongly worded request.”

Loki sighed and closed his book, having long forgotten his place, and rested the volume on his lap. “I do little else beside stand around and watch Father give you commendations for one thing or another,” he complained. “Ceremony to celebrate your coming of age, ceremony for your first victory in battle…” Loki paused, and smiled, “Ceremony for being a headstrong prat.”

Thor laughed and rolled over onto his back. “If you have some sort of sorcery commendation I shall certainly attend,” he said. “Ceremony of ridiculous pointed hats, for instance.”

Loki thwacked Thor with his book. “I like my pointed hat,” he said, and then, “Are you planning to sleep here? You’re a little old for that.”

Thor closed his eyes. “I fear I shall not sleep at all if I return to my chambers,” he said. “I have always felt calmer beside you. Do you remember when we were children and I would sometimes wake in the night after dreaming of battle?”

“That was long ago.” Loki nudged Thor with his foot. “Go and tell your news to Sif and the Three, they shall be quite angry with you if they hear it elsewhere first. I do not like to think of what Sif may do.”

“She would likely take up Mjolnir herself and give me a sound beating with it.” Thor raised himself up slowly and stretched his arms above his head. “I will probably be occupied with the preparations,” he said, “but I will see you and your pointed hat at the ceremony.”

Loki smiled. “Of course,” he said, and Thor smiled back and clapped him warmly on the shoulder before he took his leave. Once the heavy oak door closed shut, however, Loki’s face fell into a troubled frown. He drew his knees up against his chest, and he stared at the rumpled sheets where Thor had lain. He bit his lower lip, and his hand strayed to the pillow, and he pressed his palm flat against it and felt it, that elusive warmth still lingering on the fabric. He shifted, and before he knew what was happening he had all but thrown himself into the sheets, twisting, writhing, trying to draw that heat into his body but it wasn’t enough, it was already fading.

Loki opened his mouth against the pillow. “Thor,” he choked out, strangling on it, and just like that it was over, he was scrambling to the other side of the bed with tears pricking at his eyes. Loki took several gasping breaths, and then he stood, and he stripped the sheets off of his bed and flung them across the room. He sank to his knees, his breathing still heavy, and he lay flat on the cold stone floor, and passed the rest of the night there.

* * *

A wave of his hand, and the figure in front of him changed to Thor. Another wave and it was Sif, then Fandral and Volstagg and Hogun, then back Loki, then to Thor again. A clever little party trick, aside from being tactically advantageous. Loki smiled, and the Thor shade looked straight ahead, unblinking.

“I’ll have to work on that,” Loki muttered to himself. Empty puppets certainly wouldn’t fool anyone, not for long enough. He scrunched up his brow and and made some slow gestures with his hands, and there was a flicker in the shade’s dead eyes, and he turned and smiled at Loki. “Better,” Loki said, and the shade beamed at him and swung his hammer around with measured swagger. Better than better, Loki thought with a wry grin. He motioned to dismiss the shade, deciding to work on them further in the morning, but something stayed his hand. He looked at the shade smiling benignly at him. Thor. Of course he’d made it Thor.

Loki stood and closed the distance between himself and his creation. “You don’t know anything, do you?” he whispered, resting a hand on the shade’s chest. It felt solid, more real than he’d expected. The shade stared at him, and Loki moved his hand upward, fingertips stroking softly across the shade’s throat. Even the stubble felt real. He moved his lips closer to the shade’s, so they nearly touched when he spoke. “You look, but you never see anything beyond your narrow gaze, you never step back and see the obvious.” Loki’s fingers twined in Thor’s hair, and he kissed him softly, and then Thor was kissing him back, unprompted. Rough hand pressed into Loki’s back, and he sighed and opened his mouth.

Something was wrong.

Loki pulled back, his breathing heavy, and he looked Thor up and down. Every detail was right, down to the befuddled look on his face. Everything… and then it hit him. Loki pulled Thor’s face towards him again, but this time, he pressed their foreheads together, and he could feel the shade’s skin against his own, but nothing else. “Of course,” he muttered, and then he chuckled helplessly and pushed his creation away, slumping against the table.

The shade made as if to come towards him. “No,” Loki said. “Stay there, I want you to see this.” Slowly, like a creeping madness, Loki placed a hand on the table to steady himself, and the other he slipped down the front of his trousers. He gasped, and he looked at the shade, into Thor’s blue eyes. “See what you’ve reduced me to,” he said, stroking himself. “This is all because of you.”

The shade said nothing. Loki’s movements sped up, his breath coming in heavy pants now. He did not take his eyes from Thor’s the whole time, not until he came and his eyes fluttered shut on their own. When he opened them, the shade was gone. Loki slammed his fist on the table.

* * *

“You’re the one who talked yourself into my bed,” Fandral said. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, and there was an arrogant smirk on his face. “So don’t go blaming this on me, Loki.”

Loki held his head, the sheets pooling about his waist. “Yes,” he said, and behind his eyelids flashed the desire to choke the smug smile from Fandral’s face. “I remember. I fear I indulged myself too much of the ale. Forget it, and I shall do the same.”

Fandral pushed himself off the wall and walked to the bed, leaning down to place his arms on either side of Loki, their faces close together. “Ale or no,” he said, “You should be more cautious of whose name you call while in the throes of passion.”

Loki, without a moment’s hesitation, picked up the dagger he had left at the bedside and pressed it to Fandral’s throat, drawing drops of scarlet blood that dripped red trails down his neck. Every muscle in Loki’s pale, naked body was tensed. “If you tell a soul I will destroy you,” he hissed. “You, and anything you’ve ever loved.”

“I believe you would.” Fandral stared coolly into Loki’s eyes. “I won’t tell, but I will still know that you are even sicker and more twisted than any of us suspected.”

“That I already knew, Fandral,” Loki said. At this, Fandral smirked again, and Loki narrowed his eyes, and he pulled back the dagger and drove it into Fandral’s shoulder.

Fandral let out a howl, unprepared for the pain. Loki withdrew the dagger with a sickening squelch and let it clatter to the ground. Fandral was clutching his shoulder and glaring, but Loki paid him no mind. He gathered his clothes and dressed, almost leisurely, and left without another word, heedless of the bright red drops of blood spattered across his face.

When Loki reached his chambers, he picked up a glass bottle from a shelf, and hurled it against the floor. Another ceremony tomorrow, the big one, the one that would declare Thor the new king, the one he’d known was coming since they were children. “There shall always be a place for you at my side,” Thor had assured him, and Loki had smiled, “Of course, brother.” He dropped another bottle and shivered a little when it smashed against the stone floor. Thor was about to get everything he’d ever wanted, and never deserved, and what did Loki have? What remained to him? Not even his dignity, not any more, not when Thor’s slightest touch drove him to the edges of sanity, not when Fandral sat in his room nursing a wound that couldn’t possibly make him forget. No, Loki had nothing.

Loki sank to the floor, getting colored oils on his hands and his knees. He could feel bits of glass digging into his shins, but it didn’t matter. He stared ahead blankly, and as as he did, a thought sprung to mind, barely the shadow of a plan, but there all the same. He knew the secret paths that even Heimdall could not see, had stumbled upon them when he was still but a boy. He knew the way into Jotunheim.

Yes, wouldn’t that be perfect? He stood, dripping blood from where the glass had cut him. Why shouldn’t Thor suffer one small fraction of what Loki had suffered all these years? Thor had taken so much from him, had taken all of him, so why shouldn’t Loki take this one thing, this one moment? Was it really so much to wish for?

Loki took up his cloak.

* * *

“And why should we trust you, Asgardian?” the frost giant asked.

Loki met the giant’s probing gaze with one as hard and as cold as he could make it. “Because my greatest desire is to see Thor suffer,” he said, and the giants found this satisfactory. The chill wind blew against Loki’s face, but he felt nothing.

The unmistakable creak of the door stops Roy cold, and he tenses. He is certain he locked it, and his bow is on the table, why is his bow on the table? Never let your guard down, Roy, he berates himself. There is a knife on the counter, and it will have to do. He readies himself to pounce.

“Nice place you have here,” the intruder says, and Roy knows the voice immediately. Oliver Queen. The tension leaves his shoulders, and he debates whether or not to put down the knife.

“What do you want?” Roy asks, refusing to turn around.

“I was in the neighborhood.” There is a rustle as Ollie places something on the table. “I thought you might like to have this,” he says.

Roy glances back and scoffs. “You can keep it,” he says, turning back to fill the kettle and crank up the stove.

Ollie’s shoes creak on the worn wooden floor as he steals behind Roy, places a hand on his shoulder. Roy takes a deep breath and fixes his eyes straight ahead, into the darkened window where he can see the ghost of their reflections. Ollie has come out of costume, somehow more conspicuous in this run-down neighbourhood, and his face… unhooded, unmasked, he hasn’t seen it this way in so long. Roy can feel his pulse speeding up, and his hands clench on the edge of the counter top.

“Was it really that bad?” Ollie asks, and there is a strain in his voice Roy has never heard before. He looks hurt, but Roy pretends he doesn’t notice. “I gave you a home and a purpose, does that mean nothing to you anymore?”

There is a lump in Roy’s throat. “Less than nothing,” he lies. He feels the grip on his shoulder tighten, and then Ollie has thrown him to the floor, and Roy knows that this time, finally, he’s truly gotten to him, finally he’s gone too far. Reeling from the impact, Roy looks up and see Ollie looming overhead, his fists clenched, and his face… oh, his face.

“I don’t know what you want me to do,” Ollie says, just short of screaming, a note of helplessness lingering. “Do you want me to ignore you, or get angry with you, or take you back with me kicking and screaming? What do you want from me, Roy? What’s the point?”

Roy stands, slowly, trying not to shake, to show weakness. He draws himself up as tall as he can and stares straight into Ollie’s eyes, and he wishes he hadn’t taken off his mask. “Get out of my apartment,” he says.

Ollie flinches, and for one almost terrifying second Roy thinks that maybe he’s not going to leave, but in the end he turns away and walks out the door. After he leaves Roy’s knees get weak and he stumbles across the room, knocks against the table and then slumps against the wall. He lets himself slide down to the floor as he takes several deep, gasping breaths, tilting his head up and blinking furiously. There is a yellow felt hat crumpled in his left hand. Somewhere behind him, the kettle whistles.

They’re not going to be posted here (aside from the few I may polish up) so if you’d like to read them, click here!

GONNA HAVE A BALL TODAY

John is looking at me, and I shove a brown paper bag into his free hand and tell him to go back to the flat. I know he will not listen to me, he never does, but now is not the time to explain Victor Trevor to him, it’s the time to dash off after that shabby brown coat, purchased four years ago from a charity shop, cigarette burn on the left sleeve.

If there was anything John Watson had learned in his two years with Sherlock, it was that when he ran off without explanation something terribly interesting was about to happen, and if you missed out on it it was your own stupid fault. He waited until Sherlock had loped about a block away, and then quickly followed after him, juggling the shopping as he ran. The eggs, he thought, were certainly done for.

They had only gone a few blocks when Sherlock finally slowed down to a brisk walk. Judging by the way he kept nervously glancing at him, his target was a young man in a shabby coat. He was tall, around Sherlock’s height, Sherlock’s curly mop obscuring the defining inch or so. Solid build, light brown hair brushed back from his forehead in waves. Handsome in a rather unremarkable way, John concluded. Sherlock passed him by and whipped out his mobile, pretending to text, slowing down enough to bump quite naturally into the young man he’d been trailing. Clever, John thought.

John’s pocket buzzed. “Might be late,” his phone said.

He is surprised to see me, but I flatter myself in concluding that it is not unpleasantly so. The familiar citrus scent of his aftershave cuts through the damp air, bringing with it a thousand moments I am incapable of deleting, Cambridge and the woods near his father’s house and our dingy London flat, but I cannot let this catch me, not right now. Box it up and shove it away in the dark, to fester and grow roots. If I want nothing to do with those six years, what am I standing here for, raking my eyes over his square jaw and light brown eyes and the pale single freckle dashed on the bridge of his nose.

“Sherlock,” he says, “I didn’t expect to run into you.”

“I lived in London three years ago,” I say, my hands shoved into my pockets, “One might safely assume I’d live here still. You’re the one who left.” I want to bite my tongue at that little slip, because that’s the crux of it, isn’t it, Victor Trevor? You informed me that I never loved you and you left for Germany to learn to make terrible films, and I hated you for it.

He smiles. “No you don’t,” he says.

No I don’t, I allow.

John couldn’t tell what they were saying, not over the din of the street, not from a safe distance, anyway. Small talk, probably, or at least as valiant an attempt as anyone could make with Sherlock. They looked awkward as anything standing there, avoiding looking at each other. Something was going on, or rather, had gone on, but John couldn’t quite put his finger on it, not until the young man stroked Sherlock’s cheek with his thumb, fingers lingering on his jaw.

Sherlock stood there for a moment, a look on his face unlike anything John had seen on him before. Something almost like love, perhaps, or maybe confusion. Were they really so different? John remembered that night at the pool, I’ve been reliably informed I don’t have one, and Moriarty’s smirk, We both know that’s not quite true. Now John wondered if maybe he too had caught this expression, sometime in the past.

Sherlock smacked the young man’s hand away and stepped backward. It was most definitely confusion now, and anger, real anger, a true rarity. The young man tried to grab Sherlock’s hand and was rebuked almost violently; John wanted to jump out of hiding and take Sherlock away, back to the flat, but he held himself in check. Sherlock, clearly disgusted, turned on his heel and set off down the road, in the direction opposite Baker Street.

I have walked unthinkingly to our old flat, Victor’s and mine, and I am furious with myself for it. The old peeling doors have been freshly painted, but aside from that the building looks the same as the day we moved in. The new tenants, I note, have not even changed the curtains; thick brown drapes hang heavy across our old window like dead things, blocking out the sunlight.

I finger the set of keys in my pocket. If they couldn’t be bothered to change their window trimmings, certainly the locks had escaped their attention as well. I remember the little packet stashed in the moulding, the one I decided to leave as a house-warming gift to the intrepid. I didn’t want to take it with me, though I took three others, hidden in little cracks and crevices at Baker Street. I haven’t touched them, not yet. I don’t want to start today, and I don’t want to climb these steps and fit the key into the unchanged locks and pry the moulding off the wall in the bedroom.

I take my hand out of my pocket and rake it through my hair. It makes no sense what you turn me into, Victor Trevor.

“John!” Angelo greeted enthusiastically. “Alone today, I see. I’ll get you your usual.”

“No, no, I’m not… I wanted to talk with you a moment,” John said, shifting uncomfortably, “if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Aye, sure,” Angelo said. “Come give me a hand in the storeroom and you can talk my ear off.”

John followed Angelo into the back. He’d been here a couple of times before, when Sherlock hit Angelo up for his particular brand of ex-con intel; usually John would do the heavy lifting while Sherlock perched on a cardboard box and interrogated. Play to your strengths, he would say.

“When Sherlock and I first came here together,” John began, “You thought–no, assumed, I suppose–you assumed we were… together.”

“And I apologized for that,” Angelo said, grinning. “It’d just been so long for him, I’d hoped he’d found someone new.”

“So there was someone?” John asked, “Before we met?”

Angelo stopped and gave John a long, scrutinizing stare; John could feel himself beginning to blush. And then, without warning, Angelo began to chuckle. “I wager you met the ex then?” he asked, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

John didn’t follow me, so he’s probably at Angelo’s if he’s learned a single thing from me, and he probably has a name by now. What shall I tell him if he asks me? I should have told him the story before, showed him the cryptic email and given him something harmless to blog about. He would have understood the things I didn’t tell him. Perhaps I would have never chased after that jacket.

I open the packet of cigarettes I bought from the shop on the corner and let one dangle from my mouth, unlit. “I was wrong,” he said when he stroked my cheek. How is one to respond to that?

“He moped around for months,” Angelo said, “and then about four or five months afterward all of a sudden he comes in and everything’s right as rain, like he just decided it never happened. I thought to meself, ah, he’s finally met someone new. When he brought you by I thought it was you.”

“We’d only just met, then,” John said. He was sitting on a crate of tomatoes, staring at the floor. “I had no idea.”

Angelo snorted. “Now you’re thinking, ah, that explains it, doesn’t it? Why he is how he is.”

John looked up and grinned weakly. “Nothing explains Sherlock Holmes,” he said.

I am curled up on the sofa when I hear John’s heavy tread up the steps. The door swings open and he calls out “I dropped the eggs, it’s toast tomorrow morning.” I say nothing, curling myself up more tightly, pretending to have fallen asleep.

He cut a rather pitiful figure, John thought, curled up on the sofa like a wounded animal. John walked to his chair, hesitated, and made instead for the gap at the edge of the sofa. “Shove over a bit,” he said, pushing Sherlock’s feet out of the way, “I know you’re awake.”

“I am not,” Sherlock mumbled, but he moved his feet anyway.

“Anything good on the telly?” John grabbed the remote and flipped through the channels. “Top Gear repeat… oh, it’s the one where they build caravans, you liked that one.”

“Wake me when Hammond’s catches fire,” Sherlock said.

John sits there and doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask anything. I am, admittedly, at a loss. Doesn’t he want to know, need to know? He can’t have the whole story, not yet, because only I know it, not Angelo or Mrs Hudson or even Victor Trevor, they don’t know all of it, not the pieces of importance.

Perhaps this is one of those things about the social contract John always teases me for not understanding.

“My hands trembled when he left,” Sherlock said, and it took a moment for John to realize Sherlock was talking to him, about him. Sherlock turned a little, just enough so he could see John’s face. “Do you suppose I really was in love?”

I don’t know why I’m asking, but I know I want to. The words have dropped from my mouth before I can bite them back, because I have to know what he thinks, and what he knows. He smiles at me.

“Stranger things have happened,” John said, and that was enough.

SUCK MY OWN DICK, EAT SOME CHICKEN STRIPS

At this point, Wally stopped to reassure himself for the third dozen time that day that he wasn’t, in fact, gay. He shifted his gaze from Superboy to Megan, who caught his glance and smiled at him. Nope, he thought as he felt a doofy grin spread across his face, not gay. Then, just to be safe, he looked over at Aqualad, who was licking his fingertip to turn the page in his book, a perfect point of reference.Definitely not. Robin, apparently, was just a freakish exception to the rule. A bendy, thirteen-year-old, asshole exception to the rule.

And he was staring at Superboy, like, all the time.

Wally wondered if Robin had ever said that pockets “whelmed” him, and furthermore, whether that was good or bad. Wally was pretty sure he still had a pair of cargo shorts from back in the fifth grade when they were cool, and he figured it wouldn’t take too long to dash home and get them to test his hypothesis.

Just as Wally was trying to decide whether or not he was plain losing his mind, he was startled out of his reverie by a pair of blue eyes trained on him and a rough “What are you staring at?!” Wally then realized that he’d been staring at Superboy for the last twenty minutes straight–not as long as Robin had been staring at him, which was always, but still way too long, he supposed.

“I, uh… was wondering if you… um… use your cargo pants tactically?” Wally said sheepishly. Robin, he was sure, was glaring daggers at him beneath his stupid sunglasses. Robin, he was sure, could go suck a bag of dicks. Super dicks. I really am losing it, Wally thought.

Superboy, for his part, settled comfortably back into his chair, another fit of irrational anger come and gone. Was that what Robin was attracted to, should Wally start flipping over chairs and yelling “Wally SMASH” at everyone?

“I don’t use the pockets,” Superboy mumbled, self-consciously fingering the flaps. “These ones just fit good.”

“Reeeally?” Robin was out of his chair and on his knees examining Superboy’s pants. “That’s a waste, man. You could keep gadgets in there.”

“Or snacks,” Wally suggested.

“I don’t like things in my pockets,” Superboy said, and that was the end of that.

At least, Wally figured that had to be the end of it. However, Wally didn’t figure that he’d get jumped by a tiny black blur of skinny arms and ugly Ray-Bans when he went to use the can, so it soon became apparent that he just didn’t have much of a grasp on the situation in general.

“It’s his eyes, isn’t it?” Robin demanded, pinning down Wally’s shoulders as he straddled him.

Wally, completely baffled and more than a little bruised, simply lay there with his mouth gaped open like a particularly oblivious fish. “What in the good god damn are you talking about, Rob?” he asked, comically delayed, having needed a moment to ease himself back into coherency.

“His eyes, his stupid blue eyes!” Robin exclaimed, leaning back and crossing his arms in a huff. “All the girls are swooning over him like idiots and now you are too, I get it. Well FYI you dickface, I’ve got blue eyes, too!” And here Robin leaned forward again and jabbed Wally in the chest to punctuate his indignation. “They’re gorgeous and way too goo for you, anyway!”

“Rob, have you lost your mind?” Wally asked. Maybe it was contagious.

Robin grasped Wally’s shirt collar. “You’re my friend,” he said. “I put up with you hitting on anything with boobs, but I’m not going to let you ditch me for your man-crush, alright?”

Finally, the extent of the situation was beginning to dawn on Wally, and he flailed his arms in some vague attempt to fend off Robin’s accusing glare. “I’m not swooning over Superboy,” he said, “Why would you even think that that is weird.”

Robin was frowning. “You’re always staring at him,” he said, “and I’ve been trying to figure out why. Today he even caught you! No way were you wondering about utility pants.”

“I was! That’s exactly what I was thinking about!” Which was, Wally reasoned, technically true, by omission. “I was hoping I could get him to keep some chips and Dew in there since I got no pockets. It was perfectly innocent and eeeeven a little manipulative, I swear.”

Robin leaned back again, and even in the dark Wally could see his cheeks going a little red. “The chips would get pulverized and the Dew would be warm,” he said.

Wally shrugged. “Better than nothing.”

“I guess.” Robin stood up and offered Wally a hand. “Sorry,” he said, pulling Wally back to his feet, “I don’t have a whole lot of friends, I guess I overreacted.”

“No big, Rob,” Wally said, giving Robin’s hand a friendly squeeze before letting go. Was that a friendly thing to do, or an intimate thing to do? Robin was giving him kind of a weird look. Intimate, then. Oh well.

Robin stepped back and rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I guess I’ll, uh, get back,” he said. Things had gotten totally weird, at some point, way too weird.

Well, Wally reasoned, if things were already weird he might as well go all in. Blue eyes too, gorgeous blue eyes. He hadn’t even really thought it through before he was reaching out and grabbing hold of Robin’s sunglasses.

“What are you doing?!” Robin asked, but he didn’t move, didn’t try to bat Wally’s hand away.

“Dunno,” Wally said, and he pulled the shades off Robin’s face. Robin had his eyes scrunched shut. “Oh come on,” Wally said, annoyed, and Robin sighed and slowly opened them. Blue, like he said. Gorgeous, too, he wasn’t lying. Wally stood there, Robin’s sunglasses dangling limply from his outstretched hand. He looked young, and vulnerable, and Wally suddenly felt really skeevy as he fought the urge to brush Robin’s hair back from his forehead, I have lost it I have totally lost it it’s official.

Robin frowned and snatched his sunglasses back. “Batman would kill you for that,” he said, shoving them back on his face, arms over top of his hair like a dork.

“That’s the least of of the things he’d kill me for if he knew,” Wally muttered, shifting his stance uncomfortably.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Wally thanked god for baggy pants. “Hey Rob,” he asked, “If I tell you that I figured out like forever ago that you’re Dick Grayson, can I come over to your mansion sometime and play video games?”

Robin tensed up for a second, and then a big grin broke out over his face. “Nnnnnope,” he said.

Wally punched him in the shoulder. “Asshole.”

After several weeks, Kaldur had finally come to a decision. He touched Superboy’s arm, softly, to get his attention. “Connor,” he said, still uncertain, “If you wouldn’t mind coming with me for a moment, I have something I would like to show you.”

Superboy finally broke his his long gaze at the sky and looked at Kaldur. Instead of longing he just looked bored, now, and for the briefest of moments Kaldur worried that maybe he’d gotten it wrong. “No thanks,” Superboy said flatly.

“Please,” Kaldur said, “It’s important to me,” and with a scrunch of his mouth Superboy finally relented, nodding.

Kaldur beamed, his smile small but bright, and headed to the shore without another word. Superboy, curious now, trotted off after him. “Where are we going?” he asked.

There was no answer at first, just the crunch of twigs and rocks under Kaldur’s bare feet. “I cannot give you the sky,” Kaldur said after awhile, and he glanced over his shoulder, “but I will give you what I can.”

“I don’t understand,” Superboy said.

They were at the shore now. Kaldur took Superboy by the wrist, pulling him toward the water. “It would be a good idea to take off your shoes,” he said, laughing, and Superboy toed them off in the sand. “Let me know if you need air.”

“Oh,” Superboy said, and took a deep breath, moist air making him want to cough. Did Superman have super breathing? He couldn’t remember. And then they were under, warm water rising past his chest. Superboy realized he’d never been swimming, somehow, and he almost panicked save for Kaldur’s firm grip.

There was a shelf where they entered the water, only ten feet down, and in the distance blackness where it dropped off. The salt water stung a little, but Superboy wouldn’t close his eyes. Kaldur was grinning wide now, free in his element as he pulled Superboy into that darkness.

It was… wonderful. They plunged down, down, like a rocket into the deep. Superboy felt the water rushing past him, soft on his face, his stomach left behind on the shelf, his body light as air. There were deep enough now that the darkness pressed against his eyes, far away from the rays of a yellow sun, he thought with a wry smile. He could have been plunging through empty space were it not for the tug on his arm.

Suddenly, they changed direction, veering upwards, then rolling to the side, then in a breathtaking loop. Kaldur’s tattoos were starting to glow faintly, though whether to let Superboy see or an unconscious reaction to the thrill of underwater acrobatics, Superboy could not tell. Kaldur wasn’t looking back, not this time, but Superboy could still see his face. He looked radiant, there was no other word for it, like he was lighting up the deep with his goodness.

Superboy tugged on Kaldur’s arm. He had suddenly found himself unable to breathe, so he tamped his chest. Kaldur nodded and Superboy braced himself for the rush back to the surface. He didn’t prepare for Kaldur’s hand on the back of his neck, though, or the press of his lips as Kaldur breathed into him. Nothing, in fact, had prepared him for this, his stomach surely at the bottom of the ocean now, like it was in that elevator shaft, that moment before gravity pulled him down to earth. He remembered the solid feeling of his arm around Kaldur’s waist, and the warmth where their bodies met. He’d never felt warmth like that before, how had he forgotten that until now?

When Kaldur pulled away, Superboy, unthinking, gripped the front of his shirt and pulled him roughly back. He needed to feel it again, that warmth, that soft press against his mouth. It was important, somehow, like there was a puzzle there he itched to solve. Kaldur splayed a hand against his chest, hesitant, and maybe Kaldur didn’t understand this either, but they both knew that something was changing between them, down there in the deep.

When they surfaced, some time later, they stripped off their wet clothes and lay naked in the warm sand, side-by-side, breathing hard.

“When I learn to fly, I’ll take you up there,” Superboy said after awhile, staring up into the clouds.

Kaldur turned his head to look at Superboy. “I would like that,” he said, his expression warm and soft. He reached out and brushed their fingers together, and Connor forgot about the sky, for the moment.

Saito’s office door made a dry, hollow click as his secretary closed it behind Robert. It was a sound that was cold and businesslike, Robert thought. He wondered if Saito had opened and closed every door in Tokyo before he found one that could disarm a man as soon as he entered the room. The office, too, was designed to throw its guests off balance, unexpectedly sterile and lifeless for a man of Saito’s passion and intensity. Even Robert’s father had kept a few touches of himself about his office, a photo of Robert’s mother, a worn copy of The Once and Future King sandwiched between business journals and thick textbooks, but Saito’s office gave away nothing but his own ruthless precision.

“Mr. Fischer.” Saito’s feet were propped up on his sleek, polished desk. In his hands was the copy of Forbes with Robert’s picture on the cover, when he’d dissolved Fischer-Morrow last year. “Always a pleasure.”

“Cut the crap, Saito,” Robert said. His eyes were like chips of ice, his biggest weakness. It was impossible to bluff with eyes like that, impossible to do business with your heart on your sleeve, especially when you didn’t realize you were doing it. His heels made heavy clicks on the tile as he strode to the plush chair in front of Saito’s desk, lowering himself into it like it was going to bite him. “You know why I’m here,” he said, scowling. “You win.”

“I win what, Mr. Fischer? Please enlighten me.” Saito swung his feet to the floor and leaned forward, hands clasped together, elbows on the desk, infuriatingly smug expression on his face. “Don’t tell me you know something about this game of solitaire I was just playing, I am certain I lost it several moves ago.”

“Fuck you,” Robert said, and then, “I need your help.”

“A funny way to ask for it,” Saito scoffed, but there was a playful grin starting at the corners of his mouth. “I seem to recall offering my assistance to you when your father was dying, Mr. Fischer, and you threw a glass of scotch in my face. Why should I help you now?”

Robert clenched his fists, nails digging hard into his palms. “If I don’t do something soon, I’ll be ruined,” he said. “I’m in over my head.”

“I still don’t see the incentive for me,” Saito murmured, and god, Robert wanted to punch him in the jaw, hear the crack of his teeth clanging together, see the blood drip from the corner of his mouth and watch him wipe it away on the back of his hand, smearing it red and wet up his cheek.

“Please,” Robert said instead.

Saito stood, made his way around his desk to the chair Robert was sitting in. Robert wanted to spring up, to keep them at eye level, but something kept him from moving. Saito reached out and ran his thumb across Robert’s soft, full lips, and Robert was back in that night, the one that started it all, more than he knew. Saito had stroked a thumb across his lips as they whispered together in that dark corner by the bar, just like this, and Robert had never wanted anything like he wanted Saito then.

“You know my terms,” Saito said, and for the briefest of moments Robert could see the smolder of lust in his dark eyes. “Are you ready to take that final step, Robert?”

Robert swallowed hard, and nodded.

“If looks could kill,” Saito chuckled. He tilted Robert’s chin up and looked into his bright eyes. “You hate me so much, and yet it was you who put the idea in my head to begin with, never forget that.”

These things are boring as hell, how about we get out of here? A hotel suite and strangled cries in the dark, soft sheets clenched between his fingers. Yes, Robert remembered. “What do you want me to do?” he asked, his voice gone hoarse, to his surprise.

Saito smirked and walked back to his desk, opening the top drawer as he sat down. He pulled out a thick brown envelope and tossed it to Robert, who managed to catch it despite his obvious bewilderment. “I want you to follow these instructions precisely,” he said, “And to trust my judgement, if you can.”

He had, Robert thought bitterly, little other choice. The envelope felt heavy in his hands. He looked at Saito suspiciously. “What else?” he asked.

“Nothing, for now.” Saito leaned back in his chair. “I will take what is my due at my leisure. You, Mr. Fischer, have much else to do in the meantime.”

It was clear that the conversation was over, for whatever reason, equally clear that Robert half expected Saito to tear his clothes off and fuck him on his polished mahogany desk. Too inelegant, Robert Fischer. He stood, slowly, clutching the envelope Saito had given him hard enough to leave heavy creases in the thick brown paper. “Thank you,” he said, hesitant, never taking his eyes off Saito. Saito only nodded, and his face was all boredom and disinterest, giving away nothing.

Robert looked back once, door half open, his hand still on the knob, and there was a question in his eyes that Saito refused to answer. He lingered there for a moment too long, and then he was gone, and the door shut behind him with a dry click.

Saito kicked up his feet and put his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. It had been six years now since he’d first heard Robert’s pleading, lustful moans, since he’d seen his tear-filled eyes and the way his skin flushed up from his shoulders to the back of his neck. It was at that moment that Saito had known what had to be done, had seen all the steps to the choreography he’d been following all along. Robert Fischer’s face that night had been seared into his memory with dark obsession, indelible, and impossible to replicate. Soon, he would know everything for certain.

Saito laughed.

You are one with the herb young grasshopper

]]> http://www.starkraving.org/2011/01/more-than-epic-imo/feed/ 0 http://www.starkraving.org/2010/12/i-dont-want-to-know/ http://www.starkraving.org/2010/12/i-dont-want-to-know/#comments Wed, 29 Dec 2010 10:33:16 +0000 DMK http://www.starkraving.org/wordpress/?p=1609

Nathan, Toki, and Skwisgaar were sprawled out on the couch when Pickles skidded into the living room, his face even paler than usual. “Guys!” he cried, panting a little from the not insignificant distance he’d run from his room, “Emergency!”

“What do you want, Pickles?” Nathan asked, craning his neck to see the TV.

“Hey, Pickle!” Toki cheered. “We’s watching Zazz Blammymatazz on where are they now now, you wants to watch it with us?”

Pickles started to reply, then paused and frowned, “You KNOW where they are now now, they were just here like two hours ago. You made me hide all my blow before they got here.”

“Yeah,” Toki said, “but where are theys NOW now? I needs to know! There could be some important updates.”

“Okay, fine, that’s not the point, the point is I have an emergency and it’s more important than that stupid clown!” Pickles hunched over and beckoned the guys closer, all conspiratorial, and when they showed absolutely no sign of moving he threw up his arms and shouted “Guys, I fucked Offdensen!”

Nathan and Toki stared at Pickles for a moment while Skwisgaar kept gazing blankly at the TV. “Like… like just now?” Nathan asked.

Pickles wrinkled his brow. “Not now, do I look like I just banged a dude?”

“Well I don’t know what a guy who just had sex with a guy who is our manager looks like!” Nathan replied defensively. He paused and thought for a moment. “Wait, do I know what that looks like?” and then, “Wait, never mind, I don’t want to know if I know.”

“Well, it’s not like this, okay?” Pickles squeezed in between Nathan and Skwisgaar. “Nah, it was back when I was in Snakes ‘n’ Barrels. He came to one of our shows and he ended up backstage and I got real high and fucked him ’cause I thought it’d be funny. And then I forgot about it.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard,” Skwisgaar finally piped up, still not breaking his vacant gaze at the TV. “Why would you have sex with a guy when there’s so many beautiful womens around to do it with?”

“‘Cause I was bored.” Pickles said, clearly explanation enough. “It was a different scene, Skwisgaar.”

“Yeah, a pretty gay one,” Skwisgaar laughed. “I knew yous looked like a pretty lady but I didn’t thinks yous actually gay.”

“Why would you even tell us this?” Nathan asked. “Out of all your options I gotta say… I gotta say this was probably like the worst possible thing to do.”

Pickles buried his face in his hands. “I know, I know, I panicked. I mean, what if he’s been undressin’ me with his eyes all this time?”

“He doesn’t haves to,” Toki pointed out, “Yous gets drunk and come to band meetings with no pants on all the time.”

“Plus he’s got thems video recorders all overs,” Skwisgaar added, “he could looks at yous in the shower and you’d never even knows it.”

“Listen!” Nathan interrupted, slamming his fists on the couch. “How do we know you actually slept with Offdensen? I can’t even remember who I slept with last night, except that she had great tits. Like, awesome tits. Anyway like two months ago you told us you fucked a gryphon and that was way more believable.”

“Oh!” Toki exclaimed, jumping off the couch, “We should asks him!”

Pickles made a face like he was going to vomit and sunk into the couch cushions.”Ah, guys, no, I don’t wanna bring this up with him, alright?”

“No,” Nathan said firmly, “We have to know, as a band, if our manager is into the drummer. That’s important information.”

It took all three of them to drag Pickles into Charles’ office, but luckily for them as wiry as he was he couldn’t stand up to Toki’s biceps or Nathan’s bulk or Skwisgaar’s pointed disinterest. Charles was talking with Murderface when they booted the door open.

“You just wrote ‘Planet Piss’ in Microsoft Word and printed it off, that’s not a shirt design, William.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!” Murderface jabbed at his printout. “Times New Roman is classy.”

“Hey!” Nathan said. “Hey, Offdensen! Hey!”

Charles frowned and straightened his glasses. “Boys, I’m trying to have a meeting with Murderface here.”

“Yeah I know but…” Pickles at this point tried to make a break for it, and Nathan paused to help Toki restrain him. “I just need to ask if you slept with Pickles back when he was in Snakes ‘n’ Barrels.”

Charles stopped writing, but aside from that there was no indication that he found the question anything out of the ordinary. He cleared his throat and said, “Yes I did, Nathan.”

“Oh.” Nathan stood there silent for a moment while Pickles looked in danger of fainting. “That is definitely not the answer I was expecting.”

“You left without saying goodbye you dildo!” Pickles yelled.

“Pickles!” Nathan turned around and glared. “You are making this way more gay than it has to be.”

“I know,” Pickles whispered, “I can’t stop myself.”

Charles tapped his pen impatiently on the desk. “If there’s nothing else, I really need to get back to work.”

“Wait!” Nathan exclaimed, “We need to make this right! I think you need to fuck the rest of us too so Pickles doesn’t feel weird.”

There was a harsh strum from Skwisgaar’s guitar and Charles replied, “That is not going to happen, Nathan.”

“Hm.” Nathan drummed his fingers on the edge of Charles’ desk. “Well, can we break some of your lamps then? I think that makes everyone feel better.”

“No.”

“Oh fuck that,” Pickles said, wriggling out of Toki’s grasp, “I’m doing it anyway.”

“Keep it to one lamp each, please!” Charles called as the other bandmates skidded out of the room behind Pickles, headed for Lamp Storage. “William, no one is going to buy shirts for a band that doesn’t exist yet, so you may as well join them.”

“Planet Piss exists!”

“Planet Piss is an idea.”

“Robot,” Murderface said.

“No.” Arthur closed the door behind himself. “I came alone, like you asked.”

“Good.” Francis set his book aside and stood, and his hand was on Arthur’s waist. He smelled of mint and red wine and lavender, it made Arthur dizzy. He pushed Francis away, too hard, Francis stumbled a little, catching his balance on the bookcase.

“I’m not here for that,” Arthur said sharply.

A dark look flitted across Francis’ face, almost too quick to catch. It had been ten years since he’d seen that look, the Hog’s Head, their meetings too few between and far too brief in those two years after Francis had graduated Hogwarts. Now, as it had then, it vanished in a moment, his face closing up, looking bored and aloof, later to press fingers hard at his throat. “If you’re not here for that,” Francis drawled, gliding back to his chair and taking up his glass of ruby-red claret, “then I can’t imagine what possessed you to call on me.”

Arthur’s hands clenched and unclenched, and he felt for his wand, tucked into his belt. Francis didn’t bat an eyelash. Arthur wanted to punch him in the mouth. “I’m here to take you in,” he said, wondering if Francis could hear the faint tremor in his voice. Of course he could. “You must have known when you sent me that letter that it would come to this. Did you really think I had any other option?”

Francis sighed, twirling his wineglass in his fingertips. “I had hoped that perhaps our history might negate my wanted status for one night, at least.” He drained the glass in one long, slow sip, before he set it down, licking his lips. “You must have known there’s no way I’d let you be the one to take me down. Did you really think I had any other option?”

“I can help you,” Arthur said, and the note of pleading in his voice made him hate himself. “If you’ll give them a few names, some information, anything, I’m sure they can reduce your sentence.” Arthur took a few steps forward and reached out his hand, held it hesitant above Francis’ shoulder, letting it rest on the back of his chair instead. “Francis,” he said, “you can’t keep wanting to work for them. Whatever they promised you in the beginning, even you have to realize now that they’re mad.”

At this Francis laughed, a rich sound Arthur hadn’t heard in ten years, like gold silk running across his ears. Fuck. “You ridiculous Aurors know even less than I thought you did,” he chuckled, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. “Or perhaps they neglected to tell you, considering our history.”

Arthur was back across the room now, his wand drawn. “What do you mean?”

Francis was up again, walking towards Arthur, and his eyes were wild and his grin was wide. “There are no names I could buy my freedom with,” he said. “I’m all there is. I did it all. What did they tell you? I can’t imagine where they would have got the notion that the, ah, incident was conducted by a group. My signature was all over it, the flourishes, the drama.”

Arthur’s pulse was thundering in his ears now. He backed up a few steps, until his back pressed against the wall. “You’re lying,” he said.

“Was it really so bad?” Francis said. “The wizarding world has seen far greater atrocities. In ten years’ time it’ll be barely a footnote in the pages of the history books. A single entry in the appendices, under ‘Attacks on the Ministry, 2011-2020, AD.’”

“And beneath it, ‘Casualties: 145, Deaths: 47,’” Arthur snapped. “Yes, how hilarious it will seem then, how gaily we shall laugh.” He was at a loss. “Why?”

“I did what was necessary. It’s the human condition, my love.” Here, Francis paused, and Arthur became painfully aware of his own ragged breathing. Francis leaned forward, catching the light in his hair. “Imperio,” he muttered.

Arthur almost swore, but he couldn’t; he hadn’t seen Francis’ wand, hadn’t even been looking for it, and now it was too late. Distantly, Arthur felt his hand unclench and heard his wand clatter to the ground, and he could hear Francis laughing again.

“I was intending to have an Auror tonight in any event,” Francis said, tilting Arthur’s chin up with the tip of his wand. “I am disappointed that it had to come to this, I’d hoped… well, no matter.”

Arthur could feel the airy trance overtaking him, like warm fingers stroking the length of his spine. He managed to bite the inside of his lip, hard enough to draw blood, the pain enough to stave off the complete loss of his wits for a few moments, though to what end he couldn’t imagine. Francis had the heel of his boot planted firmly on Arthur’s wand, and Arthur couldn’t have mustered the will to reach for it anyway.

Francis tsked when he saw the blood trickling out the corner of Arthur’s mouth.”You always were stubborn,” he said with a wry smile. “But that’s one of the things I loved about you, wasn’t it?”

“That, or one of the reasons you left me,” Arthur retorted. His head felt full of nothing, and he swayed a little on his feet. “It’s hard to remember, at this stage. What do you intend to do with me, once I’ve lost my will?”

“Hard to say.” Francis rubbed a thumb across Arthur’s lips, turning them red before bringing it to his own mouth and licking the blood away. “I could keep you here with me, like this, but it wouldn’t be the same, would it? It was always better when you fought it, it was best when my face was bruised. You can still speak, you know.”

Arthur felt his lips move as though from the other side of a dream. “You’ll use me as a spy?”

“That seems most appropriate. The attack on the Ministry was only the beginning, after all. What do you think I should do with you, if not that?”

Arthur gripped Francis’ hand. Had he done that? Francis seemed startled by it. “Do you remember the Christmas you tried to catch me a unicorn?” Arthur blurted out, not knowing why, only knowing it was important, so important. He heard Francis draw in a sharp breath. Arthur could feel wet on his cheeks, though he didn’t remember crying.

* * *

Arthur had to hand it to the muggles; for all the spells at his disposal, natural gas did the job of explosive as well as anything he could have conjured up. He watched as the old shack burned to the ground, roof collapsing in a cascade of orange sparks. He should contact the Ministry, tell them there was a dangerous dark wizard on the loose. Maybe they already knew. There was a box of matches and a broken wineglass at Arthur’s feet, and everything else was ash, Francis long gone.

It was snowing. Arthur tilted his head up and felt flakes landing on his face, and he breathed in deeply. He remembered tackling Francis into the snow as the unicorn barrelled past them into the woods. “I nearly had it,” Francis had pouted at him.

Arthur was on his knees, upturned face and outstretched arms. There was a clomp of footsteps coming from somewhere behind him, neighbours perhaps. Francis had smiled at him, a little cocky, like he always was back then. “I love you,” Arthur had told him, only once and never again.

“You’ll never have to tell me again as long as you live,” Francis had said. “I’ll always know it’s true.”

Someone was hoisting him up off the ground, calling his name. His face was wet again, and he wiped it dry on the back of his hand. “I guess I fit in after all,” he mumbled to himself. Slytherins were notorious cowards.

“Bloody wanker!” Arthur screeched at him, throwing a –frying pan? Cutting board? Francis didn’t have time to do much more than dodge it, whatever it was. He couldn’t for the life of him remember what he’d been accused of doing this time, though he was sure that whatever it was he’d probably done it, he probably deserved it, he had no illusions about that.

The pan, as Francis could see it was now, hit the wall with a loud bang and knocked over the bowl of crepe batter. Francis sighed and watched it drip off the counter, pooling into a sticky mess on the floor. He wondered briefly if cheesy, airy deliciousness was enough to break up over.

* * *

Arthur knew that throwing crockery around was a highly unbalanced reaction to Francis squeezing his ass. Someone else’s, perhaps, although punching a hole in the wall or a black eye into Francis’ face was probably a more appropriate, more masculine response. Somewhere along the way, though, he’d gotten the… romantic? notion that domestic battles were best fought by hurling housewares. Maybe it was all that Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland during his formative years, that scene with the cook and the pepper. There was something immensely more satisfying about watching Francis dodge a flying tea kettle rather than his own fist. It made their little rows seems less serious in it’s comical exaggeration.

Reflecting on this philosophy, Arthur swept up the pieces of broken plate, from the ghastly set they’d picked up at the charity shop when they were still young and poor. Younger and poorer. When he was done he sat at the table with Francis, and he drank his tea and Francis drank his wine and it was as though nothing had happened. Despite appearances, they had in all their years living together only truly fought once. Sometimes Arthur could still see the blood dripping from the corner of Francis’ mouth, and feel the angry tears hot in his eyes.

* * *

“Would you be happy if I wore an ugly scarf and made you call me ‘The Doctor?’” Francis asked, his head resting in Arthur’s lap.

“I’d be quite happy if you’d shut up,” Arthur told him, eyes riveted to the screen. “Do we need to go over the rules again or must I banish you from the sitting room?”

“No talking while the Doctor is talking,” Francis mumbled, going back to his book. He flipped a few pages, and then, “If I got you an ugly scarf and called you the Doctor, would that make you happy?”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “I’d be happy if you transformed into Christopher Eccleston so I could call him the Doctor.”

Francis pouted. “Cherie, you abuse me so.”

* * *

Arthur kicked Francis in the ribs. “Look what you did,” he complained. “This tea is ruined now.”

Francis groaned and rolled over, wincing a little as his bare stomach touched the cold tile floor. “Couldn’t you just warm it up?” he asked.

“No I cannot just warm it up, you great idiot,” Arthur scowled, dumping the potful of cold, bitter tea down the sink. “I’ll have to make another, now.”

Francis wiggled his eyebrows. “Perhaps you should just not bother, and join me back on the floor,” he said, stroking up and down Arthur’s bare leg, or what he could reach of it.

“Do you really think that’ll work twice in one–” Suddenly, Arthur froze and his face went white as a sheet. Francis frowned, propped himself up on one elbow and debated getting up to see what the problem was, but a clear, peppy voice sent him flat to the floor again.

“Good morning, dear!”

The color was returning to Arthur’s face now, starting with the tips of his ears and spreading to his cheeks. “H-hello, Mrs Beckford,” he said. “Lovely weather, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s just beautiful,” Francis could hear their neighbour answer in her cheery sing-song voice. “The shop should be busy today. I’ve got to be off, in fact! Say hello to your young man for me.”

“I will,” Arthur replied in his fake neighbour voice with his fake neighbour smile plastered to his face and not a stitch of clothing on his body. There was the slam of the garden gate and Arthur said stiffly, “Francis, Mrs Beckford says hello.”

Francis was laughing far too hard to answer, propped up against the cupboard, holding his sides. Arthur, after a moment’s pause, joined him.

* * *

Francis pulled out Arthur’s chair for him. “I almost thought you were going to stand me up,” he said.

“And have you moping about the house for the next two weeks? No thank you.” Arthur shucked his jacket and scarf as he sat down. “Did you order yet? I’m starved.”

“I ordered us soufflés,” Francis said, “They’re excellent here.”

Arthur nodded distractedly. “Those puffy chocolate things, right?”

Francis smiled. “These ones are cheese, I like them better.”

“Right, right, you made those for me once.” Arthur sniffed at his wine and took an experimental sip. “They were good, you should make them again, you stingy bastard.”

Francis laughed and lifted his teacup. “Perhaps I will,” he said.

“Peace,” Arthur says, blowing the ink to dry it as is his custom. He slides the paper over to Francis. “The mortal enemies declawed, did you ever think you’d see the day? Weren’t you trying to take over Europe but a century ago?”

“A phase,” Francis says with a smile and a lunge. “If it weren’t for your stubbornness, what would Europe be today, I wonder?”

Arthur parries, their foils clack together, messy. He gives Francis’ blade a playful tap. “If not for your arrogance, where would be the sport?”

“Where indeed.”

There is a rush of air near his left ear as Francis lunges at him, missing him by inches. He feels his hair ruffle. What happened to his mask? Again, he dodges, and it feels like the softest kiss on his cheek. Again, and Francis’ fingers are on the nape of his neck as dark smoke wafts around them, sweet and heavy. His kisses are soft and languid, almost tentative, and Arthur frowns and remembers teeth and blood and bruises on his ribcage. Was the clash of steel only his imagination?

“I want you,” Francis mutters into his ear.

Arthur looks into Francis’ twinkling blue eyes. “I never know when you’re serious,” he says, flicking his pen, spattering black ink across Francis’ cheek. Francis rubs at it, smearing black ink in dark streaks across his face. Arthur can’t help but smile.

“I am always in earnest when it comes to you,” Francis tells him. “How many times have I said it? You never believe me. How should I make you believe me?”

Arthur doesn’t know the score but he knows they’re tied. He licks his lips and tastes his sweat there, salt on his tongue. Francis moves forward, too quickly, Arthur is off-balance, he stumbles backward. There is a sharp pain at his shoulder, and Arthur looks down, sees the blood staining the white fabric, smeared along the thin point of the foil.

Arthur is already gasping in pain and shock as his hand slowly clenches at the wound. There is a clatter as his weapon falls to the ground. Francis is holding him, propping him up, his legs have gone strangely weak. “You won’t die from a nick like this,” Francis says.

Arthur reaches up to touch Francis’ face, drags his fingers down his cheek and across his lips. He leaves bright red trails of blood in his wake, harsh and ugly against the white skin. Francis catches his wrist, and slowly bares his teeth.

It’s the first time. Otacon lies in his motel bed and suddenly he hears the springs creak, feels the sink of the mattress. Snake is sitting there at his side, not saying anything, not doing anything, his fingers splayed out on the sheets. Otacon sits up, the covers falling to his waist. Slowly, carefully, like approaching a wild animal, he lays a hand on Snake’s shoulder. There is a scar there.

It was almost always Otacon who did it after that first time. He’d slip in under the covers, press up against Snake and breathe softly on the back of his neck. Sometimes they’d just sleep like that. Sometimes, most times, Otacon would find Snake’s hands rough on the small of his back. Neither of them was sure why they still insisted on two beds when they spent nearly every night together, maybe it was habit, maybe it was stubbornness, perhaps it was uncertainty. Outside of the dark of makeshift bedrooms, away from the heat where their bodies came together, over and over again, they almost never touched.

Snake didn’t know when they started needing two beds again. Sometime after Big Shell, after Emma, he could remember Otacon lying there beside him, crying. He was pretty sure that was the last, but there wasn’t time to keep track of a thing like that. It’s night on the Nomad. Sunny dragged one of the cots in with her chickens, “Solidus is lonely,” she’d said. Snake is lying in his bunk, alone. The bunk above him is empty. He had recognized that look in Otacon’s eyes when he was speaking to Naomi, young and beautiful Naomi, who isn’t afraid to take what she wants, not when it comes to this. Perhaps he’s gotten too old to worry about things like this. He can’t sleep.

It would have been sensible for them to share a bed, even before it became their custom, even after it stopped, but then it wouldn’t mean anything when Snake sat on the edge of Otacon’s bed, his fingers splayed across the sheets, watching the rise and fall of his chest, not saying anything.

Otacon sits up and rubs his eyes, nearly cracks his head on the top bunk. His eyes go wide for a moment, and then he smiles sleepily. “You missed the wedding,” he says, resting a hand on Snake’s shoulder, the one with the faded old scar.

“I didn’t think I was coming back this time,” Snake says.

There is a long silence. Snake can tell from the way Otacon’s fingers dig into his skin that he’s crying. “You always do,” he says, and there is a tremor there he tries to hide. Snake smiles. He always has been a crybaby.

It’s the last time, at the end of it all. It should take him by surprise when he feels Otacon pressed against his back, breathing softly on his neck. He hadn’t realized how cold it had been, all these years. “It’s been a long time,” he says.

“I was scared to, for a long time,” Otacon tells him. Snake recognizes the way Otacon’s hand grips his shoulder, the way the fingers curl and uncurl there. Snake grabs Otacon by the wrist, presses his lips to the back of his fingers, and then Otacon has rolled on top of him, is kissing him hard on the mouth like they’d never stopped, and suddenly Snake can’t remember how he did without this. He takes Otacon in his hand and watches his chest rise as he gasps sharply. It’s the first time, and afterwards they lie naked on top of cheap motel sheets while Otacon complains about his stubble. It’s after Emma, and Otacon is crying as Snake thrusts into him, there will be bruises on Snake’s back from where he gripped at him. Otacon is biting his knuckle now, to keep from crying out and waking Sunny, sleeping with her chickens again.

Otacon slumps on top of Snake, spent, breathing hard. “What about you?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” Snake says, folding an arm around him. Otacon is breathing softly on his neck. Tomorrow they will strip the sheets off the top bunk. This has always been enough.

There’s a knock on my door; Mom, I’d wager, it’s like she’s got a copy of my sleep schedule taped to the fridge. “I made breakfast,” she chirps, the ultimate in morning people, “You should get dressed if you’re going to come pick up your brother.”

“He too good for a taxi?” I grunt, throwing off the covers and scouring around for my jeans. There’s a pair of Ceasar’s I ‘borrowed’ when he was home for Christmas, hanging off my desk chair, so I decide to wriggle into those and see if he notices. You wouldn’t know it to look at him, born-and-bred beach bum that he is, but the guy is real particular about his jeans, and I hope he won’t notice the faded grass stain on the knee.

I’m still pulling on a t-shirt as I shuffle into the kitchen, drawn by the unmistakeable smells of french toast and bacon. “Did you remember to buy icing sugar?” I ask, and Dad pointedly raises the shaker and sprinkles some on the plate mom’s set for me. Grinning, I practically dive into breakfast, scarfing it down in record time and asking for thirds. Afterwards I ask if anyone’s fed Hen and of course no one has, it’s always on me to feed Ceasar’s stupid chicken, so I go do that, and then it’s off to the airport, and the stupid crowds, and waiting for an hour at the arrival gates because Mom doesn’t want to risk even the slightest chance of not being there with open arms when her baby steps off the plane.

I’m a little startled when Ceasar finally drags himself through the gates; he cut his hair pretty short since Christmas, though it’s still longer than mine is, and the blue tips he’s had since the eighth grade are nowhere to be seen. Trying to look like a responsible adult, I suppose. I’m not sure how I feel about it. Mom practically sprints to go hug him, and Dad’s not too far behind. I hang around for a minute, trying not to look too too stoked, and once Ceasar’s untangled himself from our parents he casually strolls over to me, and we do this manly little half-hug thing and I am kind of wondering if we’re being idiots, but if we are I blame it on hormones anyway so who gives a fuck.

“You stole my jeans,” he says.

“Borrowed,” I tell him.

“Where’s Ice?” Mom asks, craning her neck above the crowd. “Oh, back there! What’s he waiting for?”

“He didn’t want to interrupt our reunion,” Ceasar says, and Mom scoffs and beckons Ice over, or something, her gesture is little more than a wild flailing of her arms but I think he gets the point, anyway, because he picks up his bag and sheepishly makes his way over.

God, this asshole. Ceasar’s totally crazy about him so I gotta welcome him to Cali with a great big smile on my face but this asshole, goddamn. Now of course, anyone who’d ever met the guy would probably be looking at me all “How can you even hate this guy, this guy is the nicest guy,” and yeah, he’s a pretty alright dude under most contexts I’d wager, though his total thickheadedness makes me want to wring his neck more often than not. But the fact of the matter is, my twin brother, my best bud and the best all-around person you could ever hope to meet aside from yours truly, is madly in love with the guy. And I know Ice knows it, and I suspect Ice knows I know it and that in general facts are known by all parties involved. And this asshole, this goddamn asshole, pretty much eggs him on for no other reason I can figure than he takes some kind of sick entertainment from it. He’s never accepted him or rejected him, instead he’s all, “Oh hey Ceasar let’s go rock out with our cocks out in the steam room so you can stare at my hot bod like I know you want to every day and oh by the way how about you let me stay in your guestroom all summer?”

Fucker. He’s getting the middle seat on the way home, until I remember that would have Ceasar getting all giddy over this idiot again and we’re not having any of that, thanks much. They both look a little pissed off when I squeeze in between them, and I consider my mission accomplished.

* * *

I have work so it’s Thursday afternoon before the three of us manage to get to the beach together, though Ceasar’s been going every single morning since he got back. It’s a scorcher out, the heat waves are hitting early this year, and Cees is on some environmental kick again so we’ve got to walk the ten blocks to the beach instead of driving there in my nice, air-conditioned car like normal people. I opt to leave my surfboard at home, taking my skimboard instead and doubting I’ll even have the energy to use that after slogging across all this hot pavement. Ice is carrying Ceasar’s, and doing a real poor job of it, too, nearly flattens me with it whenever he turns to talk to him. When we finally hit the sand, I casually trip him, and Ceasar glares at me, and I just look at him all “What, me? Do I look like the kind of guy who would do such a thing?” and he rolls his eyes and helps Ice up. I’m not very good at faking nice, I guess, or maybe he just knows all my tricks by now.

Ceasar tries to teach Ice how to surf, but the guy is about as terrible at standing on the board as he is at carrying it. I watch the first few wipeouts with some amusement, but you can only watch a dude fall into the water so many times before it gets old, so I take my board and skim for a little bit, catch a couple good waves before I get bored of that too and prop my board up in the sand. “I’m going to just swim a bit!” I call out, “He can use my board if he wants to!”

“He’ll kill himself doing that!” Ceasar calls back, which of course just makes Ice want to try it more, and so I watch him wipe out doing that half a dozen times between drifting on my back and doing handstands. Before long I cut myself on a rock, though, and with a yelp I paddle in and crawl to where we spread out our towels, defeated.

Shortly after, Ice has a truly terrific tumble and scrapes his elbows all up, and he joins me at the towels. “Girls,” Ceasar scoffs at us.

“That’s salt water, you jackass!” I tell him.

Ceasar laughs and picks up his board. “Let me show you ladies how it’s done,” he says, running to the water and paddling out towards the waves. He must practice a lot at Sanya, more than he lets on, because his form is excellent, way better than the last time I saw him surf. When the wave comes he stands up and claims it, dominates it, like it’s just a ripple in a pond, like he’s part of the ocean, and fuck, no matter how much I practice I will never be as good at this as him.

I look over at Ice, expecting to see him flirting with the girls sitting nearby since, hell, that’s what I’m planning on doing as soon as my cocky brother’s done showboating. I’m surprised, then, when I see that he’s just sitting there, staring at Ceasar out on the water with this dopey smile on his face. Ceasar’s close enough now that I can see him laughing, and he waves, and Ice waves right back, full of energy.

“Are you boys here alone?” a girl asks me, and I turn my attention to her pink bikini top.

* * *

Ice’s birthday is six days after ours, so Mom decides to save the big bash for the Friday right in between. You might think I’d be pissed about sharing, but I’ve always preferred the quiet celebration to the rowdy party on the weekend, so it doesn’t bother me much. Mom sneaks in at about five in the morning to pull down my blinds, the rustling wakes me up but I try not to let her notice. I lie there reading until ten a.m., when I smell our birthday breakfast cooking, chocolate chip pancakes for me and waffles for Ceasar.

We open up gifts right after, impatient as always. From Ceasar there’s the Celtic history book I had loudly professed interest in when we went shopping a few days ago, and from Mom and Dad there’s a pack of classic horror movies and my wristwatch, miraculously repaired. Ceasar grins when he opens his gift from me, a marine biology book that he’d professed his own love for at the book store. Mom and Dad got him a couple of new video games, and he squeals, and he’ll deny it if I call him on it. He drags Ice off to play them, and I head to the porch to read in blissful solitude.

It’s late evening, still barely dark out, and I don’t mean to see anything, that is to say, I’m not a snoop, not in normal circumstances. I’m mawing down on the chocolate cupcakes Mom got in lieu of birthday cake, and suddenly I remember I left my book outside. It’s not supposed to rain or anything, but I still don’t want to leave it out there at the mercy of stray cats and morning dew, so I clomp downstairs to get it.

It’s when I get out to the porch that I spy them, sitting in the backyard near the lime tree that’s never produced a single fruit. They’re huddled right close together, and I can’t hear what they’re saying, they’re talking so quiet. I see Ice hand something to Ceasar, it looks like a small box but even in the light of this late dusk I can’t really tell. Ice is rubbing the back of his neck in that “Aw shucks” way he has, and even from back here I can tell my brother is so happy he just might die right under that tree. When I see him later, passing each other with a sleepy “Happy Birthday” in the hall, he’s wearing a silver ring on his thumb.

* * *

Ceasar crashed at Nick’s last night, so I’m out checking on Hen, filling her feeder and scattering some pomegranate seeds for her to munch on, her favorite treat. Ceasar will try to tell you she likes grapes better but who’s been feeding her all this time, what does he know?

I see Ice shuffling across the yard towards me, but I ignore him, not seeing any reason to change gears on him now. He leans against the coop, arms crossed, and just kind of watches me in silence for awhile as I clean out Hen’s bedding. I’m hoping he’ll go away, doubting that he will, is he going to say something or what?

“Ceasar says you’re into the occult and stuff,” Ice says just as I’m getting ready to bolt back inside.

“I performed my share of voodoo rituals,” I tell him, “Henrietta here can attest to that.” Hen ruffles her feathers and stalks off; apparently she get touchy about that particular incident.

Ice comes and sits down beside me, and I sigh and lean back on my hands. “What do you think about prophecy and fate and that kind of thing?” he asks me. “If you know something’s supposed to happen, can you change that thing?”

“I guess that depends whether you’re Oedipus or Scrooge,” I joke, but he just gives me this quizzical look and I guess classic literature is asking a little too much of him, maybe I should have gone with Marty McFly, though that’s not really the same thing. “If something’s destined to happen it’s going to happen,” I tell him, “That’s kind of the definition. And just because you think something’s destined to happen, well, maybe someone’s just playing you so the actual thing that’s destined to happen will happen.”

“Written somewhere else in bigger letters, underlined twice,” Ice mutters, leaning back on the grass, and hey, maybe I should give the guy a little credit after all. “I don’t know what to do about your brother.”

“Reject him so I can introduce him to a nice girl who puts out,” I say. The sun’s beating down on us pretty hard by now, I can feel the burn starting on the back of my neck.

Ice nods, serious, like he’s never heard a rib before. “That would be better, right?” he reasons. “A couple of kids and a house just like this one.” He smiles weakly at me, not the bravado grin but something smaller, and for the first time since I met him I think that maybe he’s not really an asshole, maybe he’s just an idiot like any teenage boy, like me. “I don’t want him to,” he says, “I’m here right now and I love him right now.”

“Then why the hell are you here talking to me?” I ask.

* * *

They’re holding hands when they tell our parents that they’re looking for a place closer to campus. Mom shrieks and starts laughing and crying and hugging them both, and Dad ruffles Ceasar’s hair, and I just kind of wonder how long before being an idiot catches up with us all.

“I forgot my umbrella at home.” Ceasar has his arms folded tightly in front of him, his hair plastered to his scalp, a grocery bag dangling at his elbow. “Are you going to let me in or not, why do you still have the chain on?”

Alice laughs and shuts the door. Ceasar can hear a rattle and then it’s open again, “Get in here, I’ll find you a towel. Don’t sit on the couch!”

“I’ll just stand here with your ice cream, then,” Ceasar pouts.

“Yes, please do!” Alice calls, “Don’t eat any, though!”

“I’m going to, nom nom, so good.”

“Augh, you suck!” Alice comes back out and throws a fluffy purple towel over Ceasar’s head. “Strip, I found you some sweats. And don’t even start on the jokes.”

“The thought didn’t even cross my mind.” Ceasar peels off his wet clothes, towels himself off, pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, the arms and legs too short. “Oh yeah, maternity sweats, this is sexy.”

“I can barely keep my hands off you,” Alice deadpans, ruffling the towel through Ceasar’s hair. Ceasar reaches out and places a palm to Alice’s stomach, which she quickly bats away. “No feeling me up until I get my Ben & Jerry’s,” she says.

“Stingy.” Ceasar picks up the grocery bag and thrusts it towards Alice, who lets out a happy squeal and plops down on the couch. Ceasar laughs and follows her, sitting down beside her and putting a hand to her stomach.

Alice frowns. “The worst thing about being pregnant is people feeling up my stomach all the time, like they got some damn right.” She takes the seal off her pint of brownie batter ice cream with a satisfying crack. “The best part is using your stomach as a table,” she continues, resting the carton on her belly, “fat people have been keeping it under wraps all this time, it’s so awesome.”

“Like an otter,” Ceasar murmurs, pressing his ear to Alice’s stomach. “Soon you’ll start craving sea urchins.”

“You’re such a dork, and you’re getting my shirt wet.”

“Boo-hoo,” Ceasar says, sticking his tongue out, and then all of a sudden he lets out a shriek.

“Jesus, Ceasar!”

Ceasar rubs his face, frowning at the damp spot he’s left on Alice’s blouse. “It kicked me.”

Alice bursts out laughing, and Ceasar’s face turns red. “That’s my boy,” she says, patting her stomach, “You deserve a little reward, let me just find where my spoon went.”

Ceasar, still blushing, picks the spoon off the floor and wipes the crud off on his pants. “It’s definitely a girl, moody little thing.”

“It’s a boy,” Alice replies firmly, shovelling out a big spoonful of ice cream.

Ceasar rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say.” He sits back down and puts and arm around Alice’s shoulder, and she snuggles against him as well as she can without upsetting her ice cream carton. Ceasar smiles. “Hey Alice?”

“What?”

“I’ve been thinking, and I–”

“No,” Alice frowns, cutting him off.

Ceasar blinks. “No what?”

“I don’t want to marry you for the same reasons I didn’t want to date you,” Alice tells him, struggling off the couch and heading for the kitchen.

Ceasar follows. “How did you know I was going to ask that?” he exclaims.

“It’s the only thing you’ve been thinking about since this happened and you try to subtly bring it up like every other week,” Alice replies, sticking her ice cream in the freezer. She licks the spoon before chucking it into the overflowing sink. Behind her, Ceasar sighs and turns on the faucet, digs around for the dish soap. “Nothing’s changed except we’re having a baby together,” she continues, “The problem still persists.”

“Everything’s changed,” Ceasar grumbles, attacking a pot with the scrub brush. “We’re going to be a family, right? We should be a proper family.” He examines a glass and scrapes at a spot with his fingernail. “You know I love you.”

Alice sighs. “But I’m not number one, right?” she asks, picking up a dishtowel.

Ceasar becomes fascinated with a spatula flaked with dried egg. “That and this are two entirely different things,” he says, and the scrub brush furiously goes skritch skritch skritch.

“They’re the same thing! Do you love me more than him or not?”

Ceasar glances over, helpless, and his sad sad eyes almost make Alice feel like saying yes, almost. “I love you an awful lot,” he says.

Alice can’t help but crack a smile, and she leans over to kiss Ceasar on the cheek. “If I ever move up that one spot, let me know,” she says.

Ceasar blushes and turns his attention back to the sink. “You’re a slob,” he says.

“I know, dear.”

Illidan taps his fingers against the arm of his chair—throne, Kael supposes, if one wished to call it that. “Sit, little prince,” Illidan tells him, gesturing to the nearby, ramshackle bench. “How fares the attack against Shattrath?”

Kael perches on the edge of his seat with some trepidation, fans out his robes as he always does, unthinking. “Their defenses are strong,” he says, “and many of my men have defected to them. Our strategies are severely compromised.”

“Then we shall make new ones, and the traitors will perish with the naaru.” Illidan rises. His wings are tucked, and in the dim light of this makeshift throne room he looks almost like his old self, the one Kael’s seen in the old texts of the War of the Ancients. “How much longer?” he asks.

“This entire move is foolish,” Kael says, “I have told you so from the beginning. They haven’t the strength to resist our forces elsewhere in Outland. We should focus our strength in the North, bolster our forces and cut off those who might become their allies.”

Illidan smiles, moves smoothly to the window, like he’s floating, Kael has seen him do it a hundred times and still cannot figure it out. “Do you know why I wish to destroy that place?” he asks, and as he turns the shadows cast across his face are are terrifying and beautiful. “It is not to destroy a city, little prince, but an idea, the last true bastion of the Light in this land. There is no sacrifice not worth ridding ourselves of that obstacle.”

“My people,” Kael says. “It is my people you would sacrifice for this foolish venture, my men who will die in that forest, or betray me as did Voren’thal.”

“They are my people!” Illidan shouts, and Kael is knocked backward, sprawled across the bench, with Illidan’s hand at his throat. Behind the bandages Kael can see twin green flames burning, flaring in rhythm with the ragged rise and fall of his chest. “They are my people as well,” Illidan repeats, “More than the kaldorei ever were. As are you, Prince Kael’thas. You, too, are mine.”

“I know,” Kael chokes, and Illidan’s grip loosens, and he walks back to the window in disgust. Kael sits, his fingers stroking at the bruises darkening at his neck. “What of my idea, my Lord?”

Illidan scoffs. “The Sunwell,” he says.

“He would have to forgive you if you summoned him into Azeroth,” Kael reasons. He stands, strides over to Illidan, places a hand on his arm. “He cares not for this piece of rock, he would forget his grievances in an instant if you were to deliver him Azeroth on a platter. We could do it, you and I.”

“I would be dead before he’d stepped through the portal,” Illidan says. “Kil’Jaeden does not forgive.”

“Then I’ll do it myself, and negotiate your safety,” Kael barters, “He has no quarrel with me or my people.”

Illidan grips Kael by the wrist. “You would place your trust so easily in our enemies?” he asks. “Where does your loyalty lie, little prince, with the Legion or with me?”

Kael sighs, brushes back the loose hair from Illidan’s brow with his free hand. “With you, my Lord,” he says, and his fingertips linger at the smooth base of Illidan’s horns. He thinks of a demon, locked in a cage, helpless, powerless, and defeated. Illidan grasps Kael’s hand, kisses his palm, and now Kael thinks of a man standing poised to sunder the world. He leans forward, and as their lips meet Kael’thas Sunstrider, servant of Illidan, agent of the Burning Legion, cannot at this moment tell which is the lie.

“What have we here?” A man stares down, his dark hair gleaning almost plum in the moonlight. “An allied spy would be my best guess, hiding in my apple trees.”

Johnny, defeated, pulls a cigar from his trouser pocket. “My matches are wet,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing on earth. “Can ye spare a fellow a last light?”

The man tilts his head and stares, and perhaps Johnny only imagines the faint smile, conjures it up from the shadows playing across the man’s face,but he does not imagine the swish of his long jacket as he turns around, “Come inside before they pick up your trail, they dare not bother me.”

* * *

“Are you getting my good side?” Enrique asks, turning his face to the left, cocky grin in three-quarter profile. “It looks better like this, right? I look far more majestic.”

“If you want me to ever finish this you are going to have to stop moving,” Oliver tells him, idly fleshing out his charcoal sketch.

“Well if I’d known you were going to take so long, I’d have picked an easier pose.” Enrique leaps off the stool and stretches, his military cap tipping precariously off-kilter. He tiptoes behind Oliver and cranes his neck over his shoulder. “Ah, wow, that’s exactly perfect! I knew you were the man for the job.”

Oliver adds a few strokes about the face, and without looking back replies “I thank you for the compliment.”

* * *

Johnny winces as the doctor sutures his bullet wound, a piece of leather between his teeth gnawed down to nothing over the course of the evening. “Nearly done,” the doctor tells him, and Johnny wipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Again, I apologize for the lack of anesthetic, Herr Jurgen was not specific about your malady.”

“”s fine,” Johnny says. He glances over at Robert, the man who owns this castle, sprawled out in an overstuffed armchair across the room. He is staring back over tented fingers, and Johnny abruptly looks away. He has not said a word to Johnny since leading him to this room, near the back of the castle, overlooking the orchard. Johnny looks out the window and fancies he can see the dark patch of ground where Robert found him bleeding, wonders if the soldiers will find it, if the dogs will sniff him out and damn them all. Did they have hounds with them? He can’t remember any longer.

“I had one of my people clean it up,” Robert says, startling Johnny and making the doctor frown at him. “They dare not bother me unless it is necessary, as I already informed you. And the doctor is very discreet.”

“You’ll forgive me if I dinna trust a German lord,” Johnny replies as the doctor ties off the suture, “Even one kind enough to patch up ma arm.”

Robert stares at Johnny for a moment and then stands, strolling to the bed and stopping uncomfortably close. Johnny’s eyes dart to the door. He’s fairly certain he could bolt out of the room, but he is injured and Robert is no pampered fop.

“What is that strange accent you speak with?” Robert asks, staring into Johnny’s eyes, inches from his face.

“I’m Scottish,” Johnny mutters.

“Fascinating,” Robert says.

* * *

Late one evening, there is an incessant pounding on the door to Oliver’s flat. He frowns, sets down his newspaper and pads barefoot to answer. “Ah!” he exclaims, looking through the peephole, “You!” He flings open the door. “You were supposed to pick up your portrait this afternoon, monsieur. I’ll go get it right now.”

“Oliver!” Enrique sobs, stumbling drunkenly through the door. He collapses on Oliver’s shoulder in hysterics. “Why are French women so terrible? I miss my Italian women, I miss the way they smell and the way they laugh, and I miss the way they never string you cruelly along so you’ll buy them things, and then say they will not kiss you because you’re a soldier.”

“I’m sure all women do such things, French women are just more open about it.” Oliver leads Enrique to the sofa, sits him down and pats his back. “Sometimes one must endure such trials on the quest for love.”

Enrique sighs. “How do you navigate their treacherous waters?” he asks, tugging at Oliver’s sleeve, eyes wide and imploring. “Teach me the ways of the French Lothario, my friend! I am dying of thirst on the ocean.”

Oliver laughs, and Enrique frowns again, unsure. “I have nothing to teach you, I stay far away from French women,” Oliver tells him, reaching for the glass of wine on the small table at his side. “I could tell you only about French men.”

Enrique leans back, aghast. Oliver leans forward, wineglass still in hand. Enrique idly notices a streak of green paint in Oliver’s blond hair. “Would you like me to teach you?” he asks, taking a sip, an impish grin tugging at his lips. “I promise you, I am most discreet.”

* * *

Johnny crunches on an apple, pilfered from the basket in the kitchen, cold and crisp and slightly sour, just the way he prefers. He met his contact in a small café in the village early this morning, he sets off for Berlin tonight. “I’ll be done within the fortnight, but I canna say when I’ll be back here,” he says. “Maybe not for some months, I figure. There are other safe places nearer to where I’ll need to be.”

“Such a respite for my larder,” Robert says. “Please don’t come back with any bullet wounds this time, you ruined the sheets on that bed.”

Johnny pelts his apple core into the rubbish bin. “I’ll try my very best,” he says.

* * *

Enrique grins. “Oh, we’re all awful,” he says, “an entire unit of spoiled rich boys, right? We all bribed our way here, drives the few legitimate soldiers completely mad.”

“Mhm.” Oliver touches up a few spots on the painting, a still life, his preference. “It’s a good thing the rest of the occupation are competent, or you’d be in some trouble, no?”

Enrique laughs and peeks over Oliver’s shoulder, carelessly circles his arms around him. “It looks like a photograph,” he says, “It’s even better than the portraits. How do you make it so much like the real thing, when we’re in here and that’s out there?”

Oliver smiles, adding the final brushstrokes. “I love this city,” he says, “I could paint every street by memory.”

* * *

Robert Jurgen insisted on the utmost secrecy. “If no one knows but me, you won’t be safe,” Johnny would tell him, over and over. “The Allies are coming, and you rank far too high in the party. If something happens to me, all you’ve done will come to nothing.”

“You’d better not die, then,” is all Robert would say to him.

Johnny struggles through the underbrush. It is two miles to the castle. There are no army boots following him this time, their work already done. Will he damn them both, going there, is that what they were waiting for? He does not know, but he is grateful that, at least, whomever spilled the secret about a meeting at a café in the village could not also turn Robert over to his fellow party members.

* * *

It isn’t long before Enrique’s troop surrenders to the Resistance; they are outnumbered and outclassed, a group of ill-trained young men with the money to buy a posting in the City of Light. The Allies are on their way, they reason, there is really no point in dying at this stage. They lay down their weapons and are ushered to a nearby resistance holding, flanked on all sides. DeGaulle’s troops will be arriving soon for reinforcements, they say, they’ll find somewhere more permanent for their prisoners then.

Throughout the ordeal, Enrique is completely silent. One of their captors has flecks of green paint in his blond hair.

* * *

It is the pain that rouses Johnny from unconsciousness, a feeling he can’t describe, something so all-encompassing that he knows no words to explain it. Breathing in sharply, he lifts the bloodstained quilt and peers beneath. A moment later, he replaces the covers, knowing he is going to die.

Robert sits in a chair across the room, sipping red wine and reading Faust. “The doctor did what he could,” he said. “We couldn’t take you anywhere, you know that.”

“I know,” Johnny says. There is still a cigar in his pocket; he takes it out and places it in his mouth, fishes out his matches and revels in the thick, heady smoke as he lights it. “Always hoped it’d go like this, all flash.”

Robert sets his book down, stares at Johnny that way he has, Johnny has long grown used to it. “The Allies began to take back France while you slept,” he says, “It is only a matter of time before this war is over. What did you accomplish two nights ago, was it worth it?”

Johnny chuckles softly. “It was never for the war,” he says, “It was for the thrill of the chase. It was worth it.” He blows a waft of smoke out the open window overlooking the orchard. “With me dead and your insistence on secrecy, you’ll have no proof of your deeds these last eight months. The Americans will come for you. Was it worth it?”

Robert is at his side now. “You interested me,” he says.

Johnny grins a crooked grin. “I thought so.” He lifts his arm, trembling, and grasps Robert by the collar, pulls him down with surprising force. He kisses him at the corner of the mouth, lingering. “Sorry about your sheets,” he says.

* * *

“He’s my Italian cousin,” Oliver says to the guard, and a sack of francs changes hands. “He’s free to go.”

Enrique is lead out onto the street. They have not spoken in some number of weeks, four days before his unit’s surrender when Enrique had kissed the white skin at his shoulder. Oliver hands him an envelope. “There’s a false passport and a train ticket,” he says, and his voice is strained and tired. “Go back to your Italian women.”

* * *

Robert is sitting in the orchard when the American soldiers stamp through his gates, clomp clomp clomp in their muddy leather boots. He is reading Faust, and his wind-up radio is tuned to classical. A cigar hangs from his lips, unlit.

He is to be arrested, they tell him, for a status bought with fistfuls of Reichmark. When he refuses to speak, one of the soldiers hits him across the face with the butt of his gun. Blood drips from the side of his mouth, leaving dark spatters on the ground. They lead him away from the orchard, from his bench beside a shallow indentation in the ground. He walks proud, with his shoulders back and his chin held high. They will use this against him in the trial. In six months’ time the orchard will be overrun with tall grasses.

“Ha,” Arthur scoffed, batting Francis’ hand away. “I seem to recall that ending rather poorly the last time, you made me look like…”

“Like what, yourself?” Francis laughed. “A tragedy, to be sure. But I still hold that it looked the best on you.” He tugged on Arthur’s sleeve. “What’s the worst I could do, if the worst I did last time was your very own haircut? Come on, you’re just being contrary.”

Arthur looked at Francis’ grinning face, squinting as though deceit could be seen through in the same manner as bright sunshine. He rose warily to his feet. “No tricks,” he warned, “or I shall shove that plate of macarons there down your stupid throat.”

Francis placed his hand at the small of Arthur’s back and guided him down the hall. “Your warning is noted, my dear.”

“It was more a promise.” Arthur cocked an eyebrow as Francis pushed open the door. “You have your own salon? How decadent.”

“One chair and a sink hardly counts a salon.” Francis picked up a soft blue towel and draped it around Arthur’s shoulders, pulled him a little too close and let his hands linger a little too long. “We’ll wash your hair first, I want an excuse to grope at your scalp.”

“Of course.” Arthur sat at the chair in front of the sink and leaned back to rest his head on the rim. Francis turned on the water, ran it cold at first and made Arthur swear before warming it up with a chuckle. The shampoo he used smelled quite strongly of strawberries, and despite his better judgment Arthur sighed and slunk low in his chair at the soothing massage of Francis’ fingertips. He closed his eyes, and a smile played on his lips.

“I could do this all the time if you’d let us bathe together,” Francis said, rubbing Arthur’s hair dry, a pink towel this time.

“You just want to shag in the tub, you perverted frog.”

“Of course I do, there is no shame in such a desire. To the other chair, now.” Francis sat Arthur down in the barber’s chair and fastened a cape at his neck. He began to cut, the only sound in the room for a quarter hour the snip of his scissors and Air playing down the hall where they’d forgotten to shut off the stereo. “I could give you a fauxhawk,” Francis said to break the silence, brushing hair off the cape and making a few quick, jabbing cuts near Arthur’s ears. “It would bring back such fond memories, don’t you think?”

“Bastard, don’t you dare.”

“Ah, well,” Francis whipped off the cape and shook it, “Like I told you, it looks best this way.”

Arthur grinned. “Now do I get to trim yours?”

Francis laughed, leaning down to kiss the nape of Arthur’s neck. “I am a fool in love,” he said, “but I’m not insane.”

“What?”

“Francis!” Arthur shouted, his hands cupped around his mouth. “What in the bloody hell are you doing up there?”

“Hold on, I can’t quite hear you!” Francis called down, setting aside some things on the scaffolding he’d been standing on before rappelling down the side of the Eiffel Tower.

Arthur, on the ground below, gnawed at his knuckle in instinctive anxiety with every leap. “I asked what you were doing up there, you flashy idiot!” he exclaimed the moment Francis was on solid footing. “Are you trying to kill yourself?”

“I was painting, you silly man! Did you not see the bucket of paint, the brush, the crew of trained professionals doing it properly on the opposite side?” Francis threw out his arms in a gesture that Arthur guessed was intended to convey majesty. “If I don’t take care of this grand display it may one day waste away to nothing!”

“Oh my, what a shame that would be,” Arthur said, “to think your city may one day not be marred by this metal monstrosity.”

Francis staggered backward into the tower, clutching his chest in feigned shock. “Surely you cannot mean such a thing!” he cried. “This is a monument to my feelings for you, after all.”

Arthur frowned, his arms crossed. “Oh?”

“Stiff, straight, erect,” Francis sighed, fondling a strut.

Arthur covered his face with one hand. “Oh god.”

“When I look upon this virile, upstanding testament to our love,” Francis continued on dramatically, “I feel the same stirring in my loins I felt so often back then, the throbbing desire which this structure was built to represent. Of course,” Francis wriggled his eyebrows and ran a finger slowly up and down the leg of the tower, “we both know that this is nowhere near to scale; the real thing is far more impressive.”

“I don’t know why I talk to you,” Arthur said, flinging his arms out in a gesture which Francis was fairly certain was meant to convey exasperation, “You continue to be an absolute tosser and I continue to converse with you. Did you hypnotize me at some point in the last century?” He paused, and cast a suspicious glare in Francis’ direction. “Did you slip something in my drink when we signed the Entente, is that why I let you name it?”

“You let me name it because I sucked you off,” Francis replied, blowing a kiss, “the same reason you agreed to sign in the first place.”

“I wish we were still at war,” Arthur glared, “I could browbeat you without causing an international incident. ”

“I love when you’re feisty, dear. Wait!” he cried as Arthur spun around to leave, “Wait, there’s just one thing, just wait!”

“WHAT.”

Francis put an ear to the tower. “He has a message for you.”

Arthur rolled his eyes upward and sighed. “A message from Monsieur Eiffel? I’m all ears.”

“Your sarcasm is lovely in the moonlight.”

“It’s daytime.”

Francis put a finger to his lips and pressed more closely to the cool metal leg of the tower, making as though he were listening intently. “England,” he said after a moment, “You haunt my thoughts morning, noon and night. You’re in my dreams, and in my every waking moment.”

Arthur’s arms were crossed and his foot tapped the pavement impatiently, but Francis could see the tips of his ears turning pink. “Is that all?”

“I strain to glimpse you beyond my northern shores,” Francis continued, “My delicate lily floating in the sea.” Francis grinned as he saw Arthur inch closer. “And all I can think of,” he said, “is pounding your chunnel all night lo–”

Arthur beaned Francis in the forehead with a distressingly large rock. “Goodbye, Francis.”

“I’ll see you next Tuesday, my fuzzy brown caterpillar!” Francis called out as Arthur stomped away. He patted the Eiffel Tower comfortingly. “Don’t worry, my friend,” he said, “he’ll be back.”

Francis peered at Arthur over the top of his reading glasses. “Oh? How so?”

“I just caught Alfred throwing some bawdy festival down in New Orleans, there were women taking their shirts off and everyone was absolutely pissed and they were all slurring that swamp-speak you taught him.” Arthur dropped a fistful of Mardi Gras beads on the table. “He doesn’t get this deplorable behavior from me, I assure you.”

“Cajun.”

“Pardon?”

“‘Cajun’ is the dialect.” Francis set down his book and folded his glasses on top. “Acadiens, if you recall, and it’s really Matthew’s fault, they were his people.”

Arthur tilted his head. “Who?”

“Your other son.”

“Oh! That Matthew, of course.” Arthur plopped down on the opposite end of the sofa, stole the snifter of brandy that Francis had conveniently forgotten on the end table. “Speaking of him, did you know he’s gone fining people using English in Quebec? Unacceptable, stop brainwashing him!” Arthur jabbed an accusatory finger in Francis’ direction. “It’s bad enough that he made your frogspeak official, soon he’ll be locking up anyone daring to use the Queen’s English within his borders.”

“It was only an act to protect local culture, you’re exaggerating as usual.” Francis opened his arms and beckoned Arthur towards him. “Come now, he still puts your Queen on his money, I’m sure you’re still his favorite.”

Arthur, his cheeks warm from the brandy, reluctantly squirmed across the couch, too worn out to bother with the customary protest. “You’re a terrible father,” he said, settling with his back against Francis’ chest, drink still in hand.

Francis combed back Arthur’s hair with his fingers. “It’s a good thing I had colonies with someone as competent as you, who knows how poorly those children would have turned out?”

“Drinking bottles of wine by four, smoking like chimneys by fourteen,” Arthur agreed.

“You smoke as much as I do.”

“Yes,” Arthur said, “But you look better doing it than I.”

Francis smiled and settled his arms around Arthur’s waist. “Are you giving up anything for Lent?”

“Cheese and onion crisps. You?”

“Every year I try to give up sex with you,” Francis sighed, “and every year I fail miserably.”

“Ah, well.” Arthur glanced up, and there was a crooked grin tugging at his lips. “There’s always next year, isn’t there?”

“I beg to differ, my dear,” Francis argued. “Your maternal instincts far eclipse my own. Which of us just spent the best part of an hour looking for wool mittens in the middle of April? Not I.”

“Well it wouldn’t have taken so long if you’d been helping.” Arthur set down his cup and peered across the yard at Matthew, who was peeking behind the shrubbery and peering under rocks. “What on earth is he doing?”

“How am I to know?” Francis’ eyes lit up. “Let’s ask the little one which of us is the mother figure! If anyone should know, it’s him.”

“Capital idea, for once. Hey!” Arthur shouted, making Matthew leap with frightened surprise. “Yes,” Arthur called, “You, um…”

“Matthew,” Francis said.

Arthur went red. “I knew that. Matthew!” he shouted, “Come over here!”

Matthew scurried over, his bear lumbering lazily behind him. “Have you seen Alfred?” he asked after traversing the yard, “We’re supposed to be playing hide and seek but I think he forgot.”

“Matty,” Arthur said, “If we were a family, France would be the mother, right? He’s the womanly one.”

Matthew scrunched up his face in confusion as Francis handed him a glass of apple juice. “Now now,” Francis said, ruffling Matthew’s hair, “Surely I am the indulgent papa, and England is your nagging but lovable maman.”

Matthew, still frowning, fiddled with his glass. “I thought,” he began, then paused to gather his thoughts. “What do you mean, if we were a family?”

Arthur and Francis looked at each other. “What do you mean, Matthew?” Arthur asked.

Without warning, tears welled up in Matthew’s eyes. “I-I always thought you were both my papas,” he sobbed, still clutching his glass, dribbling juice down his front and onto the ground as he shook where Kumajiro carelessly lapped it up. “Was I wrong? You don’t think I’m your son?”

“No!” Arthur exclaimed, rushing to gather Matthew into his arms. “I mean, of course you are! Shhhh, don’t cry, dear.”

“We only meant, if we were a traditional family,” Francis said, plucking the empty cup out of Matthew’s hand, suppressing a chuckle at the wet splotch of apple juice soaking through the back of Arthur’s shirt. “A family with a mommy and a daddy, we meant.”

“Oh,” Matthew sniffed, rubbing the tears out of his eyes with his palms. Francis wiped the snot from his nose with a handkerchief, and Arthur rubbed his back. “That’s a silly question,” he said.

Arthur smiled and set Matthew down. “I suppose it is.”

Francis crossed his arms and watched Matthew head inside, looking for Alfred. “I still think you’d be the mother,” he said.

“Piss off,” Arthur replied, still grinning.

Captain Kirkland frowned and shifted in his chair. “Strange,” he said, “there shouldn’t be any ships in this sector. The closest one is…” Here, Captain Kirkland trailed off and turned slowly towards the commander. “Mr Brown, what is the name of the approaching ship?”

Commander Brown went pale. “Perhaps we should just continue on course.”

Arthur leaned forward, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Mr Brown, tell me the name of the ship on intercept course, that is an order.”

Commander Brown sighed. “USS Sanguination,” he muttered, “Captained by–”

“Captain Bonnefoy.” Arthur slammed his fist on the console, made something start blaring loudly, scrambled to switch the alarm back off. He sat back up straightened his uniform. “Open a hailing frequency, lieutenant Churchill.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Arthur cleared his throat and tented his fingers. “Onscreen,” he said.

“Captain Kirkland!” the speakers chirped at him as a man sprawled lazily across his captain’s chair flicked into view. “Fancy running into you here.”

“Captain Bonnefoy. I see you’ve yet to be discharged for gross indecency, it’s good to know Starfleet is keeping such close tabs on its personnel.” Arthur drummed his fingers impatiently. “My reports indicate that you should be on Alpha Ceti 9 for R&R, what are you doing in this sector?”

“Well we were in the neighborhood,” Francis drawled, “and I thought to myself, ‘Why don’t we check up on dear Captain Kirkland?’” Francis leaned closer to the screen. “I thought perhaps our crews might dine together? We have through perfectly innocent circuMrtances come upon a healthy stockpile of Romulan ale, I am sure your people would enjoy it.”

“We have a mission that I would like to finish as quickly as possible so we make take our own R&R.” Arthur swiveled around, his back towards the screen. “If that’s all,” he said with a flick of his hand, “Please resume your course.”

“Mmhm.” Francis rested his chin on his hand. “Will you be joining us on Alpha Ceti 9?”

“If you ever let us get back to work we will.”

“And will you wear that little number with the bare–”

“Arm the photon torpedos,” Arthur snapped.

“Warp factor seven to Alpha Ceti 9, Mr Sarkozy,” Francis ordered. He blew a kiss to the monitor. “I look forward to our rendezvous, Captain Kirkland.”

Arthur caught the kiss in his hand. “Whatever, frog.”

“And on the subject of the obvious, the fifth-year dormitory was two floors up last I checked.” Francis took a drag on his cigarette and blew lavender smoke in Arthur’s face. It smelled of clove and some herb Arthur could not name, spicy and sweet, he could almost taste it in the back of his throat.

Arthur waved the smoke away and perched on the edge of the four-poster. “You should’ve been a Hufflepuff, clearly, your love of herbology is unmatched.”

“Never look down on those who can procure flavorful new things to smoke and palatable things to drink.” Francis held out a fluted glass filled with dark blue liquid. His lips were already stained from drinking it, like a bruise blossoming at his mouth. Arthur remembered when they had thrown down their wands and he’d punched Francis in the jaw, remembered the bruise and the wince when he touched it.

Francis shook the glass, making the liquid swirl and catch the light. “Are you going to try it, or is butterbeer as much as you can handle?”

Athur glared and snatched the glass from Francis’ outstretched fingers, drained it in one inelegant gulp. It was at once similar to and entirely unlike red wine, hot and cold on his tongue and tasting faintly of blueberries. Arthur tossed the glass to the floor and watched it shatter, blue droplets clinging to the fragments.

Francis sighed. “Reparo,” he muttered, and then, “Just because we’re wizards doesn’t mean you can be rough with my things.”

Arthur pressed Francis onto the bed. “How on earth did you end up here?” he asked, peering down at him. “There are tales of a mirror that shows one’s most feverish desires, and you would see only three things: something to eat, something to drink, and someone to fuck.”

“Perhaps. I have theories on what you might see, too. Aside from a pair of eyebrow tweezers, of course.” At this, Arthur knit his brows together and opened his mouth to shout; Francis took the opportunity to wrestle him onto the bed, pinning him down by the shoulders. “Three words, isn’t it? Three words, that’s all. You don’t belong here, either.”

Arthur clutched at the heavy green duvet. He could feel heat rising in his cheeks, was it from the drink, he wanted it to be from the drink, suspected it was from the warm breath at his ear.

“‘Easy-going and charming on the outside,’” Francis muttered, “‘but a wolf in sheep’s clothing, ruthless ambition waiting to strike.’ That’s what it told me when it put me here. I think you’re quite the opposite, what’s your excuse?”

Arthur’s hand crept to the back of Francis’ neck. He remembered sitting perched on a stool at the front of the Great Hall, blue eyes piercing through him from across the room, and the words on his own lips, barely a breath, “Slytherin.”

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Hate the game, not the plaid-clad player

Ice holds his hands out in front of himself. There are no new lines, no sag or stretch or brittle blue veins. They are the same hands he has looked at for the last fifty years, since his body hit thirty and stopped. There is a ring on his left hand that has not always been there. He takes it off, but there is still a faint white band on his finger. It bothers him. He puts the ring back on.

Ice calls Rufus, sitting cross-legged on his king-sized bed. “I was thinking about that time I kissed you,” he says.

“Unbelievable.” Rufus hangs up on him.

“You can’t stay here,” Mike says, leaning on the doorframe, “There’s not enough money, we have to sell it. We set up a room for you, the one you use when you come to visit. It’s yours if you want it.”

Ice frowns. Mike. He knows the name name like he knows his own, though time and experience have left their mark on a face that he’d first seen smudged with green finger paint. He nods, slowly, barely thinking about it, and Michael smiles in relief and picks up a brown cardboard box. Michael, someone had called him that, refusing to let go of that extra syllable. Once he’d called Alex’s looking for him, asked for Michael, and Alex’s father had stood there thinking about it, asked his wife, who’d said “Mike, you idiot, Mike. They’re in the basement.”

The phone rings seven times before Teddy finally picks up. “Do you remember that bar in Montreal where we drank until they kicked us out, and I straddled your hips and kissed you just to see what would happen?”

There is the sound of light breathing on the other end of the line. Ice keeps waiting for the click of the receiver, but it doesn’t come.

They don’t play the right songs on the radio; Ice has to flip though the channels, clicks of a button instead of the solid twist of a knob, he doesn’t like it. He finds the seventies but it’s the wrong one, he remembers tears running down a face that time had left its mark on since the first time he’d seen it, sour pout, bangs in the eyes. This song had been playing on the car stereo, and Mike had said “I’ll be home on the long weekend, Dad.”

Ice switches off the radio, turns on the television and fumbles a disc into the player. There is a face on here with a smile, bangs in the eyes, one that time won’t leave its mark on.

Ice dials Ceasar’s cellphone number. “You had red marks on your nose from your glasses,” is what he wants to say, “Was it you or me who closed the gap, do you know?”

Ceasar’s voicemail picks up, plays an outdated recording. Ice’s question catches somewhere in his throat, he can feel it lodged there hot and tight. He hangs up the phone with a gentle click, picks it back up, dials the number again.

There are tears streaming down Ice’s face when Mike come in to call him to dinner, he notices because there were none at the funeral, none while they moved him out of the house, none as he sat in here in those evenings staring at his hands.

“Mike,” he says, his body racked with sobs like he can’t figure out how to stop them, “Your dad’s dead.”

Mike sits down on the bed, puts his hand on Ice’s shoulder. “I miss him, too,” he says.

Fox frowned when they reached the driveway. “What if he’s got an alarm?”

“Nah,” Paolo said, giving the bat a few experimental swings before handing it over, “Those never work, no one bothers anymore. When was the last time you heard a car alarm and did anything about it?”

Fox raised an eyebrow. “Just how many cars have you helped Rudd total?”

“Oh, you know,” Paolo shrugged, “A few.”

“Okay, but what if he’s got a gang of hitmen standing guard behind that shrub there?”

Paolo smiled. “Then Derringer has told me you’re very adept with a tire chain, and I always come prepared.”

Fox rolled his eyes and cast one last suspicious glace towards the line of hedges against the front wall before turning his attention to the car. He looked at the smooth new glass of the windshield. He looked up, at the dark window on the second floor, the one on the left, with the curtains drawn. He looked down at the bat, lodged in the splintered glass of the windshield. He could hear Paolo let out a whoop as he scrambled on top of the car, stomping around, leaving dents in the roof. Fox wriggled the bat out and swung again, and again, until the dashboard was littered with gummy chunks of safety glass.

Paolo was laughing. “I bet you can’t knock off the mirrors in one swing,” he said, leaping down to the hood.

Fox, surprised to find himself grinning, rolled the kinks out of his shoulders. “If I do, you have to get rid of your man-cleavage shirt. I know you’re hiding it in the back of your sock drawer.” Before Paolo could do more than frown disapprovingly, Fox took a swing and made contact, watched the mirror fly off with a sickening crack.

“Oh, fine, you’ll miss the other one though,” Paolo said, and he did, tagged it on the first try and left it dangling sadly against the door with the second. Fox struck the passenger side window and watched the glass splinter.

Lights went on in the house across the street, and Fox could see some middle-aged woman peer out at them before scurrying out of sight. “Shit,” he said, giving the bat one last glorious swing into the back window where he left it as he and Paolo bolted down the block and around the corner to the car.

“That was close,” Paolo sighed as Fox eased the car down the street, nice and leisurely like there was nothing to hide. “No hitmen, though.”

“Just housewives,” Fox agreed.

Paolo rifled around for his shirt, abandoned in the backseat on the way over. “So, did it make you feel any better?”

“No, not really.”

“Ah,” and there was a grin on Paolo’s face, “You’re smiling, though.”

Fox flipped open the little vanity mirror on the visor. So he was. “Alright,” he admitted, “I guess it might’ve helped a little.”

Paolo patted Fox’s shoulder. “That’s enough for now,” he said.

Fox let out a little snort of laughter, stuck his head out the window and ruffled stray pieces of glass out of his hair. He let the wind run cold past his face, and remembered that there are only three kinds of people in this world.

“I’m quite aware of his condition,” Arthur frowned, pushing open the door, “he’s been whining at me for days over the telegraph, like I haven’t got anything better to do.” The maid, hiding a laugh behind her hand, nodded and took her leave, and Arthur ventured alone into the bedroom. The curtains were drawn, a single shaft of sunlight slicing across the foot of an elaborately draped four-poster.

“Mon anglais?” a voice croaked out from the shadows, “Is that you? Come closer, my eyes…”

“You can’t see me because all the lights are out, you bloody fool.” Arthur strode over to the window and flung open the curtains, smirking to himself at Francis’ high-pitched whine. “What are you on about, anyway? I know you’re not going to keel over dead at any moment.”

“Au contraire,” Francis sniffed, jutting out his lower lip ever so slightly and wincing at the sunlight in his eyes, “I am deathly ill. I fear I shall be shedding this mortal coil very shortly.” He let out a few pathetic coughs into a silk handkerchief and pulled the duvet up to his chin before weakly gesturing Arthur to his bedside. “Ah, ma petite chenille,” he sighed, “all I could think of was seeing you one last time before I go.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and only barely managed to keep himself from being sick all over Francis’ very expensive bedspread just to prove a point. “You don’t have the damned black plague,” he said, “you just have gout like the decadent bastard you are.”

Francis coughed daintily into his handkerchief once more and gave a very pointed sniff. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, “the doctor’s just been by and–”

Here, Francis was forced to pause as Arthur prodded at his big toe, eliciting a nearly deafening yelp.

“I am almost certain,” Arthur said with a smile, “that if he’s been by, then he’s told you that you have gout.” He gave the toe another gentle prod. “Your womanly screech just confirms my suspicions, you realize.”

Francis glared, tried to move his foot under the covers and immediately regretted it. “You’re enjoying this,” he pouted, thrusting his foot back out as the color returned to is face. “I didn’t laugh at you when you had rickets.”

“You did too, you pointed at my bow legs and you laughed until you cried.”

Francis scoffed. “I was a child then, one must overlook this sort of thing. You should know better by now, but you are enjoying my pain.”

“A little,” Arthur admitted with a smile. “‘Just try some, mon anglais,’” he exclaimed in high French falsetto, his hands clasped in front of him and his head tilted dreamily to the side, “‘Fois gras iz ze food of kings.’”

“I regret nothing.”

Arthur laughed and sat on the edge of the bed. “I brought you some gin,” he said.

Arthur poured two glasses and Francis made sour faces as he gulped his down. “Have you ever been with a man with gout in his toe,” he asked after the third, eyebrows waggling.

“Not yet,” Arthur answered.

The days following the fire were hazy as Riff slipped briefly in and out of consciousness. When he thinks about it later all he can remember clearly is a flat voice telling him he was the only survivor. Before that there was guilt and pain and something else he dares not remember, something cool and sharp and bright pricking at the edges of his memory, a smile far too familiar.

He remembers Lord Alexis, some time later, sitting at his bedside. “You’ll have to give up medical school,” he said, “but I think I can find a place for you.”

Christened on Tuesday

Riff dabs at the fresh wounds on the boy’s back. Cain, his father had said while he cracked the whip, over and over again. His name is Cain.

“What was it my father called you?” the boy asks, twisting around as best he can.

“Riff, Lord Cain.” He bites his lip and tries not to look at the welts and scars crisscrossing the pale, tender skin. “It’s short for Riffael.”

“That’s a strange name,” the boy says, resting his chin on his open palm. “I like it, though.” He pauses for a moment, deep in thought. “Riff,” he says, softly.

Married on Wednesday

His devotion is almost instinctual, like blinking, like the rhythmic contraction of his diaphragm and the dilation of his pupils in the dark. Later he will come to realize that such is not the way things should be. He will not care.

It is Wednesday, at tea, and the young master’s shoelaces have come undone. Cain watches as Riff bends down to tie them. He has grown beautiful these last few years, long slender limbs clothed in smooth, pale skin, eyes piercing and cold. “You’re the only one,” he says, quietly. It is not only Riff acting on blind instinct.

Took ill on Thursday

It is a very long time before the fog clears enough for him to notice that it is there at all. One day he realizes he’s lost an afternoon. A week later, another disappears. He falls asleep one evening and wakes up smelling of blood and smoke, his heart beating heavy in his chest. That acrid smell always sets him on edge.

Riff stands, shaking, and walks to the mirror, splashes his face with cool water from the basin. Pausing, he stares at his reflection and twists his mouth up into something cold and sharp. It is comfortable, like instinct.

Grew worse on Friday

There is blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, and he wonders if this will be his end. Jizabel is here, with his needles ground to fine points and his eyes hidden behind wire-frame glasses. Riff clutches his chest. He remembers the last time, and how the needle in his arm gave him a stab of deja-vu. It was impossible, wasn’t it? He’d have realized, track marks up his arm, he would have known. There is a rose-shaped burn blossomed across his chest, old and beginning to fade. He did not know it was there until a week ago.

Died on Saturday

He’s lost. He’s not sure how he knows, he’s not sure how he’s still around to know, but he knows. He can feel that white-sharp smile on his lips, cruel and cold and empty. His fingers clench tight on a pale slender throat he’s undressed from countless stiff collars and silk neckties. Sickened, he retches, but has no stomach nor mouth nor oesophagus to accommodate the bitter black bile he can somehow still taste in the throat that doesn’t exist. A black cape flaps behind the man who walks away, and an idea is left dying in his fading footsteps.

Buried on Sunday

There is a smile.

His limbs, though sluggish and searing with the pain of rapid decay, are his own. There is rubble raining down on him and he knows this will be his end, this time.

And there is a smile. There is a body fitted tight against him like instinct, there is a warmth he’s known since before they pieced him together out of a lonely boy’s starry-eyed fancy. There is still a chance to save him, but he cannot will his grip to loosen. He can count their lingering embraces on one rotting hand.

There is a smile.

This is the end of Solomon Grundy.

In any case, at finding that he’d put himself in such an awkward position for no immediately apparent reason, Germany was so taken aback that he stayed in said pose for no less than forty minutes thereafter, which resulted in two things. First, Italy woke up and made what Germany could only assume was some sort of absurdly high-pitched Italian mating call at the discovery of Germany’s arm firmly around his waist. Second, after letting the warmth of Italy’s body tingle up his arm for an inordinate amount of time, Germany came to a most horrifying conclusion: he kind of liked it.

Ridiculous. After quieting Italy down and apologizing to a ruffled-looking Austria, Germany decided to chalk up the morning’s antics to hallucinations and leave the whole… snuggling nonsense behind him. Germany’s resolve, however, did little to alleviate the googly-eyed stares Italy kept shooting him while he tried to jab coloured pins into a map of Europe for reasons he’d now completely forgotten.

“Stop that,” Germany grumbled.

“Stop what?” Italy’s chin rested in his hand and Germany could practically see the hearts fluttering over his head. Germany had the urge to pop one, but just sighed and said “Never mind.” Maybe he was imagining it.

“Mmmmm.” Italy slumped forward, his entire body having apparently devolved into warm mush. “Can I sleep in your bed tonight?”

“Don’t you always, anyway?”

“Oh Germany,” Italy said, tilting his head to the side and grinning like an idiot, “Stop being so coy.” He said it with flourish, and Germany could see those damn little hearts trailing off the end of it.

Coy. Coy. Really, that was the last straw. It was just a little unconscious snuggling, hardly even his own fault, really, and he curtly told Italy as much. “The more I think about it,” he said, “the more I think it’s highly inappropriate for you to be crawling into my bed every evening. You’re a grown man, for God’s sake.”

“But you’re the one who propo-”

Germany flushed bright red (which Italy happened to find absolutely precious, though even he had the foresight not to mention it). “We made a pact not to bring that up, Italy! Oaths were sworn, books were burned, it never happened.“

“Yes,” Italy agreed, “But see, then you spooned me, and I liked it.”

“Well so did I, that doesn’t mean-”

“You liked it?”

“I never said that,” Germany back-peddled.

“You did just say it, though! Just now!”

Germany cleared his throat. “You misheard me.”

Italy sighed and pouted and needled Germany endlessly for the next half-hour, but eventually let the subject drop with a promise to cease his nightly migrations to Germany’s bed. That, Germany figured, was the end of that. Really, with Italy sprawled out across his bed every night it was no wonder that such a situation had eventually come up, and now with the matter well in hand he could put the whole mess behind him.

“Well, you said you didn’t want me sneaking in here anymore,” Italy said when Germany opened the door on what he’d assumed would be an empty bedroom, “So if I just go to sleep here to begin with it should be fine, right?”

Germany covered his face. “I don’t think you’ve grasped the point,” he said, knowing that it wouldn’t do any good. He could hear the rustle of sheets as Italy slid out of bed, his bare feet padding on the floor. When he pried Germany’s hand from over his eyes, he was smiling.

“Can I stay here?” Italy asked, already knowing the answer.

“You’re ruining me,” Germany informed him with a scowl.

“Gosh,” Italy laughed and ushered Germany under the covers, wormed into his reluctant embrace, “I sure hope so!”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Arthur replies in that strained, haughty voice as he stuffs a well-worn paperback into the satchel on the floor beside him. “You weren’t supposed to be here for twenty minutes, since when are you ever anything but late?”

“Ah, cher, how could I keep myself away?” Francis grins his know-it-all grin. “We Frenchmen, we’d walk barefoot down hostile coastland in the dead of night for love, you know.”

Arthur covers his face with a gloved hand and groans. “Oh dear,” he says, chuckling awkwardly, “I’d hoped you were bluffing.”

“‘Oh, Percy,’” Francis cries in falsetto, his eyelashes fluttering and his lips poised in a longing pout, “‘How could I have ever doubted your lovely love, which my own love did lovingly seek out from the depths of my loving heart to come together in perfect love? That I have discovered you to be a dashing folk hero is only coincidental.’”

“That’s rather a nice bonus, isn’t it?” Arthur sips his drink, regaining composure. “Have you tried one of these? Some new blend they got in recently, it’s quite good.”

Francis plucks Arthur’s cup from his fingers and takes a long, lingering sip of ceylon. Arthur wants to punch the grin off his handsome face, but that’s hardly anything new. “I hope you Englishmen don’t think we’re all as incompetent as Marguerite and Chauvelin,” Francis says, fitting the cup back into Arthur’s outstretched hand.

“We’re all well aware that most of you are far worse. Get your own,” Arthur scowls as Francis licks his lips and makes another attempt at the teacup.

“What? I already drank out of that one, anyway. Fine,” Francis holds up his hands in surrender, “My order’s coming soon, anyway.”

On cue, a moment later someone brings out a pastry so sweet even the sight of it makes Arthur’s teeth ache. He has had the pastry here before; Francis has not. Arthur knows he’ll hate it, and he smiles. Francis does not seem to notice.

“Who are you?” Francis asks, absently checking his fork for spots.

Arthur cocks a bushy eyebrow. “What are you on about?”

Francis takes a thoughtful bite of his pastry; the look on his face tells Arthur the chef does not pass his test, and he tries not to laugh. “I mean,” Francis says, forcing a swallow and moving his plate aside, “Do you imagine yourself as clever Percy, hopelessly in love, or do you fancy yourself Marguerite, the most brave and handsome man you’ve ever known kissing your dainty feet?”

Arthur’s mouth scrunches up. “There’s no proper answer to that, is there? Tell me yours first, I know you’ve read it.”

Francis doesn’t say anything, but he bows down with exaggerated reverence and lifts Arthur’s foot, pressing his mouth to the toe of his polished leather boot. The people at the next table over give him the oddest look, but he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, Arthur has never been sure which. He’s still grinning that know-it-all grin.

“Stupid git,” Arthur murmurs, his lips resting on the rim of an empty cup.

“‘Brother, brother,’ you called to me,” Francis says, sliding Arthur’s stiff jacket off his shoulders. “‘Did you know your hair is like silk?’”

“I was mistaken.” Arthur lets Francis untie the neck cloth at his throat, does not protest when his fingers linger. The smell of fresh-cut lilies hangs soft in the air.

Francis’ fingers are joined by his lips. “Do you think of me when you wear those silk stockings next to your skin?” he asks, his voice gone heavy and dark.

“And you?” Arthur grins that crooked punk-kid grin he pretends he’s grown out of. “What do you think of when you wear your silk stockings beneath your silk nightclothes and crawl between your silk sheets, you decadent bastard?

“‘Brother, brother,’” Francis mocks with a smile. Arthur yanks at his hair in protest, pulls out the satin ribbon by accident and remembers bright scented silk pooled at his feet. Francis lifts his undershirt and kisses the bare skin below his navel. “Are you frightened?”

Arthur doesn’t answer, pulls his undershirt off over his head and tosses it to the floor. “Get on with it,” he says, staring straight into Francis’ eyes, daring. There are goose bumps on his arms.

“Lie back,” Francis tells him.

Arthur bites his lip as Francis enters him and cries out anyway. His hands hover above Francis’ head, fingers outstretched, but at the last moment he draws them back, drops them to his side to clutch at those decadent silk sheets.

Francis smiles. “You think you’re so grown up, don’t you?” He takes Arthur’s hands, kisses his palms and guides his fingers to tangle in gold-silk hair. He moves, and Arthur cries out again, pulls him closer without realizing, tears of pain and maybe something else pricking at the corners of his eyes. Francis kisses his forehead, softly.

Years from now Arthur’s fingers will brush against a silk shirt in the back of his wardrobe. The scent of lilies will drift in from his open window, and he will remember a smile he’d thought long forgotten.

“I see what you’re doing here,” Arthur said, taking a swig and biting his lip at the sharp bitter stab on his tongue.

“Do you?” Francis was smiling, idly swirling the wine in his glass.

“I do,” Arthur replied firmly. “It’s not going to work. I know all your old tricks off by heart.”

“And I yours.” Francis filled Arthur’s glass. “It used to be a lot easier to get your trousers off.”

“When! When was it easy!”

“Glam rock,” Francis said, and Arthur buried his face in his hands.

“Oh god,” Arthur groaned, his cheeks getting red, though from embarrassment or the wine it was impossible to say. “Don’t remind me, it seemed like a great idea at the time.”

“Mod was cute and punk was adorable, but glam was my favourite.” Francis pulled at Arthur’s sleeve. “Do you ever put the glitter back on these days?”

“God no, I’m too old for that kind of thing.”

“What? Ridiculous.” Francis took Arthur’s hand. “Come here.”

“Where?”

“Well if you’d follow, you’d know.” Francis tugged at Arthur, and they were up, walking down the road. “It’s good to feel young sometimes.”

Arthur’s face scrunched up. “You’re not, you’re not!” he said, digging his heels into the sidewalk, but Francis dragged him into a shop and made him sweep shelves of glitter eye makeup into a basket, laughing. They gave a fistful of euros and a couple old francs to the girl at the counter, who made a face and pushed the coins back with their change.

“Let me do it,” Francis said, and they sat cross-legged on his bed.

“You’re messing it up.”

“You can’t even see what I’m doing.”

“Doesn’t matter, I can tell.” Arthur sneezed. “I never used this much, you know.”

Francis dipped his fingers in a jar of powder and caressed Arthur’s cheek. “I want to see how it looks on you.”

Arhur grabbed Francis’ hand and scrunched up his nose. “I still see what you’re doing here. You’re still doing it, so I still see it, you know.”

“Oh-ho, so I am.” Francis’ fingers slid beneath Arthur’s shirt, leaving trails of glamour in their wake. The perfumed smell of cosmetics hung in the air. Francis kissed him in that way he had, a little too hard and a little too long. “Am I still not getting away with it?” he asked in that deep velvet voice he thought was sexy, and it was, and Arthur hated that it was.

“You smeared it,” Arthur said, his fingers at Francis’ lips, rubbing them softly and coming back stained red.

“It looks better that way.” Francis kissed him again, and Arthur’s fingers twined in his hair, soft like silk thread in his hands.

When they were done they lay naked on top of the sheets, their feet propped against the headboard. Arthur lit a cigarette and blew a smoke ring in Francis’ face. “I thought you quit,” Francis said.

“I tell the kids that or they make that face at me.” Arthur flicked the ash onto the floor. “Why, do you think I should?”

“No, I think you should share, though.”

Arthur passed Francis the cigarette and raked a hand through his hair, stiff with cheap glitter spray. “I should have known better than to go drinking with you.”

Francis smiled. “I’m glad you don’t know better.”

“Come to the dark side, we have hashbrowns.”

Arthur passes Versailles. He wonders if the mirrors have been pried off the walls, remembers how they dazzled when the sunlight hit them. Francis’ hair had shone gold in the bright-lit ballroom where he’d taught him the gavotte.

“You came,” Francis says when Arthur steps into the dark, cramped study. “I thought you might.”

“What have you done with your king?” Arthur asks.

Francis laughs. “My dear brother, the age of kings is over. It is the stuff of fairy tales.”

“I’ve always been fond of fairy tales,” Arthur says, draping his long coat over an empty chair. “I’ve had word that you took your king and placed him in that awful device, is that true?”

“I tried a French citizen and found him guilty of crimes against the republic.”

“What was his crime? What are the crimes of all the nobility whose screams I can hear from my window? Being born in a time when you’ve gone mad?”

Francis puts down his pen and reclines in his chair. “Their crimes are inaction, of course. They had wealth and power and influence, yet they continued to exploit the peasantry, they lifted not a finger to ease the suffering of the people so long as their own bellies were full.” Francis tilts his head to the side and smiles too wide. “It’s quite simple, non? They have been roadblocks to freedom, and continue to be so. We must remove them. My citizens have had enough. I have had enough.”

“This is freedom, then? This is equality? Fairness?” The candle on the desk flickers and nearly goes out. “Is this what you dreamed of when you heard what my son had accomplished?”

“He had it easy, I realize now. Far from the past, a nearly blank slate, once he broke his ties with you there was little to clean up. Here in Europe it will be more difficult, we’ll have to wipe things clean ourselves before we can write the new pages of history.” Francis stands up and snuffs the candle, the only light now from the bright sliver of moon filtered through the dirty window. He steps forward, and his face is too close. “Why did you come?”

“You should stop this madness,” Arthur says, and his mouth is dry.

“I’ve already murdered the king. There’s no going back now.” Francis’ fingers are beneath Arthur’s chin, tilting it upward. “It’s a new age. You’ll see that soon enough. Big brother will teach you, like I always do, once things are settled.”

Arthur pushes Francis’ hand away. “If you set foot in my country like this, I’ll kill you.”

Francis smiles and sits back down, relights the candle. “Be careful on your way back,” he says, “You’re dressed far too well to be walking these streets.”

Arthur puts on his jacket and leaves without a word, hearing the furious scritch of pen on paper as he closes the door. It’s quiet now, but he knows that when he lies in bed tonight he will hear echoes from across the channel again, roars and screams and thud, thud, thud. On his way back he passes Versailles once more. He knows now that the man who glimmered in the sunlight is gone.

Fire, Waka had found out early on, was a lot less boring than squaring off against other gladiators, who telegraphed their moves and told you everything with their fierce, terrified eyes. Fire only follows the crudest of guidelines, and from there it is anyone’s guess. Will this match destroy the pile of newspaper he throws it on, take down the building he stands in? He won’t know until he lights it.

* * *

When Waka first met Daku, his pulse pounded in his head and red flicked at the corners of his vision. Something about his eyes, the way he moved, the sharp grin carved across his face. Waka was holding a torch to a pile of oil-soaked rags, he was standing across the road watching flames leap between rooftops, he was watching a bit of paper curl and smoke and burn his fingertips.

Daku sauntered over to him, his movements smooth and without a hint of warning to them, like his limbs moved entirely of their own accord. “I hear you used to burn down stuff,” he said, raking a hand through his stiff blond hair. “What for?”

“Bored,” Waka answered after a moment’s pause. His fingers twitched in his pockets, out of sight.

* * *

“If you put our names together, it’s a shark god, did’ja know that?” Daku reclined on a rock jutting out of the water near shore. Sunlight gleamed off his wet hair. “D’ya think she meant it like that?”

“No.” Waka was propped up on his elbows, his legs dangling in the water. “It’s a coincidence. She doesn’t have her eye on everything.”

Daku pouted. “You’re no damn fun.”

“What are you talking about, moron?” Waka squinted in the glare of the sun off the water. “Isn’t it a way more interesting world if it’s a coincidence?”

Daku grinned, and his teeth flashed white-hot and sharp. “I guess.”

* * *

There was no warning when Daku shoved him into a bathroom stall, his mouth at his ear, “I’ve never felt so fucking horny in my whole life, you know that? I think I’ve wanted to suck your cock from the second I saw you.”

* * *

Waka stares at the charred, gutted remains of an old warehouse. There is a man there he has never seen before, running his finger through the thick layer of soot on the wall. He’s a shark, Waka can tell from the way he moves.

“I hear you’re cold and brash and frighteningly good,” the man says. “What’s a gladiator of your calibre doing with arson?”

Waka flicks his lighter off and on. The man can see the twitch in his fingers. “It’s not boring,” he says.

“Six in two weeks,” the man says, and Waka wonders how he knows, maybe he hasn’t been hiding as well as he thought. “I’d say you’re tiring of it.”

“There’s something bigger,” Waka says, and he doesn’t know why, something about the way the man looks at him. “Better. Something I’ve been looking for. I’ve almost got it, I can feel it tingling.”

The man’s glasses are sliding down the ridge of his nose, he pushes them back with one hand and draws a card from his pocket with the other. “Come look for me when you’ve given up the search,” he tells Waka. “I promise, I’ll find you something far more interesting.”

Francis leaned his head back to stare at Arthur upside-down, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed and his hair sticking up on one side like it did when he slept on it funny. A song, quick and lively, echoed softly in the empty room; the name of it is not important. “I taught you the gavotte to this one, do you remember? You were terrible.”

“You were just a terrible teacher.” Arthur sat in the chair opposite, near the fire. “Anyway, it was a stupid country dance in the first place.”

Francis grinned. “Good enough for the Sun King, but still not enough for you? How very typical. Was there not enough glitter, young men tarted up like women?” Francis paused. “Actually, if I recall, there was an awful lot of that going on, I don’t know what your problem was. Should’ve been paradise for you.”

“Come off it,” Arthur launched a pillow across the room, “Just because I had a couple experimental decades…” He rose angrily to his feet. “I don’t know why I even bother trying to have civil conversations with you.”

“Is that what that was? Come here,” Francis stood. “Do you remember any of the steps, have gotten any better? Prove it to me.”

Arthur frowned that crooked little frown of his, but he held out a hand for Francis to take, rested the other on his shoulder. “I can’t believe I never realized back then that this was just a flimsy excuse to feel me up,” he said.

“That was only part of it.” Francis gripped Arthur by the waist. “My favourite part, of course. Listen, it’s a waltz now, do you think you can still count to three?”

Arthur kicked Francis in the shin.

“Still so feisty,” Francis said, his eyebrows wriggling, “I love it.”

“If you let that hand wander any lower, I’ll aim higher next time.”

Francis smiled and pulled Arthur around the room in steady rhythm. “I think maybe it’d be worth it.”

Adalbert lies with his head in Julia’s lap, watching the leaves above them rustle in the breeze. They are turning from green to dull mud-brown, in raggedy patches and crinkled edges. “It should be the last campaign for awhile,” he says, absently seeking the hilt of his sword where he’s set it in the grass beside him, “I’ll be back by spring.”

Julia ran her fingers through Adalbert’s hair, still softer than she ever expects. “The flowers will be blooming again in her Majesty’s garden by then,” she says. “They smell nice, I missed them this last summer.”

“Do you want them for the wedding? I’ll get them for you.”

Julia laughs like the clear blue sky peeking through the leaves above them. There is a leaf stuck in her hair, and Adalbert wonders if she notices. “That’s quite alright,” Julia says, “I’m sure she’ll bring some herself, anyway.” She frowns. “It’ll be raining in the spring, we should wait until summer.”

Adalbert shakes his head. “No,” he says firmly. “Spring, when I get back. No later.”

Julia’s fingers stop for a moment. She smiles soft and warm. “You have to wear the suit,” she says quietly. The suit is a terribly formal thing, all stiff collar and squared shoulders and elegant stitching about the cuffs. Adalbert hates it, and Julia knows, and her smile widens. “And you have to dance with me the whole night.”

“I’ll look a fool,” Adalbert warns.

“I worry more for my toes than your pride, but I want you to do it anyway.”

Adalbert looks up and frowns. “Where’s your necklace?” he asks.

Julia puts a hand to her throat, and her expression becomes stretched and thin. “I must have forgot to put it on,” she says. Julia’s heart thuds heavy in her chest. She remembers the first time she heard his voice, deep and clear and confident even in his youth. She’d been barefoot in the garden, her skirt hiked up round her knees, and when he spoke she felt the earth beneath her feet stop to listen. “Do you need any help?” he’d asked her, and she’d smiled and took his hand.

Adalbert looks at her. “Did you want me to go fetch it for you?” he asks, and the dirt and the grass and the clouds and the leaves and her ears still drink in his voice, rich and dark.

Julia shakes her head. Her thoughts are elsewhere. “Is this the battle that you think you’ll find meaning in?” she asks. Her fingers still run absently through Adalbert’s hair.

“It may help end the war. Yes, it’s a meaningful battle.”

“Is it?” Julia muses.

“Even your friend Conrad thinks so, doesn’t he?”

Conrad’s name sounds like bitter herb tea on Adalbert’s tongue. Julia tries not to laugh. “As much as any battle can have meaning, he does. I wonder at him, too. I don’t understand it.”

“We have things to protect.” Adalbert stands, shakes the warmth from his limbs, stretches out the comfortable looseness. “I should be going,” he says, buckling his sword back into place, “I have much to prepare before tomorrow. Will you be at the castle?”

“I will.”

Julia holds out her hand and Adalbert grasps it, pulls her gently to her feet, lighter than he ever expects. When she finds her balance he still does not let go. “If there’s anything you need of me before I go,” he says, “please tell me.”

Julia thinks of a voice whispering to her in the back of her head, and a clock ticking away somewhere with the numbers all blanked out. She touches her fingers to Adalbert’s cheek to feel he warmth of his blush there, and kisses him softly. “This is enough,” she says.

“He became a wine-soaked cheese-eating pacifist Frenchman, or so I hear,” Francis answers, his smile unwavering. “You’ve been talking with Alfred again. The middle ages were a long time ago, you know.”

“It shouldn’t matter. The revolution wasn’t.” Arthur’s grip tightens. “Doesn’t it make you angry?”

Francis laughs and lays a palm against Arthur’s cheek. “Do you remember? Do you remember the smell of blood and gun smoke across the water and the cries of liberté, égalité, fraternité?”

Arthur frowns and grips Francis’ wrist. “I remember you making a host of poor decisions.”

“Tomato, tomato,” Francis says, pronouncing them both in the same heavy accent, “or however it is that goes. If you remember it then that’s enough, isn’t it? I don’t care what he says about me.”

Arthur’s hand moves from Francis’ throat to his chest. “Everyone should know,” he says. “What was the point of everything if nobody knows anymore?”

Francis’ fingers are at Arthur’s throat, then to the back of his neck, pulling him closer. “I remember,” he says, “You remember.”

There is a warm knot in the pit of Arthur’s stomach, and what he remembers is looking across the channel and seeing Francis standing at the shore in shining armor, the pride of Europe, the son of Charlemagne. Francis kisses him now. Arthur can’t remember a time when he didn’t want to swallow him whole.

The first box Italy opened contained a pile of black helmets with silver spikes on top. “Oh wow, so scary!” he exclaimed, taking on out and trying it on. “This one makes me feel tall, why didn’t Germany have this kind during the war? I guess I’ll keep this one and throw out the rest,” he continued, folding the flaps back in and shoving the box aside, “he probably doesn’t need all of them.”

A number of other boxes went by in the same manner as the first, old guns and uniforms and medals and one box stuffed to the brim, curiously, with especially tacky steins. “Germany sure does fight a lot,” Feliciano sighed, rifling through a stack of old clothes. “Oh!” He pulled out a brown uniform jacket, red armband still pinned to the sleeve. “This is his boss’s from that time, isn’t it?” He held the jacket up to himself and stuck his finger sideways across his upper lip. “I look like Charlie Chaplin,” he growled sternly, “do what I say!” He laughed uproariously and slung the jacket on a old coat rack he’d found. The jacket had been lying atop a pile of yellow stars; Italy stared frowning at them for a few moments before giving a shrug and scrawling “Christmas decorations” across the flap.

“Now what’s this?” Italy hefted a chunk of concrete that had been tossed in the corner of the attic. It looked like the ruins of a wall or something, part of a mural or something painted on one side. “What does he want something like this for? Just throw it away.” He tossed it in the trash pile, wincing at the loud thunk it made and hoping Germany didn’t hear; he wanted this to be a surprise. He looked around, wondering whether to tackle the Mann or Nietzsche collections, when a roll of paper, sticking out of a hole in the plaster, caught his eye.

Ludwig was downstairs reading the newspaper when he heard the unmistakable thud of Feliciano’s feet thundering down the stairs. He only had just enough time to tuck the newspaper safely out of harms way when Italy came tearing in, clutching a roll of parchment in one hand with tears streaming down his face.

“Germany!” Italy sobbed, throwing himself into Ludwig’s lap, “Germany!”

“What?! And why are you wearing that thing,” Germany took the hemelt off Italy’s head, “You’ll hurt someone with that thing.”

“Germany, Germany,” Feliciano kept crying, waving his paper around like a madman. Germany took it and unfurled it.

“Hey,” Ludwig said, “this looks like you, doesn’t it? Where did this come from?”

“I… attic… sausages…” Italy hiccoughed.

Germany went red. “I wasn’t that upset about the pasta.” He studied the drawing. “It really is you, then? You found it in the attic?”

Feliciano wiped his nose on his sleeve. “From when I was little and living with Austria,” he said, the tears starting to subside.

“That’s strange,” Germany said, patting Italy’s back with his free hand. “It must’ve belonged to whoever lived here before. What a coincidence.” He paused and furrowed his brows. “Why are you wearing a dress?”

“Eh?” Italy blinked, his tears finally stopping. “You mean it’s not yours, Germany?”

“How could it be? I wasn’t around yet when you were still this small.”

“Oh,” Italy sniffled, “I guess that’s true. Or more, I knew that already, but then I thought…” Feliciano bit his lip and ran his fingers along the edge of the picture. “My friend drew it, I think… I told him I’d wait for him, but he never…”

Germany’s throat went tight and he glanced at the clock. “It’s after three,” he said, “shouldn’t you be having your nap?”

“Siesta!” Italy flew off the couch and started taking off his pants. “I completely forgot!”

“You don’t need to be naked to have a nap!!” Ludwig grabbed the blanket off the back of the couch. “Anyway, just sleep here, I’ll wake you up later.”

Feliciano’s face lit up and he dove back onto the couch, settling his head in Ludwig’s lap, completely recovered. “Is Germany going to have a siesta, too?”

“No, I’ll read the paper in peace for once,” Ludwig said, tucking the blanket around Feliciano’s shoulders.

Italy grabbed Germany’s hand suddenly and looked up. “Germany,” he said, “You won’t forget me, right?”

Ludwig rapped Feliciano on the head with his knuckles. “I told you a long time ago I wouldn’t,” he said, “Who could forget a useless idiot like you? Go to sleep.”

“That’s true, isn’t it?” Italy smiled brightly and snuggled against Germany. He was asleep within minutes, as Ludwig knew he’d be, clinging to the hem of his shirt with one hand. The drawing lay half-rolled on the table; Ludwig picked it up again and smoothed out the edges to study it more closely. The lines, he thought, were crude and shaky, but Italy’s smiling face was drawn with care. Germany pressed his fingers softly to his lips and stared.

EXTRA

“Those helmets aren’t even the real ones from that time, you know.”

“Really?!”

“Britain keeps sending them to me for my birthday, he thinks he’s being funny. America sends me those steins, too, I don’t know where he gets them.”

“And the lederhosen?”

“…”

“Germany, what about the lederhosen?”

“…do you want to have pasta tonight?”

“I want gnocchi!”

“What are you doing?” Noah muttered into the back of Edgar’s neck. “Go to sleep.”

“Sorry. Edgar-I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.” Noah sat up and rubbed his eyes with his palm. “What? Tell me so we can go to sleep already.”

“It’s nothing,” Edgar insisted, his face getting hot. “Let’s sleep now, I’m going to, you should too.”

Noah’s fingertips skittered against Edgar’s hips. “Is that an order?”

“N-no! I just…”

“Tell me what you were thinking about and I’ll go to sleep like a good boy,” Noah said, grinning.

Edgar furrowed his brow and tried to squirm away from Noah’s touch. “Just a second ago you wanted me to go to sleep!”

“Now I’m curious,” Noah said. His tongue flicked out to lick the corner of his lips and his hand moved to the inside of Edgar’s thigh, fingers splayed, dark white dark white.

Edgar choked back a gasp. “I was just… stop that,” he said, grabbing Noah’s hand, “I was just thinking about… if Prince found out…”

Noah frowned and collapsed back onto his pillow. “That again,” he said.

“It’s not… you’d wait for me, right?” Edgar’s fingers picked nervously at the sheets. “I’d definitely get my Ace back, so if I…”

Noah expression softened in that strange way it did sometimes in the dark. “It’s not going to happen,” he said, “I told you that already.”

“But if it did,” Edgar insisted.

“It won’t,” Noah said. “Why are you thinking of that stupid stuff?”

Edgar looked down at Noah, still propped against his pillow and frowning, arms crossed. “You’re more gentle than the servant journals say you are.”

Noah scrunched up his face unconsciously. “I guess,” he said, “I think it’s probably the first time. How do you like it, gentle or rough?”

Edgar thought of men in black robes, he thought of his Prince’s yellow eyes. He wrapped his arms around Noah. “Gentle,” he said, and his voice cracked.

This news box does not get used much, I may start doing some blogging.

Sometimes they are twangy country songs, all about outdoors and falling in love and involving too much alcohol. They trip over their feet as they cross the beach, a bottle of beer clutched tight in each hand, laughing and falling into sand still warm from the hot afternoon. “We should go fishing,” Ceasar says, but Ice pushes him down and they’ve forgotten why they came out here in the first place.

Sometimes they are emo rock, screaming at each other from opposite ends of the room. An unfamiliar cologne lingers on Ceasar’s body but he can’t help it, he wishes he could. “I wonder,” Ice says, “I wonder,” and Ceasar storms out, yelling as he stomps out the door, walks to the Starbucks on the corner and drinks black coffee and doesn’t cry until Ice steers the car into the parking lot.

Sometimes they are something acoustic, smaller and more real, more intense. Ice brushes Ceasar’s hair aside and presses his mouth to his forehead. Ice’s lips are dry and chapped and Ceasar laughs a little, digging a grubby tube of lip balm from his pocket.

Sometimes they are a power ballad, everything slowed down and dramatic, punctuated by lighters waving rhythmically through the dark. My god, Ceasar thinks, it can’t be this easy, I can’t be this happy, and suddenly it isn’t, he isn’t, and everything is poignant and melodramatic until the lighter fluid runs out and Ice kisses him softly in the dark.

Tonight, while they lie together in bed, Ice takes Ceasar’s hand and whispers “I love you.”

It is a moment that needs no accompaniment.

PREVIEW:

 
1) I think that on Irken being an asshole is a prerequisite for leadership.
2) There are only a few who would appreciate the dice reference and they will probably mock me for using it wrong. Anyway, Duke Devlin ladies and gents.
3) I just realized that I love Samurai Champloo so much because it is a show about three jerks wandering aimlessly around Japan.
4) “I’D HAVE GOT AWAY WITH IT TOO IF IT WEREN’T FOR YOU MEDDLING KIDS AND THAT PESKY LAWYER”
5) No one is a more arrogant snot than Ryoma, no one.
6) Paul is a ghost who is a dick.
7) There are plenty of assholes in this web comic but Daku and Waka’s sole purpose was basically to show up on four pages and be dicks to everyone, so they win.
It is pretty difficult to be a bigger jerk than House but Tritter looks like he barely even has to try.
9) I love Saki because she is a bitch but gets away with it by being totally foxy.
10) Zhao!
11) Extra Tall.
12) Gary didn’t make the cut because he is not as big a jerk as this icon makes him seem. The cat, on the other hand, is a total douche.

There was a hand on Venus’ shoulder. “You look beautiful,” someone said in her ear, a voice soft like a snake rustling through tall grass.

“These are just sacks of flour, you know,” Venus replied, poking at her fake breasts. She glanced sideways at her admirer: dusty skin and darker eyes, with a disarming smile full of straight white teeth. There was a whip coiled at his side, and a hat she recognized from some old film Nelson had made her watch. Someone had made her watch, she corrected herself. “That stupid grin’s not going to work on me,” she continued, “try hitting on some other boy in a dress.”

“You’re beautiful,” the young man said again, tilting his hat back in a fashion he seemed to think rakish and charming. Venus wondered if perhaps he didn’t speak any other English. His hand on her shoulder was shaking. Venus remembered Nelson explaining to her what ‘beautiful’ meant, his face beet red and his hands trembling, and she laughed aloud without thinking.

The boy got a pouty little frown on his face. “What’s so funny?” he asked.

Venus shook her head and brushed the young man’s hand off her shoulder. “You just reminded me of something.”

“You know, you’re-”

“Come up with something a little more original,” Venus said, “I had my fill of that word a long time ago.”

“Ravishing,” the young man suggested.

Venus made her way to the drink table, her admirer close behind. “Try again.”

“Stunning, radiant, breathtaking,” the young man tried as Venus handed him a glass of punch. “Gorgeous, heart-stopping, a knock-out.”

Venus sighed. “I really don’t want to hear anything else about my appearance, thanks,” she said. “What do you want?”

The boy bit his lip and clutched his drink white-knuckled. “I just…” he furrowed his brow, “I’d just really like to dance with you really a lot is all,” he finished in a breath.

Venus laughed aloud again. It was the first time she’d laughed so much in months, and the thought made her chest tight.

“What this time?” the young man whined. “You asked so I told you. Is it that funny?”

“A little, it’s a little funny.”

The boy frowned again. “You’re not very demure, are you? I’m a man, you know.”

Venus smiled and pulled a plastic balloon stuffed with flour from beneath her dress. “Join the club. Us men, no one orders us around, huh?”

The boy stood there, his mouth open slightly, like he had something he wanted to say but no words to use.

Cherokee ran up, his cheeks flushed and his curly pigtails in disarray. “We’re going to the beach,” he said, taking Venus’ hand. “Teddy says the beach patrol has a bonfire going. Signed. You know what I mean.”

Venus set her drink down on the table. “Another time then, Dr. Jones.” Cherokee tugged insistently at her wrist, excited and a little drunk, and she followed.

When Venus glanced back, she saw the young man still standing at the drink table, his ridiculous costume hat tilted to the side. Her abandoned glass was raised to his lips, and he stared.

“What a creeper,” Venus muttered under her breath, stuffing her fake breast back down her top with her free hand.

“You’ve got a penis too, you know.” Ceasar shrugged. “Do her anyway. A hole’s a hole’s a hole.”

Nelson frowned. “I liked drinking with you better when you still got embarrassed over this sort of stuff.”

“Well, you know, I figure the more I act like a perv, the less I’ll be forced to act like a perv.” Ceasar swivelled his barstool around. “You still like her, don’t you? So just get over the penis already. She’s still pretty hot, isn’t she? I’m pretty sure straight guys would go for her.”

Nelson sighed and rested his chin on his hand. “Why didn’t she just like cross-dress or something? Try to pass herself off as a girl? She’d be happier, and no one would know about… the gay thing. It’d be easier.”

“Oh whine.” Ceasar leaned over and stole Nelson’s beer. “Virus outed me in front of half the school, how do you think I felt?”

Nelson let his head slip down to the counter. “She wouldn’t take me back now anyway, I pissed her off too bad.”

“Probably.”

Nelson sighed again and looked away in thought. “Really wish I knew how gay guys worked,” he said.

“She’s not a gay guy, she’s a straight chick who got stuck with a penis.” Ceasar paused for a moment, looked at his empty glass and chuckled. “Man, listen to us. Did you ever think you’d be having a conversation like this? What the hell.” He tipped the last few drops of beer down his throat. “My life was normal once, you know?”

“No kidding, right? Most guys get some chick knocked up, they get a lecture and child support bills, what do I get?”

“Nothing but grief,” Ceasar replied.

The two sat in silence. Nelson ordered another drink.

“So,” Ceasar said, “Want to go have sex?”

“What?”

“Dunno.” Ceasar shrugged. “Just seemed like something the virus would do about now.”

Nelson laughed a little. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

Ceasar smiled. “I guess not.”

They bought a round of drinks for the handful of students left in the bar. Ceasar led Nelson back to his room.

Ice threw back the covers, shivered again when his feet hit the hardwood. He pulled the blanket over his shoulders, let the end drag on the floor behind him as he walked, picking up dust. Ceasar’s toothbrush was sitting in the jar in the bathroom, next to Ice’s, both encrusted with dried toothpaste in the grooves of the handles. Maybe he got called in, Ice thought, spitting mint foam into the sink.

Ceasar’s shoes, the plain and sensible black loafers, were gone, and so was his jacket, though his car keys still hung on a hook by the door. Ice ran his fingers along the cheap leather keychain, the name of the dealer stamped across it off-center.

Ice went to the kitchen and rummaged through the cupboards. Ceasar had an English muffin for breakfast every morning. The new package was unopened; Ice helped himself to one, cranking the toaster up to six. It must have been urgent, Ice thought. He slathered peanut butter over the muffin and watched it melt, wondering why he hadn’t heard the phone ring.

On the second morning Ice dialled Ceasar’s cell phone. It rang once. “Hi, you’ve reached Ceasar Wolf…”

“You should have called me,” Ice said once the tone had cut off, “Or left a note, or something. You could be dead! You could be anything!” Ice paced around the house. “You left without your toothbrush. What if you’d got hit by a car and were dying somewhere while I ate breakfast. I was so worried I called every hospital in town. I’m still worried. Where are you?! Why won’t you call?!”

Ice found himself standing in the living room. Something was beeping incessantly, the pause between just long enough to make you think it’d stopped. There was a cell phone on the coffee table. Ice looked at the display. One missed call, one new voicemail. Dial tone buzzed in his ear.

On the third evening Ice knelt beside his bed, his hands folded together. His first owner had been a church-going man, said his prayers every night while Ice watched from the foot of the bed. Ice didn’t know which god he was praying to now: his, his master’s, something else, maybe they were all the same thing.

“Please,” he said, “I’ll do anything, so please. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”

On the fourth day Ice lay in bed without moving. A faint scent still clung to the pillow beside him and he breathed it in, slowly. Around three o’clock the sun slanted into his eyes, and still he did not stir.

On the fifth day Ice cracked a pair of eggs into a skillet and turned the stove on. Ceasar was not coming back.

“No one’s gonna see anything,” Ice said. “They probably wouldn’t recognize you, anyway.”

“That’s not even the point.” Ceasar tugged at his polo shirt. “Where’d you even get this from?”

“Never mind about that.” Ice handed Ceasar a box and ushered him out the door. “You memorized your lines, right?”

“Yes, but Ice, this is—”

“Ceasar it’s gonna be so awesome, trust me.” Ice shut the door and scurried off to the living room to switch on the stereo. The boom of a heavy bass line echoed through the apartment. “Okay,” he yelled, “Action!”

Ice could almost hear Ceasar sigh as he rang the doorbell. Ice, grinning, stood and sauntered towards the door. “Who is it?” he called.

“Dominos Pizza,” Ceasar replied, his voice muffled through the door. “I have a delivery for Ice.”

“Just a minute,” ice said, hastily pulling off his shirt and tossing behind the sofa. He smoothed back his hair and opened the door. “You came fast,” he said.

Ceasar held his pizza box aloft, his uniform hat pulled down over his eyes. “I’ve got a large pizza with extra—” Ceasar paused, biting back laughter, “With extra sausage.”

Ice leaned against the doorframe, puffing his chest out. “So what’s that come to?”

“Twenty bucks,” Ceasar replied.

Ice sighed. “Sorry to say, but it seems like I’ve lost my wallet. I don’t suppose there’s some other way I can pay?” Ice leaned forward, his lips next to Ceasar’s ear. “I’ll definitely give you a nice, fat… tip.”

At this, Ceasar doubled over laughing.

Ice grinned. “Yeah, I’ll bet you could go for some extra sausage, yourself.”

“Stop, stop,” Ceasar pleaded, holding his stomach and howling with laughter. “Oh god you say it so seriously,” he giggled as Ice grabbed him by the shirt collar and pulled him inside, “Will it be a hot and spicy sausage? I sure hope so.”

“The hottest,” Ice said. “Now come on,” he slid a hand under Ceasar’s shirt, “back in character.”

“Right, right.” Ceasar cleared his throat and pitched his voice into a breathy falsetto. “I’m not sure Dominos accepts that kind of payment, sir,” he gasped.

“How about I swipe my card in your slot,” Ice whispered, nibbling at Ceasar’s neck, “and we’ll see if it gets approved?”

Ceasar burst out into laughter again.

“Aw, come on, Cees,” Ice pouted, pulling away. “You’re a terrible porn actor.”

“And you’re a terrible porn writer,” Ceasar said, setting down the pizza box. “Have you even watched a porno since like 1974?”

“I haven’t had to,” Ice bragged. “Especially not lately. Now let’s take it from the top, try not to laugh this time…”

“No way, fuck it,” Ceasar said, “I can’t do it.”

“But Ceeeeeeeees…”

Ceasar laughed and pulled Ice into a kiss. “I won’t act out your stupid porno,” he said, “But I’ll wear the hat.”

Ice grinned. “Well,” he said, “I suppose that’ll do.”

Ceasar took Ice’s hand and led him to the bedroom. “Dominos always puts customers first.”

Ceasar struggled against the ropes. He couldn’t see anyone in the room, so he called out experimentally. “Look,” he said, the edge of desperation obvious in his voice, “I don’t know what I told you, but you seem to have the wrong idea.”

“I think not,” someone answered from behind him. Ceasar turned his head and caught a glimpse of blond curls and cold, blank eyes. The man at the pub, who’d sent him his favourite drink and smiled at him. Ceasar had always been attracted to cold eyes like his, he didn’t know why. “You’re the one who seems to be mistaken.”

“Listen-” Ceasar began, wondering what the virus had promised him. His heart was speeding up now, leaping into his throat.

“No,” the man-Cleatus, Ceasar thought, that was his name-said, kneeling on the bed behind him, “You listen.” He grabbed Ceasar by the hair and wrenched him against himself. Ceasar felt cold fingers on his chest. “I’m going to fuck you now,” Cleatus whispered in his ear. “It will hurt. You’ll scream, but no one will hear you.”

Ceasar trembled in that cold, insistent grip. He could feel Cleatus smiling against his skin. “I don’t think you understand,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

“I understand enough. You’re the one who tempted me first.” Cleatus pushed Ceasar’s jeans down his thighs. “But you know all about temptation, don’t you? You’ve tasted from the original, after all.”

Ceasar froze for a moment in shock, then began to struggle violently. “You knew,” he said, “Why would you if you knew it was him, why-”

“Shhhhhh,” Cleatus hissed, and his hand was over Ceasar’s mouth. “You let your guard down, didn’t you? You started thinking it would always be easy. They’d always be there to save you when it came to this.” Without warning, Cleatus thrust up. Ceasar let loose a muffled scream into his hand. “But where are they now?”

Tears of pain prickled at the corners of Ceasar’s eyes and he flushed with anger. “Come now,” Cleatus said, mocking, “you were begging me for this not half an hour ago.”

“That was him,” Ceasar managed to gasp through Cleatus’ slackened grip, “You know it was him! Why are you doing this?”

“Where’s the line between you and him? I think you’ve forgotten, yourself.” Cleatus moved his hand from Ceasar’s mouth completely, lowering his fingers to grip his throat, feel the rise and fall as he swallowed. “They lie to you every day,” he said, and his other hand moved to Ceasar’s lap. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Ceasar felt his stomach drop. “They don’t-”

“Oh, but they do. You know they do. They have a secret between them, and they won’t let you in, will they?” Cleatus began to move again, slowly. “That’s where I differ from their kind, with their falsehoods and their blind devotion. I value truth, Ceasar. I will tell it even if it is horrible, or if no one wants to hear it. Isn’t it better that way?”

“Fuck you,” Ceasar said. And then he couldn’t say anything else.

* * *

Cleatus pulled his gloves back on with casual elegance. “I’m going to untie you,” he said, “and I would suggest that you not try to fight me when you’re released, because I will not hesitate to crush your throat beneath my fingers.” He smiled that cold, bemused smile. “But before I do that, I will tell you three things. One,” and he held up a gloved finger in accompaniment, “You asked me why. It’s because they want you, even though you’re a human. You have a beautiful body, so it was not much of a chore.”

Ceasar glared up at Cleatus, but said nothing.

“Two,” and another finger went up beside the first, “As a gift, I’ll confirm the suspicions you already had. The creatures you spend your time with, your friends, are not human. Neither am I. Neither is half this school.” Ceasar’s glare softened to confusion, and Cleatus laughed. “Ask them yourself. They’ll probably lie to you like they usually do, but you can always tell, can’t you? You’ll know.”

“I’m not asking them anything,” Ceasar said, his voice soft and hoarse.

“Three,” and Cleatus leaned down, put his gloved hand to Ceasar’s cheek, “I will come for you again, and again after that. At first you will hate it. You’ll scream and you’ll glare daggers at me like you are now. But eventually you will yearn for it. One day you’ll come looking for me, and on that day I’ll win this battle.” Ceasar was shaking with rage now; Cleatus just chuckled as he untied the bonds. “I look forward to seeing you fall,” he said.

As Cleatus shut the door behind himself, Ceasar buried his face in a pillow, trying to get those cold eyes out of his head, and failing.

It is LA, the year after Poseidon. Ice looks beside him and Ceasar is there, laughing and shivering, soaked to the bone. There are grocery bags sitting by his feet. Their apartment is four blocks away. They’d got caught in the downpour on their way back from the store.

“Rain reminds me of this one vacation I went on,” Ceasar says, wringing the water from his hair. “Camping trip. We played cards in the tent for a week straight, and I caught a cold.”

Ice fluffs Ceasar’s hair back out, his fingers lingering on the back of his neck. “Better than wandering around Russia in the middle of winter. I’m glad it doesn’t snow here.”

“What about rain? It has to make you think of something.”

Ice smiles. “It makes me think of-”

A truck passes by and the smell of exhaust fills Ice’s nose. Ceasar is gone, LA is gone, and Ice is in New York, his back pressed against the cold brick of a run-down corner store. His hotel room is across the street. There are no bags of groceries at his feet, nor an apartment above a Chinese bakery four blocks away.

Slouching against the building, Ice fishes a necklace from beneath his shirt, a shark tooth tied to a bit of string. He holds it up and breathes in, deep. Though he’s been wearing it next to his skin all this time, it still smells to him of Ceasar’s body, a mix of sweat and spicy aftershave. Rain is kissing under an awning, warm tree sap in the summer is a surprise camping trip, salt breeze off the ocean is watching ash scatter over the waves, and this… this is everything else.

Ice presses the necklace to his lips and tucks it back under his shirt. The rain has let up to a sprinkle; Ice opens his umbrella and steps out onto the sidewalk. It has been two thousand, three hundred, and twenty-one days, and there are many more to go.

The miscellaneous section (including icons) has been removed until either I have time to do it up the hard way or I find a gallery plugin that is just simplicity and kicking it oldschool instead of javascript shenanigans left and right.

ETA: Fixed the centering issue in Firefox, probably.

To this day I don’t know why or how or when it started. I know that when I tried to reason it out it was always, he cheers me up, being next to him makes me a happier person, I enjoy every moment in his presence and every inane word that comes out of his mouth. Is that love? To this day I don’t know that, either, but it was the closest thing I’d ever felt. It’s still the closest thing I’ve ever felt.

I don’t think it was the same for him, or maybe it was, maybe he just knew better than me, knew that love was something else. Maybe one day I’ll know, too. Maybe this is what friends are supposed to be like. Maybe I’ve just forgotten.

He made me want to do things I never thought myself capable of, just to call him my own. I don’t know if that proves or disproves my theory, I don’t even know what my theory is, but it has to mean something. For him I could have been the guy on the side, the one he sneaks off to at odd hours. The other man, I guess you’d call it. I’d have been his other man, if he’d asked me to. I didn’t know for sure what was going on with him and that boy, the one who slept in his bed and looked at me as though I were a threat. If he had asked me I would have smiled pretty and followed him into that empty classroom regardless. But he would never have asked me.

How do you live with yourself once you realize you’re that desperate? I manage it somehow.

When everyone parted ways at the end of the school year, my last but not theirs, Vanessa ran up and hugged him tight and others did the same. He turned to me and smiled. “Did you want one, too?” he asked, half-teasing. I shook my head and he turned and headed out to where Rocko sat parked across the street. I waved at him through the window, though I turned away when I heard the engine rev.

The next day I lay in my bed and wondered what his body would have felt like pressed against mine. I’m glad I never found out.

There were others before him, ones he’d talked into bed to steal their secrets and sometimes to crush their throats beneath his bare fingers. He remembers he had liked to feel their pulses quicken and then slow, slow, stop. “It would be a waste not to make use of this,” Cleatus had said to him, stroking the side of Noah’s face with his gloved hand. “If you’d rather talk than fight, then honey your words and get us the things we need.” They had been far from home, the air thick and heavy against them, but somehow Cleatus still smelled of sand and dry desert heat.

Edgar, writhing beneath him now, smells of honey and fresh fruit. Beneath that is the scent of something primal, predatory, breaking through the sweetness. It is sharp in Noah’s nostrils, and he sucks the skin at the base of Edgar’s neck and swears he can taste it there.

The first time had been with a gladiator, and Noah was certain Cleatus intended to send him to his death. When he’d returned with a fistful of secrets and blood spattered across the side of his face, Cleatus had smiled at him. “You did well,” he said, and Noah’s face went hot. “I didn’t order you to kill him, though.”

“He thought me lower than him,” Noah had said, thinking back to cold hands pressing into him, an arrogant and lustful grin swimming before his eyes. “I proved otherwise.”

Cleatus’ gloved hand was on his shoulder, still warm from the afternoon sun. “I knew you weren’t all talk,” he said.

“Noah,” Edgar says, his voice gone soft.

There had been many vulnerable young bodies in his bed since then, before Edgar, but no matter what happens this will be the last one. Noah’s fingers have found Edgar’s throat. He can feel the pulse quicken and he knows that soon it will slow, slow. They always scratched at his hands, at his face, clawed at the air, but soon the thrashing would stop and Cleatus would praise him in front of everyone.

“Noah,” Edgar says again, choking on the name. He grabs Noah’s wrists, and his hands are hot, hot, and sweet scents linger in the air between them. Noah releases his grip and Edgar clutches at his throat, gasping. Noah’s heart thuds in his chest and his shoulders shake, and he can pretend he has the power again, for a few moments.

* * *

In the dark, it’s easy to pretend they’re something they aren’t. In the beginning it was harder, because Noah was all experience and rough hands and cold eyes in the dim light, but now he lets Edgar leave scratches down his back. “Harder,” Edgar says, more demand than request. Noah breathes out soft as he leans into him, and for a few moments Edgar can pretend they are equals.

There had been none before him, no one to pull him back by the hair and run fingers soft across his throat. He remembers Ayubu putting sounds to letters for him while he traced the outlines with his small fingers. “N-O-A-H,” Ayubu had said, “That spells ‘Noah.’ He’s a legendary gladiator, now. He wasn’t always.”

“Noah,” Edgar had said, burning the letters into his memory while Ayubu stared at the page.

Noah leans down now and sucks at the base of Edgar’s neck. Edgar sighs and traces letters across Noah’s back with his fingertips. N-O-A-H. Those letters have felt sharp and predatory to him for as long as he can remember.

“The first thing you will learn about your Prince,” Ayubu explained to him in the cool shade of the garden where they studied on hot afternoons, “is that he is as vulnerable as you are, and with much more weight on his shoulders. He must make difficult decisions, and the fates of others hinge on the actions he takes. He cannot show weakness in such a situation. You have to make sure he shows no weaknesses.” Ayubu’s gaze was fixed somewhere far off in the distance, something Edgar noticed him do often as the hot afternoon slipped into cool evening. Edgar wanted to know where he was looking, who he saw. “That’s your job, Edgar. Do you understand?”

Edgar’s pen had ceased its scratching and he looked up from the page at his mentor. “Prince Dromeous isn’t afraid of anything,” he had said, and Ayubu smiled at him.

Noah’s fingers are pressing hard into Edgar’s throat. He gasps letters strung together into a name, sharp and predatory on his tongue, “Noah.” The grips remains and he says it again, softer, choking on the sounds. His hands are at Noah’s wrists, and Edgar can feel his heart thudding hard in his chest, pounding in his ears. He thinks of distant things, of silver pages he doesn’t dare to look at, though his fingers have traced the edges of them too often. He thinks of wild eyes he can’t let anyone else see.

Noah releases him and collapses on the other side of the bed, his back pressed up against the wall. Edgar is breathing hard, his heart refusing to settle back into rhythm. Noah exhales in one long, steady breath, and Edgar can pretend that Noah has the power again, for a few moments.

“It’s really you, isn’t it?” she asks, and her voice is quiet and steady. Noah, standing awkward in the middle of the room, nods in reply. Rose stands, slowly, and makes her way towards him. She stares up and places her hands on either side of Noah’s face. Her palms are hot on his cheeks.

“You feel the same,” she says. “Your skin’s still so cold. I thought you’d be warmer.”

Rose is close enough that Noah can feel her soft against the length of his body. She fits against him so perfectly in this form, as though she is the snake rippling and coiling to follow every curve. His hands are at her waist and he pulls her closer. He’s been waiting, since she fell into his arms in the hallway he’s been waiting, perhaps since a very long time before that. She sighs, and her breath makes his hair flutter against his ear.

“You’re the only one who knows me,” Rose says. “I’d always wondered what it would be like if you were…”

Noah can feel Rose’s heart thudding in time with his own. His hands have moved from her waist, unbidden, and now they rest on her shoulders. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he hooks his thumb around the strap of her dress and pulls, leaving the white of her skin exposed. His pulse quickens. He knows the rules, and the consequences, and he knows there is another body clothed in soft white skin waiting in his bed for him. And still he leans down and presses his lips to the join of Rose’s neck.

Rose’s fingers twine in Noah’s hair. They are stumbling back to the bed, and Noah does not know whether he pushes or she pulls, maybe it’s both. His skin burns where she presses into him, her body is hot all over.

“I won’t see you again after this, will I?” she asks as Noah’s hands slide up her thighs.

“Close your eyes,” Noah tells her.

AN: This won some prizes! Pretty friggin’ sweet!

I.

Ceasar read an article once about memory palaces, vast psychological constructs designed to commit important information to memory. They had been used primarily by ancient peoples, the Greeks and such, back when few could read and fewer could write, when all information had to be passed carefully from person to person, when knowledge died with the mind that held it.

Ceasar had tried the exercise once, building a room in the back of his head and placing in it everything important, but he soon realized there was far too little to fill the room. All his important memories fit inside a shoebox, shoved under his bed. When he died, there would be no one who knew its true value; it would be nothing but a box of tattered knickknacks from days long gone.

II.

“It’s different this time,” Ceasar would tell himself whenever someone new made his heart skip. “My chest never ached like this before, my throat never felt so tight. This is it, this is love, this is what it’s like to love someone.” Fleance made his throat close up and his heart flutter. So had the one before him. So had that little girl in the third grade, pink ribbons in her hair. He’d stolen one, a memento of his first love, shoved now in a drawer or box somewhere with everything else important.

“This time is different,” he said again.

“I believe you,” Ice had told him. “But Fleance, he’s not that kind of guy.”

Fleance had a vase of flowers beside his bed one day, simple things that grew near the woods. Ceasar didn’t know why they were there. He plucked one from the vase, twirled it slowly between his fingers. Digging around in the bottom drawer of his nightstand, he found a pink ribbon and knotted it around the stem, then shoved both back into the drawer, under a pile of old math homework.

“The yellow one is gone,” Fleance said when he came back, and Ceasar’s face flushed red.

III.

Ice and Ceasar sat in the far corner of the pub, tucked out of sight. “It was worth it,” Ceasar said, his head resting on the table, “to figure out about love.”

Ice made a face and ruffled his hair. “I told you, he’s not that kind of guy. You knew it’d turn out like this.”

Ceasar watched the bubbles in his drink rise to the surface, listened to the fizz and crackle as they burst, over and over. “I thought… I don’t know what I thought. I thought, here’s a guy who’s not scared of me. He’s not scared of anything.” Ceasar heaved a sigh. The heavy bass line reverberated in his stomach, and he felt sick. “He made my chest hurt. Isn’t that what love’s like?”

“I think so. Something like that.”

“Stop petting me,” Ceasar batted Ice’s hand away, “I’m not a dog.”

“I know, I know.” Ice pulled Ceasar out of his chair and dusted the crumbs off his shirt. “Come on,” he said, “We’re going to get some phone numbers and forget this ever happened.”

“It’s not that easy,” Ceasar said, but a smile was already tugging at the corners of his lips. He fell asleep that night with his heart fluttering, his fist closed around a napkin with seven digits scrawled on it in red ink. It was different this time, he thought.

IV.

“So what are you gonna do?” Ice asked him one afternoon near graduation. “You got a place set up?”

“I got into the dorms, so,” Ceasar shrugged, his pen tracing idle lines in the margin of his notebook. “I guess that’s what I’ll do.”

“You’re going to UCLA, right?” Ice leaned back in his chair, arms tucked behind his head. “I was thinking of heading out there, too. How about we share a place instead?”

Ceasar’s pen stopped and he grinned wide. “Seriously?” he asked.

“I already bookmarked the classifieds,” Ice told him, grinning back, “I’ll print out some hopefuls.

“Alright, but you better not be one of those guys who leaves his towels on the bathroom floor,” Ceasar said, laughing. His heart was fluttering, but he didn’t notice.

V.

“What’s this?” Ice asked, holding up a shoebox. Empty cardboard boxes littered the room.

Ceasar snatched the box out of Ice’s hands. “It’s got all my important things in it,” he said, “it’s private.”

“Oh? You can fit them all in there? Can I look?”

Ceasar shook his head furiously. “Maybe when I’m old and senile and not so easily embarrassed,” he said. “Until then, keep your hands off.”

Ice shrugged and gathered up the empty moving boxes, kicking the ones he couldn’t carry out the door. Ceasar shoved the shoebox under his bed, thinking of a classified ad circled in red ink and blushing.

VI.

Ceasar didn’t know when Ice started making his chest feel tight and hot, like there was too much inside it. It was late June. A surfboard stood propped up in the living room of their tiny apartment.

“For your birthday,” Ice said. “Is it alright? The guy at the shop said…”

“It’s perfect,” Ceasar choked, his fingers stroking the smooth, waxed surface of the board. He could tuck it under his arm and run the half-mile to the beach, paddle out into the water. “It’s too much, you shouldn’t…

“He threw this in,” Ice said. He held up a string of puka shells. Ceasar laughed and fastened them around his neck.

“For your birthday,” Ceasar said six days later. He pulled his shirt over his head and kissed Ice on the mouth.

“It’s too much,” Ice said, and his hand slid up Ceasar’s bare back. The string of shells was in a box in Ceasar’s closet, next to a dried yellow flower tied with pink ribbon.

VII.

“I never thought it’d be like this,” Ceasar said. They lay side by side, their mismatched twin beds shoved together in the middle of the room. “For awhile it seemed like it’d always be wrong for me, you know?”

“I know,” Ice said, “who do you think was watching all that time? I thought it’d always be wrong for me, too.”

Ceasar laughed. “You can’t have been, not the whole time,” he said. “You wouldn’t be here if you’d been watching the whole time. ‘Cause I wasn’t… normal. I did things.”

“The whole time,” Ice told him, his hands on Ceasar’s back.

Ceasar’s breath caught. “Weren’t you afraid I’d hurt you?”

“I’ve never once been scared of you,” Ice whispered in Ceasar’s ear.

VIII.

Ceasar’s fist slammed against the table. “When were you planning on telling me?!” he shouted, his voice heavy and dull against the close walls of the kitchen. “Did you think I’d never notice? Did you think I wouldn’t figure it out when we were both supposed to be old?”

Ice’s knuckles were white where he gripped his glass. “I don’t know,” he said. “I didn’t know how to—”

Ceasar’s hair hung in his eyes. “All this time I thought… I don’t know anything about you, do I? Who are you? You’re no one.”

“Ceasar,” Ice was up and trying to hold him, “We can still—”

“I want to be normal,” Ceasar said, and his chest was in a vice, it was hard to talk through the heavy lump in his throat. “Ever since… that’s all I’ve wanted for so long. Is that so much?” Ceasar’s voice was shaking, but he pushed Ice away with considerable force. “Get out,” he said. “I don’t know if I’ll be here when you come back.”

Ice called his name softly, over and over again. When he left Ceasar swept the glasses off the table and watched them shatter to pieces on the kitchen floor. He laid his head on the empty table and wept, though he wasn’t sure why.

IX.

Ceasar met a girl at work who made his heart skip. When she smiled at him his chest ached and his throat tightened. “Do you want to grab a bite to eat sometime?” she asked him one afternoon, “Here’s my number.” She handed him a post-it note with seven digits scrawled in red ink.

Ceasar lay in bed, his cell phone in his hand. His chest had ached so many times before, he thought. He hadn’t really noticed it until now. He tried to think of faces but they were already growing hazy, but he remembered yellow flowers and pink ribbon and seven digits on a napkin that smelled like lilacs. It had always been the same, he thought, the fluttering.

He remembered, too, smiling all the time, even when he didn’t want to. He remembered wanting more, more, every minute, he remembered. He remembered blue eyes, and a classified ad circled in red ink, and a string of shells, like it had happened yesterday. He clutched his chest, surprised to find tears dripping from the corners of his eyes. This was it, this was love. “This is what it’s like to love someone,” he said, and he crumpled up the phone number and tossed it in the trash.

X.

Ceasar sat in his chair, cradling a shoebox in his lap. His hands resting on the top were frail, blue veins showing through paper-thin skin, and they shook.

“What’s that?” asked the young man who pushed his wheelchair through the park on sunny afternoons. Was it one o’clock already? Ceasar hadn’t heard him come in.

“It’s a box,” Ceasar said. “It has all my important things in it.”

The man’s fingers brushed against the lid. “Can I look?” he asked. Ceasar nodded and lifted the top for him, let it fall on the floor beside him.

The young man was silent for a few moments. “There’s only a broken cup in here,” he said softly.

“There were other things,” Ceasar said, settling back in his chair with a sigh. “There was a flower and a ribbon and a string of shells… but I didn’t know what any of it meant. This is all that’s left in my memory palace.”

“Your what?”

Ceasar frowned a little, the wrinkles in his face deepening ever so slightly. “In my head,” he said, “there’s a small room with a window. I’m sitting at a table in the middle, and the floor is covered in broken glass. The light from the window shines off it like…” and here Ceasar stumbled, searching for words, “like snow, like a glacier, like… it hurts my feet to move, the glass does,” he explained, shakily pushing back his coarse grey hair, “So I just stay still.”

There were tears in the young man’s eyes when he finished. “Ceasar,” he called, over and over again, holding him tightly. Ceasar didn’t push him away.

“Hey,” Ceasar said, standing slumped against the doorframe, “Why you gotta be so short notice all the time?”

“Guess I’m just an impulsive kind of guy,” Ice would say, and smile.

* * *

Ceasar settled back on the steam room bench. “You could bring the kids if you wanted, you know,” he said, his towel tight across his splayed legs. “They’d probably like it.”

Ice pouted. “I don’t have to bring them with me everywhere,” he said. “This is my time, you know?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Ceasar leaned back, stretching the muscles of his chest taut. Sweat dripped down his face. “Pretty boring to spend the little time you get to yourself sitting in here, though, isn’t it? You used to party all the time before, I’ve heard stories.”

“This is a lot more relaxing,” Ice assured him. “Plus I don’t ever wake up with a killer headache and no pants.”

Ceasar laughed and brushed the damp hair out of his eyes. “I guess that’s true. Still, though.”

“‘Sides,” Ice continued, “I get to hang out with you for once.”

At this Ceasar ducked his head, and his face, already flushed with the heat, turned darker. “How long do you have to look after those kids, anyway?” he asked, changing the subject.

Long after you’re dead and gone, Ice thought to himself, and the words stuck in his throat. But he swallowed and smiled and told Ceasar, “I don’t know.”

* * *

“Ceasaaaaaar,” Ice whined, “You missed class!”

Ceasar made a face and set his lunch tray next to Ice’s, nodding at Teddy across the table. “Forgot to set my alarm clock,” he said. “I guess Fleance must’ve left early or something, else he’d have woke me up, right? Common courtesy.”

“Well, Fleance doesn’t really get common courtesy,” Ice reasoned, laughing. “Foreigner and everything, he’s from somewhere in Africa. Weird customs and stuff. Bet he doesn’t even use an alarm clock.”

“Maybe.” Ceasar poked at his food. “He mentions Africa a lot, but I never really thought about it before.”

“Yeah,” Ice said, “He’s here to learn about modern culture or whatever. Hey, aren’t you going to eat your nachos? What’s up?”

Ceasar shrugged and pushed his lunch tray aside. “I don’t know, I’m feeling kind of sick, I guess. Go ahead and eat it.”

“That’s not how I meant it,” Ice said, taking a chip in spite of himself, “I was just worried. You want mo to come over and keep an eye on you? I can heat you up some soup and do your homework. Teddy, can you watch the kids? Please, I haven’t asked you in awhile.”

Teddy was laughing and nodding and Ceasar couldn’t help smiling. “If I let you do my homework you’d cross out all the x’s in my algebra questions.”

* * *

The sound of heaving breathing filled the room.

“I thought you were sick,” Ice said, and his hands were everywhere and his lips and tongue were everywhere, and Ceasar’s body was smooth and warm and tasted of sweat.

“I am,” Ceasar told him. He dug his fingers hard into Ice’s back. “Tighter,” he choked, “hold me tighter, please, please, just don’t stop, please.”

* * *

Rufus took it better than Ice expected.

“He stamped on my foot and called me a tramp!” Ceasar complained. “What the heck did you tell him? I know he was never really my biggest fan but still, this is kind of extreme.”

“Sorry.” Ice kissed the injured foot and Ceasar made a face and kicked at him. “I told him we were going out. He had kind of a crush on me, so it was hard. Is your foot really okay? He’s pretty tough, maybe we should go the nurse’s office.”

“I already told you it’s fine, stop worrying.” Ceasar laughed as Ice kissed up his calf. “Stop that already, who does that? I’m not sure this’ll work out if you’ve got some weird leg fetish.”

“Not weird legs, just your legs,” Ice said. “They’re really smooth, do you shave them or something?”

“For surfing, yeah.” Ceasar kicked the covers away and Ice moved further up, to his thigh. “If I don’t then I look gross in my board shorts.”

“I bet you’d still look pretty hot with hairy surfer legs,” Ice assured him. “Don’t know if I’d want to kiss them so much, though.”

“I definitely don’t want to kiss yours,” Ceasar grinned, “It’s like a dog shed all over them.”

Ice tweaked Ceasar’s nose and then kissed him on the mouth. “Good thing no one’s asking you to,” he aid, “Or we’d have a problem. Would you dump me if I made you smooch my hairy legs?”

“Definitely, it’d be so gross.” Ceasar laughed and Ice kissed the upturned corners of his mouth. “Hey,” Ceasar said, “are you okay with this?”

“With what?”

“I don’t know,” Ceasar said, “With… I don’t know. I just kind of sprung it on yo0u. But I’d liked you for a really long time, but I don’t think you knew, so… I don’t know. Are you okay with stuff like this, or are you just kind of going with it?”

“I liked you for a long time, too,” Ice said, “I’m way okay.”

* * *

“It’s Stairway to Heaven, it’s really old, have you heard it before?” Ceasar turned up the stereo.

“Course I’ve heard it before,” Ice said, “Led Zeppelin’s great, they throw an awesome concert.”

“You’ve seen a recording, then? They’re hard to find!”

“Yeah,” Ice said after a confused pause, “Yeah, I’ve got a disc… Rocko didn’t want me spending money on that kind of thing, so I had to get a part-time job without him knowing.” Ice stretched out on Ceasar’s bed and tapped his fingers to the beat. “It was worth it, though.”

“What a cheapskate, not even shelling out for a lousy movie.” Ceasar set the stereo on shuffle. “Move over,” he said, and lied down next to Ice.

* * *

“I couldn’t get a hold of you,” Ice said, cradling his cell phone against his ear with his shoulder, “I got Teddy to watch the kids again and I couldn’t find you anywhere!”

“Sorry,” Ceasar said on the other end, “I was at the beach and my phone went dead. What did you want?”

Ice shrugged out of habit while he read the instructions on a bottle of detergent for the umpteenth time. “I just wanted to see you, I guess,” he said, “Nothing really special.”

Ice could almost hear Ceasar grinning. “If you weren’t so short-notice all the time this wouldn’t happen, you know. Try making plans a little in advance for once.”

“Fuck,” Ice swore as he spilled detergent all over the washing machine, “Sorry that wasn’t at you, anyway, how about tomorrow night then, are you free?”

* * *

“Hey,” Ice said, “Tell me about yourself.”

Ceasar ran a towel through his hair. “Tell you about myself? What for?”

Ice propped himself up on his elbows. “I don’t know a whole lot about you,” he said, “I’m just curious.”

“Well, I don’t know much about you, either. Aside from you liking nachos so much.” Ceasar said, his words slow and careful. He let the damp towel drape across his shoulders. “You’ve got way more secretive shifty stuff going on than I do, if anyone’s going to spill some personal info it should be you.”

“I asked first,” Ice argued. “Tell you what, how about we play truth or dare? Except we’ll use all truths.”

Ceasar considered the idea. “Alright,” he relented, “but I get to ask you the first question. What’s the deal with the kids? I’ve asked you tons of times but you always avoid answering me.”

“Ah, well, I can’t really get into most of it,” Ice said, “Privacy issues and stuff like that. Basically they’re under Titus’ care, but they like me so I’m looking after them.” The lie—which was hardly a lie at all, Ice told himself so often now—was smooth and practiced. He smiled and ruffled the towel over Ceasar’s hair again, where water still dripped off the ends. “My turn. What’s your Dad’s name?”

“David,” Ceasar said, batting Ice’s hands away and reaching for his glasses on the nightstand. “Whatever happened to that Led Zeppelin video you said you had?”

“Lost it, years ago. What’s your favourite food?”

“Fresh crab. Why doesn’t Teddy talk?”

Ice frowned. “I told you before, he’s self-conscious about his voice. What—”

“Why doesn’t Fleance know anything about basic social norms?” Ceasar continued, cutting Ice off.

“I already told you that, too, he’s—”

Suddenly Ceasar’s fist slammed against the wall. “How stupid do you think I am?” he asked, and his voice was tight and quiet. “I know you’re not normal, I don’t care, I just want you to tell me so.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Ice said, raking his fingers through his hair.

“Right, the random kids, the mute best friend, all these ‘foreign’ students, it’s all just the planets aligning to make bizarre things happen wherever you go.” As quickly as it came, the anger fell out of Ceasar’s face and he slumped against the wall. “I just want the truth,” he said. “Tell me something true.”

“I love you,” Ice said helplessly, and Ceasar slammed the door behind himself.

* * *

Ice could here the tinny sound of Ceasar’s ringtone through the door, pulsing in sync to the ringing of the phone at Ice’s ear. Both clicked off at once without warning. “Come over,” the text message had said. They hadn’t spoken in a week. Ice opened the door.

Ceasar lied naked in his bed, facing the wall, the sheets bunched up around his legs. The smell of sweat and sex lingered heavy in the hot summer air. Ice walked up to the bed.

“Sorry,” Ceasar said. “I was mad about this and I took it out on you.”

Ice swallowed hard and sat gingerly on the bed. “The virus?

“It happens all the time.”

Ice put a hand on Ceasar’s shoulder. “Why didn’t you just tell me it was this bad? I know it’s not you, I wouldn’t have got mad, I’d understand.”

Ceasar’s fiddled with the sheets. “It’s because I liked you for a long time,” he said. “I thought you wouldn’t want me if you knew. No one wants a guy who sleep around, even if it isn’t on purpose.” He turned around and looked up at Ice through damp bangs. “Sorry,” he said again, “this isn’t what you signed up for. I should have told you. I’m telling you now.”

Ice moved the bunched-up bedcovers and lied down next to Ceasar. “I guess this is the part where I tell you I’m not normal, either,” he said.

“I already knew,” Ceasar said, “I never cared. I just wanted you to say it. It doesn’t matter.”

Ice took Ceasar’s hand. “Neither does this,” he said. “Not even a little bit.”

They fell asleep hand-in-hand near dawn, a thousand questions later.

“You’re too hard on yourself.” Ice stands behind him, arms crossed. “You don’t look a day over thirty.”

“Such a liar.” A smile tugs at Ceasar’s lips as he turns in the mirror, pinching at the skin around his waistline. “You scandalized those other parents at the graduation ceremony, you know. They all think I’m a cradle robber now.”

“They’re just jealous that a young punk like me snagged someone like you.” Ice rests his chin on Ceasar’s shoulder, holds him from behind. “I saw the way those divorced moms were looking at you,” he says, their eyes meeting in the mirror, “they’re like vultures. It’s a good thing I went with you or I’d never have got you back. I’m surprised you made it out of all those PTA meetings without them jumping you.”

Ceasar grins full now and puts his hands over Ice’s. “You overestimate me,” he says. “I mean, look at those crows feet when I smile. That’s not attractive. They’d rather have someone like you, all young and energetic.”

“You underestimate yourself.” Ice kisses along Ceasar’s shoulder, up his neck, his lips coming to rest just below Ceasar’s jaw. “You keep saying you’re getting old,” he murmurs, “but look at yourself. Your heart still beats so fast when I touch you like this.” He laughs and pulls Ceasar into a tight embrace. “Mine too. Can you feel it?”

Ceasar closes his eyes. “Yeah,” he says, “Same as mine.”

“Even though I’m young,” Ice points out, “and you’re old.”

“I know, you don’t have to tell me.” Ceasar opens his eyes again and smiles into the mirror. “Even though I’m old and you’re young, you get excited, too.”

Ice makes a face. “Stop turning my words around like that,” he says. His hands slide down Ceasar’s stomach. “What do I have to do to prove it to you?” he whispers, his voice thick and low. “How bad do I have to want it? How many times? It’s still all I think about, you know. Even just seeing you standing here like you were was driving me crazy.”

Ceasar gasps as Ice takes him in his hand. “Me too,” he says, “It’s all I think about, too.” He can’t take his eyes off the mirror. A tremor runs through him and he sees his knees buckle beneath him. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down when he moans, and his knuckles are white where he grips Ice’s arm. It’s revolting and fascinating. Ceasar remembers Ice pushing him into the bathroom once, pulling off his towel and pressing him against the sink. Ceasar’s knuckles had been white in the mirror then, too.

“You’re the only one who’s ever excited me this much, you know,” Ice says. Ceasar can feel him, hard at his back. “It’s never enough with you. Even if I tied you down and did this over and over it wouldn’t be enough.” Ice licks up Ceasar’s neck and along the edge of his ear, losing himself. “Would you hate me if I locked you up until I was satisfied?”

Ceasar shakes his head. “I’m—” he chokes.

“I know.” Ice’s eyes never leave Ceasar’s in the mirror. He speeds his strokes and Ceasar comes with a strangled cry in his hand. Ice can see Ceasar’s whole body tremble in his arms. He kisses his neck and shoulders over and over again as Ceasar slumps against him, and while Ceasar breathes hard and ragged Ice picks him up and carries him to the bed, lies him soft above the covers.

Ceasar stares up. “I’m sorry I ran back then,” he says. “I was scared.”

“I know, you don’t have to tell me.” Ice brushes the hair off Ceasar’s forehead, shorter and greyer than it was back then. “Just don’t do it again, okay? You promised you wouldn’t.”

Ceasar smiles and wraps his arms around Ice’s neck, pulls him down to kiss him full on the mouth. The first time they did this they’d lain facing each other for what seemed like hours afterward, whispering in the dark. He can’t remember what they talked about, but he remembers Ice’s eyes glinting blue in the light from the window, and he remembers the goosebumps on his skin where the blankets didn’t cover, and he remembers figuring out what love meant.

It was five-thirty when Ice spotted him coming out of a side entrance, alone. His hair was shorter now, the blue tips long gone, but Ice could still recognize him in an instant, easy as breathing. He didn’t wear glasses anymore, either. Ice frowned a little. That face used to be his secret, something he only saw in the dark when he peeled Ceasar’s clothes off and kissed the skin beneath.

Ceasar didn’t notice him skulking there across the street, just strolled casually towards the adjacent parking lot, fishing around in his pocket for his keys. Ice darted across the road, halting in the middle to let a truck whiz past. Ceasar still hadn’t seen him, was checking his other pocket and frowning. Ice ran the rest of the way and circled around, sneaking up behind him.

“Hey,” Ice said, and Ceasar stiffened. He didn’t turn around. He didn’t have to. Ice slipped a hand onto Ceasar’s shoulder. He hadn’t thought this through at all, but he swallowed hard and smiled and asked, “You got time for a drink?”

* * *

They undressed each other in the entryway of Ice’s suite, kicking off their shoes by the door, tossing the rest all over the room on their way to the bed. Ice might have blamed the wait, the years apart, the anticipation, but in truth he’d always been like this when they were together, every time, every day, it had never been enough. Everything about Ceasar made him desperate. He could remember sitting beside him at lunch one day, and the smell of his skin had driven Ice insane. That had been years ago. The same scent intoxicated him now. Would he ever get over this, he wondered?

“You’re still so—” Ice said.

“Shut up.” Ceasar was pressed against him, gripping his hair too tight. Ice could feel his heart thud in his chest. “Shut up,” he said again, and kissed him hard, and maybe Ceasar was a little desperate, too.

Ceasar’s cell phone rang soon after they’d finished, while they lay together breathing heavy in the dark. Ceasar sat bolt upright and scrambled out of bed, following the ringing to where his pants had ended up on the sofa. “Hello?” he said, and Ice sat up and listened. “Sorry, I met a friend from high school and we went out for a drink. I didn’t realize it was so late. What did you do for dinner?” Ceasar paced around the room, and his expression softened. “That’s not a real dinner and you know it. I guess it’s okay, though. I’ll be back soon.” He glanced at Ice. “I love you,” he said into the phone, and hung up.

“Who was that?” Ice asked.

Ceasar hesitated, staring at his phone. “The guy I’m living with,” he said after a moment’s pause. “Michael.”

Ice was quiet. He clenched the sheets in his hands.

Ceasar smiled wryly. “No respect for guys who sleep around, right? Sorry.” He pulled his clothes back on as he spoke, one piece at a time. “It’s your fault, though. I’d have never done it if it weren’t you.”

“Leave him,” Ice said, the words leaving his mouth before he could stop them. “I love you more.”

Ceasar’s hand was already on the doorknob, his knuckles going white. “Don’t come looking for me again,” he said, “Please.”

Ice looked away. He heard then door open and then click softly shut.

* * *

A few subtle enquiries had lead Ice to an elementary school not far from where Ceasar worked. There was a name written on a scrap of paper, crumpled in Ice’s fist almost beyond recognition. Michael had taken Ceasar’s surname. Ice strolled into the office and dropped the paper on the secretary’s desk.

“I need to speak with this guy,” Ice said, “Can you call him in here for me?”

The woman at the desk arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow before smoothing out the paper and picking up the phone. She punched in an extension number and spoke briefly with someone. She looked up at Ice. “He’ll be here shortly,” she said.

Ice nodded and slumped against the wall. His pulse sped up. He hadn’t thought this bit through very well. What was he going to say? “I fucked your boyfriend the other night. Dump him so I can steal him back. I loved him first.”

When Michael finally came in, though, all Ice did was laugh and laugh.

* * *

Ceasar opened the door and found Michael gripping the hem of Ice’s coat. “Dad,” Michael said, “This man came and got me out of school early. He said he needed me to show him where our house was. Is he a bad guy? Or a good guy? Should I run and get a policeman?”

Ceasar’s face fell and he swallowed hard. “Nothing like that, Michael,” he said, and forced a smile. “Why don’t you run over to your aunt’s house for a few hours while I talk to this guy? Make sure you call me when you get there.”

Michael glared up at Ice. “You’re the guy Dad met the other night, right?”

“Yeah,” Ice said, “That’s right.”

“Then you better not make him cry this time,” Michael said, starting off down the stairs, “Or I’ll beat you up.”

Ice laughed as he watched Michael bolt down the street. “Cheeky kid you’ve got there.”

Ceasar sighed. “Come in, then,” he said, heading into the living room. Ice followed behind him.

“Rose lives near here, then?” Ice asked.

Ceasar nodded. “She was friends with the people who used to own this place,” he said, “so I got a good deal on it.”

They sat on opposite ends of the couch in silence for a time.

“Why’d you lie to me?” Ice asked finally. “Do you know how mad I was? And how sad? My chest hurt that whole night.”

Ceasar fidgeted. “It wasn’t a lie,” he said. “I am living with Michael. I never said he was a boyfriend or anything. I just thought it would be easier if you gave up on me.”

“Ceasar.” And Ice’s hand was on Ceasar’s shoulder, and his voice was cracking.

Ceasar looked over at him. “You really haven’t changed at all,” he said. “Not a wrinkle or a grey hair in over ten years.” He laughed softly. “I guess I’d always hoped that it wasn’t true.”

Ice frowned, “What does that have to do—”

“I’m getting old, Ice,” Ceasar said, cutting him off. “I go to bed at ten-thirty. I make peanut butter and honey sandwiches with the crusts cut off, and I write Michael’s name on the paper bags I pack them in, and I go to PTA meetings, and I have grey hairs. I’m getting older and you’re not and there’s nothing I can do about it.” Ceasar looked away. “Why’d you have to come back? I was over you. Everything was fine.”

Ice started to laugh.

“What’s so damn funny?” Ceasar fumed, and he looked exactly like he always had. Ice laughed again and pulled him close.

“Thank god,” Ice breathed into Ceasar’s ear, “That’s all it is.”

“It’s kind of a big deal,” Ceasar sputtered.

“Not it’s not.” Ice’s hand crept into Ceasar’s hair. “Even if I look like this, I can still make sandwiches and go to PTA meetings. What difference does it make if your hair’s grey and mine’s not? I’ll dye it and you’ll never know the difference. It’s nothing to worry about.”

Ceasar gripped Ice’s shirt unconsciously. “It’s not that simple, you idiot,” he said. “I’ll keep getting older and you won’t want me anymore, because you’ll be young still and I’ll be repulsive, don’t you get it? You won’t want to stay with me. You think you will but you won’t.”

“You’re the idiot,” Ice said without hesitation. “Do you know what I’ve thought about every day since you left? I’ve thought about how good you smell, how warm you are, how my arms fit around you just right.” He squeezed. “It doesn’t matter how old you are, as long as I have you here. I can’t believe you thought it would matter. This is all I need.”

“Ice—”

“Please,” Ice buried his face in Ceasar’s neck, “Don’t ever leave me again. Don’t send me away.”

Tears dripped hot down Ceasar’s face. “Okay,” he said, and smiled.

Ice scratched the back of his head nervously. “I guess you’re feeling better, huh?” he said.

“What the hell.” Ceasar grabbed Ice by the shirt. “You can restrain yourself when I’m hitting on you in the steam room, but all resolve goes out the window when I’m falling down drunk? What the hell,” Ceasar frowned, “I thought you weren’t that kind of guy.”

“I’m not that kind of guy!” Ice fumed, “Don’t you remember anything from last night? You straddled me and told me you liked me and then a whole bunch of dirty stuff I won’t repeat ‘cos you’ll get all embarrassed.” Ice crossed his arms and pouted. “If you’d done all that in the steam room I’d have jumped you there instead.”

Ceasar went red. “That was obviously the virus,” he said, “You should know better than to listen to me when I start saying stuff like that.”

“It wasn’t the virus,” Ice insisted, “it was all you, when the virus does it your voice goes all weird and you act like a psycho.”

“IF DOING SOMETHING LIKE THAT’S NOT PSYCHOTIC THEN—”

“It wasn’t even at all.” Ice, ignoring Ceasar’s growing agitation, grinned suddenly and pulled him closer. “It was cute is what it was. You draped all over me and hugged me, and you kept talking into my ear.” Ice manoeuvred Ceasar so he was straddling Ice’s hips, then put his arms around Ceasar’s waist and rested his chin on his shoulder. “Just like this,” he said, his lips at Ceasar’s ear, “saying how much you liked me and how bad you wanted me.”

Ceasar shivered. “I did not,” he said, and his arms were around Ice’s neck. “And anyway, I was drunk, you still shouldn’t have done it.”

“Nope,” Ice grinned into Ceasar’s shoulder, “But I’m glad I did it anyway. It’s not a bad thing, right?”

Ceasar pulled away and made a face, twisting Ice’s ear a little. “How do you do that?” he asked, “I was pissed at you about five seconds ago.”

“I’ll teach you,” Ice said, and leaned in for a kiss.

“It’s only like eight-thirty.” Ice set some things down on the nightstand and sat down on the bed. “I tried to make you drink some water last night but you fell asleep. Sorry. Is your head okay?”

“Shut up, so loud.” Ceasar opened his eyes and pouted up at Ice, clutching his stomach. “I want to puke so bad right now. Get me a bucket. Or a trashcan.”

“I don’t have either of those.” Ice stroked Ceasar’s hair a little. “I brought you some stomach medicine, though. And a coffee. And some aspirin. And a glass of water.”

Ceasar rolled over and groped for the two pill bottles on the nightstand, struggling with the lids for a few moments before flinging them to the bed in despair. Ice picked them up and twisted the tops off, tipping a couple of each into Ceasar’s outstretched hand. “Thanks,” Ceasar said, washing them down with a swig of coffee before collapsing back into the pillows. “Bastard, how come you never get hung over? You drink even more than I do.”

Ice shrugged. “Lucky, I guess.” He fidgeted, picking at the blanket. “So, um, aren’t you gonna ask about—”

“What, why I’m naked in your dorm room?” Ceasar sighed and curled on his side. “One thing at a time. Do you think it’ll stop hurting if I sleep some more? I think it will. I still think I should just puke and get it over with but I kind of don’t want to.”

Ice bit his lip, trying not to laugh. “Did you need something else? I brought everything I could think of. Maybe like a hot water bottle or something? I dunno.”

“It’s fine.” Ceasar paused and cracked an eye open to look up at Ice. “We did do it last night, right?”

“Oh. Uh, yeah, we did.” Ice glanced away nervously. “I guess I shouldn’t have since you were so drunk and all, but I was pretty drunk too and you were being really cute, so. Uh. I guess I couldn’t help myself.”

Ceasar nodded and pulled the blankets up to his chin. “Just wanted to make sure,” he said. “You gonna join me here or what? It’s cold.”

Ice started. “Oh? Yeah, sure.” He slid under the covers, turning so the two of them were face-to-face. “So, that’s it?” he asked. “I thought you’d take it worse than that.”

“I’ll freak out more when I don’t feel like crap.” Ceasar wriggled around until his head fit comfortably against Ice’s shoulder. “I’m probably gonna puke on you before this is all over,” he said, “I hope you’re okay with that.”

Ice laughed. “I guess so.”

Ceasar smiled, and he held Ice’s hand while he slept.

Ceasar, taken aback both with the statement itself and the fact that Fleance had apparently been hovering over his bed while he slept waiting to tell him, responded with little more than a confused grunt.

“It’s a compliment about your hair,” Fleance elaborated, “being good.”

“Oh.” Ceasar reached for his glasses. “Thanks. I like yours, too.”

“Your hips are slim and poor for child-bearing,” Fleance continued, “but many people prefer them that way.”

“Er, thanks,” Ceasar edged out from under the covers, a weary eye on Fleance, “I appreciate it.”

Fleance nodded and went to put on his uniform.

* * *

At lunch, the boy who had helped Ceasar look for Pebble one afternoon when he’d lost track of him on the beach plunked himself down in the seat opposite Ceasar. “Hey,” he said, “I like your hands.”

Ceasar frowned and held one out in front of him. “There’s nothing really special about them,” he said, wagging his fingers about.

“Nope, they’re definitely above average,” the boy argued. “The fingers are just the right length, and there’s never dirt under the nails.”

“Well, thanks, I do like to keep clean.”

“Your legs are also very nice,” the boy said, resting his head on the table. “Very shapely.”

Ceasar furrowed his eyebrows. “When have you ever seen my legs?”

“That’s not important,” the boy said. “Oh, yeah, and you always cut fruit up into just the right size. Very easy for hermit crabs to eat. Pebble is super-lucky to have you making his food for him.”

“Thanks,” Ceasar said, chewing on a chunk of asparagus and wondering if it would be appropriate to run away at this point in the conversation.

* * *

Ceasar sighed and let Teddy hang a “I molest little boys in the hallway at least thrice weekly, geez” sign around his neck.

“You ought to make someone supervise you on the way to class,” Cherokee suggested as he ushered Ceasar into the Hall of Shame. “It would save the rest of us some trouble.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ceasar said, taking his usual spot at the far end of the row, “Sorry about that.”

“Oh! I almost forgot!” Cherokee grinned. “I like your glasses!”

“Really?” Ceasar pushed them up his nose. “I’ve been thinking about contacts, though.”

“No, no! They look good on you!” Cherokee insisted, “They suit your face!”

Ceasar smiled. “Well, thank you.”

“Oh, oh! Also, you’re good at math!” Cherokee added. “You know how x’s work and everything!”

Ceasar rolled his eyes and laughed. “Ah,” he said, “I see how it is.”

* * *

Ceasar stood in Ice’s doorway with his arms crossed. “I appreciate the concern,” he said, “but just a quick ‘Hey, you look nice today,’ from you would have been enough.”

Ice shrugged and sat back down. “You would have just thought I was being gay if I said it,” he said.

Ceasar shut the door behind him and sat on the bed next to Ice, resting his chin on Ice’s shoulder. “Was that tall guy dressed all in black with the curly hair one of the people you got in on this? I’ve never seen him before. He said he liked my thighs.”

Ice’s eyes went wide and he grabbed Ceasar’s arm. “You stay away from that guy,” he said, “He’s bad news.”

Ceasar nodded. “That’s what I figured. And are you the one who told Fleance to say my hips were too slim for child-bearing?”

“Naw, that was all him,” Ice said, “I like your skinny boy-hips.”

“Thanks,” Ceasar said, “I like yours, too.”

“I don’t know.” Ceasar was leaning against the building, arms crossed. “Get him something fuzzy,” he suggested, “with maple leaves. Get him a fuzzy brown maple leaf.”

“Where am I gonna find something like that?” Ice asked, sticking his hands in his pockets and trudging to the next shop. “That was the wrong color, I think. It was kind of taupe, and he’s more in to like a sepia.”

Ceasar snorted. “Gay.”

Ice turned around and frowned. “How do you mean?”

“You know the difference between taupe and sepia,” Ceasar explained. “That’s totally gay.”

Ice elbowed Ceasar teasingly in the ribs as they continued on down the street. “You’re the gay one,” he said, “I caught you drooling over that antique copy of Tiger Beat one time.”

“Oh whatever that was a project for history class.” Ceasar followed Ice into some overpriced knick-knack shop. “What class were you writing all those sissy love poems for, huh? The ones hidden under your bed, that use phrases like ‘endlessly deep amethyst orbs.’”

“Those were about bitches!” Ice exclaimed. Ceasar raised an eyebrow. “Okay, maybe a couple of them were about you,” he amended, “but they were totally cancelled out by the ones about girls. And you shouldn’t snoop around a guy’s room when he’s taking a shower. And anyway, you’re still gayer, because you molest little boys in the hallway. Never girls, huh?”

Ceasar actually flushed at that one and hit Ice over the head with an oversized paper fan. “That’s because no girls will get within ten feet of me! And it’s the virus’ fault anyway! I didn’t molest anyone before I caught it!”

“Ah well,” Ice picked out a stuffed bear and made a face at it before putting it back on the shelf, “Maybe you and your aunt just need to have a talk about puberty.”

“Puberty doesn’t cause blackouts.”

Ice laughed. “Does if you go to the right parties.”

Ceasar rolled his eyes and dragged Ice out of the store before he could make faces at any more plush. “Anyway, you’re the gay one, because you shoved your tongue down my throat first.”

“Well,” Ice reasoned, “You’re gayer for liking it so much.”

“Oh fuck you, you liked it as much as I did.”

“Your knees buckled,” Ice recalled, exaggeratedly wistful, “and you grabbed on to my shirt so hard you tore out some of the stitching…”

“Shut up I don’t do that. So damn full of yourself.” Ceasar grabbed Ice by the collar and yanked him in for a kiss, much to the surprise of the little old lady sitting at the bus stop. “See?” he said as Ice stood blinking at him, “You’re the one all quiet and wobbly.”

Ice brought his hand to his lips and rubbed them softly, then grinned wide. “You’re the gayest one,” he declared, “because you wear lip gloss.”

“Oh shit.” Ceasar’s hand clamped over his mouth and his face went bright red. “I was all out of lip balm and they were dry and this was all my aunt could lend me,” he mumbled through his fingers.

Ice put an arm around Ceasar’s shoulders. “We’re both pretty gay, though,” he allowed, “because of gay sex and everything. You’re just a little gayer.”

“Shut up,” Ceasar said, “Let’s just buy Teddy a bottle of maple syrup and call it a day.”

There were bobby pins still in Rose’s hair, where Titus’ servant had missed. Noah took them out and laid them on the nightstand. Her shoes were already set neatly by the door. No matter how drunk or tired she was when she collapsed into bed, Rose had never woken up with her shoes on, or with hair clips digging painfully into her scalp. The covers were always drawn up to her shoulders, though she sometimes kicked them off in the night.

The room was dark save for the green glow of the alarm clock. Noah cast a glance around the room and then leaned over Rose’s bed, put a hand by her waist. All at once he was a snake, coiled on the sheets. He slithered up the length of Rose’s body, and felt her breathing beneath him, felt her warmth seep through the blanket, through his scales. He sighed (as much as a snake could sigh) and wrapped himself around Rose’s slender neck, his head on her shoulder, his tail draped across her breast. This was his place, where he could feel her warm along his body and her pulse beat reassuring against him.

Rose rolled over in her sleep. A hand sneaked out from beneath the covers and came to rest on Noah’s head, her fingers stroking softly across the ridge between his eyes. The furrow in her brow was finally gone, and a smile twitched at her lips. Noah slid across the covers and all at once he was a man again, standing at her bedside. Rose frowned a little and Noah took her hand in his own. Her palm was warm against his. He brought his lips to her fingers, curled against the back of his hand.

“The most precious thing in your life,” a voice whispered from inside Noah’s head.

He tightened his grip.

“The twenty-fourth letter of the alphabet,” Ice says, sliding into the chair opposite. He sets his bag down with a clatter, and the other students in the library turn to glare. “That one’s easy.”

“Oh, you’re funny.” Ceasar fixes a multiplication error and writes 2, -3 on the line beside x.

Ice frowns. “I thought it was pretty clever,” he says, resting his head on the table. He watches Ceasar’s pencil scratching out numbers across the page. “You’re so good at this stuff.”

“Anyone can do these sorts of questions,” Ceasar tells him without missing a beat, “You’re just an idiot.”

“Hey, that hurts.” Ice’s hand creeps across the table. “If it’s that easy you should tutor me.”

“I don’t teach,” Ceasar says, checking his answers in the back of the textbook. He frowns and erases half of them. “You’re a lost cause, anyway. What are you doing?”

Ice is grinning as his fingers stroke across the back of Ceasar’s hand. “Teddy’s taking the kids to see a movie tonight,” he says. “You’ll come over, right?”

Ceasar can feel his heartbeat speed up. “I have homework,” he says, but their fingers are already linked together, and Ice is looking at him with a grin on his face. When two systems are joined, the entropy of the new system is greater than that of the individuals.

* * *

“I wonder why the virus doesn’t act up at times like this?” Ice asks. “You’d think it would.”

“I don’t know,” Ceasar says. He stretches out across the bed and Ice kisses up his chest. “I don’t know, I don’t know.” He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, he clutches at the sheets, draws Ice flush against him, claws at the air.

“You like me, right?” Ice asks, right in the middle, his lips on Ceasar’s ear. “You do, don’t you? Tell me. Tell me.”

Ceasar gasps and twists. Everything in him wants to be everywhere at once. He’s going in all different directions, spreading out to fill all the spaces. When he comes he pulls too hard on Ice’s hair, and lets out a cry that doesn’t mean anything in particular.

* * *

“Hey, don’t get up yet.” Ice pulls Ceasar back into bed. “They’re not gonna be back for awhile still, I told Teddy to take them to a late one.”

“I have homework,” Ceasar says, but he’s already back under the covers, Ice’s arm across his waist. “Hey,” he asks, “does it make you feel weird, too?”

“What, homework?”

Ceasar pinches Ice’s arm. “This, you idiot.”

“I guess,” Ice says. “I never know what to do or what I’m thinking. I get all tingly and happy and sick when you say you’ll come over.” His hand creeps across the bed. “What about you?”

“The same, I guess.”

“We’re the same, then.” Ice’s fingertips play across the back of Ceasar’s hand “Hey, you like me, right?”

“I don’t know,” Ceasar says, but their fingers are already twined together. Ceasar can feel Ice’s heartbeat speed up to keep time with his own, and suddenly it’s like they only exist where their skin touches, drawn to where they take ragged breaths in sync. Ceasar smiles. The funny thing about the second law of thermodynamics is that it can be broken.

The room is still dark, the sun just now beginning to rise. Edgar shuffles across the room, groping about for his trousers, which he pulls on almost desperately. The backs of his legs ache from the night before, making his movements stiff and awkward. A lot of things have changed but this room still makes him uncomfortable, like there are eyes drilling into the back of his neck.

In a few hours Edgar knows that Noah will wrinkle his brow as sunlight slants in from the window, shining on face. He knows that he’ll pull the sheets tight around himself and sigh, that’ll he’ll stretch his limbs out naked in the sunlight, uncaring. Edgar finds his shirt and does the buttons up slowly, misses the bottom one, starts over.

When he has his things in order, Edgar takes a thick black marker and a scrap of notebook paper from the top desk drawer. “I left first,” he writes, pausing a moment before adding “I didn’t want to wake you.” Edgar knows he will probably pout anyway. He smiles at the thick, bold lines on the paper and leaves the note on the desk, in the usual place.

Noah has thrown off the sheets, leaving himself naked to the waist. His breathing is soft and even, and he shivers a little. Edgar sets his things down and moves back toward the bed, grasping the sheets where they lay bunched about Noah’s hips. There is a blanket in a heap on the floor at Edgar’s feet, but he knows Noah will frown in his sleep and kick it off again, so he leaves it.

A hand reaches out and grabs Edgar by the wrist. “You’re going?” Noah asks, his voice thick with sleep, his eyes still half-closed.

“Yes,” Edgar says. Noah’s grip is light and hot. “It’s still early,” he concedes, “I could stay.”

Noah’s eyes go wide and he releases Edgar’s arm with a jerk, like it burns him. He’s awake now. “No, that’s fine,” he says quickly, “Just go.”

Edgar’s arm hangs in the air for a moment before he draws it back, and he nods. He wants to press his fingers to Noah’s warm skin one more time. “I will see you later, then,” he says, his eyes cast down but his voice steady. He takes his things from the desk and leaves.

Noah clenches his fist and then slowly fans his fingers out, as wide as they’ll go. He lies there with the sheets bunched around his hips for hours, until sunlight slants into his eyes.

“Come again?” Hanai choked, scrambling to the floor.

Tajima wriggled his eyebrows. “I will if you will,” he said.

“That not what I—” Hanai’s glasses slipped down his nose and he tried to right them with his elbow. “You like me, is that what you said?”

“I think so.” Tajima knelt down to help. “I jerked off to you a couple of times, so that’s not a problem.”

Hanai dropped the bats again.

“So, I figured I might as well put it out there and see if you’d go for it.” Tajima pushed Hanai’s glasses back into place. “How about it? Wanna give it a try?”

Hanai finally righted the rack and debated beating a hasty retreat to the locker rooms. “Do I want to give what a try?”

“You know,” and Tajima wriggled his eyebrows again, “let’s check to see if you’re cool with it, too.”

“See if I’m—” Hanai thwacked Tajima across the head with his mitt, “No I’m not letting you… NO. Jesus.”

“We could just make out a little,” Tajima conceded, “You know, first date and all.”

“I am not going to make out with you or let you do anything to anything on my person,” Hanai said, “So just drop it already.”

“A kiss!” Tajima finally suggested. “Come on, how bad could that possibly be? I won’t even use any tongue.”

Hanai glanced sidelong at Tajima. “You promise to drop this whole thing if I tell you it’s gross?” he asked, shouldering his equipment bag. Tajima nodded. Hanai was beginning to wonder when snogging a teammate had begun to sound like a reasonable request, and had the sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with one of Momokan’s pep talks. “Fine,” he said, “Just one, and then we both forget this conversation ever happened.”

“Deal!” Tajima agreed, and shoved Hanai up against the lockers.

“Hey hey, whoa, wait,” Hanai stuttered as Tajima’s hands started moving ever southward, “I thought we agreed—”

“I totally lied,” Tajima said, and shoved his tongue down Hanai’s throat.

* * *

“So we’re dating now,” Tajima announced proudly to the team the next morning, holding Hanai’s hand. “All of you are gonna have to stop jerking off to him, okay? I won’t forgive you if you keep doing it.”

A disappointed groan arose from the majority of the Nishiura baseball team and a couple of the ouendan, and Hanai refused to change in the locker room for several weeks thereafter.

Ceasar, pressing a cold can of coke to his forehead, was not so easily convinced. “If it’s such a great idea,” he reasoned, “why haven’t we thought of it before? In fact, why doesn’t everyone just grab the nearest person at a moment’s notice and head into the nearest bathroom stall? No, there’s got to be something we’re missing.”

Ice waved his hand, fending off logistic flaws and hypotheticals and also sending a nice breeze Ceasar’s way. “That’s because other people have one thing or another about the whole situation that they’re not cool with. We don’t have any hang-ups so we’re free to do what we like.”

Ceasar scrunched up his nose. It was far too hot to try and work out why such a logical conclusion didn’t jive with his worldview, but Ceasar was sure going to try. “Maybe we do have hang-ups and we just don’t know what they are,” he argued. “We’d better make a list.”

Ice nodded, conceding the point. He grabbed a paper from his makeshift fan and fished under the bed for a pen. “Fly at ‘er,” he said, plunking both unceremoniously on the desk.

Ceasar set down his coke and straightened up, pen poised. “Number one,” he said, scrawling across the paper in his tight, messy print, “Attraction.”

“Got that covered,” Ice said quickly, “No problem at all.” Ceasar agreed, placing two tiny checkmarks at the end of the line.

“Two,” Ceasar said, “Willingness of both parties.” He had that one double-checked before Ice could even open his mouth. “And three, prior commitments.” He put down one checkmark and looked sidelong at Ice, expectantly.

“Hey,” Ice said, “If I already had someone I wouldn’t have to try and convince you to do it, would I?”

“Point taken,” Ceasar said, and added another check.

“I think that about covers it,” Ice said gleefully. “If everyone’s willing and has the hots for each other there’s no problem, right?”

“No,” Ceasar said, tapping the end of the pen against the desk, “I’m sure there’s something else. Man, I wish I watched more cheesy teen dramas. Help me out, here.”

“Hey, I don’t watch that stuff,” Ice said. “You’re just over-thinking it.”

“Something about… oh!” Ceasar’s eyes lit up and he scribbled across the paper.

Ice read over Ceasar’s shoulder. “Love?” he asked, bewildered.

“You know,” Ceasar said, “it’s just supposed to be physical but one of the people falls in love and the other person doesn’t and the entire relationship is ruined. It happens on TV all the time.” Ceasar beamed. He knew there was something off about the whole arrangement. “That’s what makes it complicated!”

Ice just stared. “But that won’t be an issue,” he said.

“Well why not?” Ceasar asked, tapping the pen against Ice’s desk again. “Why would a television drama lie?”

“No, it’s just that I’m in love with you already,” Ice said, “So there’s no problem, see?”

The tapping stopped.

“I mean, the worst that could happen is that you’d fall in love with me, right? And that’d be a good thing,” Ice elaborated, seeing the dumbfounded look on Ceasar’s face. “So if that’s all then there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Of course there’s something to worry about!” Ceasar exclaimed, sending the pen flying across the room. “You’re in love with me?”

“‘Course,” Ice said, “Why else would I be trying to get into your pants?”

“Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you just ask me out instead of trying to get into my pants? That’s what normal people do!”

Ice shrugged. “This seemed easier.” He paused and looked at Ceasar. “Wait,” he said, “does this mean you like me, too?”

“Of course I do you jackass,” Ceasar said, and punched Ice in the mouth. Ice lay sprawled on his back, blinking up at the ceiling for a few moments, and then Ceasar pressed a lukewarm can of coke against his cheek. “Next time just say something, you dick,” he said.

Ice took the can and turned it, searching for a cold spot. “I like you,” he mumbled through rapidly swelling lips, “let’s go out sometime.”

“Okay,” Ceasar said, and smiled.

“That’s everything,” Valerie said, setting down a tea tray at Titus’ elbow. She poured milk into a cup and added a large dab of honey before pouring the tea, English Breakfast. “Did you want a scone or a muffin, my Prince?”

“Scone.” Titus lifted his head. “Wasn’t there that thing for the Prince of –”

“It would be best to leave that until tomorrow.” Valerie deftly buttered a scone and set it on a plate in front of Titus. “You might make a mistake if you try to do it so late.”

Titus rubbed his forehead. “You’re right, as usual. I’ll do it first thing in the morning. I haven’t got any appointments before ten, right? That should be enough time.”

Valerie nodded and tucked a blanket around her Prince’s shoulders while he sipped his tea, strong and hot, the way he liked it. Suddenly, he grabbed her arms and pulled them around himself. She stumbled, her face pressed into his hair.

“I’m glad I chose you,” Titus said, his lips at her wrists. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Valerie said, thinking of Sunday mornings a small child on the beach, ticking away their days together. She laid a kiss on Titus’ cheek. “I’m glad you chose me, too,” she whispered.

“It’s so cold,” Ginji said, bringing his knees to his chest and shivering. Ban could see Ginji’s breath when he spoke. “Can we turn the heat on for a little while?”

“There’s no money for gas,” Ban had told him, pulling his blanket tight around himself. “If we finish this job maybe we can swing a hotel for a few nights. It’s supposed to be getting colder next week.”

Ginji puffed out his cheeks and continued to shiver.

Ban had sighed and hemmed and hawed and eventually he lifted up the edge of his blanket. “Come here,” he’d said.

Ginji had smiled wide and scrambled across the seats, pressing up warm and close. “You’re my favourite guy, Ban-chan.”

“Told you not to call me that,” Ban groused, “and not so close, it’s cramped in here.” And Ginji just pressed closer, so warm.

There had been a lot of cold nights that winter, and the ones that followed, the two of them shivering in the front seat and Ginji pressed up close to him in the dark, their breaths coming out together in puffs. Before he knew what was what, Ban had got used to that warmth, huddled against him in the cold. Fuck if he knew when it happened.

“Come here,” Ban says now. It’s the middle of summer and intolerably humid, the two of them sprawled out at all angles in the heat. But Ginji smiles, and scrambles across the seats to press close against him. Ginji’s breath comes out in soft pants, cool on his sweat-soaked neck, and his fingers are unbearably warm on his back.

“What are you making this time?” Yuuri asked. Gwendal’s hands were bigger than his mother’s but they held the needles much more gently, his fingers defter. “Is it a duck?”

“A pig,” Gwendal said, pink yarn wrapped around his fingers. “It’s not done yet.”

“Oh, I see it now.” Yuuri stretched out on the sofa and watched Gwendal working across the room, neat stitches appearing like magic under his fingers. “That’s the nose you’re working on, right?”

“The ear.”

“The ear,” Yuuri corrected himself, “That’s what I meant.”

The needles stopped and Gwendal glanced up. “You don’t have to stay here,” he said, “I’m sure you have other things to do.”

“I want to stay,” Yuuri said.

Gwendal sighed and went back to knitting. The needles clicked softly together. Yuuri closed his eyes and listened to them, like water on a rooftop, until he drifted off to sleep.

It was some time later that Yuuri felt something soft brush against his cheek. He opened his eyes. A soft, pink lump of yarn and cotton was resting by his head, and there was a hand. Yuuri reached out to grab it.

“Sorry,” Gwendal muttered, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Gwendal’s hand was rough and calloused on his fingertips. “It’s okay,” Yuuri said. Gwendal took his hand away and strode out of the room. The warmth still lingered on Yuuri’s palm.

The pig really was atrocious, Yuuri thought. He propped it up on his chest and stared at it until he drifted back to sleep, where he dreamt of rough, calloused hands warm on his skin.

“You know I loved you, don’t you?” she whispers, and her voice is light and clear in his ear. When he turns he swears he can smell her perfume on his pillow, until he remembers she never wore any. He lies there in the dark and remembers her weight on his shoulder the time she fell asleep in the carriage. A leaf drifted in through the open window, into her hair. He left it there. Conrad had chuckled softly when he saw it and plucked it out. She’d scolded them both.

He throws back the sheets and wanders alone in the dark, focusing on the sound of his bare feet hitting stone, straining his eyes at the moonlight slanting through narrow windows. He’s at the castle. He made Gisela cry, he remembers, but he’s forgotten how. It doesn’t matter. He remembers Conrad sitting under a tree, the one he used to find them under together when he went looking for her. They were always out of doors, it had seemed to him. It never rained when they were together. He remembers blue sky. He remembers white silk. He remembers a smile, too, achingly familiar, although he cannot place it.

She’s standing at the window, made out of moonlight and stardust, or so he supposes. “You were a good man,” she lies to him, like she always did. He walks past her, into the courtyard. He is barefoot and shirtless, the night air is cold on his skin. He does not shiver. Conrad is there, like he always is, everywhere, and she’s beside him, laughing. The sky is blue.

Adalbert nudges Conrad with his foot. “Wake up,” he says, and Conrad sits up with a start. His clothes are drenched with dew. There are goose bumps on the back of his neck, but he doesn’t shiver. “I was dreaming about her, too,” Adalbert says, and he doesn’t know why. Conrad nods, takes the hand he can’t remember offering, and he smiles, achingly familiar.

When Adalbert dreams, he dreams of white silk and blue sky. “You’re still a good man,” she tells him, her voice clear and light in his ear. Her body is cold and heavy. A silvery laugh drifts by on the wind, and she collapses into blue flowers in his arms.

Adalbert smiles, and sleeps through the rest of the night.

Daku has a routine, too.

“There goes the shirt,” Daku says, leaning forward for a better look. “Sunscreen’s next. You sure you don’t wanna watch?”

Waka shakes his head, lounging against the convenient rock they’ve situated themselves behind. “I’m good.”

“Queer.”

“Yeah, not spying on the lifeguard makes me queer. Queer.” Waka peeks out from behind the rock just long enough to see Teddy open a bottle of coconut suntan lotion. “Why do you gotta do this all the time, man? You’re such a creeper.”

“Hey, if the old man’s gonna make us wake up at five in the morning, might as well make the best of it.” Daku grinned. “Man, the guy’s more flexible than he looks. Got his whole back.”

“Really?” Waka scrambles up to look. “Damn.”

* * *

Daku frowns. “If he doesn’t show up soon we’re gonna have to go.” He pouts and props himself up on his elbows, scanning the beach. “My money’s on either the cat or the dog.”

“Dog,” Waka says, “with the kittens, probably.”

“Nah, s’probably the cat, he’s down here more often.”

“The cat likes to sleep in on Saturdays.”

Daku looks over at Waka, puzzled. “How do you know that?”

“Here he comes,” Waka says, pointing. “Told you it was the dog.”

“You’re not getting out of answering the question.” Daku turns his attention back to the beach. “Stupid dog gets to have all the fun,” he mutters as Ice pops open the suntan lotion. “Totally unfair.”

* * *

“Oh crap.” Daku ducks behind the rock and presses himself tight against it. “He looked over here.”

Waka continues to lounge. “You think he didn’t know you were here this whole time?”

“Shut up and check to see if he’s still looking.”

“You’re worse than the kids, man,” Waka sighs, but he still leans over and peers up the beach. “Uh oh.”

“What?”

“He’s coming over here,” Waka says.

“What?! Shit shit shit.” Daku’s eyes go wide and he pulls his knees up to his chest.

“Not going to help,” Waka says, and points. Teddy is already standing beside Daku, his arms crossed.

“Oh.” Daku flashes a tight smile. “Hey, mister lifeguard. Nice tan. Almost as good as mine. You could teach this bastard a thing or two, spends the whole day in the sun and he’s still all pasty and gross.”

“Don’t drag me into this.”

Teddy grabs Daku by the arm and hoists him to his feet.

“Okay,” Daku says, “I admit it, I may have been spying on you a lot. You’re hot. Your own fault, when you think about it.”

Teddy rolls his eyes and drags Daku down the beach. Waka waves.

“Look, I tried to be discreet about it, I don’t know what you’re getting so worked up over. You’re on a public beach and everything, not like I’m peeping in your room at night. Which I totally could if I wanted to. Who’s gonna stop me? Gladiator here.”

Teddy doesn’t say anything. Soon they’re out of sight of the beach, on the rocky part of the shore. Teddy presses Daku against the cliff face.

“I didn’t do nothing wrong,” Daku argues stubbornly. “What’re you gonna do, huh? I’ll kick your ass.”

Teddy kisses Daku hard on the mouth.

“I’ve been watching, too,” Teddy mumbles, and his voice is deep and rough.

“Oh,” Daku says, “Well, that’s alright then.”

* * *

Waka rolls his eyes, exasperated. “Why we still doing this? You made out with the guy just this morning.”

“I got a routine. Besides, you don’t turn down a free meal just because you just had lunch. It’s free.” Daku cranes his neck for a better view and peers up the beach. “Oh yeah,” he says, “Take it off slow for me, sexy lifeguard. Who’s your daddy?”

“Queer.”

“Cat’s about to put on his sunscreen,” Daku says.

“Really?” Waka scrambles to look. “Damn,” he says, “Kid’s just as bendy as he looks.”

One night, about a week after he first saw the note, Ceasar lay in his bed and stared at his cell phone. He glanced carefully around the room, half expecting Fleance or his creepy gecko to be lurking behind Pebble’s tank, but there was no one. He flipped open his phone.

“This is True Love,” he typed painstakingly into the text message window. “Love pina coladas and the rain is okay.” He paused for a moment, then added “What is your opinion on health food and/or champagne?”

When he was done, Ceasar took a deep breath and hit send.

The reply didn’t come until late the next afternoon, in the middle of biology class. Ceasar had forgot to turn off his phone and Funky Town blasted out across the room in all its midi glory, much to Ceasar’s embarrassment. His aunt got cross and made him read the message out to the class. “Let me answer with another question,” Ceasar mumbled, turning red, “How does champagne on the beach at midnight sound to you? No tofu.”

“Well you better answer,” Rose said as Ceasar sat back down, “wouldn’t want to keep your hot date waiting. Go on.”

Ceasar glared and waited until after class to reply. “Sounds like the best thing ever,” he said, “When?”

“Tomorrow night?”

“It’s a date,” Ceasar sent, and flipped his cell phone shut with a most triumphant flourish.

As the two had failed to set an exact meeting place, Ceasar was not entirely sure where on the beach to start searching for his SWM. He thought maybe it would be a good idea to follow the sound of Rupert Holmes’ most famous song wafting down from the north end, though. I was tired of my lady the one-hit wonder crooned on repeat, we’d been together too long.

It didn’t take long for Ceasar to reach the source of the music, a battered old stereo holding down the corner of a beach blanket. There was a bottle of cheap champagne stuck unceremoniously in the sand beside it.

“Hey,” Ice said, “so I got a new cell phone.”

Ceasar, relatively unsurprised, shook his head and lay down next to him. “This is like the gayest thing you’ve ever done.”

“Probably.” Ice hefted the champagne bottle. “Gonna help me drink this or not?”

Ceasar nodded and picked up a glass.

Ceasar frowned and shut the stereo off. He hated that stupid song.

“Don’t see how, considering he’s not even here to kick sand in your eye.” Daku jumped at the sound of the voice behind him and spun around. A man in his late thirties stood there, smiling. “What are you doing out here all on your own, friend?” the stranger continued, cocking his head to the side. “Awfully dangerous around these parts at night, I hear.”

Daku was on his feet now, scowling even more fiercely. “I’m not your friend,” he said. “Who the hell are you?”

The man spread his arms, still smiling in a manner that was starting to creep Daku right the hell out. “Terrence,” he said, “Angel in training.”

Daku snorted and relaxed his stance. “Yeah right,” he said, “Aren’t you supposed to have wings and a halo and shit?”

“I’m only in training, I told you, that stuff comes later.” Terrence took off his suit jacket and laid it in the sand. “Sit back down, Daku, we have things to discuss. Your love life, for instance.” Terrence paused. “Well, your love life primarily, I suppose.”

“The hell do you know about that?” Daku growled as he settled cross-legged beside Terrence.

“Oh, plenty enough.” Terrence loosened his tie and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “I know that at this very moment you’re debating whether or not to break up with your boyfriend, who also happens to be your best dude forever, because he’s unimaginative, sexually speaking, and he cums too fast.”

“That’s not impressive,” Daku said, “Anyone who has sex with Waka would come to that conclusion.”

Terrence chuckled and Daku was really starting to find the constant smiling downright unnerving. “Have you ever heard the saying, ‘Everytime two sharks have gay sex, an angel gets its wings?’” he asked.

“No.”

“That’s probably because it only applies in this particular situation,” Terrence said, “but that’s beside the point. Someone up there,” and he pointed up (for emphasis, one assumes), “thinks you two calling it quits would be a bad move. I’m supposed to convince you of the same.”

Daku frowned. “Isn’t any of their business.”

“Oh, I fully agree. But when have you ever heard of the guys upstairs minding their own business?” Terrence shrugged. “Sticking their noses where they don’t belong is pretty much part of the job description.”

Daku picked up a stone and threw it across the water. He got two skips. “Fine, say I buy into your crap since I don’t have anything better to do. What’re we supposed to do, sit here and argue about Waka’s sexual prowess? Because I’ll tell you right now, you’re not gonna win that argument.”

“I have a lazier idea.” Terrence stood up and stretched. “You were saying something about wishing you’d never started dating him to begin with, right? Just stay friends and all that?”

Daku pouted and chuck another stone. Only one skip this time. “It’d be a hell of a lot less stupidly complicated.”

“Well then, let’s see what’d happen if you’d done that.” Terrence held out his hand. “Come on,” he said, “I’ll give you the alternate reality tour, and if you like it better that way I’ll keep it like that. You basically can’t lose.”

* * *

Daku is lying in bed, reading a book.

“Well,” Daku said, “this is already pretty far from the ordinary.”

“It’s just a comic book,” Terrence replied, “Now keep quiet and watch, alright?”

The door creaks open. Noah slinks into the room. Daku sits up and sets his book aside. “I thought you weren’t coming over until later,” he says.

“Changes of plans,” Noah replies with a soft hiss. He shuts and locks the door behind him.

“Holy fuck,” Daku said, staring wide-eyed as Noah makes his way towards the bed. “Holy fuck. I hook up with Noah? Noah?? Holy fuck. Sign me up. Fuck.”

“Yes, yes. Just wait, there’s more.”

Noah kneels on the bed and pulls Daku hard towards him. “Make love to me,” he growls in Daku’s ear.

Daku stared at Noah blankly. “Did he just say what I think he said?”

“Indeed,” Terrence said. “You see, Noah may project this tough guy attitude most of the time, but in the bedroom? Total bottom. 100%. Got a taste for it with his other boyfriend, in a hilarious switching of roles—his other boyfriend couldn’t top a cricket, you understand.”

Daku’s eyes went wide. “But if he’s a bottom, then I’m top, and if I’m top, then that means…”

“That’s right.” Terrence smiled. “He makes you do all the work.”

“No!” Daku stumbled backwards. “That’s not true! It’s impossible!”

“You were pretty star-struck when he put the moves on you, you understand. What’s a little work when you can brag about hitting that, am I right?”

“But sex isn’t supposed to be work!” Daku whined. “Sex is supposed to be me telling Waka I want sex and him giving it to me!”

“And Noah has come to realize much the same thing. Now, let’s skip ahead a bit, shall we?”

* * *

“You’re off already?” Daku asks as Noah slips his clothes back on.

“Have to,” Noah says, “the frog’s coming over early today.”

“Ah.”

“Wait,” Daku said, “Frog? What frog?”

“Oh, no one,” Terrence answered, “Just his soulmate is all.”

“He’s been pretty cold the past couple of times,” Noah continues, “but I’m pretty sure I’ll actually get some tonight.”

“Well, good luck with that.”

“His soulmate?” Daku was fuming now. “Are you telling me that he’s seeing some bitch on the side?”

“Actually, you’re the bitch on the side, if you want to get technical.” Terrence was really getting into the whole process now, practically beaming. “Just until he can get into the gecko’s pants on a fairly regular basis. It’s a slow process, and he’s got a very large sexual appetite, you understand.”

“Oh fuck you!” Daku tried to throw one of the rocks he’d stashed in his pocket at Noah’s head but, being incorporeal, he missed. “You’ve gotta be making shit up because there is no way, no friggin’ way I’d play second fiddle to a gecko. Not even for Noah. Not even for Titus would I do that, and he controls my paycheck.”

“Hey, I don’t make up the alternate universes, I just show you through them.” Terrence gestured to AU-Daku, who had gone back to his comic book. “This is you if you’d never made out with Waka on the beach that one time. And many subsequent times. No fooling. Now come on, there’s a few more things you have to see.”

Daku crossed his arms. “No way. You convinced me, alright? I don’t want to see any more of this train wreck.”

Terrence frowned. “You have to go to the end. You promised.”

“I didn’t promise anything, you sadistic freak. Take me back.”

Terrence stamped his foot. “But if you don’t see the whole thing you might change your mind sometime down the road and then I won’t get my wings and I certainly won’t make senior angel by the second coming and I’ll miss all the fuuuuuuuuuuuuun.”

“FINE. God.”

“That’s better.” Terrence snapped his fingers.

* * *

Daku sits on the beach, near sunset. He sighs and digs his toes into the sand.

“Oh come on,” Daku said, “I would never emo on the beach like some loser teenager.”

“You were emoing on the beach like some loser teenager like twenty minutes ago.”

“That was different.”

“Just shut up, okay?” Terrence pointed down the beach. “Here he comes.”

Waka strolls up, walking along the edge of the shore and letting the waves lap over his feet. He is clearly startled when he sees Daku sitting nearby, and Daku is likewise uncomfortable. “Hey,” Waka says, keeping his distance, “how’ve you been?”

“Oh,” Daku says, “you know. It’s been alright, I guess. You?”

“Yeah, yeah, me too. Alright.”

“Why are we acting all weird?” Daku asked. “It’s like we haven’t talked in forever or something.”

“Well,” Terrence said, “a year isn’t forever, really.”

“A YEAR? But we patrol together!”

Terrence shook his head. “Not anymore you don’t. Waka requested a different partner. He had a crush on you, you see, and it got to the point where it was just really awkward being around you so much.”

“But, but,” Daku sputtered, “We’re Dakuwaka! We’ve gotta be together, it’s like it was preor-fucking-dained! What the hell. What the HELL. That selfish bastard!”

“And who’s the selfish bastard who wanted to find a guy with more stamina, huh? Even though Waka’s crazy for you.”

“Shut UP.” Daku kicked at the sand. “I know, okay? I already knew!”

Terrence peered down the beach again. “Oh, here she comes. This ought to do it.”

“What now?”

Helen comes up behind Waka. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she says, “am I interrupting?”

“No,” Waka says, putting an arm around her, “we were just finishing.” He nods. “Good to see you, Daku.”

“Yeah,” Daku says, “you too.”

Waka and Helen smile and walk back down the beach, the way they came.

“Oh fuck no,” Daku said and, abandoning Terrence on a dune, ran up to Waka, pulled him away from Helen, and punched him in the face.

“Daku!” Waka exclaimed, “What the hell, man?”

“I don’t care if you cum too fast,” Daku yelled, gripping at Waka’s shirt, “You’re not allowed to stop being my friend and you’re definitely not allowed to start dating this skank! I don’t care what that wannabe angel guys says, never gonna happen, you hear me?”

“What the fuck are you talking about? She was just helping me look for you, you were supposed to meet me for dinner and you never showed up.”

Daku paused. “There’s no guy in a suit standing behind me, is there?”

“No.”

“And I had sex with you just this morning?”

“Twice,” Waka assured him.

Daku’s shoulders slumped and he let go of Waka’s shirt. “When I said skank,” he said sheepishly, “I meant it in the best possible way, of course.”

Helen rolled her eyes. “Just go have gay shark sex or whatever and leave me alone,” she said, “I have more important things to do than look for beach bums.”

“Fuck you too, Helen.”

“Hey,” Waka said, “what do you mean, I cum too fast?”

Daku laughed. “Don’t worry about it, man, it’s better than the alternative. Let’s go help some twisted freak get his wings.”

And that’s just what they did.

You’re already up, showered and dressed and fixing your hair in the mirror. “Morning,” you say, and I grunt a reply, slipping out of the bed and running my fingers through my hair, stiff and gross with gel. My things are already in the bathroom when I get there, and I shower and brush my teeth until the sour taste in my mouth is gone. Your blow dryer is sitting on the counter for me but I leave it, let my hair hang down wet in my eyes.

You’re sitting on the bed but you stand when I come in the room. “I’ll miss you,” you say, and you’re smiling at me. “I’ll miss you too,” is what I’m supposed to say, I think, or maybe I’m supposed to muss your hair and throw an arm around your shoulder, tell you everything’s going to be fine. I used to do that all the time, I remember. I wonder when I stopped. I step closer to you, and you frown a little in that way you do when you’re scared, but you don’t move. And I step closer. Closer, closer. We’re almost touching. I used to touch you all the time. I wonder when I stopped.

I think I’ve always loved you. I love the way your hair curls at the nape of your neck. I love your weight, warm and heavy against my shoulder when you fall asleep watching kung-fu movies with me. I love the way your hands move when you play your bass, the way your fingers pluck at the strings. I love your smile, loved the time I was the only one who got to see it. I love your voice. I love your weakness. I love knowing everything about you. I love being the one you call when you’re scared. Do you remember the first time you tried poppy tea? You bought the flowers from an old man who lived in the flat a few floors down, he grew them in his window boxes. You just wanted to sleep so badly. You were almost crying when you called me. We listened to David Bowie and you fell asleep on my shoulder.

“I don’t feel it,” you said when we ate ice cream together strolling down Abbey Road like tourists. “It’s too weird. I love you but it’s too weird.” I agreed and tried not to think about how beautiful you were. I started dating that girl, Amber, you remember her, she was nice, she liked the band, her eyes were blue like yours, but you were still more beautiful and I tried not to think about it. I’m still trying not to think about it and you are still the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen in my life.

I place my hands on either side of your face. They’re trembling. Your skin is warm and soft under my palms. I can see your suitcases in the corner of my eye, piled beside your bed. I don’t want you to go. I want so badly to kiss you. I’ve been waiting and waiting ever since that night I elbowed some hipster in the face so you could move to the front of the crowd and listen to a band neither of us even remember the name of. Maybe I’ve been waiting forever. I don’t know. My thumbs move, stroking across your cheeks, and you know I was lying all those years ago when I said I wasn’t in love with you. Maybe you’ve always known. I lean in closer, and I kiss you, and your lips are dry and you grip at the front of my t-shirt, pull me closer, and I know you were lying too. I don’t know if I should laugh, or cry; I kiss you harder.

I push you to the bed. My lips are at your neck now. I remember the day you came to school with your soft, blond hair clipped short. The back of your neck was so pale, the skin almost white where it disappeared beneath your shirt collar. I remember licking my lips and all I could think about was kissing you, but that was all I could think about most of the time. I wanted to tear off your clothes and press my fingers against that smooth white skin, from the nape of your neck, down the curve of your spine, along the backs of your legs, down to the soles of your feet. You’re ticklish there. Not many people know that, but I do. I’d kiss them, as pale as the rest of your body, and you’d laugh and kick at me. In my imagination you’re violent and beautiful and you smile at me all the time.

I’m kissing down your neck when I feel your chest heaving beneath me. You’re sobbing. I lift up my head and tears are falling from the corners of your eyes, falling on the pillow and into your hair. I’m not sure if you even know you’re doing it, but then your arms are up, crossed over your face. “Fuck.” Your hands are clenched into fists, and I see you bite down hard on your lip. “Fuck,” you say again, and you’re still crying.

I sit up, slowly. I let my hand rest on your chest for a moment, feel the flutter of your heartbeat against my palm. There were a thousand chances for me to do this, chances before you knew him, before you knew what you’d be missing and before it had to be a choice, me or him. But it is, now. You know, now.

“I love you,” you tell me as I’m heading out the door. “If you told me to pick you I’m not sure I could tell you no.”

“You could,” I say. “You would. If it was supposed to happen, it would’ve happened ages ago.”

Your arms are around my chest before I know what’s happening, and I feel you breath warm at the back of my neck. “Thank you,” you say, words I didn’t know you were capable of. My hand comes up to hold yours, and maybe I don’t know everything there is to know about you after all. “I love you, too,” is all I say, and then I kiss your soft white fingertips and finally let your arms fall away from me.

“Well it’s not my fault.” Ceasar’s face was red and he looked supremely uncomfortable as Ice nuzzled at his neck. “I keep telling him to stop but he won’t!”

Ice was grinning and clinging and idiotic, kissing up and down Ceasar’s neck and letting his lunch get cold. “But you’re gonna move in with me!” he exclaimed, “I’m so happy!”

Teddy rolled his eyes in a way that clearly said “You practically live together already, if the number of times I’ve been allowed in our dorm room the past couple months is any indication.” Teddy was very good at eye rolling, you understand.

“I already apologized for kicking you out of the room all the damn time, didn’t I? What more do you want? Here,” Ice pushed his tray across the table, “have my pudding and stop whining already.”

It was butterscotch pudding, so Teddy was satisfied.

Venus tucked her hair behind her ears. “I don’t care how happy you are,” she said, “stop necking in the cafeteria. It’s so gross.”

“No more gross than the two of you fussing over that overgrown kitten of yours,” Ice retaliated, to which TJ and Venus could only look at one another and blush. “That’s what I thought,” Ice said, and started nibbling Ceasar’s ear.

“Ice!”

“Okay, okay,” Ice said, pulling away a little (though the two of them still managed to occupy no more than a single seat between them). “You guys are no fun at all.”

“Time, place, and occasion, you horny mutt,” Venus said. “None of those should be ‘while people are eating.’”

“Ceasar, she’s being so mean to me!”

“I’m not here,” Ceasar said, having long gone back to eating his tuna sandwich and pretending like he wasn’t sitting in Ice’s lap getting molested and definitely ignoring the fact that he liked it a hell of a lot. “I’m on the beach with my surfboard and a pina colada, and someone’s just pantsed PMSing boyfriend, and it is glorious.”

“So we should all go out tonight,” Ice said, completely changing the subject. “Let’s sneak off campus and go to a club. We’ll go somewhere they don’t know us so Venus can dress up.”

Venus perked up. “But what would I wear?” she asked.

“You can borrow one of my aunt’s dresses,” Ceasar said, “she won’t mind.”

“Let’s dress you up, too.” Ice held Ceasar’s hair in pigtails. “You’d make a cute girl!”

“Fuck you!” Across the table Teddy doubled over in laughter, and Venus patted him gently on the back. “Fuck you, too!”

“You could just wear some hairclips,” Venus suggested, “Mess with some peoples’ heads. I have starfish ones.”

Ceasar puffed out his cheeks. “I want dolphin ones,” he mumbled.

“Ah, well, I’m sure we could find some…”

“Ice!” Ceasar exclaimed as Ice took the lull in conversation to start gnawing on Ceasar’s neck again. He pushed Ice out of the chair.

Venus grinned a most satisfied grin as Ice fell to the ground with a sickening thud. “You’ll need some really girly jeans, too,” she said, “and high-heeled boots. Oh, this is going to be the best night ever! Can I bring a camera?”

Jose rolled his eyes and showed their tickets to the young girl at the turnstile. “Hitting the ball with a bat is the point of it,” he said, “and then running around the bases. It’s a game, for fun. Just enjoy it.”

They made their way to their seats, far in the back. “Wait here,” Jose told Conrad, returning a few minutes later with hotdogs from the concession stand. He bit into his with glee, ketchup dribbling out the back and down his fingers. Conrad took his own and stared at it, not quite sure what to do with it.

“It’s food,” Jose said, “you eat it.”

“But what’s it made out of?” Conrad furrowed his brows and poked at the hotdog a little.

“I don’t know, beef or something. What does it matter? It’s not going to hurt you.”

“I like to know what I’m eating,” Conrad said, but Jose had already finished scarfing his down and was noisily licking the ketchup off his fingers. Conrad took a bite.

“It’s starting, it’s starting!” Jose scrambled to his feet. “That’s the anthem, Conrad, you’ve gotta stand up. Come on, put your hand like this. That’s right.”

Conrad was dragged out of his seat. What should he do with his food? He didn’t know the words to the song everyone had started singing, but he put his hand over his heart and listened.

* * *

Jose winced as the ball slammed into his glove. “Conrad,” he whined, “don’t throw it so hard, you’ll break my hand.”

“Sorry.” Conrad held out his glove and Jose flung the ball back. “I’ll be more careful.”

“You should just stay on Earth and become a pro ball player, man. Your talent is wasted in the military. Sword fighting is so last century, you know?” Jose took off his glove and checked his watch. “It’s six-thirty, do you want to eat at that pub tonight? I think that one waitress has a crush on you.”

Conrad’s face went red and he hid ever so conspicuously behind his glove. “She does not,” he said.

“She does, she does! Gave you that free drink last time, didn’t she?” Jose stretched and grinned. “Want me to make myself scarce tonight?” he said, and Conrad thwapped him on the head with his glove. Jose laughed and batted him away. “You’re in a much better mood than when you first came here, you know? Just as scruffy-looking, though.”

Conrad ran his fingers through his hair. “I really need to get it cut, don’t I? I haven’t cut it in ages.”

“Nah,” Jose said, “Girls dig that kind of look.”

* * *

“Conrad, look what I got!” Jose switched channels on the TV and popped a tape into the VCR. “A friend of a friend of mine got it from Japan!”

“I was watching that,” Conrad grumbled, though his team had been losing and he’d been about ready to turn off the set in defeat anyway. “What is it?”

“In Japan they call it ‘ah-knee-may,’” Jose said as the opening theme began to play, “It’s cartoons.”

“Like for children? Why are you watching it?”

Jose puffed out his chest and drew himself up to his full height. “In Japan,” he began, “they understand that the cartoon medium shouldn’t be limited only to children. It’s limitless and free in a way that no other is today! If you can imagine it, it can be illustrated, unlike live-action, which labours under the constraints of special effects technology.” He pointed to the TV. “Why just look at this ah-knee-may, for instance. With a wave of her hand she becomes a magical figure fighting for love and justice! Only animation could create such a fantastic costume-change sequence, and her powers would look cheap and campy on the budget of a weekly live-action show. By utilizing animation, the impossible becomes possible!”

“Jose,” Conrad said, “You’re a Mazoku.”

Jose gave Conrad a look that clearly said “I fail to see your point,” and Conrad sighed and compliantly watched some teenage girl and her talking cat throw sparkles at their enemies. When they flipped back to the baseball game and hour and a half later, they found Conrad’s team had come back from behind for a stunning 15-14 victory in the bottom of the ninth, and Conrad buried his face in his hands.

* * *

“God, it was cold over there,” Jose said. “I though Japan was supposed to be warmer than that.”

Conrad smiled, their jackets draped over his arm. “Not in the winter, I guess.”

“Hey, no making fun of me!” Jose stretched and basked in the warm afternoon sunshine. “Mine’s doing well, I think. Yours?”

Conrad nodded. “Mine too.”

Jose smiled, more than a little sadly. “I guess you’ll be about ready to head back soon, won’t you?”

“In the spring,” Conrad said.

“Maaaan, you say it so calmly!” Jose unlocked the door and threw his luggage in the entryway, beside his boots. “Like two ships passing in the night and all that, I guess.”

“What does that mean?”

“Waaaah, don’t make me say it!” Jose collapsed on the couch. “It’s an old saying, I guess it means something like, we’re both kind of lost and alone, right? But for a little bit we passed by each other and then,” he shrugged helplessly, “we weren’t alone for awhile.”

Conrad nodded slowly. “I like that,” he said. “But those ships can pass each other again sometime, can’t they?”

Jose chuckled. “It’s a big ocean, Conrad,” he said, “but I think this ship would like that.”

“Thank you.”

Conrad could have sworn that Jose stopped dead for a moment and his bottom lip trembled ever so slightly, but he must have imagined it because a second later Jose was grinning and slapping him on the back, all good-natured as usual. “You’ll at least stay for one last ball game, right?”

Conrad smiled. “Maybe even two,” he said.

I’d never taken the time to study him like that. I did it then. I discovered his eyes get darker and brighter all at once, that the lines of his body are taut and perfect as he stands poised over his prey. The wide smile that spreads across his face is unlike any expression he ever shows, so antithetical to that small, private smile that peeks out only when he’s happy.

I grabbed his wrist, thin and bony beneath my fingers. “Why don’t you come with me instead?” I asked him. His skin was flushed and hot.

I can tell when the virus turns itself off. Instead of throaty moans it is high, thready gasps and sharp cries. He digs his fingers in my hair and presses his face to my neck. He smells like sweat and soap and apples and cheap spray-on deodorant. He didn’t take his necklace off and it pushes sharp against my chest. Later there will be jagged imprints in my skin and I will idly count the grooves. His glasses lay folded on the nightstand.

He puts his clothes on quickly and apologizes. His face is turned away from mine but I can see the tips of his ears, bright red. I want to press my fingers to the soft, hot skin of his neck, hidden under sex-mussed hair, but I don’t know how to do it. I don’t know what to say. I don’t say anything. He leaves and the tips of his ears are still red.

I see him dozens of times, with a wide-eyed boy or a trembling young girl or a teacher standing there with a half-smile, more amused than anything. Did I start following him, chasing him down the hallways, waiting for it to happen again? I’m with him so often I can’t tell anymore. Maybe. It happens more often lately. I grab his wrist, thin and bony, “come with me,” I say. When we eat lunch together in the cafeteria he pretends like I’ve never done this, like he hasn’t come out of the lust-fog to find me thrusting up inside him. Is it rape if I take his thin wrist in my hand when he’s like this, when he’s out of control and out of his mind and his eyes are darker and brighter all at once? I don’t know. Does he know I’m the one to take his thin wrist in my hand, to tug him along, does he think it’s the other way around? I don’t know that either.

I’m addicted to the way the bones of his ribcage feel against the palms of my hands, solid and fragile, so hard beneath the softness of his skin but wound almost delicately around his torso. I’m addicted to the high, thready gasps that fill my empty room in the middle of the afternoon. I’m addicted to grabbing his wrist and pulling him down the hallway, up the elevators, I’m addicted to the smile that peeks out only when he’s happy, I’m addicted to the heat of his breath on my neck and the flushed skin beneath my fingertips. The numbers on my alarm clock flash red, the same color as the tips of his ears when he hastily pulls on his clothes and leaves. I’ve thrown my vest across the clock to hide them. He always apologizes. My fingers never come to rest on his nape.

“We’re different,” Ceasar tells me, his eyes darker and brighter all at once, “but we’re the same, exactly the same, perfectly the same. Do you understand?” I don’t, or maybe I do, I don’t know, I’ve never done this before. I pull him closer and I kiss him. His fingers creep into my hair and his face flushes hot.

We’re in the cafeteria. I grab his wrist, thin and bony beneath my fingers. His eyes are neither dark nor bright, the lines of his body all awkward and wrong. “Come with me,” I tell him, and he lets me lead him to my room like I’ve done this dozens of times before. I can feel his pulse fluttering where my fingertips press against his hot, flushed skin. He smiles that small, private smile that only peeks out when he’s happy. I’m so addicted to that smile, the real smile. I’ve always loved it.

Waka made a face. “It was YOUR fault, you—”

“—no, if you hadn’t—”

“—saved your stupid ass, I—”

“—made a complete fool of yourself—”

“Boys,” Titus tapped his pen impatiently against his desk, “what exactly is the problem here?”

Daku and Waka looked guiltily at each other.

“We won’t go into the details, Prince,” Daku started, “but that fact of the matter is—”

“—you’re gonna need a new lifeguard station,” Waka finished.

Titus’ eyes narrowed. He wondered if it was possible to dock someone’s pay when they were working for free.

* * *

Sobre peeked out the window of Titus’ office. “Why are those sharks that’re working on the lifeguard station chained to a rock?”

Titus frowned. “None of your business, and that’s not why you’re here, is it?”

“Aw, come on, give me a break.”

“No, Sobre.”

“I’ll give you all my booze.” Sobre paused. “Well, all my best booze, anyway.”

“Not helping, Sobre.”

“I’ll blow you?”

Titus rubbed that magic spot on the bridge of his nose that fiction will tell you eases even the most excruciating of headaches, but all it did was make his nose sore. “Why are you in my office in the first place?” he asked. “I told Teddy he could have free range with your punishments. Freed up half my workload.”

“I strung his stupid bear up the flagpole,” Sobre replied with no small measure of glee, “the fluffy one figured he’d kill me if he got a hold of me first.”

All the more reason, Titus thought to himself. He wondered if you could still send people to the salt mines for misbehaviour. Have Valerie check out nearby hard labour camps he wrote on the lined yellow notepad in front of him.

* * *

“So that’s why Edgar needs to come over every night from now on and I need a pay raise for lube,” Noah finished. “Hey, what happened to your wall?”

“A very bad but supremely satisfying idea.” Titus wasn’t even bothering to lift his head anymore, he just lay it on his desk, defeated. “Fleance is young and maybe a little gullible, not retarded. Think of your own excuse or sneak around behind his back like a normal person.”

“What about the raise?”

Titus twisted his head around just enough to give Noah a good, hard glare. Noah didn’t seem to notice.

* * *

“So I picked it up for you,” Ice said, closing the door behind him. “Don’t know why you’d ever need this much vegetable oil, though.”

Titus snored softly in response.

“Geeeeez, ask a guy to do a favour for you and then fall asleep before he gets back?” Ice grinned a little and grabbed the blanket Valerie kept stashed on top of the bookcase, draping it over Titus’ shoulders and bunching some of it under his head. He got some drool on his fingers and made a face as he wiped them off on Titus’ sleeve.

Ice nabbed some of the candies out of Titus’ desk drawer before he left. Compensation, he figured.

Ooo, black licorice.

The ceremony is starting. His aunt is going to be furious with him.

The tasselled cap and gown are still hanging on the door to his room. He supposes he ought to have brought the cap, his parents are sure to want to keep it, display it proudly on a shelf or in a curio cabinet along with the diploma tucked safely away in his carryon. Titus had given it to him the night before, had been very good about the whole thing. “I’m sorry you’ll miss the ceremony,” he’d said, and he meant it, Ceasar thought. “Don’t tell my aunt,” Ceasar had pleaded. She wouldn’t understand, or maybe she would, maybe that would be even worse.

He keeps glancing behind himself as he winds in circles around the airport. He doesn’t know what he is looking for. Someone running up to catch him, last minute, chick-flick cliché, “Don’t go,” he’d cry, “please don’t go.” But Ceasar never told him he was going. Right now he’d be standing in front of the crowded auditorium, his cap tilted rakishly to one side, he’d rehearsed it the night before, strutting naked around the dorm room, making Ceasar laugh, making them both laugh.

“We’ll figure it out,” Ice had told him as they lay pressed together in the dark. Ceasar had nodded, but there was nothing to figure out. One last night side-by-side on a narrow bed, fighting over the blankets, that was all there was.

Ceasar finally makes his way to the gate. His flight doesn’t leave for an hour. The ceremony would be ending now. Would they throw their tasselled caps into the air? Titus had told them not to, but Ceasar suspects they would anyway. He sits down in the corner of the waiting area, across from a woman and her daughter. The little girl is stretched out in the aisle, scribbling in a coloring book. She smiles up at Ceasar and offers him a blue crayon. He smiles back and shakes his head no.

Ceasar’s pocket shakes, startling him. His cell phone. He takes it out and looks at the display. His throat closes up at the sight of the familiar number. He lets it ring and ring and ring, and turns it off before the voicemail icon can start to blink at him. He stands up and walks to the bathroom, where he locks himself in a stall and cries quietly to himself for a while, maybe five minutes, maybe ten, maybe twenty. When he is finished he splashes cold water on his face and gasps.

The little girl is still coloring. Ceasar picks up the blue crayon and starts filling in the sky. She smiles at him and so does her mother. When they board, she tears the page out and gives it to him, and Ceasar smiles too.

When Ice runs dramatically into the airport twenty minutes too late, all chick-flick cliché, to hell with customs and security, all he finds is Ceasar’s cell phone and a blue crayon left on a seat at gate 12-G.

“It’s really a stupid holiday,” Ceasar said to the hermit crab, whose tank was sitting next to his math textbook. “I mean, you don’t even get the day off or anything. And pumpkin guts are probably the grossest thing ever. This is coming from a guy who likes to study fish and stuff, so you know it’s got to be pretty disgusting, right?”

Pebble skittered to the side of the tank and tapped the glass. Ceasar obediently reached in and stroked his shell. That this was rather odd behaviour for a hermit crab to exhibit did not occur to our budding marine biologist, but then again, his roommate did have a sentient lizard for a pet.

“That Edgar Allan Poe outfit was amazing,” Ceasar grumbled, having never quite let that one go. “I had the raven and everything.”

There was a knock at the door. Ceasar grumbled and stretched and stood up to answer, but Ice simple barged in before Ceasar could take two steps. “It totally defeats the purpose if you knock and then just come in before I answer,” Ceasar said as Ice jumped onto the bed, as was his habit. “Hey, take your shoes off, how many times I have to tell you?”

“Sorry.” Ice toed off his shoes and kicked them against the wall with a satisfying thud. “So you’re coming to the Halloween party, right? What time should I pick you up? Eight work? I’m going at eight.”

Ceasar glared as he tipped food into Pebble’s tank. “Ice, you’ve asked me that every day for the past two weeks and every time I tell you I’m not going.” He took out his science homework.

“Yeah but you don’t actually mean it,” Ice said, “Halloween is free candy and girls in cute costumes and parties!” Ice could have also mentioned lots of children ringing doorbells and scratching him right behind the ears but figured that was probably not a draw to Ceasar and would also sound really weird. “Anyway, have your costume ready by eight, okay?”

“I’m not going!”

“WhatEVER Ceasar it’s a party just go!” Ice slipped on his shoes and was out the door before Ceasar could mount another protest. “Eight!”

“WhatEVER to you I’m not going!” Ceasar yelled uselessly at his closed door. Fuming, he stomped to his bed and read his science textbook until he drifted off into a very angry nap.

Pebble, having finished his food, looked on thoughtfully from his tank.

* * *

Now, Ceasar couldn’t be completely certain (reading too many philosophy books in your spare time will have this sort of effect) but he was at least eighty percent sure that he hadn’t fallen asleep wearing nineteenth century clothing.

Confused, Ceasar staggered out of bed and peered into the mirror above his dresser. His hair was black (he had a mild panic attack over the loss of his meticulous blue tips until he realized it was just spray-on colour), and his clothing was dark and gloomy and possibly made out of velvet, or at least a cheap imitation; he looked like he’d stepped out of a dark, cramped study in Victorian London. A plush black bird was perched on his shoulder, and an elaborate feathered quill stuck out of his breast pocket.

“You were dressed like that when I came in,” Fleance said in his flat monotone, oddly unprovoked, as he stared intently at his textbook. “I assume it is your Halloween costume. Edgar Allan Poe.”

Ceasar’s arm slipped out from under him and he nearly banged his jaw on the dresser. “What did you say?” he asked breathlessly.

“You were dressed—”

“No no after that—”

This could have gone on in a hilarious circle for some time (and had many times before) but there was a knock on the door and then Ice burst in, as was his habit. “I knew you didn’t really mean it!” he said when he saw Ceasar. “Come on, all the candy will be gone soon!”

“Ice!” Ceasar tugged on Ice’s wing (he was dressed up as a Fairy King, it is a long drunken story), “Ice, Fleance knows who I’m dressed as!”

Ice gave him an odd look. “You’re that Poe guy,” Ice said, “I mean you’ve got the bird and everything. Are we going or what?”

Ceasar stared at Ice with nothing short of pure joy for a moment, then bounded over to his bookcase and picked out a copy of The Raven and Other Poems. Behind him, Ice winked at Pebble, who waved a grateful claw in return. Fleance crumpled up his cue card and tossed it on the floor.

“If you get a hold of any Wunderbars I will totally take those off your hands,” Ice said as they walked out the door. “I’ll trade you something good for it.”

It was the best Halloween Ceasar ever had. Some people say his heart grew some sizes that day, but those folk don’t know biology. In any case he was in such a good mood he fed Pebble way too much the next day and then proceeded to lie around naked for no particular reason, and Pebble figured that was totally worth it. Props, karma.

Prince Abel ignored the chatter. His fingers ran across the soft leather pouch at his hip, filled with cotton and warm stones, his reason for being here nestled in the very center. So much depended on the young Judge’s choice this evening, but Prince Abel wasn’t worried. It was impossible to turn down a creature who had hatched in the palm of your hand. Absently, he reached up to stroke his servant’s long, thin neck. Her wings brushed softly against his cheek.

If Dromeous was surprised to see the reclusive Prince standing in the middle of the crowd, all relaxed lanky limbs, he didn’t show it. He greeted Prince Abel in his low, level voice.

“I have brought an animal for the new Judge’s consideration,” Abel said, holding his head at an odd angle that cast shadows over his clear, bright eyes.

“My servant will place it with the others.”

“No.” Abel’s servant stretched and shifted on his shoulder. She stared Dromeous in the eye, unblinking. “I must take it there myself.”

“As you wish.” Dromeous nodded and his servant, Ayubu, was instantly at his side. His eyes were downcast and he bowed respectfully to Abel, picture of the perfect servant. Abel felt his pulse thud offbeat. “You will show Prince Abel to the animals and assist him in anything he requires,” Dromeous said.

Ayubu bowed deeply once more. His eyes flicked upward for a moment. Abel forgot how to breathe.

* * *

The flutter of wings at Ayubu’s window came shortly after midnight, as mysterious things often do. Edgar was asleep in a bassinet in the corner of the room. Someone was standing on the balcony, casting a slim silhouette on the curtains. Ayubu undid the latch.

“Prince Abel!” Ayubu bowed his head. Questions ran through his mind. “Was there something you required?”

Abel’s slender fingers were at Ayubu’s jaw. He tilted his head upward. “I have not come to ask anything of you,” Abel said, “I have only come to make an offer.”

Ayubu’s heart beat faster as his eyes strayed up Prince Abel’s slim, pale arm. His eyes had strayed often that afternoon. “What offer could you possibly make another man’s servant?” he asked, his voice cracking more than it ought.

“If we were naught but men,” Prince Abel said, “if you were the Prince and I the Servant, what would you do?”

His eyes were clear and bright and beautiful. Ayubu’s mouth grew dry.

* * *

Prince Abel paid a visit to Prince Dromeous and the new Judge once a year, just around the young Prince’s birthday. Many speculated on the reason, and it was some years before anyone bothered asking.

“Why do you come so often, Prince Abel?” Fleance said one afternoon shortly after Abel’s arrival. Edgar sat perched in his hair. “Everyone says you never leave your territory.”

Prince Abel knelt down. His hair shaded his eyes. “I’ve been asked to keep a watch on the new Judge and his servant,” he said. Murmurs rose up behind him. He need not say who had asked.

Ayubu was looking at him out of the corner of his eye. It was all Abel could do not to smile and ruin the effect.

* * *

Abel liked it when Ayubu grabbed his hair and pulled, when he grazed teeth sharp down his neck, because it was something a servant would never do.

“If you had earned this yourself, I wonder what sort of man you would have become?” It was a question he often asked while they lay together in the starlight, limbs tangled. “Would you have been great? Would you be together with me like this.”

“I would have never met you,” Ayubu would say, marvelling over white, perfect limbs and soft skin, beauty he’d never get used to. “I’m glad I am a servant.”

“You would have met me,” is all Abel would say.

* * *

Abel’s servant was waiting for him in the small grove when he returned. She stared at him, unblinking.

“I know,” he said, stroking her stiff, ragged crown. “I know. But I can’t stop now.”

* * *

It was quite a long time before Prince Dromeous said anything about them.

“Presumptuous of you, isn’t it?” They were in the garden. Fleance lay curled up in the grass, sleeping. Ayubu and Edgar sat a little ways away. Ayubu pointed to a page in his journal and Edgar nodded, pushing the hair out of his eyes with one hand and tracing letters with his other. “I recall once offering all that is mine at your disposal,” Dromeous continued, “but I don’t recall offering my servant.”

Abel wanted to tremble but didn’t. “How long have you known?” he asked.

“He told me after the first time.”

“Of course.”

There was nothing but the servants’ soft voices in the garden for some time. Abel ran his fingers around the rim of his cup. Abel’s servant shifted almost nervously on his shoulder. “Why didn’t you come to my coronation?” Dromeous asked.

“Because you weren’t important,” Prince Abel told him.

Dromeous nodded, as if he’d suspected as much. “It makes him happy and doesn’t interfere with his work,” he said, “so I’ll allow it.”

“Could this be the same judge who presided mercilessly over the Serpent trials?”

“Such things seem less important now,” Prince Dromeous said, and sipped his tea.

* * *

Ayubu heard a flutter of wings outside his window. His heart thudded and he scrambled out of bed, flung open his curtains, expecting a tall, slim figure clothed only in starlight. Instead there was girl standing on his balcony, a servant, her Ace form barely thirteen. Her hair hung long and feathered down one side.

Ayubu choked out a name, one he’d heard Prince Abel whisper a thousand times to the bird perched perpetually on his shoulder. The girl nodded, smooth and graceful. Her neck was long and slender. If she’d grown up she would be beautiful, but as a girl she was merely pretty.

“Your prince is going to die soon,” she said.

Ayubu nodded. He didn’t need her to tell him. It was all he could think about lately.

The girl’s head titled to one side and she stared at him unblinking. “How do you feel about my Prince?” she asked.

Ayubu told her. She seemed satisfied. Without another word she turned and glided out the window to the ground below.

* * *

“Would you still hold me if you weren’t a servant?” was another question Prince Abel often asked. “Would you be with me like this if you weren’t obligated?”

Ayubu’s hand would clench the sheets. “I am not your servant,” he would say, “I have no obligations beyond treating you with respect.”

Abel would smile ever so sadly. “How can I know?”

“Honestly!” Ayubu always got angry at this point. It made Abel shiver. “You’re not even my Prince, and I still…”

Abel would embrace him. “Cast me away or love me, I’m yours do with what you wish.”

And Ayubu would cling fiercely to him. “I would never cast you away.”

* * *

It was the middle of summer, the hottest it had been all year. One of Prince Abel’s gladiators stood before him, panting. He’d raced through the jungle, in the heat.

“We’ve just received news,” he said. “The old Judge has died.”

Abel glanced at him, but didn’t say anything for a very, very long time.

* * *

The first swan arrived in the autumn, or what passed for it in those parts. The gladiators tensed, but though it was an animal that didn’t belong it was still no more than an animal. A few days later, another joined. And another. And another.

* * *

“My name is Fleance,” the boy said, standing in the clearing like he owned it. “I’m here to see Prince Abel.”

“He isn’t seeing anyone,” the young woman told him. “I’m sorry.”

Fleance’s eyes narrowed. “Do you know who I am?”

“Yes,” she said, “but he’s still not seeing anyone.”

Fleance let out a growl, and the young woman sighed and pointed to the hilltop behind her. A tall, slim figure stood atop it, silhouetted by sunlight. There were swans all about him.

“You didn’t come this year,” Fleance said, standing in front of Prince Abel.

“You’re quite old enough now,” Abel said, lowering his gaze to meet the young Judge’s. The bright sunlight cast shadows about his eyes. “I don’t think you need looking after any longer.”

There was not much to be said to this. “My servant was asked to make sure you received this,” Fleance said abruptly, holding out a small brown envelope the size of his palm. “Prince Dromeous’ servant gave it to him.”

Abel’s hand closed around the packet. The brown paper crackled softly. “Thank you,” he said, and Fleance was satisfied.

* * *

There was a flutter of wings at Prince Abel’s bedside. He opened his eyes. His servant was still on her perch, sleeping soundly. He looked around, then smiled.

“Ah,” he said, “is she finally done with me?”

The figure at his bedside nodded.

His arms stretched out. “Take me away then. I am yours, after all. Since the moment I met you. Before that, maybe. Perhaps since the day I was born, though I did not know it.” His smile stretched out further and he sat up in his bed as the figure leaned down to meet him. They embraced, and Prince Abel sighed. “I always knew you would be a great man,” he said.

The members of Abel’s kingdom found their Prince dead the next morning, his servant resting her head on his chest. There was an empty brown envelope at his bedside. The swans had all flown away in the night.

In any case, one Sunday afternoon after practice found Nishiura’s ace pitcher/catcher combination in Mihashi’s kitchen, surrounded by various and sundry baking ingredients and implements. An ancient cookbook lay open to “chewy chocolate chip cookies,” those being the only thing in the entire dessert section either of them had ever even heard of before.

“Oatmeal zucchini chocolate chop cookies?”

“I-I think it’s supposed to be ‘chip.’”

“That’s not the weird part!”

And so it went.

Eventually, the two settled on the recipe and set to work. Sensing the high potential for Things Going Terribly Wrong associated with flour, Abe told Mihashi to start measuring out items less likely to explode in a powdery white mess all over the kitchen while he prepared the dry ingredients for later. This began relatively well, though Mihashi jumped back about five feet when he turned on the mixer to whip the butter.

“Well, what did you expect it to do?” Abe grumbled, helping Mihashi back to his feet.

Mihashi blushed. “I forgot it was so loud,” he mumbled, scurrying back to the bowl to watch the beaters.

It didn’t start to get really disastrous until the eggs got involved.

“I-I think we should break them in a bowl first, in case there’s shells…” Mihashi had started off, but Abe would have none of it. Real men did not worry about shells and, besides, the thought of any more dishes to wash after this was all over was pretty disheartening. So Mihashi sighed and looked at the batter and looked at his egg and tapped it ever so feebly on the side of the bowl. Abe scowled just a little and took up his own egg, cracking it against the bowl with a loud thwack that not only split the shell neatly in two but also scared the daylights out of Mihashi, who promptly squashed his egg to gooey, shell-covered bits that dribbled out of his hand and into the batter. He spent the next five minutes stuttering out apologies while Abe picked bits of shell out of the bowl.

Things did not fare much better with the vanilla. “I’ll pour it,” Mihashi had stubbornly insisted, determined to prove that he wasn’t a complete spaz or at least to fake it. Abe sighed and did that weird half-frown but stood back while Mishashi carefully measured out the vanilla–over the sink this time, not the bowl–without incident.

And then Mihashi’s mother came home, letting the door slam behind her, and Mihashi dropped the teaspoon and the bottle and looked on in horror as the vanilla extract swirled down the drain.

Abe patted Mihashi’s shoulder awkwardly. “I’m sure it’s not that important,” he said, wondering if he could find the kid some earplugs or something.

Things didn’t improve much after that: big pockets of flour in the dough, a chocolate chip shortage, other things that may or may not have involved sneezing at inopportune moments. Naturally they completed the series of baking disaster clichés by burning the cookies on top of the rest of the inedibility. Tajima would joke that they must have got distracted making out in Mihashi’s room, Abe would turn beet red and sputter something about new signals, and Mihashi would get really quiet in a way that made Hanai incredibly suspicious in a I Really Don’t Want To Know sort of way.

To make a long story short, the lumps of charred baked goods Abe and Mihashi brought to practice the next day should’ve been thrown in the garbage the moment they came out of the oven (or really should’ve never been baked to begin with), but pain should be shared with your teammates as much as joy should be, and so Abe slammed the plate down with a loud thud. “Eat them,” he said in a tone that strongly hinted he might strangle you with your own jockstrap if you didn’t.

Practice was cancelled for the next two days. They were all better after one, really, but decided to take another off for emotional damages.

The next time his mother suggested he show his teammates his appreciation, Mihashi just bought them all pizza.

The first time Ceasar’s father took him surfing, he lifted the necklace from his own neck and placed it around his son’s. “You should wear it,” he said, ruffling Ceasar’s hair, “so Dakuwaqa will protect you. I’d feel better.”

Ceasar’s fist closed around the tooth and he smiled that small, private smile so like his mother’s. Later he would find out that Dakuwaqa was a couple of jerks, but for now he took his father’s hand and walked down to the water and the waves.

The tooth was always a conversation starter. Ceasar found himself making up his own stories about it: a trophy from a shark attack he’d fended off, a gift from a Polynesian medicine man, a fossil he’d found on an archaeological dig one summer. When he was twelve years old the last story netted him his first girlfriend. They hugged a number of times and almost kissed once and broke up three weeks later.

A few years later, holed up in Ceasar’s room with a bag full of Doritos and a case of non-alcoholic beer, Ice asked him about the tooth. “Some tourist stand at the beach?” he asked, one arm slung around Ceasar’s shoulders, his free hand prodding the necklace. “Or did you wrestle a shark for it?”

Ceasar sipped at his foul fake beer and thought for a moment. “It was a gift from my dad,” he admitted. “I don’t know where he got it.”

Ice nodded and munched on some chips and sipped at his beer. A few minutes later they kissed. Ice tasted like nacho cheese. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

The next evening Ceasar called his father. He twirled the cord on the heavy, ancient phone, something out of the eighties for certain. “What did the old woman tell you when she gave you the tooth?” he asked.

Ceasar heard his father laugh softly over the phone. “She said it would lead me to my true love,” he said, the answer he gave most often. “Works pretty well, doesn’t it?”

There was no answer on the other end of the line, but Ceasar’s father was pretty sure he could hear his son smile that small, private smile so like his mother’s.

Yang Yang smiled at Nan and snuggled further under the covers. “What took you so long, Senior Nan?” he asked, “I was almost asleep.”

“Yang Yang,” Nan said again, a little more exasperated this time as they approached the heart of the matter, “this is not your room. That is not your bed. And those,” and he gave a very pointed look towards the pink silk number Yang Yang was wearing, “are certainly not your pyjamas.” He paused, then added, “Those were a gift from my mother, you know.”

“You never wear them anyway,” Yang Yang whined. He smiled. “Don’t I look cute, senior Nan? Cuter than that girl you were flirting with after class today?”

Nan almost told him “no,” remembered what had happened the last time he tried that, and for the sake of all the breakable objects in his room decided against it. “Why are you in my room?” he asked instead, that being the more pressing concern. Hadn’t he locked the door? He was pretty sure he had, and that raised questions for which he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know the answers.

“Don’t you remember?” Yang Yang beamed as he clung to Nan’s pillow. “I asked you yesterday if I could sleep over sometime and you said yes!”

“‘Sometime,’ you said, not ‘tomorrow night!’” Nan scowled. “And I was drunk!”

“I know,” Yang Yang said. “You wouldn’t have said yes if you weren’t.”

Nan’s eyebrow twitched. He fell briefly into a daydream wherein Yang Yang was shunned by the entire student body for not being cute enough, then put away his toothbrush and his pink fuzzy towel and crawled into bed. Yang Yang clung to him immediately, burying his face in Nan’s shoulder.

“By the way,” Nan said as he turned off the light, “did you delete all the numbers in my cell while I was in the shower?”

“Maybe,” Yang Yang said.

Nan sighed. “Good night, Yang Yang.”

“Good night, senior Nan.”

Rui Xi nearly choked on a bagel when she saw the pair walk out of Nan’s bedroom together the next morning, but that is a story for another day.

Waka picked out seven new tiles with glee. “Fuck me all you want,” he said, “that’s still 72 points. Your turn.”

Daku scoured the board for “p” and set down r-i-c-k. “That’s you,” he said, “in case you don’t know. That’s your name now.”

“Then you can’t use it,” Waka said. “No proper nouns.”

Daku let out a yell and tackled Waka into the sand. They scuffled briefly, knocking over the Scrabble box. Daku punched Waka in the face and then they scrambled around for the tiles; Q was stuck to the bottom of Waka’s foot.

“Your turn,” Daku said when they were done, shaking the sand out of his hair. “And don’t even think about going for that triple word score or I’ll kill you. I will shove all the tiles down your throat and watch you choke to death.”

Waka nodded and studied the board for a few moments, then put down i-s-s.

Daku’s mouth hung open. “Kiss?!” he cried, “KISS?!?” He gestured at the board. “Does it look like we’re playing pussy chick flick Scrabble here? You can’t use kiss!”

“Kisses can be filthy,” Waka argued. “There’s no separate word for filthy kisses! You can’t penalize me for that!”

Daku shook his head. “There is no kiss filthy enough for dirty filthy Scrabble. Look at the board! Even the dirtiest filthy kiss EVER would not be in the same league as these.”

“Would too!”

“Would NOT damnit now pick a different word!”

Waka narrowed his eyes, sidled up next to Daku, and refused to let the point go.

* * *

Daku stretched out naked on the sand, his arms flung out at odd angles. “Okay,” he conceded, “”Kiss’ is valid.” He turned his head and stared at the board. “‘Fellatio’ too.”

Waka stood up and looked around for his pants. “I didn’t know we were testing that one.”

“I had my doubts. That’s not a very filthy word for it.” Daku sat up and rifled through the box of tiles. “I think we lost Q again.”

“We never use Q anyway.” Waka handed Daku his clothes. “Same time tomorrow?”

Daku nodded. “Bring a blanket next time,” he said, “I got sand fucking everywhere.”

Don’t give me that face of yours. I’ve had eighty long years. Good years, except for a few in the middle. And in this day and age maybe it’s on the shorter end of the spectrum, but I can’t imagine hanging in much longer. We weren’t meant to. The doctors could replace every bone and joint in my body, graft new muscle tissue onto the old, make me seventeen again, make me look like I did when we met—like you do, right now—but they can’t replace my mind, Ice. It is old and brittle and so full that I don’t know what’s real and what I’ve only imagined. I remember a lizard of impossible colors. I remember a lot of impossible things. I remember holding hands with you in the dark and thinking it was impossible.

Let me lean on your shoulder. I’m so tired.

Eighty years. How many human friends have you watched grow old and die in that time? How many before I even knew you? God, you look like a baby but you’re even more ancient than I am. Did the doctors take your skin and stretch it tight over your bones, replace all your insides with robotics?

No. You don’t get old. It’s impossible but I remember it. I remember believing it because it was impossible, and I remember your face not changing and how frightened I was. I don’t remember why.

It’s so cold out here. The breeze from the ocean is harder on me now than it was, but I still come out here to look at the stars and the waves and feel rocks crunch under my shoes. They don’t like me coming out here by myself but I do it anyway. Sometimes I come out in the daytime and watch the surfers. The boards are sleeker and smoother but they still have the same design. Did I ever take you surfing with me? I think I remember it, but it’s too ordinary a memory to be real, I suppose. It’s all sunshine and sand and lying side by side. So plausible.

I was so worried about this happening one day, me old and frail and leaning on your shoulder, you still young and strong and wasting your time. It was a stupid thing to worry over. You wouldn’t be here if you were wasting your time. I had a picture of the two of us when we moved into that first apartment together, leaning on each other’s shoulders, sound asleep. Rose took it. I used to stare at it and then look at myself in the mirror, look at you sleeping beside me. Every year I looked older, and you looked exactly the same. I have the picture in my pocket now, and if I took it out you’d still look exactly the same, and I’d look completely different, an old man asleep on your shoulder. My nightmare.

I thought dying would hurt more. Did any of your old human friends say that dying hurt? I feel better now than I have in a long time. Everything’s numb and hazy. I’m not even sure you’re here, except you’re so warm. I couldn’t imagine that, could I? But maybe I’m leaning on some stranger, talking nonsense at him, and he is too polite to tell a crazy old man to leave. If that is the case, I’m sorry. I won’t be much longer.

I wish I’d had children. Even the first time you left, when I was sad and angry all the time, I still thought to myself that one day I’d forget about you, and I’d find a girl and fall in love and get married and have children and we’d grow old together. I only managed a couple of those things and none of them lasted. I wish I’d kept it up long enough to have children. I don’t care that they’d hate us for not loving each other, at least I’d have something more than my sad, distant relations to watch over me. I don’t know why I said that. I love them. If she’d had eyes like yours I would have done it. I would’ve killed to have a child with eyes like yours.

I missed you so much back then. Did you know? I don’t think I ever told you. There were a lot of things I never told you, though. I never told you about those nights I’d wake up on the couch reeking of sex and cologne, how I’d stumble in the dark to the bathroom to wash off the smell and the sweat. I think you knew anyway. You’d always hold me really tight when I got back to bed, and you never asked why my hair was still damp in the morning. I still can’t believe that you could have loved me that much. Maybe you didn’t. It seems impossible. I’d like to believe it anyway. I loved you that much, after all.

Look. The sunrise. Already?

You’re so warm.

Ice liked people. He liked the way they looked and loved and laughed and how they tried to smile even when they knew things sucked. He liked the way they smelled, all soap and scented oils. He liked how they always knew to scratch that spot just behind his left ear.

Ice didn’t know why he’d picked Ceasar out of all the people in Poseidon Academy. Upon reflection, Ice supposed that Ceasar reminded him of the sad little boys in the park who looked at him with envy and longing, the ones who asked Santa every Christmas for a puppy and always ended up with the latest plastic piece of garbage that every kid was supposed to want. Ice would often nuzzle up against them, let them dig their fingers in his thick, coarse fur and feel his solid, comfortable bulk pressed against them for a moment. It made them happy, it made him happy, that lovely fleeting moment of understanding and blind compassion.

Ceasar was the first one he didn’t want to leave.

* * *

“Check.” Rose slid a bishop into position. “You’re not even trying.”

“I’m just having trouble focusing is all.” Ceasar stared at the board, then sighed and knocked his king over. “Come on, one more time. I would have had you if I weren’t distracted.”

“No you wouldn’t have.” Rose swept the pieces into their box, to later be fitted into their separate felt-lined slots. “Come on, my dear nephew,” she said, setting aside the checkered board and patting the spot next to her invitingly. “Tell your favourite auntie all about it.”

Ceasar flushed red and sputtered that it wasn’t the sort of thing one spoke about in mixed company, especially when that mixed company is family or teachers or both.

“Oh, it’s about something naughty, isn’t it?” Rose grinned and twirled a lock of her hair between her pale slender fingers. “Don’t worry, you know I won’t go blabbing about your illicit extracurricular activities to the principal. I know all about your virus already, don’t I? It can’t be anything worse than that.”

Ceasar picked at the blanket. “It’s not even the naughty stuff that’s the problem,” he muttered, “it’s all the other things.”

Rose arranged her skirt expertly over her crossed legs and tucked her long brown curls behind her ears before leaning forward. “Go on.”

* * *

It was one of those arrangements you always see in trashy romance novels or edgy sitcoms, but doubt ever occur in real life. Ice and Ceasar had been lounging about in Ice’s room. Teddy was hardly ever in, and Fleance’s servant was prone to bite, so it had become routine for the two of them to migrate to Ice’s dorm in the late evenings to swap anecdotes and drink bottle after bottle of coke smuggled up from the cafeteria.

Ice liked those moments. The Ceasar who sat cross-legged on his bed and laughed at his jokes smiled more brightly, and more readily, than the Ceasar who groped people in the halls. He was kind, he was attentive, and he was even the slightest bit shy in his actions. He was the guy Ice had always known he was.

Ceasar liked those moments because when he sat cross-legged on Ice’s bed and laughed at his stupid jokes he felt almost like himself again—whoever that was.

That night was no different than a dozen nights before it, drinking and laughing and telling stories that all started to blend together. Perhaps that night Ceasar laughed a little harder, and maybe Ice sat a little closer, and they shared a look in the dim glow of Ice’s bedside lamp that was different from the looks they’d shared a hundred times on a dozen nights just like that one. Whatever the case, Ice put a hand on Ceasar’s thigh, leaned forward, and all at once they fell together, all heat and gasping.

It wasn’t a big surprise, to them or the ones who found out afterward, adding two and two together and unsurprisingly arriving at four. They were, after all, young and comfortable and sexually frustrated, and they wanted all the damn time.

Afterwards, Ceasar gathered his rumpled clothes together and stumbled back to his dorm, unsure whether to swagger or blush, in the end just ducking his head and grinning like an idiot and pretending that it wasn’t obvious what he’d been up to. Ice just lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and pretending not to think.

The next day, everything was exactly the same as it had always been, really the same. They laughed and ribbed each other and Ceasar checked over Ice’s math homework and Ice got Ceasar out of trouble with the hall monitors for what must have been the hundredth time. It was almost like that night had never happened, like they’d never pressed together in blind desperation, twined in Ice’s sheets—almost, except that three nights later they did it again.

* * *

Theo’s body sprawled out in splendid indifference as Venus frowned. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“I dunno.” Ice dug his fingers into the sand and scrubby grasses that grew in ragged clumps along the beach. “I guess I thought you’d know best about this kind of thing.”

Venus tucked her knees to her chest and scowled at Ice, but she sounded intrigued when she asked, “You want my advice?”

“I would ask my friends,” Ice explained, “but one would just pat my back and tell me to work things out on my own, the other is a social retard, and the third one—”

* * *

Most of the time Ceasar felt the way he’d always felt. He would sit cross-legged on Ice’s bed and laugh at his stupid jokes and no look in the half-dark of the dim bedside lamp could make him want to call Ice anything but a friend, one of the few, one of the only in a long, long time. He liked having a friend. It made him feel safe. It made him feel normal.

And then there were times when he wanted Ice’s touch so bad he ached all over, head to toe.

* * *

“And now I don’t know whether I always liked him or never liked him and still don’t like him, and maybe I’m just confused about the whole thing.” Ceasar’s head rested on his aunt’s shoulder as he slumped over in miserable defeat. “I just… please just tell me what I’m supposed to do. ‘Cos I don’t get it, I don’t, it’s too hard. Why is it so hard?”

“Poor baby.” Rose ruffled Ceasar’s hair like she used to do when he was younger, before it was dyed and styled and too stiff with hairspray to muss. “You know exactly why it’s so hard.”

“Don’t say that,” Ceasar groaned, “I don’t want to be right.”

* * *

It might have been something right from the start, if they’d had the guts to talk it out. But they were boys who thought they were men, and men don’t talk about things like that. It was sex and it was fun and it felt so damn good, but they both laboured under the assumption that it wasn’t anything real.

* * *

“If you could do it all over,” Ice asked, “would you still go with him?”

Venus stared out across the water. “I’m not going to pretend like I didn’t make a lot of mistakes,” she said, softly, “because I know I did. I made a lot of stupid decisions, and let others make even more stupid ones on my behalf. But even after all that… even after everything that’s happened, I still don’t think that loving him was wrong.”

“But he pretends like you don’t even exist!” Ice exclaimed, leaning in closer to her, shocked. “How can you say that it wasn’t a mistake? Is a jerk like that really worth everything you’ve been through?”

“It’s not about him, or how he’s acted since I was trapped in my brother’s body, no matter how much I hate him for that now,” she said, calmer than Ice had ever seen her. “It’s about the feeling I had when he held me in his arms and told me he loved me. No matter what he says now, those moments were real, more real to me than anything that’s happened since the pregnancy.” She reached out and squeezed Ice’s hand. “And it was right. I know it was. No matter how I screwed up in the end, I know that there’s no way that I did that part wrong.”

Ice licked his lips. “Real?”

* * *

Ceasar kept to his room more and more often as the weeks wore on. He had homework, he was too tired, the pub didn’t have any tempting specials. Ceasar didn’t mind. Fleance was there—stoic, to be sure, but a presence. The girl with the kitty backpack that Fleance was so unnatural fond of stopped by often enough. Vanessa, her name was. Ceasar liked her. She was funny, and pretty, and she wasn’t scared of anything.

Ice came over all the time, which almost defeated the purpose. At least Ceasar’s room was always brightly lit.

* * *

“I wondered why I didn’t see the two of you together much anymore,” Rose said.

“I know it’s dumb,” Ceasar muttered, sorting out chess pieces and trying not to look at his aunt, “but what if I screw up and say something and he figures it out?”

“What if he does? Ceasar, at this rate—”

A white knight slipped out of Ceasar’s grasp and tumbled to the floor. He scrambled to retrieve it.

* * *

Ceasar liked to shower before he came over. Ice’s spare pillow would smell like green apple shampoo for days and days, and he’d sleep curled against it and remember.

* * *

“Real,” Venus said.

* * *

“You’re going to lose him either way,” Rose said.

* * *

“Sleep here tonight,” Ice said, his fingers at Ceasar’s wrist. “It’s fine.”

Ceasar’s bare skin shimmered in the dim glow of the bedside lamp. “Your roommate’ll be back soon. He’s still mad at me for harassing that other hall monitor, you know.”

“So you’ll leave?”

Ceasar’s free hand twisted in the sheets. He bit his lip. “I think I should.”

There was a pause, and Ice didn’t wouldn’t couldn’t let go of Ceasar’s hand. “I don’t get this stuff very well,” he said finally, eyes straight ahead, focused, Ceasar wanted to look away, “but this is real, isn’t it? I mean there’s like a thousand reasons why this’ll all fall apart and I can’t tell you anything about why, but I think if this is real then it’ll all be okay somehow.”

“I love you,” Ceasar said.

Ice pulled him down to the bed, laughing, all smiles even though he knew how much it was all going to suck in the end. “That works.”

When Mihashi was nervous and crying, Abe took Mihashi’s hand in his own and squeezed until his fingertips turned red and their faces did the same. Mihashi hiccoughed and Abe stared and squeezed harder, and his hands told Mihashi “We’re in this together.”

When Mihashi stood shyly in the corner, watching his team mates laugh and joke and stuff their faces, brief scuffles over the last tuna roll, Abe gripped his wrist, firm and insisting, and dragged him to a cushion in the center of everything. And as the crowd chattered at and around him, Abe’s hand, warm on Mihashi’s back, told him “You’re a part of this team.”

And when the two of them sat exhausted in front of the TV after practice, Abe’s hand crept to the back of Mihashi’s neck, resting soft and hesitant at his nape, and told him all the things that Abe had forgotten how to say.

Atop the hill at Blood Pledge Castle servants bustled to and fro, completing last-minute preparations with practiced precision and surprising calm; they were, after all, professionals. In the middle of all this ordered chaos was Cheri, the former Maou, giving instructions and exclaiming over this-and-that and generally causing more problems than she solved. At her side was her eldest son and commander of Shin Makoku’s army, Gwendal von Walde. If it was Cheri’s self-appointed task to muck about with everything she could lay her hands on, it was Gwendal’s to make certain to remedy all the damage his mother caused before it could escalate into catastrophe. This was not a day he could let fall victim to his mother’s wild fancies, he thought grimly to himself as he replaced a ghastly pile of multicoloured roses with the tasteful orchids his brother had selected. It would be a nearly insurmountable task, but Gwendal was up to the challenge.

In another wing of the castle the bride adjusted the sash on his dress uniform. A white gown, rife with lace and flounces, hung on the door behind him courtesy of his ever-hopeful mother. Wolfram made a face at it in the mirror, though in truth he rather admired the fine embroidery about the neck. His brother laughed and smoothed a flyaway at the back of Wolfram’s head.

In a room down the hall the Maou looked desperately to his own brother as his mother wept in his arms. Together they lavished assurances that Yuuri would still be her little boy even after he wed, that she was not losing a son but gaining a son-in-law, and other such typical things one tells a distraught mother to keep her from ruining a wedding with her hysterics. Jennifer, however, soon revealed that she was far more upset that both Yuuri and Wolfram had refused to wear the lovely wedding gown she and Cheri had picked out. Shori rolled his eyes and escorted his mother outside to wait with her husband, safely away from the exasperated Maou.

The ceremony was scheduled to begin at noon, and very nearly started on time. Cheri realized at the last moment that she’d forgotten to change, and Yuuri, nervous as anything, got lost in some back passages often used by servants to run about unseen (and once used by Gwendal for much the same purpose when Anissina was in a particularly creative mood), but in short order the cast, as were, was assembled.

It was not entirely unlike a standard western wedding ceremony, with the slow walks and elaborate outfits, cluster of loved ones at the front and acquaintances at the back. Murata and Ulrike, the highest of Shin Makoku’s theological order (such as it was), presided. Murata was nervous, fidgeting in gold-trimmed black silk, but he said all the right lines and didn’t laugh when Morgif let out a low wail of approval over the proceedings, though he wanted to.

When Yuuri placed the circlet on Wolfram’s head that declared him to be Yuuri’s queen, Cheri and Jennifer wailed and collapsed into each other’s arms. The twin grooms flushed red, but they still smiled.

* * *

Yuuri and Wolfram lay naked together in the cool dark of their bedroom. Bits of brightly colored confetti, tracked in from the reception hall, stuck to the sheets and the bedspread. A piece glimmered in Wolfram’s hair; Yuuri brushed tenderly away.

“We don’t have to do this tonight,” Wolfram said. “I don’t care. You’re probably too tired, aren’t you?”

“I’m fine.” Yuuri propped himself up, leaned over his husband and smiled timidly. “This is what you want, right?”

There was something in the uneven tone of his voice that made Wolfram hesitate. They were both nervous, and tired, and after all these years still so terribly unsure. But they loved each other, that much Wolfram knew, and so he clung tightly to Yuuri and nodded. “Yes,” he choked out, “it is.”

Wolfram had expected it to be awkward, and he’d expected Yuuri to blush and stammer and touch him like he’d crumble to dust, and he’d even expected the hot sear of pain as Yuuri entered him, but he hadn’t expected the elation. He dug his fingers tight into the tense muscles of Yuuri’s back and breathed in deep, deep, shallow, quick, and he cried and cried and cried.

* * *

Yuuri preferred to take his breakfast in a small dining room near the kitchens. It was cozy, in its way, the furniture sturdy and worn in that comfortable way that suits those men who did not grow up as kings. Wolfram, consequently, disliked the plain and simple room almost at once, but deigned to join his husband there regardless.

Greta kicked happily at the air as she dug into something that resembled a grapefruit of the most violent shade of purple, and beamed at her newlywed parents; the idea was still a novel one to her, the glamour of it all still fresh in her mind months later. “When I marry,” she said, as though they’d been on the topic from the start, “I’m going to have a dress like the one grandma picked out for papa that he wouldn’t wear.”

“You can have that one if you like,” Yuuri laughed, “it’s never been worn.” He eyed his husband suspiciously. “Has it, Wolfram?”

“You know it hasn’t,” Wolfram huffed, “I wouldn’t be caught dead in your cast-offs.”

Greta frowned. “You should call each other married-names,” she decided, “like darling and sweetheart and things like that. Grandma Jennifer and Grandpa Shoma do, and so does Grandma Cheri to her boyfriends.”

Yuuri nearly choked on a grape.

“Your father gets embarrassed by that sort of thing,” Wolfram explained. “He’s too much of a wimp to show his affection for me in public.”

“I am not!” Yuuri clamped his hands over his daughter’s ears, presumably to keep out the allegations. “You just don’t look like a honey or a darling or anything. It would be weird.”

“Well, what do I look like?” Wolfram demanded.

The word ‘brat’ escaped Yuuri’s mouth almost before he realized he’d thought it. Wolfram yelled something that was definitely too obscene for a child’s ears whilst flinging half a loaf of bread across the table, but Greta shrugged it off. If this was all there was to being married, she reasoned as she dug out another spoonful of purple grapefruit, they’d certainly been practicing for a long while.

* * *

Yuuri woke to Wolfram twining around him in his sleep, his arms curled tight around Yuuri’s chest. Ever so cautiously, Yuuri wriggled free of his husband’s grip and, as was becoming routine for him in recent months, yawned and stretched and shuffled off towards the kitchens to self-medicate with warm milk and chamomile.

Yuuri tread barefoot down the hallways, too afraid of waking Wolfram to search for the fuzzy, duck-print slippers his mother had bought him for his last birthday. He cursed the lack of heated floors—hell, of covered floors, nary a throw rug or tatami mat easing his way along the cold stone floor. He cursed too the snuffed candles and curtained windows as he felt his way along blindly, aided only by slivers of moonlight and that strange ambient light that seeps into rooms that should be, by all logic, pitch dark; light that comes from nowhere and is discernable only by fully-dilated pupils.

A flicker of light spilled out from beneath the door to the kitchen.

Yuuri rubbed his eyes. In all his late-night runs for homeopathic sleep-aids he’d yet to encounter another reluctant insomniac, in the kitchen or elsewhere. Curious, he edged the door open.

Gisela peeked out from behind a pantry door and smiled. “Your majesty!” she beamed, “I thought I heard someone come down the hall.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Yuuri said, closing the door behind him. “What are you doing up?”

“I was assisting with a birth late into the evening, and I missed dinner,” Gisela explained, cradling a loaf of bread and some fruit in her hands as she kicked the pantry doors shut. “I’m too hungry to sleep. What about you? Are you certain you’re all right? Insomnia could be a sign of something serious, when was the last time you had a physical?” She peered into Yuuri’s pale, sleepy face, looking for phantom infection.

“I’m fine, really I’m fine!” Yuuri help Gisela set her makeshift dinner on the table and started absently peeling an orange. “I’m just not used to sleeping next to Wolfram, that’s all. He wakes me up and then I have trouble falling asleep again.”

“I was under the impression that you had been sharing a bed for quite some time, your Majesty. Could you pass the butter?”

“We were, but that was more like a sleepover. Now that we’re married,” Yuuri blushed and followed the table’s wood grain with his eyes, “he snuggles.”

Gisela nearly choked as she giggled through a mouthful of stale bread. “Snuggles?” she exclaimed once her throat was clear. “He doesn’t seem the type, does he?”

“After the nightgown,” Yuuri deadpanned, “I don’t rule anything out with him.”

At that, Gisela burst out in exhausted laughter, doubled over at the table with a half-eaten apple clutched in one hand. And Yuuri, to his surprise, laughed with her.

“I have some tea,” Gisela said, wiping the tears away from her eyes, “that I use when I have trouble sleeping. You’re welcome to it, your Majesty.”

“Yuuri,” the king of Mazoku corrected almost automatically. And, “I’d love some.”

* * *

Greta panted as she leaned on her wooden practice sword. She pushed her sweaty bangs out of her eyes and squinted at her uncle, shifting around to get the hot summer sun off her face. “Do you think I’ll be a proper warrior princess soon?”

Conrad handed a flask of water to his niece. “It’s going to be awhile yet,” he admitted, “but you’re doing very well.”

“You didn’t have to bother Weller for this,” Wolfram admonished his daughter as he sulked outside the practice ring, “I could have taught you.”

“No you couldn’t have,” Greta explained, “because warrior princesses have to learn from legendary swordsmasters.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Conrad put a hand in front of his mouth and cleared his throat, though it did little to hide the telltale crinkling of his eyes when he smiled. “Greta,” he said, “go change out of your practice clothes, it’s almost dinner.”

“You’re coming too, right? You’d better! Papa says that if you don’t come over soon he’s going to think you stopped liking him!”

“Hey, wait a minute!” Wolfram called as his daughter ran off to the castle. “Wait!” He glared at his brother. “She thinks you’re better than me. You’re not you know.”

“I know.” Conrad looked at his brother. “You’re happy?”

“What?” Wolfram dusted the back of his trousers where he’d leaned against a low wall. “Don’t be an idiot. Are you coming?”

* * *

Yuuri didn’t know why he’d never thought of it before, but the infirmary was the perfect place to hide when he needed a few hours away from his kingly and/or husbandly duties. It was easily accessible, even from his study (which seemed, at times, to be cut off from the rest of the universe), and afforded so much seclusion within its walls as to make him difficult to find even if one were to look in the right place. No one ever did go looking for him there, though, because it was a well-known fact that if one were to hang about the infirmary Gisela would examine you or put you to work or, more often than not, both. Yuuri was perfectly fine with this, as it still beat the stacks and stacks of parchment at his desk, all with a dotted line desperately in need of his signature.

Gisela rubbed Yuuri’s knuckles and clucked disapprovingly at his fingers. “Have you been stretching them regularly like I told you? And using that salve I gave you?”

“Yes.” Yuuri wriggled his tired, cramped fingers. “It helps, but they’re still like this by the end of the day.”

“Well, you’ve got to take longer breaks, that’s all. And see if you can’t get your workload reduced a little, you’ll start having things go seriously wrong with your hand at this rate. Oh,” Gisela peered over Yuuri’s shoulder, towards the door, “hello.”

A young woman, straw-colored hair and mottled hazel eyes, stood meekly in the doorway. “Hello,” she replied. “I’m here to see my husband.”

“Of course.” Gisela stood and strode brusquely to greet the woman, though her voice was all gentle compassion. “Same room, he’s doing much better today. He’ll be home before you know it. Do you need me to show you the way?”

“No, thank you, I’ll be fine. Soon, you say?” The woman brightened, stood a little straighter, and Yuuri realized with a start that she was beautiful. She smiled. “Thank you, doctor.”

Gisela smiled back and waved and then sat down next Yuuri and took his hand again. “Is there aching in the joints, or just muscle cramps?”

“Cramps, mostly. Who was that?”

“Anna, she’s a military wife,” Gisela said, releasing Yuuri’s hand again and going to the medical cabinet in the corner. “Her husband was injured in a training accident a few weeks ago. She’s in every day to see him, and she sneaks him in treats even though I told her not to. Well, they won’t really hurt him anyway, so I suppose it’s okay.” She rummaged around the bottom shelf and came out with a little jar of salve. “This might work better.”

Yuuri made a face; the ointment smelled a lot like the stuff his father used when he pulled a muscle trying to repair the door or move the couch or take Yuuri to the batting cages. He would lie stretched out on the couch and Yuuri’s mother would rub the ointment on his back and force-feed him bowls of her sad, lumpy curry while she cooed his name and kissed the top of his head. “I can only hope Wolfram’s that devoted to me if I ever get injured,” he said, “he’d probably call me a wimp and tell me to walk it off.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t. He loves you.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Yuuri glanced up. “Have you ever been in love?”

Gisela paused. Yuuri was on the verge of apologizing for asking such a personal question when Gisela finally spoke. “I think I was, once,” she said, “but he was in love with someone else, so I gave up on him.”

“What was it like?”

“I don’t know,” Gisela said. “It wasn’t like anything.”

* * *

When they sat together on opposite ends of the couch, all separate and quiet, Yuuri wondered if this was all there was. But he was happy, and Wolfram was happy, and he supposed that was more than enough.

* * *

Gisela looked up from her book and smiled at the sheepish king standing at her door. “Yuuri,” she said, “what brings you here?”

“I finished my paperwork early,” Yuuri explained, closing the door behind him, “and I needed somewhere to hide before your father found something else for me to do.” He sidled up to the couch where Gisela lay stretched out and peeked at the book she was reading. “A medical journal? On your day off? Wow!”

“Murata brought it back from your world for me,” Gisela explained, “I’m using one of Anissina’s new inventions,” and she tapped her oversized reading glasses, “to read it. It’s so fascinating! I wish I could visit one of your hospitals and see the procedures they describe.”

Yuuri settled into the comfy chair across from Gisela and rummaged around beneath it for the sports magazine he kept there. “Hospitals aren’t any fun unless you’re visiting babies,” he said.

Gisela laughed and went back to her book, and they sat together in comfortable silence until Yuuri left for dinner.

* * *

“Your uncle’s?” Yuuri snuggled under the blankets. “Why so sudden?”

Wolfram yawned and rolled over. “He fell ill a few days ago and my mother’s worried. We promised we’d go with her to visit him for a couple days.”

“Why didn’t you invite me?” Yuuri pouted a little. “He’s my family, too. We should all go.”

“He always ends up scheming something if you’re around. Besides,” and Wolfram poked his husband in the ribs, “you just want to get out of finishing those proclamations you weaseled out of this afternoon.”

“Am I that transparent?”

“I’m sure you’ll manage without me for a week. Greta will be here to keep you company, you love spending time with her. Play that baseball game you’re so fond of.”

“I will. We were going to teach Gisela how to play. Can we borrow your glove?”

Wolfram nodded and yawned again, pressed his cheek to his husband’s shoulder. Yuuri smiled, and ran his fingers through Wolfram’s soft blond hair. “I’ll miss you, too,” he said.

* * *

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Nothing a hot bath can’t cure,” Gisela reassured the king as she limped across the lawn, knees and elbows streaked with dirt and grass stains, “don’t you worry. I am a doctor, remember.”

“I know, I know.” Yuuri took Gisela’s arm and slung it across his shoulders, his arm hugging the curve of her waist as she leant against him. “You shouldn’t have tried sliding your first time out, you could hurt yourself doing that.”

“But it looked so fun!” Gisela laughed, clutched the stitch in her side, laughed again. “Thank you for showing me how to play,” she said. “Could you teach me how to pitch next time?” Yuuri nodded and Gisela beamed, dirt smudged across her face and hair all tangled frizz around her head, escaping her ponytail.

And Yuuri realized with a start that she was beautiful.

Kasanoda poked at an empty can of Pokari Sweat, and Tetsuya rolled his eyes in that way that said he was both slightly exasperated and hopelessly enamoured. “We can’t play it,” he said, “we need more players and everyone else is asleep.”

“But I want to,” Kasanoda muttered, rolling the can back and forth between his outstretched hands. “We could make it work. It’ll just be shorter.”

“It gets boring if there’s no way to win properly,” Tetsuya pointed out, and Kasanoda reluctantly agreed. Now, there are surely many ways in which one could modify the game of kick the can to accommodate two players, but luckily for the reader Kasanoda chose what has to be the most interesting.

“Strip kick the can!” the young boss exclaimed, as though the answer had been staring him in the face the whole evening. “One of us could hide and try to kick the can while the other one seeks. If the hider gets tagged then they take something off, and if the can gets kicked the seeker takes something off. Then we switch! And the loser is the naked one.”

Tetsuya stared at Kasanoda, then clapped his hands together and beamed. That was the boss he’d chosen, always solving problems and being sweet and getting naked. Or at least two of those three things.

It started off in a relatively harmless, goofy fashion. They ran around and shouted in the dark and Tetsuya sent the can flying into the koi pond, leaving a half-dozen fish scared senseless but relatively unharmed. Kasanoda lost the first couple rounds, but since he’d had more layers on to begin with it didn’t put him at much of a disadvantage. Tetsuya tried not to laugh when Kasanoda took off his shirt and let out a yelp at the cold air on his skin; Kasanoda failed miserably at suppressing his own rough guffaws when Tetsuya did the same shortly after. There seemed to be a steady correlation between how many clothes they lost and how long it was deemed necessary to roll around in the grass together, shrieking and giggling when one tagged the other, but that could perhaps be blamed on the increasing lateness of the hour.

By dawn, Kasanoda was stalking around the lawn in his boxer shorts and one lone sock. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the flutter of a scarf; Tetsuya had insisted on keeping it even after being reduced to a state of undress similar to Kasanoda’s own. The young yakuza lord was off running, and Tetsuya let out a whoop as he raced for the can. He was there, and as he drew back his leg to kick Kasanoda lunged forward and tackled him to the ground.

They lay together in the grass, panting and grinning at each other. “You win, boss,” Tetsuya gasped. “Do I have to take the rest of my clothes off?”

“No.” Kasanoda fiddled with Tetsuya’s hair, a tangled blond mess spread out on the ground. “Well, unless you want to, I suppose. It’s pretty cold though.”

“And the grass is wet. I forgot about dew. We should go inside before you catch cold, boss.”

“Probably,” Kasanoda said. And they probably would have, but it was so much easier to curl up next to each other and fall asleep in the morning sunshine, and that is exactly what they did. Of course, they woke up covered in blankets and watched by what seemed like half the gang, all of which was supremely embarrassing for the both of them. Still, Kasanoda reflected as he snuggled half-naked against his best friend, it was a pretty awesome night all around.

Vash let himself fall in to that familiar touch. It felt like it should have been right, would have been right a year ago. Six months ago. But love isn’t just about feeling, it’s about timing, and James had it so flawlessly wrong. And Vash pulled away.

“You’re going to leave, aren’t you?” James asked.

“I’ve already bought the ticket.”

A hand crept up Vash neck, and James leaned forward and kissed him so, so softly. And in an instant, Vash saw a world in which he’d never lost his temper at that tenth grader in the hall, never been punished, never met Mits. A world where he went to university with James, and they rented a cheap, dirty flat together near campus, and ordered takeout every evening. A world where James said these same things to him one evening, and they kissed, and loved, and there was nothing to stand in their way. No one to stand in their way. A world where he didn’t know what he was missing out on.

But he knew now.

* * *

Mits twirled him round and round the crowded Tokyo airport, and kissed him for everyone to see.

Noah rattled the ice in his drink and looked around the airport bar. Solitary travelers like himself littered the tables, leaning over each other to flirt over cocktails or drink away the inevitable jetlag. He turned away, inexplicably irritated at the display, and found at his side a dark-haired man who hadn’t been there a moment before. The man smiled, all straight white teeth and predatory charm. “Should keep them covered, eyes like that,” he drawled, “people are starting to stare.”

“You’re the one wearing sunglasses indoors in the middle of the night,” Noah bit back, trying to shift away from the stranger. He may not have been an aficionado of human culture, but he knew enough to notice the odd behaviour.

The man laughed, a low hiss. “I’d get more attention if I took them off,” he said, leaning forward, showing Noah a glint of gold iris over the rim of his glasses. Noah started. An Ace? It couldn’t be. He would have been able to sense him.

The man leaned back on his stool and looked Noah up and down. “I know you’re not a demon,” he said, “so you must be one of Hers. I haven’t come across many of you before. And a snake, too, by the looks of it. Weren’t you all in a spot of trouble a while back for trying to commit mass genocide? My boss was quite impressed. He had a notion to call you guys in to wreak some havoc when Armageddon didn’t work out, but of course She would never let him anyway so it doesn’t really matter.”

Noah sipped cautiously at his drink, trying not to betray his interest. “You’re crazy,” he said, “Armageddon hasn’t happened.”

“Of course not, weren’t you listening? An eleven-year-old boy and his friends thwarted it a few years back. The Angel and I tried to help but ended up being completely incompetent, which ironically was the best thing for it.” The man paused. “I suppose I ought to introduce myself properly.” He held his hand out. “Crowley, formerly an Angel who happened to hang about with the wrong crowd, now a minion of darkness, or so the business card says.”

Noah stared at Crowley’s outstretched hand for a moment trying to remember what exactly he was supposed to do with it, but then it came to him and he took it in his own and let Crowley shake them up and down. “Noah,” he said, “Ace of Western Diamondback Rattlesnakes.” He paused, then added, “Intrigued.”

Crowley’s feral grin grew wider.

Even if he is, it definitely isn’t turning him on.

Gwendal is still talking. Something about treaties, or treatises, he’s never bothered to learn the difference. Yuuri is enthralled. Conrad is cautiously optimistic. Murata is brushing the hair away from his eyes.

He slides his gaze off that seventeen-year-old body, away from the know-it-all smile and eyes that have seen more than he’ll ever dream of, though they’ve forgotten most of it.

When Gwendal finally stops talking and the gathered trickle and disperse throughout the winding castle hallways, Yozak pulls Murata into the shadows and tears his clothes off, tastes that perfect skin, tests the limits of that young body. He is rough, he is insatiable, and he knows he’ll do it all again tomorrow.

***

There’s no reason for him to be here. This new treaty needs no input from the tattered remains of a sage, nor wisecrack comments from a cheeky teenage boy. He fiddles in the corner and tries steadfastly to ignore his own insignificance, heavy in the silent air around him. He shouldn’t have bothered coming. He wouldn’t have, except…

Except Yozak is here. Yozak who will strip him bare and fuck him until they can no longer stand. Yozak who makes him feel like a person by treating him like an object. Yozak who is staring at him already.

He tries not to fidget as he counts the minutes in his mind. He imagines he can feel that gaze on him, following the lines of his body, lingering upon his neck. Yozak always lingers on his neck, and Murata doesn’t know why. The clock in his head ticks on. He brushes the hair out of his eyes. Unnecessary. Calculated. It’s like a game, a little challenge to himself, seeing how much he can make Yozak want it. His score is always not enough.

The meeting is over. Neither of them has said a word.

He makes it halfway to the temple before Yozak grasps him by the elbow, pulls him aside, fucks him unceremoniously in an empty room. Hard, fast, Murata resists even though he burns for it too. He doesn’t know why, he doesn’t know anything because he stopped caring about the answers when he forgot all the questions.

***

He lifts his arm in a weak wave goodbye as Conrad leaves to find his precious King. Yozak groans, rubs his shoulders. He is sore and bruised and buying drinks tonight, but it is far too hot to care. Wind blows through the courtyard, kicking up clouds of dust that he chokes on, gasping in the acrid summer air. There is grit gathered into all the curves of his body, clinging to every strand of hair and fold of clothing. He picks up his shirt and tries to shake the dirt from it, fails. He flings it over one shoulder with a sigh and heads off to the baths to soak away the grime and the aches and the small blow to his pride.

He does not even make it out of the courtyard before he spies Murata stretched out on one of the low walls fencing in the area. Yozak catches the slight turn of the young man’s head as he glances in his direction.

He forgets about the bath and the bar and the beer he owes his friend.

“What did you think?” he asks, grinning, light hearted, like he isn’t thinking right now about running his hands up and down Murata’s naked body, like he isn’t thinking that all the damn time.

The sage chuckles quietly, soft exhalation of laughter minus sound. “I think he’s better than you.” And there is something in the way his lips stay curved upwards in mocking half-laugh, his head titled ever so slightly, that sets Yozak’s blood thumping red-hot against his eardrums.

“I guess he is,” Yozak says, flexing his fingers, trying to wriggle out the tension, the urge to spring and grab and claim and devour. “He’s the captain, after all.”

Murata still wears his half-grin. “Perhaps I shouldn’t point out the obvious.”

Unthinking, Yozak grips Murata’s shoulders (haughty fucking shoulders) and slams the boy hard against the post he’s been leaning on before violating that mouth (smug fucking mouth) with nothing short of absolute dominance.

He is certain he never used to be a jealous man.

Murata struggles against him, pushes at him, kicks his legs. Always the scuffle, always the resistance, but never once has Yozak heard him say no.

***

He had it planned from the second he saw Yozak direct that intense gaze at his Captain across the tips of their blades, lost in their world of precision and sharp edges. It is the same gaze that runs up and down his body when Yozak thinks he’s not looking, all heat and desire.

Murata has always been a jealous man.

His plan is flawless. Perfect act. Perfect provocation. Perfect reaction. He knows all the buttons to push because he is the one who crafted them.

He takes no joy in bringing a kind, honest man to ruin. Every time they play this game Yozak becomes a little more possessive, a little more irrational, a little more bestial, but Murata finds he cannot be remorseful when he has that want.

Murata gasps and digs his fingers into Yozak’s back. Their moans echo across the empty courtyard.

Perfect

.

***

The door clicks shut behind Murata. He locks it, deadbolt sliding into place with a dull and unmistakable thud. “Do you always keep your door unlocked?”

“You never know when nobility’ll come wandering in,” Yozak replies, propped against a pillow, staring. His eyes glint cold steel blue in the moonlight that filters in through the small, dirty window. They watch each other for several long, silent minutes.

“I saw you with Wolfram today.”

“I know,” Murata says, crawling onto the bed to straddle Yozak’s hips, “you were supposed to.”

Yozak’s fingers twist around coal-dark hair, mark of their difference. “Why?”

Murata bites back the explanation. “I don’t know,” he says instead.

Tomorrow, there will be hot looks and veiled mockery and secret fucks in darkened hallways, but tonight Yozak is gentle and tender and there is something not unlike love in his actions. Murata clings to him, arms circled round, welcoming, begging, and Yozak springs and grasps and claims and devours as they twist together atop the sheets.

“What are you talking about, Dad?” Takashi asked before spying the young foreigner huddled behind the counter, knees drawn tight to his chest as his eyes darted frantically between father and son. “Eh? Dad, who is this?” Takashi leaned down. “What’s the matter with him?”

“I don’t know! That’s what I need you for!” Mr. Kawamura waved his fillet knife around in the air for emphasis as he continued, “I can’t understand a word he’s saying. Just wandered in here white as a sheet and crying. A couple customers said he’s been all around the neighbourhood, don’t know why he decided to hole up in my shop.”

Takashi knelt down beside the young man and studied him carefully. His clothes, though odd-looking, were clean and neat, as was his soft blond hair. He probably just got separated from a tour group or something. “Hi,” he said in English, smiling, “what’s your name?”

The boy’s blue eyes widened. “You speak Skalan?” he asked in barely more than a whisper, grasping Takashi’s hand excitedly, “Oh, please, you have to help me get back! Seregil—”

“Skalan?” Kawamura’s smile faltered and he gently removed the boy’s hand. “I’m speaking English.”

The young man’s face fell. “You… you’ve never heard of…”

“Dad,” Takashi stood, “I’m going to take him upstairs, okay? Come on,” he added, holding his hand out to the young stranger, “we’ll figure out what happened to you.”

* * *

“These cookies say they have zero trans-fats,” Takashi called as he rummaged around in the cupboard, “do you want to try them?”

“What’s a trans-fat?”

“Um, never mind.” He found a box of Hello Kitty brand cookies and some vanilla wafers and dumped them in a bowl next to the teapot. He still wasn’t sure what country this guy… Alec, he said his name was, came from, but if they spoke English there then Takashi reasoned that tea and cookies might be a safe bet.

“You think I’m crazy,” Alec said blankly as Takashi poured a cup of Earl Grey. “You think I’m making it all up.”

“No!” Takashi assured him. “I mean,” and he scratched his head, “You’re maybe a little confused? Or my English could be a little outdated, maybe I don’t get all the slang words or something.”

“My name is Alec. I came from Skala.” Alec bit into a vanilla wafer, found it tolerable, and started quietly munching away at the whole bowl. “I was supposed to be transported to a small town up north with Seregil, but something must have gone wrong, because I’m in this strange place and he is nowhere to be found.” Alec eyed Taka. “And you think I’m insane. Have you any more of these?”

Takashi sighed and nibbled on a cookie, sliding the half empty packet of wafers across the table. True, what sense he could make of the foreigner’s babble sounded a little off, and by a little off we of course mean stark raving mad, but the poor boy looked lost and scared and Takashi really wanted to give him a hug and let him know that everything would be okay. “Tell you what,” he said instead, “why don’t you stay here a couple days? I don’t really understand what happened to you, but this guy you keep talking about can’t be too far behind. I’m sure he’ll come looking for you soon.”

“You’re inviting a total stranger to stay in your home?”

“Well,” Taka smiled, “I’m not sure what else to do with you.”

* * *

The elder members of the Kawamura household were as accommodating as Takashi himself. “Sure, he can stay here a bit,” Takashi’s father agreed, “Just so long as he helps out same as you kids do. We could use an extra pair of hands, anyway.”

“He’s not going to be taking my room, right?”

“‘Course not,” Takashi cuffed his younger sister gently about the head, “he’ll just bunk in my room.”

“I’ll call the police station,” Mrs. Kawamura volunteered, “to see if anyone’s looking for him. Where did he say he was from, dear?”

“Uh.” Takashi scratched at his neck nervously. “He didn’t say. It seemed like he didn’t want to talk about it.”

“Well, I suppose he’ll tell us in his own time.” Mrs. Kawamura placed two steaming bowls of sukiyaki on a tray and handed it to her son. “Take these to your room, Takashi, I expect he’ll be too nervous to eat with all of us right away.”

* * *

It was tough going for Alec at first, thrust as he was into some bizarre parody of reality where everyone except, it seemed, one burly teenager spoke a nigh incomprehensible language, and everything worked just like magic but nothing was. The dishwasher was much more handy than anything he’d seen Thero fiddling with, though, and he wondered if maybe he’d be able to bring one back with him.

“Just clean up after the customers,” Takashi had instructed him that first morning as he shouldered a hefty book bag, “and wash the dishes in the back. It’s not difficult. You’re foreign so I don’t think any of the customers will bother you, and if they do Dad will help you out.”

“You’re not going to be here?” Alec could hear the trace of panic in his own voice. Takashi spoke his language. Takashi taught him to use chopsticks. Takashi didn’t laugh at him when the alarm clock scared him half to death that morning. Takashi smiled like this was all perfectly normal and it’d all turn out right in the end. Alec twisted the hem of his apron. “What if—”

“You’ll be fine.” Takashi clapped Alec on the shoulder. “I’ve got to go to school now. Just remember to take it easy. Rest if you get overwhelmed. It’s only been a week.”

Alec took a deep breath and told himself that if he could help save the world from an ancient evil then there was no reason he couldn’t wash a dish on his own. He smiled and wished Takashi good luck with his classes and waved him out the door, all the while still clinging white-knuckled to the hem of his apron. Shortly thereafter he found a broom propped up in the corner near the door and clung white-knuckled to that instead as he swept furiously at the already immaculate floor.

“Pretty energetic, aren’t you?” Takashi’s father chuckled as he made ready to open. “Relax a little, kid, you’ll make the customers nervous.”

Alec of course could not understand a word the man was saying, but the tension in his shoulders eased a little and he found himself smiling back.

* * *

The boy that followed Takashi into the shop was stunningly beautiful, and Alec had for various reasons been in some of the most high-class brothels to be found, so he knew a thing or two. He was a good deal shorter than Taka, barely to his shoulder, and though Alec could tell the boy was toned with sleek, compact muscle, next to Taka’s bulk he looked almost delicate.

The boy flicked back his sleek brown hair and studied Alec with sharp, narrow eyes. “So you’re the one he’s been going on about,” he said.

Alec fumbled and bowed, introducing himself in the clumsy Japanese he’d picked up over the past month. Taka laughed and told him not to worry about it. “Fuji’s in the advanced English class with me,” he explained, “he’s better than I am.”

“Now, I wouldn’t go that far, Taka. Especially lately.”

“Guess I’ve just been getting more practice.” Takashi shrugged out of his uniform jacket. “You can head off if you want, Alec. I’m just going to go change.”

“I’ll stay on a bit longer, it’s busy today.”

“Really? Then I’ll be counting on you!”

Takashi made for the back to change out of his uniform, and Fuji knelt demurely at one of the tables, staring all the while at Alec. “You’re very pretty, aren’t you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Blond hair and blue eyes.” Fuji rested his chin on his hands. “You must be a dream come true for someone like him. He loves Americans.”

Alec could feel his face go hot. “I’m not American.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re foreign, it’s all the same.” Fuji cast his eyes to the back of the restaurant, to the door leading upstairs. “He’s not just kind to you, you know.”

“Of course I know that!” Alec said, slamming down a cup of green tea in front of Fuji. “He’s kind to everyone! I’ve lived here long enough to learn that much at least!”

The corners of Fuji’s smile quirked upward. “Just so long as we’re clear.”

“What’s all the noise, guys? Are you teasing him, Fuji?”

* * *

Alec leaned against the chain-link fence, panting softly. “I’m getting out of shape,” he muttered to himself.

“Are you kidding?” Takashi smiled and leaned beside him, holding a bottle of Pocari Sweat to Alec’s cheek, the cold making him jump. “Your stamina’s great! And you did awesome for your first time holding a racquet, you were really burning out there.”

Alec laughed. “Seregil always said I picked things up quickly. You didn’t even break a sweat though, are you sure it’s been two years since you played this game?”

“Pretty sure. Fuji’s always trying to get me to come practice with him, but…” Takashi shrugged, “I don’t feel worthy to share a court with him now after quitting. Don’t tell him I played you, okay?”

* * *

Alec only broke down once.

It was several months after his arrival, on a day only marginally worse than the average. He’d stubbed his toe on one of those damned low tables that he still hadn’t managed to get used to, and chipped a tea cup while he was washing, but all in all there was nothing to have an emotional breakdown over. So, there really wasn’t anyone more surprised than he when, shortly after dinner, Alec retired to the room he shared with Takashi and started sobbing so hard he could scarcely breathe. And when Takashi found him later and gathered him up in his arms and asked him Alec, what’s wrong, why are you crying, Alec couldn’t answer, because he wasn’t sure if it was because he missed his home or his lover or even his long dead father, or if it was just that he was beginning to doubt that they’d ever existed at all.

“Tell me about Seregil,” Takashi said, rubbing his shoulders and holding him closer. “Tell me about how he saved you from that dungeon and taught you coin tricks.”

Alec told him.

* * *

“Taka!” Alec shouldered his share of shopping bags and ran to catch up. “Really, you’ve already bought too much!”

“Mom said to make sure you had plenty of clothes and that’s what I’ll do,” Takashi said, grabbing Alec’s hand and dragging him towards a small boutique. “You’d look cool in these, Alec, don’t you think?”

“Takashi!”

“Really,” Taka ruffled Alec’s hair, “don’t worry about it. You’ve been here half a year and you’re still wearing my old stuff. You put in full days at the restaurant. You’ve earned this.”

Alec made a few more protests, but Takashi just laughed and dragged him to another store, pointing out everything from designer jeans to three-for-1000 yen t-shirts and exclaiming over how good they’d look on him. Alec was surprised at how much his friend seemed to enjoy shopping; Seregil had always taken pronounced joy in poking about the market when he had the time, but Taka didn’t seem the type.

After several hours of trekking around the local shopping district, they found an empty bench and collapsed. Alec was just starting to dread the walk home when he spotted a cluster of young girls near some sort of booth, pasting sticky bits of paper to their cell phones and wallets.

“Hey, Takashi?”

“Alec, I’ve already told you not to worry—”

“No, not that.” Alec pointed to the booth. “What’s that thing? I think I saw a couple of them while we were walking. What are they for?”

“Oh, purikura? It’s a booth that takes pictures and puts them on these little stickers…” Takashi pulled his cell and pointed to the tiny photo on the back, framed in pink and dotted with cartoon kitty faces. There were too many people crammed into the booth, sweaty and dishevelled, all wearing matching blue and white jerseys and flashing V signs. “That’s my old tennis club, after Nationals. I don’t know how we got everyone in the frame.”

“Is that Fuji? And you! You all look so young!”

“Do you want to try it?” Taka stood and offered his hand. “We should take at least one picture together before Seregil comes to take you home, right?”

Alec grasped the outstretched hand. “I want a blue border. I liked the cats, though.”

* * *

“Well,” Fuji said, “don’t you look nice today.”

Alec forced a smile. Over the months he had become something of a fixture at Kawamura Sushi, working from open until close nearly every day for lack of anything better to do. And so, too, had Fuji, seated at the table in the corner, staring at him with too-narrow eyes, become a fixture for Alec. “Takashi took me shopping a few days ago.”

“I know. I saw the picture.” Fuji let his head tilt to the side. “Awfully close, aren’t you?”

“I suppose.”

“You know, Alec,” Fuji mused, “you’re like a stray cat. The person who finds you will take you in, and feed you, and make sure you’re safe… but when your real owner comes along, you’ll go back without a second glance, won’t you?” The fake fell out of Fuji’s smile, and what was left was cold, cold. “If that’s the case, then I think it would be better if the person who found you didn’t get too attached, don’t you? That way it won’t hurt so much when you throw him away.”

“My owner doesn’t even know where to look for me.” Alec slammed Fuji’s bill onto the table. “I’ll stay with Taka as long as he’ll keep me.”

* * *

Alec liked the feel of a bowstring pulled taut; how his body went tense as he held the arrow in place, arms stretched wide apart, trying not to tremble from the pressure. The release was like a sigh, the arrow gone from his bow in a breath and his shoulders easing in its absence. He could hear the dull thud across the practice field as it struck home, center of the target, and he grinned.

Takashi let out a cheer from behind him. “You’re really great!” he said. “You look so graceful!”

Alec laughed and pulled another arrow from the quiver. “I’m terribly out of practice.”

“Then you must be unbelievable the rest of the time.” Takashi watched another arrow hit the target dead-center. “Are you going to start practicing regularly again?”

“I suppose. If the master here will let me.”

“He will.”

Alec loosed another arrow. He hit the target every time.

* * *

Alec stretched out on his futon and sighed contentedly. “Your mother really went all out with dinner tonight,” he said cheerfully, patting his stomach, “I wonder what the occasion was?”

“Eh, don’t you know?” Takashi sat cross-legged at Alec’s side. “It’s been a year since you came here.”

“It has?!” Alec shot up.

“Of course, haven’t you been keeping track?”

Alec shook his head and leaned back, resting his weight on his hands. “I suppose I got so used to it here that after awhile I didn’t think to count.” He let out a deep breath and looked around the room. “A year, huh? Sorry for taking advantage of your hospitality for so long.”

“What are you talking about?” Taka slung an arm around Alec’s shoulder and pulled him towards himself, ruffling his blond hair affectionately. “You’re one of the family now. A year, two, five, how ever long it takes, you’ll always be welcome here.”

Alec laughed. “I can’t leech off of you my entire life, Taka.”

Takashi squeezed him in a friendly hug and replied earnestly, “‘Course you can. I said however long it takes, right?”

Alec was almost certain he was the one who turned his head upward and pressed his lips to the other boy’s, but it was Takashi who pulled away red-faced, muttering “Sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”

Alec kissed him again, just to be sure. And again, and again, and he would’ve kept on at it but suddenly Takashi’s hands were holding his head still and he was looking at Alec with such sad eyes. “Alec,” he said, and again, “Alec.”

Seregil’s face swam before his eyes. It wasn’t what he wanted, Alec knew it wasn’t. “I’m sorry,” he choked.

Takashi kissed his forehead. “Goodnight.”

* * *

A year and a day after Alec had burst into Kawamura Sushi in near hysterics to collapse behind the counter, another raving foreigner came crashing through the door. This time, however, the shop owner recognized a smiling face sketched on a scrap of paper, and heard a familiar name repeated over and over in desperation. He looked to his son.

Takashi’s smile was wide and frayed at the corners. He crossed the room and clapped a hand on the stranger’s shoulder. “You must be Seregil,” he said. “He talks about you all the time.”

* * *

He was thinner, more sunken-looking than when Alec had left. Probably hadn’t been sleeping well, the boy reasoned, and taking on more work than he could handle on his own. Alec stood, and Seregil pulled him into a tight embrace. Alec could feel his ribs sticking out sharply beneath his fingertips. “Seregil!” he exclaimed, “hasn’t Micum been making sure you eat?!”

“I have been eating! You try keeping up a healthy appetite when your beloved’s been lost in some alternate world because Thero sneezed the wrong way.”

“Is that what happened?”

“No,” Seregil admitted, “it was something insanely more complex.”

“Anyway,” Alec continued, “I was the one lost and I still managed to eat properly. Not that Mrs Kawamura gave me much choice in the matter. It’s nearly dinner, you’ll stay of course?”

This was too much. “Alec,” Takashi said, “Seregil’s here. You can go home.”

Alec flushed red as he flicked his bangs away from his eyes. “I know that,” he said tartly, “but there’s no need to be in a rush, is there? I’ve waited a year, a few extra hours isn’t going to make a difference.”

* * *

“I thought you’d be more excited.”

Takashi and Alec stood across from each other in the darkened bedroom. Cries of awe and delight came muffled from the living room where Seregil kept the family entertained with coin tricks and other slight of hand. Alec shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he adjusted the bundle hitched over his shoulder.

“I’ll miss you,” Takashi said.

“I know. Me too.” Alec looked around the room, to the tennis racquets leaning in the corner, his rolled futon standing by the door, the neat pile of clothes Takashi’s mother would have to donate to a thrift store. “I wish I could take it all with me.”

“Including me?”

“Of course including you. I’d take the whole city with me. You and your parents and your sister and even Fuji if he promised to stop glaring at me so much.” Suddenly Alec grasped Takashi’s arm. “He really likes you, you know. I think he’s in love with you.”

“Yeah,” Taka said, “you’re probably right.”

“I want you to be happy. You’ll be okay, won’t you?”

“Don’t worry about things like that.” Alec could feel rough stubble scratch against his cheek, and wondered just how much he’d miss it.

* * *

Seregil lead him to an abandoned park, where they could make their return in secret. “Who was he?” he asked.

Alec thumbed the small, sticky bit of paper in his pocket, all grins and v-signs and cutesy cartoon kitties on a blue border. “A friend,” he said, “when I was in desperate need of one.”

“Then I am grateful for him,” Seregil replied, apparently satisfied.

Alec thought of a pendant he might paste the photo on, and smiled. “I am as well.”

* * *

The next day Taka told Fuji Alec had left. Then he confessed. The timing was poor and Fuji punched him in the face, but they walked home together holding hands, so that was all right.

“Please, Quan.” Shen Le threw an arm around Rui Xi, who frowned and struggled but had grown so used to Shen Le over the months that she soon gave up. “The look on your face right now tells me different.”

“Shut it. And let go of him.”

“It’s totally fine if you’re like that, Quan. I keep telling you, society’s very open nowadays. Everyone knows you two have a thing going, anyway.” Shen Le grinned at Rui Xi. “Look, he’s blushing!”

“Xiu Yi!” Quan called, “I know you’re hiding behind the bleachers. I’ll let you have my dessert if you get rid of Shen Le.”

“Ying Kai’s Golden Right Foot is all over it, Quan, don’t you even worry.” Xiu Yi popped out with a grin like he hadn’t been spying on his precious Rui Xi for the past hour, which they all knew he was so why try to hide it? “Come on, you ape, you’ve had your fun.”

“Yeah, yeah, feather head.” Shen Le withdrew his arm from Rui Xi’s shoulder. “Just remember, Quan,” he said with mock sympathy, “it’s okay to be gay.”

Quan glared at Shen Le’s retreating back while Rui Xi looked on thoughtfully. “Have you noticed,” she asked, “that he only starts on about the gay stuff when Xiu Yi’s around?”

* * *

“Why do you have to come hang around here and bug Rui Xi all the time?” Xiu Yi grumped as he trudged towards the bus stop. “He doesn’t need you being all touchy and accusing him of… of that.”

“And here I thought I stopped by to bother Quan.” Shen Le tugged at one of the wilder flyaways in Xiu Yi’s blond-streaked hair. “And it’s not an accusation if it’s true, featherbrain, which it obviously is.”

“Rui Xi’s not like that! Neither is Quan,” he added after a moment’s thought, “they’re just friends. Can’t guys just be friends without people making weird assumptions about their sexuality? Why’s everything gotta be about gay stuff all the time?!” Xiu Yi kicked at a pebble and sent it flying across the schoolyard where, unbeknownst to him, it hit Da Shu in the back of the head, somehow convincing him that he’d angered some of his more violent otherworldly acquaintances. He spent the next two weeks huddled in his bunk with all the lights turned on. Ignorant of this, Xiu Yi lost interest in the rock’s trajectory and continued on his way. “Just because you like being around another guy doesn’t mean anything at all,” he fumed.

Shen Le crossed his arms smugly. “Sounds like someone’s a little insecure about this whole gay thing.”

“Shut up, you ape! Who asked you?” They’d arrived at the bus stop. Xiu Yi glanced down the road. “Good timing, it’ll be here any minute.”

“I’m a very understanding kind of guy, you know.”

“Shut up! I’m not gay!!”

And Shen Le was at Xiu Yi’s side, arm around his waist and his face way too close for Ying Kai’s Golden Right Foot’s comfort. “Verrrrry understanding,” Shen Le drawled, their lips brushing together.

Xiu Yi would never admit to being the one to close the remaining distance, mostly because it was definitely that stupid asshole Shen Le that went and did it while Xiu Yi was too busy suppressing all this troublesome gay stuff to notice another guy’s tongue in his mouth. He didn’t really have anything to compare it to, but he was pretty sure it was nothing like kissing a girl, if only because no girl’s hands could dig into his hips and hard as Shen Le’s, and no girl would let Xiu Yi grip just as hard back.

Shen Le drew back and grinned that asshole grin of his that made Xiu Yi wonder if he and his sweet little sister were really related. “The world’s very accepting,” he said as he swaggered backwards toward the bus, “nowadays.”

“Shut up,” Xiu Yi muttered as he wiped his mouth on the back of his wrist. “I’m not gay.”

And Shen Le laughed that stupid asshole laugh, and told Xiu Yi he’d catch him later. And Xiu Yi grinned that stupid pervert grin and said yeah, later, and he stumbled back toward the track field with daydreams swirling in clouds above his head.

“What?” Ice grinned at him, all sex and pheromones, “getting cold feet, Ceasar the pervert?”

Ceasar frowned and tugged Ice’s shirt off. “It’s just…” and he tried not to groan as he finally, finally slid his mouth down Ice’s chest, sucking and nipping his way down his sternum, “how do we decide who’s on top?”

“What?”

“I’ve never got this far before!” Not that I remember, anyway.Ice’s laugh stained Ceasar’s cheeks red with angry embarrassment (which only made him laugh harder). He smacked Ice in the shoulder. “Answer the damn question!”

“Well,” Ice’s grin was wide enough now to show off his sharp canines, “since I’m the one with experience, I guess that means I should take charge.”

“No fair!” Ceasar sputtered, sitting bolt upright and knocking Ice onto his back. He quickly scrambled across the bed to straddle Ice’s hips. “I wanna do you!”

Ice slid his hands under Ceasar’s tank top, hot on the bare skin of his back. “Without you going into pervert mode on me,” he said, “I think I have the advantage.”

Ceasar made a face. Where was that goddamn surge of adrenaline and lust and desire when he needed it? Perhaps, he thought, it had been blindsided by the fact that he was actually getting some from a willing partner; Ceasar himself certainly had been. Well, if the virus wasn’t going to help then he’d just have to fake being a dirty old man trapped in a teenager’s body. It couldn’t be that hard.

However, while Ceasar was having his little inner monologue, Ice had pinned him down to the bed and divested him of his pants. “You wear really short boxers,” he said, amused, as he began kissing along the inside of Ceasar’s thighs.

“Oi!” Ceasar squirmed and struggled, “what do you think you’re doing! Don’t get carried away, I still—” Ceasar broke off mid sentence and gasped, biting down hard on his lip to keep from moaning, “oh… oh… you cheated, you jerk.”

“Mmmhhmm.”

Ceasar writhed and gasped and spread his legs and vowed to Ice that the next time he wouldn’t give up so easily.

Ice replied that he would welcome the challenge.

“Are you coming or not?” Ice asked, lounging against the doorframe, “It’s nacho night!”

“Is that all you ever think about?”

“Is sex all you ever think about?”

Ceasar frowned and flicked a balled-up piece of notebook paper at his friend. “I have a disease. And it’s really weird that you associate Mexican food with sex, Ice, seriously.”

“Are you coming or not?”

“Yes!” Ceasar licked his lips and counted to ten and tried not to look at the bare strip of skin where Ice’s shirt rode up, “Give me a minute!”

***

Ceasar shook a chip free from a clump of its cheese-covered brethren and made for the sour cream. “What about Teddy? Doesn’t he like nachos?”

Ice shrugged and double-dipped in the salsa, “Doing hall monitor stuff, or lifeguard stuff, or something all responsible and whatever. I wasn’t really paying attention.”

“You’re a true friend, Ice, really.” Fleance was across the room, talking to the girl with the unhealthy feline fixation. He said something in that flat monotone of his, and she laughed and pulled a kitty barrette from her hair and brushed the bangs away from his face and Ceasar bit his lip and counted to ten and tried to forget that they liked to wander around nude for no reason. “What about those kids you were looking after?”

“Well, you know,” and Ice chuckled awkwardly, “gotta leave the kids at home once in awhile, right? A guy needs a night to himself every now and then.”

Ceasar grinned. “You wanna XXX with them, don’t you?”

“No!” Ice was going red, or would be if Ice ever blushed, which Ice never did, so obviously Ceasar was imagining it. “They’re just cubs!”

“They’re what?”

“Kids,” Ice covered smoothly, “they’re just kids! I wouldn’t want to do dirty stuff with them.”

“Age doesn’t matter if the body’s willing and ready—” Ice hit him with a nearby spoon. Ceasar rubbed his head sheepishly. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“But seriously, you could probably justify it if you—”

Then Ice did that growl thing that spoke of either years of practicing his dog impersonation or a wolf bite and a full moon, and Ceasar decided that maybe he should just shut up. Ice’s bright angry eyes bored into him. He started counting again. “We need more salsa.”

***

Teddy must have still been hall monitoring, or lifeguarding, or whatever responsible thing he was up to this week, because when Ice fumbled the door open and they collapsed in a loud giggly heap on the bed together there was no glare from across the room prickling at the back of Ceasar’s neck. It was a most welcome absence; Teddy still hadn’t quite forgiven him for groping that one boy and making him cry. Repeatedly.

Ceasar made a face at the Canadian flag pinned to the wall, and Ice started to take off his socks. Ceasar poked him in the ribs. “Why are you my friend?” he asked.

“I dunno. You’re a nice guy with bad luck. You have cool hair.” Ice wriggled his toes. “Stop asking dumb questions, I just felt like it is all.”

Ceasar snorted and sat up and wiggled his toes next to Ice’s and wondered where his socks and shoes went. He smiled. “You think I have cool hair?”

“Shut up,” their arms brushed together, “I just like the tips.”

Ceasar laughed, and then Ice was staring at him, and the back of his neck went hot and cold and prickly and one two three four five six seven eight nine ten. “What?” he asked lamely.

Ice licked his lips and leaned in closer and something weird was definitely up. “You’re way more cute when you smile,” he said.

“You think so?” Ice’s fingers were on his back now, his breath on his face, and Ceasar wanted to ask just where the fuck did this come from, except he knew because it was the same scenario he got himself involved in every day only backwards, and maybe Rose had been right about teenage hormones after all. “I guess I should do it more often.”

“Yeah,” Ice mumbled, pressing close, too close, not close enough, “you should.”

When Ice finally kissed him, Ceasar held his breath and counted to ten, to a hundred, a thousand, a million, the moon, the stars, to forever, and it still wasn’t enough.

Yuuri sputtered, the tips of his ears going red, “I wasn’t! Really I wasn’t! There was a… my eyes kind of drifted off in that direction but I really wasn’t!”

Gisela tried not to roll her eyes. He really was. Yuuri, like a good portion of the male teenage population, had an almost uncontrollable fascination with a particular piece of female anatomy located directly below the collarbone. Gisela (being a healthcare professional, and more than used to treating the numerous young men in the barracks) knew it, and Yuuri knew it, and Yuuri’s now ex-fiancé definitely knew it, but if he wanted to play the wide-eyed innocent then that was his Majesty’s prerogative. She shrugged to herself and continued adding the details of a particularly nasty venereal disease to the record of some young soldier who was never going to make sergeant if he kept carrying on with questionable tavern wenches the way he did. And then…

“Your Majesty!” Gisela nearly chucked her quill in Yuuri’s face, “Could you just go find Cheri and stare at her chest for awhile? She obviously wouldn’t mind.”

“That’s exactly why it wouldn’t be any fun, Gisela.” Murata grinned his sage-y grin as he took the seat next to Yuuri. “There’s no challenge, no mystery, and most importantly, he thinks you’re much cuter. Isn’t that right, Shibuya?”

Yuuri wasn’t sure whether to punch Murata in the face or die of embarrassment, but since death would be pointless and acts of violence might get him accidentally engaged again, he settled for looking thoroughly mortified.

“It’s not about fun, your Highness, it’s about male hormones. I don’t mind being subjected to them periodically, but surely there are some other women in the palace he can stare at while I’m working?”

Murata thought for a moment and pointed out that besides the maids, no, there really weren’t. The male to female ratio at Blood Pledge Castle was grossly out of proportion. “Well, except at the temple,” he amended, “but none of those ladies like men staring at them, even the Maou.”

“This lady’s not too fond of it either.”

“Is something else the matter? You’re usually a lot more cheerful than this.”

Yuuri scoffed, forgetting his mortification for a moment. “She’s really not. It’s an act.”

Gisela really did throw her quill that time as she bellowed, “I am so cheerful!”

Yuuri blinked, rubbed at the splotch of ink on his forehead, and asked Gisela if she was doing anything for dinner that evening.

Vash found Mits in one of the greenhouses, the one with the faulty lock, closest to the lake. He sat slumped against the wall by the door, knees drawn up towards his chest, staring out at the rain. Vash sat down next to him.

“You could be expelled,” the blond admonished. “You gave him a black eye.”

“Good,” Mits mumbled, still glaring through the wall at the rain outside.

“Don’t be an idiot.”

“I’m not.”

Vash grabbed at Mits’ shirt. “Why,” he asked, “why did you go and hit him?”

“Because,” Mits took Vash’s hand, “it hurt.”

“Then you should have hit me!” Vash pulled away. “I’m the one who hurt you. I’m the one who slept with him. All he did was let me. So if you’re going to hit anyone, hit me.”

“I can’t!”

“Why not?!”

Mits was looking at him now, staring right into his eyes and his head and his heart, “Because I love you.”

“Why?!” Vash cried, slamming a fist against the glass pane at his side as the rainwater dripped in little puddles in the dirt. “I lie, I smoke, I drink, I fuck other guys, I treat you like shit, so WHY…” his hand slid across the glass, finding its way to Mits shoulder, up his neck, softly cupping his cheek, “why are you still in love with me?”

Mits pulled Vash flush against him, breathed deep, twined his arms around him as tight as he could. “Because,” he choked out through a sob, “you’re Vash.”

And as the rain pounded against the roof and the wind howled across the lake they kissed, like nothing was wrong, like it had always been. It hurt so much to stay, but to leave would be like dying.

Yozak took a liking to the fine garments (Gwendal’s superb dressmaking skills were Shin Makoku’s best-kept secret) and wore them so often that all who knew him took to calling him Yozak Red Riding Hood. None were sure exactly where the “riding” bit came from, but for some reason it made the title flow better off the tongue and so it stayed.

One bright spring morning, Conrad asked Yozak Red Riding Hood to go into the deep, dark woods to play baseball with the king at his woodland castle. “I’m unable to go this week,” he said sadly, “for I must embark on a quest to regain my missing arm from an ancient king of great power who likes to steal people’s body parts for fun.”

“I wondered what was going on with that.” Yozak flung his red cloak over his shoulders. “It’s just along the path, right? I’ll be back before it gets dark.”

Conrad gripped Yozak’s arm. “Be careful,” he warned, “The Big Bad Murata stalks those woods. He’ll… he’ll… just be careful, okay?”

“You’ve told me the story a million times, I know already.”

“I worry. You’re very… appealing to those types. So just be extra cautious, please?”

Yozak rolled his eyes and promised his friend that he wouldn’t let himself get violated by strange men in the woods. “Anyway,” he said, “I’ve wandered around more dangerous places than that before, in way more revealing clothing.”

“I remember,” Conrad replied. “It was quite the birthday.”

After a few more minutes of friendly, innuendo-laden banter, Yozak Red Riding Hood took Conrad’s spare baseball glove and the picnic lunch Gwendal held out and started his journey to the King’s woodland palace. The woods were dark, but the path was well worn and easy to travel. Yozak strolled along cheerfully, enjoying the cool breeze that ruffled his skirts.

About halfway to the palace, Yozak came upon a fork in the path. He frowned. Though Yozak seldom visited King Yuuri’s woodland palace, he was certain that the path did not diverge along the way. Had he gotten himself lost? Perhaps he ought to turn back.

Just then, there was a rustle from the stand of trees behind him. Yozak spun around, his skirt twirling about him in a fashion he would have taken much delight in under different circumstances. A dark-haired boy leaned against a nearby oak, smiling at him. Sunlight, somehow finding its way through the dense foliage, glinted off the boy’s glasses, hiding his eyes.

“You should turn left,” the boy offered after a moment, “if you’re looking for the king. Right leads to the river.”

“Oh,” Yozak said, surprised, “thanks.”

“No trouble at all,” the boy beamed, “happy to help. Shall I accompany you there? I’d hate to think of you getting lost in here.”

Yozak thought that would be a marvellous idea, seeing as how the boy was absolutely charming (and by charming we here mean ‘attractive’), but Conrad’s warning came back to him. “Your name… it’s not Murata, is it?”

“Oh? How did you know?”

“The Big Bad Murata?!” Yozak nearly dropped his picnic basket. Could this be the beast Conrad had spoken of?

The boy frowned. “I don’t think so,” he said, giving himself a cursory once-over, “I certainly don’t look big or bad, do I?”

“Well… no,” Yozak allowed, “and Conrad always did describe the Big Bad Murata as being seven feet tall with bulging muscles and a lecherous look on his face, and you don’t have any of those things.”

“Well, I guess there must be another Murata wandering around these woods. I assure you, it’s a very common name around here.”

“Yeah.” Yozak looked to Murata, and then down the path. He considered the situation for a moment. “If it’s all the same to you,” he said finally, “I’d rather not take any chances. If I get violated by strange men in the woods then Conrad’ll never let me go out in women’s clothing again, and I just can’t have that.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it!” Murata said, “I understand completely. Men as good-looking as you have to be careful, right? I’ll just let you be on your way, then. There aren’t any more forks in the path, so you should be fine from here on anyway.”

Yozak thanked the boy for his help and apologized again for being unable to accept his escort, then continued on his way. Murata watched him go, eyes once more hidden by the glare on his glasses. He soon took off running down the right-hand path.

***

“Yuuri!” Murata called as he burst into the king’s study, “Guess who I saw on my way here?”

“I know it wasn’t Conrad,” Yuuri said, a little sulkily, “he sent word yesterday that he wouldn’t be able to make it. I bet it was that weird friend of his that dresses up like a girl, right? Yozak Green Riding Boots or something?”

“I think it’s Yozak Red Riding Hood,” Murata corrected him, “and no, that wasn’t who I saw.”

“Who then?”

“Your fiancé, of course!”

The tip of Yuuri’s pen snapped, sending black ink spattering over the letter he’d been labouring over for the past half hour.

“He had a lot of stuff with him,” Murata continued, “invitation designs, sample menus, china patterns, that kind of thing. The wedding must be coming up soon, huh?”

Yuuri went a sickly shade of green and stood up. “You know, it’s a really nice day out. I think I’d like to take a walk.”

“Really? You’d better be quick about it, Wolfram will be here any time.”

The king hastily grabbed the jacket he’d left hanging off the back of his chair and ran out with a “let Gunter know I’ve gone, okay?”

Murata grinned.

***

It took far longer than Yozak remembered to reach the castle, but after an hour of walking he was relieved to find it hiding around a bend in the path. “About damn time!” he cried, shifting the heavy picnic basket from one hand to the other for the hundredth time that morning. He found the small entrance door, a little to the side of the main gates, and knocked. Shortly, a man with long, lavender-colored hair peeked out.

“Yozak!” the man exclaimed, “It’s been such a long time! That outfit is quite adorable on you, I have to say.”

“Thanks, Gunter,” Yozak replied, perking up instantly, “Conrad got Gwendal to make it for me!”

“Really? If I had known he was so talented I would have had him make something for the king, he’d look so cute in an outfit like that!”

“Well, I don’t think it’s his majesty’s sort of thing. Speaking of which…” Yozak held out the baseball glove and the picnic basket.

“Oh, of course!” Gunter stepped aside. “Right this way, he’s just in his chambers right now. Though I must say,” and the man’s expression clouded over, “it seems that he took ill this morning. He won’t let anyone in to see him, not even a doctor. Do you think you could…?”

“No problem,” Yozak said, “Kid’s probably just worried about spreading his cold, he’s like that. I’ll have a talk with him. He’ll be under Gisela’s excellent care in no time.”

Gunter sighed in relief. “Thank goodness for that silver tongue of yours, Yozak. You know me, I’ve got such a soft spot for his Majesty, it’s really a problem, I can’t get him to do anything, it reminds me so much of when Gisela was at that age and I had to get Gwendal to make her listen to anything I said—he was just a boy himself, but you know how he is. I swear that man was born an adu—oh, here we are.” Gunter stopped abruptly before a large wooden door and knocked sharply. “Your Majesty?” he called, “Yozak Red Riding Hood is here to see you.”

“I told you I’m not having visitors today,” the king croaked out.

Gunter made as if to reply, but Yozak interjected. “Your Majesty,” he said, “I’ve come all this way through the woods to visit you, the least you could do is let me in for a minute. Conrad’ll never let me hear the end of it if I don’t at least try and cheer you up a bit, seeing as how you’re sick and all.”

“My cold…”

“A little cold ain’t gonna stop me from doing anything, your majesty, so don’t worry about me catching it. Besides, Gisela’s here to take care of me if that happened, and there isn’t anyone in the whole kingdom I’d rather leave my health to.” Yozak cocked his head and smiled, “Come on, your Majesty, what do you say?”

There was a brief silence, and then: “Okay, you can come in. Just for a few minutes, though.”

Yozak gave Gunter a thumbs up and went in. Both refrained from mentioning how amazed they were that that had actually worked.

The king sat on his bed, a blanket wrapped tightly around him, facing away from the door. “Hello, Yozak. It’s been quite awhile, hasn’t it?”

“Sure has,” Yozak said, shrugging out of his cloak. “Gwendal packed a lunch, if you’re interested.”

Yuuri shook his head. “I’m far too sick.”

“Aw, too bad, he’s so good at all those homemaker things.” He sifted through the basket, “Geez, there’s even cake in here! Sure you don’t—” Yozak looked up and froze. He could have sworn…

“What is it?”

“Your Majesty,” Yozak began hesitantly, “when did you get glasses?”

The figure beneath the blanket stiffened, but the king’s voice stayed light. “I just got them recently. All that paperwork was starting to strain my eyes.”

“I see.” Yozak edged forward, trying to get a better look at his Majesty. “Ah, and what long hair you’ve got now! It really has been a long time since I saw you last.”

“Well, I thought I’d grow it out. It looks much better this way.”

“Oh, I agree,” Yozak sat down on the bed beside his Majesty, “I really like the little flippy thing you’ve got going on. And,” he reached out and turned the boy’s head to face him, “what lovely, full lips you have, Murata.”

Murata grinned and leaned forward. “The better to…”

***

King Yuuri shuffled along the riverbank. He really ought to head back; Wolfram would only get angrier the longer he was made to wait.

“I’m not ready to pick out china patterns and invitations and decide whether to have beef or chicken for the main course!” Yuuri cried to the forest, “I barely even know the guy! Give a kid some time to get acquainted to the person he’s supposed to spend the rest of his life with.”

“Your Majesty?”

Yuuri jumped a little and looked ahead. His face flooded with relief as he saw the man standing a little ways up the path. “Conrad! You’re back early! And you’ve got an arm and everything!”

“Your Majesty—”

“Yuuri.”

“Yuuri,” Conrad corrected himself, “what are you doing out in the woods alone? Where’s Yozak?”

“Oh, I haven’t seen him, I left before he arrived because I heard your brother was—uh, I mean, I just felt like going for a walk. Anyway, Murata’s there to keep him occupied until I get back, so I’m sure… Conrad?” Yuuri stopped and started at his friend, worried; the man had gone white as a sheet.

“Murata?” Conrad asked.

“Yeah,” Yuuri replied, “he stopped by this morning.”

Conrad grabbed Yuuri’s hand and starting running towards the castle.

***

“Conrad! Tell me what’s going on, already!” pleaded Yuuri as they stormed into the castle, past a bewildered Gunter to the king’s chambers. “What’s the matter?”

“Your friend is a sexual predator who takes no greater pleasure than in seducing and then violating any handsome young men he comes across. Please wait here, your Majesty. Murata!” Conrad called, flinging open the door to Yuuri’s room in a most heroic and manly fashion, “If you lay a hand on Yozak I’ll—”

“Conrad,” Yozak interrupted, hooking one of Murata’s legs over his shoulder, “would you mind coming back in five minutes or so?”

“Five?!”

“Ten,” Yozak amended. “Come back in ten minutes or so and we’ll continue this conversation.”

“Oh,” Conrad’s face went red, “Never mind then. I’m sorry I interrupted.”

Yuuri poked his head around the corner as he heard Conrad slam the door behind him. “Was everything okay?”

“The wolf was eaten up by the sheep,” Conrad mumbled cryptically.

“Not again,” the king cried, “I keep telling him not to do that in my room! Gunter! I need new sheets!”

***

“Please explain to poor Conrad what’s going on,” Yuuri commanded once Yozak and Murata had emerged from his room in a sweaty, dishevelled mess.

“I thought Yozak was very attractive, so I decided to get him alone so I could convince him to sleep with me,” Murata explained, “There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”

“No.”

“So this really is the Big Bad Murata you were telling me stories about?” Yozak looked the boy over. “I think you exaggerated. He didn’t try to molest me once!”

“I didn’t exaggerate! He—”

“Oh, Conrad,” Murata said, exasperated, “I only ever did that with you.”

“I can see that.” Yozak studied his friend, “Your face pretty much screams ‘Touch me inappropriately.’”

“But you were wearing a dress.”

“Us ladies can handle ourselves, Conrad,” Yozak grinned, “Don’t you worry about that.”

“Can we just go play some baseball already?” Yuuri asked.

“Only if we can all eat Gwendal’s awesome picnic lunch after!”

And everyone decided that it would be best to put the whole incident behind them and just go play some good, old-fashioned team sports.

Except Yozak Red Riding Hood and The Big Bad Murata, who started making out in the dugout and were sent back inside for “gaying stuff up.”

And they all lived Happily Ever After, more or less.

Rigidity suited Gwendal. It didn’t allow for things to get complicated. It didn’t allow for anything to fall out of his control. It didn’t allow for that offbeat thump of his heart to mean anything besides a visit to the infirmary for a quick physical. It didn’t allow for change unless he wanted it.

He used to sleep well at night. Running the country’s military was stressful business, but love was worse, and the closest thing he had to falling in love were the stray cats he fed table scraps to in those few unstructured minutes he somehow never managed to schedule out, those in-between times where everything could happen.

***

“And this is Yuu-chan at his fourth birthday party,” Jennifer cooed. “Shouri wanted him to wear the blue but it was such a special day! It had to be the yellow.”

“He looks very…” Gwendal ran a finger along the lacy edge of the dress in the photo, “um.” Cute.“Mom, stop showing those to everyone!”

Jennifer eyed the rising blush on Gwendal’s face and took the photo out of the album. “I have extras,” she said with a knowing wink.

“Ah.”

“You should come visit us more often, Gwendal. I’m sure Yuu-chan would like it.”

“Mom, I said stop showing him those!”

***

Yuuri showed up in the middle of Shin Makoku’s summer wearing a down jacket and the woollen hat Gwendal had knitted for him oh, such a long time ago. Murata, more sensibly dressed, said something about how he’d tried to tell Yuuri that the seasons wouldn’t correspond and then the Maou had answered with something along the lines of how he refused to jump into a pond in the middle of December without a coat on. Then there was something about a bathtub, Gwendal couldn’t hear over the racket Greta made as she leapt at her father like it had been years instead of weeks.

“Gwendal’s teaching me how to knit,” she informed him. “You said last time that it’s cold in that other world right now so I’m making you a scarf. What’s in the bag?”

“Presents,” Yuuri replied without missing a beat, “In my world it’s the time of the year where people give presents to each other.”

“There better be one in there for me,” Wolfram said, edging closer to the trash bag full of brightly wrapped gifts, “I’m your fiancé.”

“Of course, there’s one for everyone.” Yuuri started for a chair, looked down at his still damp clothes, sat on the floor instead. He began to rummage through the bag. There was a book of fairytales for Greta, something lacy and frilly for Wolfram that Yuuri hastily explained had been picked out by his mother, a new baseball glove for Conrad who accepted it with a shy smile and quiet thank you.

“This one’s for you, Gwendal.” Yuuri rushed over to the chair where Gwendal had been reading, ignoring the cozy little domestic scene his brothers and the king created. He handed Gwendal a lumpy green package, soft to the touch. “Open it,” the boy Maou said, grinning, his cheeks still red from the cold of his home. Gwendal wondered if the skin was still cool.

Yuuri looked at him expectantly, so Gwendal tore at the paper. Skeins of multicoloured yarn tumbled into his lap, softer than anything he’d ever felt, a rainbow of pale pastels. He rubbed a piece between his fingers.

Yuuri’s smile looked like it would split his face in half. “It’s baby yarn, they make it softer than the normal kind. Do you like it? I know you like knitting but then I thought maybe I’d buy the wrong kind of stuff, but mom says that if you like making toys then this is probably pretty good.”

“Yeah, it’s fine. Thank you.”

Yuuri breathed a little sigh of relief and bounded back to the pile of gifts sitting in the middle of the floor. Gwendal looked down at the yarn and then to his king, kneeling beside his daughter, finally shrugging off the heavy jacket but still wearing the woollen hat from forever ago.

It had been so much easier when Yuuri half-forgot he existed.

***

Gwendal was an adult, a full-grown Mazoku of high rank and noble bearing. He was not a hormonal youth, nor some lecherous pervert who got off on thinking of attractive young men in frilly dresses. He was not even the sort of person who thought about attractive young men at all, in fact, no matter how cute they acted or how sweetly they smiled at him for no reason at all.

So, whoever the man in the bath was, wearing Gwendal’s face, sliding slick, soapy hands over himself while he thought of his king splayed out beneath him, those too-large eyes clouded over, begging please, please, Gwendal, more, I want more…

Whoever he was, he certainly couldn’t have been Gwendal.

***

“Conrad thinks you’re in love with me,” Yuuri said out of the blue one morning when Gwendal came to inquire after a misplaced set of military expenditure estimates. “I thought he was probably wrong but he’s usually really good about picking up that kind of thing.”

Gwendal said nothing.

“He says you look at me funny when my back’s turned. And you keep that picture of me Mom gave you beside your bed. He wasn’t snooping,” Yuuri quickly amended, “he was looking for you one morning and happened to see it, so that’s how he knew. And, uh,” the boy king played with the ballpoint pen he’d brought from home, so much easier to sign with than a quill, “I’m not mad or anything like that, Gwendal, I just want to know if it’s true.”

Gwendal turned away. “Think what you like.”

“Gwendal,” and there was a creak, and then too-thin fingers curling around his right shoulder, “it’s okay to say what you really feel. You don’t always have to worry about how your feelings are going to inconvenience others. If you want something you should try to grab it.”

“Is that some sort of permission, your Majesty?”

“What?” The slender fingers snapped away from Gwendal’s shoulder. “No! I mean, I just–”

“Then I don’t see why we are continuing this pointless line of inquiry. You are trying to convince me to do a thing that, if my brother’s guess is accurate, is something you don’t actually wish for me to do.”

“But is it? Accurate?”

Gwendal walked out, shutting the door firmly behind him.

***

Dinner had come early that evening, or night had come later, he couldn’t be bothered to check a clock to discover which it was. It wasn’t yet quite dusk when Gwendal slipped through the kitchens and outside, past the little herb garden the cooks kept for fresh seasonings and the maids tended for soothing chamomile, wandering through the neatly kempt gardens proper until he finally reached the rubbish pile, hidden in a discreet corner between the outer wall and the stables. The half-wild stray cats lived there, pawing around for scraps of food or, if they were lucky, some manner of rodent living amongst the trash.

The cats came running as soon as they saw Gwendal turn the corner by the stables. He’d fed these cats, and their parents, and their grandparents, since he was a boy. They filled up those empty pieces, where the edges of his plans didn’t quite fit together. He’d been visiting them a lot lately.

“Here, kitty kitty,” he mumbled as he knelt down, quite unnecessary, the cats would leap on him even if he didn’t say a word, even if he didn’t bring them a scrap of anything. The kittens bounded towards him, clawing their way up his legs and his back, purring like they’d missed him desperately and weren’t just looking for the table scraps they could smell in the basket he carried. And who knows? Maybe they had.

Gwendal fished a plate of scraps out of the basket, ignoring the soft footsteps he could hear treading the ground behind him. Soon Yuuri was crouched next to him, hand out to a playful tabby, letting it nip at his fingers.

“There sure are a lot of them, aren’t there?”

Gwendal kept his eyes forward. “Yes.”

His body was tensed. He should take his things and go back to the castle without another word, courtly manners be damned. In the castle, Gwendal could function. In the castle, Gwendal had his life arranged in advance. In the castle he could pretend that offbeat thump of his heart was a biological malfunction, irritating but harmless. Out here, under the darkening sky, were the in-between times, the space where the cracks of his life failed to meet, the place where everything could happen and he couldn’t stop any of it.

“You know,” and Yuuri looked at him now, “everyone thinks that Conrad’s the nice one, but you’re just as kind, in your own way. Just these guys are the only ones who really know, huh?” A smile. “Them and me, I guess.”

He already knew. They were alone, not a foot of space between them, and no one but he and his king to know his failure, his embarrassment, his rejection. Yuuri had never looked sweeter. Gwendal wanted to try, and there were a thousand reasons why he shouldn’t, and he was related to two of them.

***

It was everything and nothing like Gwendal had imagined, those few times he’d allowed himself even that. Yuuri neither begged for more nor pleaded for him to stop, only clung tightly to him, those thin fingers digging into Gwendal’s back, his hair, his shoulders. Soft sounds in the back of Yuuri’s throat, pleasure or pain or both, he couldn’t tell, he didn’t care.

He was floating, he was drowning, he thought of nothing but the places where their skin touched, hot, tingling, everything a bad romance novel will say it is but more, so much more, some word on the tip of his tongue too big to make out. Everything was empty space, in-between time, and it didn’t frighten him in the least. The knots that had been building up in his chest and his gut and his thoughts all came apart in a violent rush, and suddenly the tension and the heat and the heavy, unbearable ache were gone, gone, gone, and Yuuri was smiling and Gwendal was Gwendal again.

He laughed, short and bitter. Yeah, right.

Gwendal stood, brushing dirt and grass from his jacket. “I’m going back now. Will you being staying with them, Your Majesty?”

“Oh?” Yuuri looked up, bit his lip, said nothing. There wasn’t anything to say. “Yeah, I guess will for a bit.”

Gwendal called over a nearby guard and instructed him to keep an eye on the king. “I’ll tell my brother where you are,” he said.

“Yeah,” and now Yuuri kept his eyes forward, “okay.”

***

He used to sleep well at night. There hadn’t been this ache in his chest and knot in his stomach and these thoughts creeping along inside his skull, half-formed and dark and they hurt, they made him sting and bleed like they were constructed of jagged glass tearing at his brain and scratching bright red lines behind his eyelids.

The closest thing Gwendal had to falling in love was asleep two floors up, next to his brother, and everything else was in between.

The king, a proud strong warrior in his youth, had become too old and frail to confront the wizard. In desperation, he looked to the tales of old for a solution. “When the kingdom is in danger, the mark of the Hero will appear,” he recalled from the bedtime stories of his youth. A summons was sent throughout the land, calling for the youth who would be the country’s only hope.

One morning, a fair young man from the countryside appeared in at the castle bearing the mark. He had no training, no warrior skills, not even a hint of magic about him, but the king had faith in the spirits to guide the youth to his destiny. He outfitted the boy in armour of gold and weapons of the finest, sharpest steel, and sent him off with a company of fifty of the most skilled soldiers in the land. A grand parade was arranged to see them off.

Despite the faith of the people of Lya, the youth’s heart was filled with dread. The mark that shined upon his arm had made him uneasy from the moment it appeared, and now because of it he was to defeat a great and powerful wizard to save the kingdom from almost certain doom. He cursed his own fate as well as the kingdom’s, for surely a lowly farmer’s son such as himself could not possibly hope to accomplish such a task.

About halfway to their destination, the company came upon an old oracle who had set up shop on the side of the road. The soldiers scoffed and passed her by, but the youth was curious. Could she perhaps tell him whether or not he would be able to save the kingdom? It couldn’t hurt to ask.

“My lady,” he said, placing several large gold coins on the table, “would you tell me what my future holds?”

The woman raised her weathered face and smiled. “You have no need of my services, Hero,” she replied, “you already know your fate. What you wish to know is the means by which you are to accomplish this task set before you, is it not?”

“You are wise beyond my expectations! Pray, is there any advice you might give me to ease my way in this quest?”

“I am forbidden to tell you what I see, but I do have something that might aid you.” The oracle produced an old, tarnished silver amulet. “I was given this long ago by a powerful sorcerer, though what its use is he would not say. It was owned by the last man chosen to save Lya. I sense it belongs with you now, young Hero.”

The youth accepted the trinket with solemn ceremony and bid the old oracle farewell.

After many weeks of rough travel the party finally reached the wizard’s castle. Though it was but midday, the sky grew black as pitch as they approached, and the sounds of wildlife were deadened. Not even a breeze blew in that dead place, steeped as it was in the darkest of magics. Some of the warriors grew frightened and made to turn back, but found their way barred by a thicket of thorny brambles that grew up behind them. With no other choice, they pressed on.

The wizard was waiting for them in the courtyard. With nary a word, he raised his left hand towards the black sky and summoned forth a bolt of light from the heavens. It was hotter than the flames of the greatest forge, brighter than the sun itself. All the company died in an instant, their corpses little more than black dust.

But the youth still stood.

The wizard was dumbfounded. He called upon his most powerful magic to strike the boy down, but to no avail. The youth, finding himself impervious to the wizard’s spells, quickly drew his sword and lunged at the foul being. The silver pendant dangled glittering from his throat, and the wizard cried out as he recognized it as an ancient shield against magics. He fumbled for the knife kept at his belt, but it was too late; the youth’s blade struck home. Reeking, black blood polluted by the evil spells the wizard employed gushed out upon the ground.

The youth sighed in relief as the sky above lightened to a peaceful cerulean. The wizard’s spells were broken, and his home would be safe and prosperous once more. With a light heart, he turned to leave and begin his solitary journey back to Lya.

And then a heavy stone tumbled down from the parapet above him, striking the youth in the head. He was killed instantly.

“Why do all your stories have to end that way?” James Blackwell complained to his grandmother as he took in the shocked faces of the children listening to her tale. “Can’t you just end it with the wizard’s defeat? Or better yet, let the boy live happily ever after for once.”

“I’m telling histories, not fairytales,” the old woman scoffed. “Everyone knows that true heroes die pointless deaths before the victory can go to their heads.”

“Then for the love of Lya, stop telling histories. Nobody will want to stay here if you’re going to keep scaring their children halfway to death.”

“I’m not scared!” cried one of the boys, but James ignored him.

The old woman shrugged and settled back in her chair. “If they wanted to be lied to then they could just go to their parents for comforting stories about pixies and princesses and dragons and the lot,” she said. “I think there should be at least one person in the world willing to tell young folk the truth about matters.”

“If it’s the truth, then why are you the only person I know of who insists that every single story ends this way?”

“Obviously you’ve been lied to quite often. Ask that elf friend of yours, he knows I’m telling the true version.”

James sighed and went back to cleaning the bar. “Do what you like.”

“Granny, can we hear the one about the prince who slew the dragon and got the princess and then died of food poisoning?”

“Now, you’ve gone and ruined the ending, Tommy!”

***

James Blackwell ran Equinox, a small inn and tavern in the north quarter of the port town of Kelly. His grandfather had bought the building on a drunken dare, and by a stroke of pure luck the man seemed to have enough of a knack for inn keeping to turn a healthy profit. Friends and patrons boasted that Equinox was the second-finest inn in north Kelly, though there being only two inns in north Kelly to begin with made this claim somewhat unimpressive. In any case, the food was always hot and the beer always cold and that was all anyone in the north quarter really gave two shits about.

James had been the sole proprietor for six years now, ever since his grandfather died. Since he’d basically taken on the task of managing most of the inn’s affairs for years prior, the transition had gone virtually unnoticed by the regulars, save that the beer was a little less watered down than when the old man had served it. In the surrounding neighbourhood, however, certain individuals took a great interest in the inn’s new owner.

“Have you seen that handsome fellow what runs Equinox now that the old man’s kicked it?”

“The grandson, isn’t it? Was he always so dashing?”

“Look at his teeth! Not a rotten one in the bunch! That’s a sign of good breeding, that is.”

“Ladies,” James would interrupt (as these conversations often occurred in the tavern while he was serving and, like as not, within earshot), “Tomorrow I’m going to bring in a cleaver and a harf. The next one of you to loiter around my tavern and make comments about my eligibility, the harf gets it.”

Sure, he wasn’t the most even-tempered of men, but the girls reasoned that everyone had their faults.

One day at about half past twelve, just after one such encounter (which never seemed to end in dead harfs no matter how often James threatened it), an elf strolled into the tavern and sat himself down at the table nearest to the bar. “‘m damned near starving, James,” he whined in a rich tenor that clashed with his crude tongue, “you got any swill worth choking down or should I just head back to the west quarter?”

“That’s an awful far way to walk on an empty stomach, Ell,” James replied, appearing to take no offence at the elf’s casual insults, “You’d better make due with the slop.”

“Well, make with it, then.” The elf leaned back in his chair and clunked grimy boots up on the tabletop. “And an ale, don’t forget.”

“You don’t have to tell me, you ponce, I know what your order is.” James plunked down an already filled tankard next to the elf’s feet and then made his way into the kitchen. “It’ll be just a moment.”

Tezuka turned his back to Inui and pulled a clean shirt out of his duffel bag.

“Based on the information that I had, the probability that I would win today’s match was eighty-nine percent.”

Tezuka ignored him.

“I did not think that you could have improved your tennis so much in the last several months, with your arm in poor condition. I will factor in the possibility before our next match. It is unlikely that–”

“You left this on the court,” Tezuka interrupted. He dug in his pocket for the woven bracelet, worn through in the middle, practically garbage but he’d picked it up anyway when he saw it lying in the middle of the empty court. Inui’s wrist looked strangely bare without it.

Inui reached up. Their fingers brushed together. “I won’t lose next time,” he said.

Challenge. Tezuka’s skin went hot and prickly. I look forward to it, he wanted to say. “You’ll be running laps next time you forget to pick up your trash, Imui” he warned.

Inui smiled and slid the bracelet between the pages of his notebook.

“Hikaru’s” the young man finally mutters after a few moments. One of them has a loose thread on the hem of one sleeve, and it is always Hikaru (though he will deny it, if you were to ask) who always forgets to send his clothes for mending. He returns the left-hand uniform to the closet and tosses the other to the floor behind him, where it is quickly retrieved by one of the maids and hung on a portable rack with the rest. Move to the next matching set, and repeat.

A half hour later the closet door slides closed with a dull thud and Kaoru drifts to the bathroom. Fidgets. He’s almost finished, but it’s still taking too long. Hikaru will be home from his not a date in an hour, maybe two, and if it’s not over by then Kaoru is not sure he’ll have the strength to see it through. He’s terribly weak to the tremor in his brother’s voice when he’s nervous and frightened, when he doesn’t understand why.

Towels, toothbrush, comb, the soap he likes so much because it smells the way he feels in the morning, bathrobe he hardly uses anyway, all shoved into some overpriced canvas bag he found buried underneath a stack of old comic books. Kaoru doesn’t need to take these things, really; there’s hardly anything he can’t replace with a wave of his hand, snap of his fingers, call to the right butler, but leaving them here is like saying he’ll be back. That’s not an option he wants to leave himself; he’ll take it.

Kaoru looks in the mirror as he turns to leave. Hikaru stares back at him. Hair-part left, hair-part right. Kaoru moves his right hand and Hikaru moves his left. Kaoru breathes, Hikaru breathes. Hikaru starts to sob and Kaoru realizes he is doing the same, tears dripping softly into the white porcelain sink and all over the marble countertop. He wipes them away on his bare wrist like a child, smears snot down his arm and laughs at himself. Across from him, Hikaru giggles silently in sync. Kaoru smiles. Hikaru smiles. Kaoru turns off the light, and Hikaru disappears.

No matter what the mirror keeps telling him, Kaoru is not Hikaru.

While his brother eats cheap ice cream from a street vendor across town with a girl whose name is unimportant, Kaoru has his things moved to the spare bedroom down the hall.

***

Kaoru is barely startled when his twin bursts into the room, slamming the door behind him. Hikaru has never been one for knocking, even in the most normal of circumstances. Neither is he one for observing the personal space of others (though Kaoru is hardly one to talk); Hikaru stumbles across the room and falls into the chair his brother occupies, latches onto him and squeezes hard, just short of real pain. Kaoru inhales sharply and drops his book. His brother smells like the summer breeze blowing through his open window.

“What did I do?” Hikaru asks, tears on the edge of his voice. “Whatever it is, I’m sorry. Okay? So stop it.”

“Stop what?” Kaoru clasps his brother’s hands and gently disentangles himself from the desperate embrace. “We’re third year already, so I thought it was time we had separate rooms, that’s all. Don’t you think so, Hikaru?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s weird to be sharing a room when we’re this old, isn’t it?”

Hikaru won’t let go of his hand. “No.”

“Well, I think it probably is. We’re not like the commoners that have to share their rooms with each other or anything. It’s kind of silly.”

The grip tightens. “You would have told me before,” Hikaru says, “if that was all. But you just left.” He looks his brother in the eyes. “I did something, right? I made you mad so you left.”

“Don’t be dumb. I felt like moving, so I did. It wasn’t anything to do with you.”

Hikaru’s face ducks down and he hugs his brother again, presses close. Kaoru makes no move to push him away this time, lets fingers dig painfully into his back.

“You’re such a liar,” Hikaru says. Sobs. Tears dribble down Kaoru’s bare skin where Hikaru rests his head, dripping down the line of his shoulder blade and drying into nothing along the curves of his back. “I hate when you do that.”

“When I do what?”

“Pretend like it’s okay.” Or that’s what Kaoru thinks he says. Hikaru’s own heavy breathing drowns out his words. His voice has gone so quiet.

Hikaru continues to sob, and Kaoru realizes he is doing the same.

***

It hits him hardest when he crawls under the covers that night. He switches off the light and the shadows all seem wrong, too long and stark and not where they’re supposed to be. Things creak when they shouldn’t. His bed faces the wrong way. The absence of his brother’s breathing is the loudest sound he’s ever heard. He twists the sheets anxiously between his fingers and the shadows shift around him.

There are several times over the course of the night where it is almost too much for him. He wants to bolt down the hallway, third door on the right, to where the world is how it’s supposed to be and everything makes sense and Hikaru snores sometimes. Once, he makes it as far as his own door, hand resting on the smooth brass knob, before he takes a breath and slinks back to his bed. Twice he rolls onto his side and stares into the dark where Hikaru should be, sprawled out, feet hanging off the edge of the bed. At three in the morning he finally falls asleep with a pillow clutched over his head to keep out the silence.

He wakes up in a tangle of sheets on the floor, Hikaru looking down at him from the bed with a sense of impending doom.

And Kaoru laughs.

“When it gets here, I’ll tell you.” Kaga tried to light his cigarette, discovering for the third time that hour how difficult the rain made this process. “Maybe you should think about contacts if your glasses fog up that much.”

“And whose fault is it that I’m out here in the first place?!” Tsutsui tried to glare at Kaga but ended up giving dirty looks to a nearby tree. “I’m not the one who can’t go one week without detention!”

Kaga tried not to grin, sensing it would get him in a lot of trouble if Tsutsui happened to notice. Still, he couldn’t help saying “I didn’t ask you to wait for me, you could’ve caught the earlier bus.”

Tsutsui pointedly removed his glasses and began methodically wiping the moisture off of them before muttering “Of course I had to wait for you,” to the sidewalk. He looked like he might spontaneously combust if it wasn’t so wet outside.

Tsutsui squeaked as Kaga pulled him into a rough embrace, “You’ve got to quit being so fucking adorable or I’ll end up violating you right here on the street,” he whispered, tossing his cigarette in a puddle because, really, it was just going to be in the way in a few minutes.

“Really?” Kaga could tell without looking that the smaller boy was smiling. “In the rain?”

“Of course in the rain. Haven’t you ever seen one of those stupid romance flicks?”

“None that ended quite like that.” Tsutsui leaned into Kaga, instinctively seeking warmth because Kaga was better than a heated blanket on days like this, mostly because he’d never met a blanket that could kiss like that. He didn’t even mind the lingering taste of cigarette smoke anymore, would even go so far as to say he actually liked it were he only a little more bold and a little less worried about the long-term health risks Kaga’s pack-a-day lifestyle posed.

“Tsutsui,” Kaga leaned back and growled, “are you going to keep thinking about lung cancer or are you going to fucking kiss me?”

Well, there was plenty of time to worry about black lungs and chemotherapy. A little delirious from standing in the rain for an hour and a half, Tsutsui yanked on the collar of Kaga’s jacket and initiated the second round of—as Kaga liked to call it—mouth ravishing.

The shougi captain broke away and moved his lips close to Tsutsui’s ear. “Come over to my place tonight.”

It was a school night. Tsutsui had homework in all of his classes. He hesitated.

“Tsutsui?”

“Okay.”

Okay, he might regret saying yes tomorrow, but it was raining and he was cold and the things they did together in Kaga’s room when his parents were out sounded much more appealing than integrals. Then Kaga was kissing him again and that sealed the deal, the shock of warm hands on the skin of his back almost as jarring as the cold spray of muddy water that pelted their faces a few minutes later.

Tsutsui sputtered and jammed his glasses on his face just in time to see their bus barreling down the road. “No!” He scrambled out of Kaga’s arms and made a half-hearted run towards the retreating vehicle. “Kaga, you made us miss it again!”

“Me?!” Kaga huffed. “I wasn’t swappin’ spit with myself, you know!”

“Well, you started it!”

They might have continued, but Kaga decided that there were better things to do in the rain with his boyfriend than argue with him.

Suddenly, Tsutsui found the idea of waiting for the next bus much more appealing.

Of course, he’d neglected to factor in cross-dressers, and he’d especially forgotten to factor in Yozak.

Everything had been going so normally. Wolfram was reading to Greta from Anissina’s latest children’s short fiction in the garden. Conrad was giving Yuuri lessons in swordsmanship, or maybe it was parade etiquette again, he couldn’t really remember. That wasn’t the important bit, anyway. The important bit was Yozak parading around in a maid outfit, which was not really an extraordinary circumstance; Yozak would often neglect to change out of his ‘work clothes’ once he was finished whatever covert ops he’d been assigned to because, hey, the man liked the dress-up a little and wasn’t ashamed to show it. So. Semi-normal cross-dressing. Whatever. This usually wouldn’t present a problem, except… except…

Except that day it did. And Yuuri still cannot for the life of him tell you whether it was the sway of his hips or the high-heeled shoes or the full, glossed-up lips (though he is sure that the sultry little wink was probably the biggest factor) that set him off, but in any case a casual glance away from Conrad (blah blah swords blah) towards Yozak’s slow sashay across the yard was all took to bring Yuuri’s entire world view—or at least the part concerning our favourite redhead—crashing down around him. For the first time in his many years of cross-dimensional habitation, Yuuri became sharply aware of one startling fact:

Yozak was hot.

VERY

hot.

This was a shocking realization, as is often the case when one finds themselves looking at an old friend in a newly sexual light, and considering that Yuuri had never once in his life been particularly attracted to the masculine gender his frank and open stare is perhaps forgivable (though Conrad shall probably still tease him about it for years to come). The husband, luckily enough, was for once occupied with something other than watching Yuuri like a hawk, and did not notice the young man’s sudden interest.

But Yozak did.

***

“Liked what you saw, your Majesty?”

“You hiked up your skirt,” Yuuri groaned. “You hiked up your skirt and I couldn’t stop staring and everyone saw me and they all know where I am tonight.”

“You’re the king of arguably the world’s most powerful country, kid.” Yozak pulled Yuuri onto the bed. “They’re all just wondering why you haven’t slept with half your court already.”

***

Wolfram stood beside the breakfast table, arms crossed, foot tapping. “Where were you?”

“I had things to do.” It wasn’t even a lie.

“That smell,” Wolfram’s voice was a tight, furious whisper, “have you been borrowing Yozak’s cologne?”

“Isn’t that Conrad’s shirt you’re wearing? It’s too big on you, Wolfram.” Yuuri smiled, fake innocent. “I’ll tell the maids to be more careful with the wash.”

They sat down and ate as if nothing had changed.

Julia stepped into the room, clinging firmly to the doorframe. “Conrad,” she called out, voice still sweet and soothing even when tinged with annoyance, “where have you gotten to?”

“Wrong brother,” Gwendal replied curtly. “Are you lost, Miss Julia?”

“It’s Conrad who’s gotten lost.” She drifted into the room, arm stretched out before her, confidence easily returning to her gait now that she knew where she was. “He was supposed to accompany me to the festival, but he must have taken a turn without me and now I don’t know where he’s gone.” She settled into the chair opposite Gwendal. “Do you mind if I wait here until he finds me?”

Gwendal managed to muffle his exasperated sigh. “I suppose it would be rude of me to abandon a lady in her time of need, would it not?”

“The lady swears not to bother you while you work,” she laughed, “promise.”

Gwendal thanked Julia for her consideration, and returned to his tasks. For a few moments, at least.

“Gwendal?”

The scratching of pen against paper increased audibly. “Yes, Miss Julia?”

The young woman fiddled with the ends of her long white forelock. “What do you think of Adalbert?” she asked, softly.

“He is an adept soldier, and a good man.” Gwendal glanced up sharply. “Why?”

Julia didn’t answer, just stared distractedly at a place no one else could see. “Do you suppose,” she continued, as though he hadn’t replied, “that one can love more than a single person at once?”

“Julia,” the pen had ceased, the papers forgotten, his voice was stern. “Conrad is—”

“My closest friend, and possibly my soul mate.” Her smile, always warm and comforting, had grown so melancholy as to make his heart ache to look. “But it is not Conrad I am speaking of. There is another who I… who I have always had great respect and admiration for. And even though I do not know him as intimately as I would like, the more I learn of his character, the more I see of his deeds, and the more time I spend in his presence…” Julia’s hands moved unconsciously to clasp above her heart, “the more this familiar feeling grows within me. And I can’t help but think, Gwendal: if I were to pursue it, would it outstrip the feelings I have for Adalbert? Would I be doing us all an injustice, to keep these feelings a secret? Would we all be… happier, if I were to take the chance?” She dropped a hand to the desk, outstretched, her eyes boring unseeingly into his. “I don’t know what to do, Gwendal.”

He was not an idiot, and her words were but thinly veiled. He hadn’t known… but how could he? How could he have even guessed?

He took her hand, his fingers trembling. He told them to stop. She had been in the garden. The scent of Conrad Stands Upon The Earth clung to her clothing. He loved her, but everybody loved her. That was just the way it was.

“I think,” he choked, “that one should not abandon a safe haven for the slim chance of something better out on the horizon. Especially when… there is another haven nearby, if it comes to that.”

Her laugh was soft and sincere. “I knew you would say something like that. The two of you are just the same that way.”

All was silence for a few precious minutes as the failing light of dusk finally drifted into darkness. Too soon, she stood, the same as she had always been and always would be. “I hear your brother down the hall. I should go to him before he begins to worry.”

The goodbye was stiff and formal.

That night he dreamed of sky-blue laughter wrapped up in white silk, and of two reasons why it would never be his.

It all started on a bright, sunny spring morning. Shibuya Yuuri, freshman at K High, was making his way to homeroom in his usual, cheerful manner (how he managed to walk cheerfully is still something of an enigma) when he noticed some sort of commotion at one of the entrances to the school. Curious teen that he was, Yuuri decided to alter his route slightly so that he might see what all the fuss was about.

Upon arriving on the scene, Yuuri discovered that the disturbance was caused by a young man accosting the students attempting to enter the building. On closer inspection, said young man was identified to be one Murata Ken, longtime classmate and casual acquaintance of our genki little protagonist. Now, Yuuri might not have known Murata Ken particularly well, but he’d been going to school with the boy for enough years to realize that waving a clipboard in the face of every student that passed by was not par for the course. Since there were still twenty minutes before class began, he decided to satisfy his curiosity by asking Murata just what he was up to. This was, in fact, a decision that would forever change Yuuri’s life, but we’ll get to that soon enough.

“Shibuya!” Murata exclaimed as his classmate came into view, allowing the third year boy he’d been chatting up to slink away unnoticed, “Do you want to join my baseball club?”

“Baseball club? Is that what all this is about?” Yuuri took the flyer Murata offered and read it over. “Murata, this just says ‘join my baseball club’ on it. There’s no other information! What kind of advertisement is this?”

The other boy gnawed his thumbnail in agitation. “Well, yes, that’s because there isn’t really anything else to tell yet.”

“Wha—”

“But it’s going to be fantastic once I get it started up!” Murata barreled on, oblivious. “So, will you join? I’ll make you co-manager, or captain or something.”

Suppressing the unusual urge to tell Murata just where he could stick his flyer, Yuuri suggested that they go talk about this whole baseball thing somewhere that wouldn’t disrupt traffic, and after a little bit of prodding Murata agreed. Yuuri led his classmate to a nearby bench and inquired as to why he’d grown such a sudden interest for the sport in question. “Our school’s not really big on baseball,” he elaborated, “Why would you want to start a team here?”

“That’s exactly the reason why I have to start a team here!” Murata gripped Yuuri’s arm in a fit of excitement. “Don’t you see, Shibuya? The students of this school are deprived of the greatest sport known to man! It’s my duty, my obligation, to rectify that!”

“Well,” Yuuri replied, gently shaking himself free from Murata, “I suppose it sort of makes sense, if you feel that way about it. But, I think you’ll have a real hard time convincing others to take it so seriously. I mean, it’s so boring to watch…”

“Shibuya!!!!” the other boy cried, shocked, “Bite your tongue! Baseball is NOT boring to watch if you know what’s going on, and even if it were, watching and playing are two totally different things!”

“But it seems like you just stand around all ga—OW!” Yuuri clutched his ribs where Murata jabbed him with the clipboard, “well, it does! Where’s the fun in hanging around the outfield all day?”

“Baseball isn’t about running around every second you’re on the field!” Color rose in Murata’s cheeks and his voice became increasingly louder; he jumped to his feet, “It’s about strategy, quick-thinking, and teamwork! Just because it’s not as fast-paced as other sports doesn’t mean it’s not as good, you know!”

A sickening spurt of guilt at his unintentional insensitivity sent Yuuri into a string of incoherent apologetic babble as he stood and patted Murata’s back in an effort to soothe him somewhat. “Hey, I didn’t mean it like that at all, really!” he exclaimed, “I just don’t really get baseball, but maybe you’ll have better luck with someone else, one of your friends or something. I mean, baseball’s so popular here in Japan, surely I must be the rarity, right? I just went and assumed that everyone thought the same way, but that’s really not right, is it? Sort of conceited of me, I gu—”

“It’s okay, Shibuya.” Murata smiled, albeit a little sadly. “You just seemed the type that might feel the same way about baseball as me, so I was a little surprised.” He sighed. “Truth is, it’s not very popular at all in this area. I haven’t had any luck.”

“Well, you just need a little help, that’s all.” Yuuri tugged the other boy back to the bench. “You should get things organized before you start trying to recruit.”

“I’ve been trying, but it’s such a big job for just one person!” He leaned back abruptly with an air of defeat. “All my friends go to different high schools, and I can’t find anyone here with much interest except some of the faculty, and they’ve got no time to be helping me with this.”

Yuuri felt a pang in his chest (assumingly due to sympathy and not heartburn from omelets he’d eaten for breakfast) as he looked at his crestfallen classmate. Our hero had always been rather helpless to resist a good sob story, and Murata’s was a FANTASTIC one, right down to the quiver of his bottom lip. “If it’s so important to you,” he found himself blurting out before he could think about it, “I’ll help you get started. I don’t know much about baseball, but it can’t be too hard—”

“Really?!?!” Murata cut him off mid-sentence with a huge hug. “Oh Shibuya, thank you!”

“It’s no big deal…”

Just then, the bell for first class rang. Murata smiled and stood up. “Well, I’ll leave it to you, then. You’ll be meeting with the vice principal this afternoon at four!”

“Wait, what?!”

***

Yuuri slumped in the bench outside the vice principal’s office. Murata had explained to him at lunch break (after Yuuri had a mild freak out in the middle of the cafeteria about Murata dumping all the work on him) that the meeting was really just a brief thing to finalize the club; Yuuri just had to make sure to take down everything and make nice with the vice principal. “I’d go,” Murata told him, “but I’ve got work after class today. It’d help me a lot if you could do it.” And then Murata flashed him big, hopeful eyes, and Yuuri was trudging off to class with an only slightly irritated “I’ll be there, then.”

And so it was that, instead of playing videogames to put off doing his homework like a NORMAL teenage boy, Yuuri found himself sitting on an excruciatingly uncomfortable bench in the school’s main office at four o’clock in the afternoon with no one but secretary Gunter to keep him company. Considering the man kept gazing at him with questionable intent in his eyes, Yuuri would’ve much preferred to be alone, but he was always one to make the best of things and so he tried to strike up something of a conversation.

“So… how much longer, exactly?”

The man flicked his lavender hair (‘Who on earth dyes their hair lavender, at his age?’ Yuuri mused to himself) out of his eyes before replying. “He’s in there with coach Grantz, which could take awhile, and then he’s speaking to a student about a baseball club, so you’ll probably be here for a good half hour at least.”

“But I’m the one here about the baseball club.” Yuuri could’ve sworn he’d mentioned that when he came in, but the secretary had been reading the sort of book that secretaries are wont to read when the office is slow (you know what kind I’m talking about) and probably didn’t take much notice of him. “So I just have to wait for Mr. Grantz to finish?”

“You’re the one starting the club?” The man was clearly bewildered. “Well, why didn’t you say so earlier? Gunter Christ, Mr. Walde’s personal secretary, I look forward to working with you! I’m so glad to see an energetic young man like you stepping up to revive the baseball club, it’s one of my favorite sports, I was DEVASTATED when it folded year before last, broke my heart!” He shook Yuuri’s hand vigorously and then dropped a thick sheaf of papers into his lap. “Fill these out before you leave, please.”

“Please to meet y—what?” Yuuri stared at the forms, horrified. “But Murata—”

“Skipped out without filling in all the proper paperwork, the rascal!” Gunter clucked his tongue in that disapproving manner usually reserved for schoolmarms and homemakers. “Knew as soon as he came in that he couldn’t be trusted with this kind of thing. Hates work, that boy. But you’re a kind, honest young man, aren’t you? You won’t shirk your duties as soon-to-be-president of a club by blowing off your paperwork, will you?”

There was something dangerous behind the secretary’s smile, and Yuuri figured he’d better agree. He didn’t have anything better to do, after all.

Our hero was halfway through the dastardly pile of paperwork by the time Adalbert Grantz strolled out of vice principal Walde’s office. “Sorry to make you wait,” he said to Yuuri when he spotted him on the bench. “Shibuya, right?”

“Yes, sir. I’m in your fourth period class.”

“Yes, that’s right. You’ve got a good jump. Ever think of trying out for the basketball team?”

That did sound a lot more exciting than this silly sport Murata was so interested in. Maybe…

“Don’t bother, Coach Grantz,” Gunter piped up smugly from his desk. “Shibuya’s our new baseball manager.”

All at once the cheerful expression dropped from the P.E. teacher’s face. “Oh,” was all he said, though the chill behind that single syllable could’ve replaced the school’s aircon for an entire summer. He gave Yuuri a thoroughly disapproving look before he left without a word.

“Don’t mind him.” The Vice Principal’s voice made Yuuri nearly jump off the bench, sending some of the papers in his lap fluttering to the ground. “Don’t mind the forms, either, you can finish those later. Come in.”

Now, Vice Principal Walde was no cushy creampuff of an administrator, definitely not. The man was young, tall and well-built, the sort of physique that didn’t really fit his job description and could easily put a young shitdisturber in his place with a well-aimed glare. In any case, he was pleasant enough (if a bit brusque), so long as you weren’t in his office for Stirring Shit Up, and Yuuri quickly got over his intimidation at the somewhat imposing figure the man cut. They soon got down to business, which mostly consisted of Yuuri furiously taking notes while VP Walde listed off everything from where the club was to meet to how much money they were being allotted to whom Yuuri should contact about setting up games, etcetera. And then the vice principal mentioned a complication.

“Complication?” Yuuri didn’t like the sound of that. Complications were bad. Complications could possibly mean missing dinner.

“Sports clubs generally have a teacher to sponsor and coach.” Gwendal (for why should narration bother with formalities all of the damn time?) folded his hands in a Rather Serious Manner. “However, there are no teachers here with sufficient knowledge of the sport to coach. Professor Khrennikov has agreed to be your supervisor, but her knowledge of baseball is extremely limited.”

“We could try coaching ourselves…” Yuuri said doubtfully.

Gwendal cleared his throat. “Well, I was going to propose that you simply use a volunteer from outside the school.”

“But I don’t know anyone who plays baseball!!”

“If you’d let me finish,” the vice principal gave Yuuri a look that made the boy realize just exactly why their high school had so very little delinquent behaviour, “I’ve already found a volunteer, if you’d like to use him.”

“Who?”

“Me.”

Yuuri kinked his neck all out of sorts as he whipped his head around to see where the voice had come from. He berated himself silently: he really did need to get his peripheral eyesight checked, if he’d mistaken the lean, brown-haired guy standing in the corner for a coat rack. “Oh. Hello.” Idiot. “And, um, you are, er, who, exactly?”

“Conrad Weller,” the vice principal replied for him, “my half brother. He plays for K College.”

The young man stepped forward, arm outstretched, smiling. “Pleased to meet you.”

Yuuri took the proffered hand and shook it, for some reason struck instantly stupid-nervous. “Um, er, ah, me too. Pleased, I mean. To meet you. Conrad. I mean, Mr. Weller. Sir. Um,” he gave the vice principal a desperate sidelong glance that clearly said ‘help’.

“I’m sure he’s fine with you calling him ‘Conrad’, Shibuya,” Gwendal said, a small smile cracking at the corners of his mouth. Conrad nodded his approval. “He’s never liked people treating him formally.”

***

Yuuri eyed the baseball team’s maybe-soon-to-be coach across the table as he took a bite of his caramel sundae. Why don’t the two of you become acquainted, the vice principal had said. See if the two of you will be able to work together, he’d said. You’re under no obligation to accept him as your coach, he’d stressed, it’s only a suggestion. He hadn’t mentioned a thing about sit in an ice cream parlour for half an hour in awkward silence, but apparently that was part of the deal. At least Conrad was paying; Yuuri didn’t usually like to freeload, but he felt he deserved some sort of compensation for all the work he was putting toward a sport that he didn’t even enjoy, and it might as well come from the affluent college student as anyone else.

“How long have you been playing?” Yuuri finally asked before the silence at their table could drive him completely and utterly mad.

“Since I was six.” Conrad poked at his own sundae absentmindedly. “My mother was in a women’s softball league when she was younger, so she signed my brothers and I up for youth teams as soon as we were old enough. Luckily, we all enjoyed it. Even Gwendal.”

Yuuri tried to imagine the stoic vice principal in a baseball uniform and nearly broke his brain, or so he would claim. “Is that why he’s been doing so much for the team? Because he’s a baseball fan?”

“I don’t think he’s been doing much beyond what he normally does. He mentioned the team and I said I’d be interested in lending a hand, since I played ball here when I was in school. You just happened to need a coach.” Conrad shrugged and took a downright dainty bite of his ice cream; Yuuri wondered if the man even liked sweets. “It was a happy coincidence, not Gwen—Vice Principal Walde’s preferential treatment. He’s very happy about the whole thing, though.”

“Rrthy?” It was hard to talk through caramel topping.

“Yes, really.” Conrad smiled and reflexively dabbed some stray ice cream from Yuuri’s face, an instinctive gesture left over from years of looking after his younger brother. “He might not act like it, but he’s happy. He sulked for a week when the team first disbanded.”

Yuuri laughed (Conrad would have called it a giggle, but Conrad’s not our protagonist and so we’ll call it a laugh). “I’d have loved to see that! Did he pout?”

The atmosphere was considerably lightened from that point on, and the two of them talked the evening away as their respective sundaes melted into ice-cream soup in their plastic cups. Friends, family, hopes and dreams—basically, they chattered on about every subject they could think of except the baseball club. Baseball itself, yes, but the coaching position was never mentioned. In fact, Yuuri completely forgot just why he was spending the day with a handsome college student instead of playing videogames with his brother (also a handsome college student, incidentally, but this is beside the point).

At nine-fifteen, they were kicked out of the ice cream parlour. They were sitting on a bench, waiting for Yuuri’s bus home, when Conrad finally brought up the club.

“Shibuya, I—”

“Yuuri,” our hero interrupted. “If I get to call you Conrad, you definitely have to call me Yuuri,” he poked the older man playfully in the shoulder, “it’s weird otherwise!”

“Then… Yuuri,” Conrad’s tone was frank and serious; Yuuri’s playful mood quickly dissipated. “I… well, I know that Gwendal said that the decision is completely up to you but… I just wanted you to know that I’d really like to coach this team with you. I’d love working with you, and,” he clenched his fist, “I really think that, together, we can bring K High’s team to the top.”

“Conrad…”

“I’ll understand if you don’t think it’ll work out,” he said quickly, eyes never leaving Yuuri’s, “I just wanted you to know what I thought. That’s all.”

Yuuri looked away. It was time to come clean, before Conrad got his hopes up about this whole baseball thing. “To be perfectly honest,” he began, addressing himself to the sidewalk beneath his feet, “I’ve never had anything to do with baseball before this morning. It always seemed so… boring. Sorry,” he apologized, “but you can see where I’m coming from, can’t you? Anyway,” he dared glance up, “that’s how I’ve always felt about it. But I wanted to help out Murata, and after hearing him defend it so strongly, I started to think that maybe I was missing something. And after hearing you talk about how much it’s influenced everyone in your family, and everything, I… I…” at a loss, he stared at the ground again. “I’m sure there’s more to it, now.”

“Yuuri,” Conrad exclaimed, and all at once Yuuri was being hugged right out in public by a guy he’d only met five hours before. He probably would’ve been horrified, but he was too relieved that Conrad wasn’t angry with him for not liking baseball to bother.

“If I make you our coach,” our coal-haired protagonist muttered into Conrad’s shoulder, “will you teach me what’s so great about this sport?”

“I promise,” Conrad replied fiercely, “I’ll teach you everything there is to love. Manager.”

“Then I guess I’ll see you at practice.” Yuuri smiled. “Coach.”

And as he waved goodbye to his new coach and friend from the bus window, Yuuri knew that if people like Conrad loved it, baseball couldn’t be as stupid as he first thought.

So our hero’s journey begins…

Bored with sifting through bland chart-topping pop hits, Mac strolled over to PC and glanced over his shoulder. “You’re doing accounting again?” he asked in an awkward attempt at starting conversation, “Must be rough. Y’know, I was on iTunes after I finished my papers and I—”

“Yes, I know,” PC snapped, “I’m doing boring real-world tasks while you gallivant around with your music and image editing and shiny new foreign peripherals and people-friendly programs because I’m old and boring and flawed while you’re young and edgy and infallible. I get it.”

Mac backed away, startled. PC could be quirky, sure, but he was usually such an easygoing sort of guy. “Dude, I never said—”

“I know you didn’t.” Numbers were flying across the page, almost hypnotic. PC was wicked with spreadsheets; Mac had always thought so.

“Well, what I was really getting at,” Mac said cheerily, trying to lighten the mood, “is that I just downloaded this awesome new song. You wanna listen? I even converted it to mp3 for you. You could use a break, man…”

PC adjusted his glasses, barely glancing at the outstretched hand offered towards him. “I’m not up to networking. It’s been a long day,” he said, tone clipped and businesslike, “I’m going to shut down after I finish this.”

“Oh.” Mac dropped his arm back to his side, forcing a smile. “Sure. I understand. Some other time?”

Mac couldn’t understand PC’s muttered reply, and he was pretty sure he wasn’t meant to. Shortly, PC saved the spreadsheet he’d been labouring over all day, and went to bed without another word to Mac.

“Whatever,” Mac said to himself after his friend had shut down for the night, “be that way, you old crank.” He turned back to his music folder.

It took him twenty minutes before he noticed that he was converting all his AAC files to WMA.

Vandal and makeshift repairman hides around the corner, watching. Murata knows he’s there, and Yozak knows he knows because there’s just this thing, this connection, this understanding. It’s the reason they work so well together, the reason Murata trusted Yozak with everything (except that one thing, he couldn’t trust anyone with that, and the reasons show themselves in the ruined paintings on the wall). It’s the reason Murata crawled so willingly into Yozak’s bed, and the reason Yozak let him.

The thing that hurts him the most about seeing these portraits, mocking him with their ruin, is that Yozak is the one who did it, got riled enough to hack heirlooms to pieces, and the thing that makes him the happiest is that it was Yozak who ended up fixing them.

“I didn’t hate you, y’know.” He steps out, arms folded, swagger that would look stupidly feminine on a man of his build if it were anyone but Yozak. “I’ve never hated you.”

Murata fingers the duct tape. “I find that hard to believe.”

“S’true.” He points, limb stretched to its fullest in over-exaggeration, right at Shinou’s face. “I hated him most, for what he did to the kid. And I hated him,” his arm sweeps smoothly to the left, “for making you help him do it.”

“Yozak, I am—”

His arms are around Murata before the boy can finish his sentence. “No,” he says fiercely, “you’re not.”

That’s all he’s ever needed to hear.

“I’m back.” Nonchalant, as though Yozak should have been expecting it.

The distance between them is covered in two strides of Yozak’s long legs and a tight embrace that pulls Murata out of his chair and dispels all the doubts that have been clouding his mind. You’re mine, it tells him wordlessly, you’re really mine, and Murata answers back with hot, wet kisses, yes, God yes, only yours, as memories of a demon king finally fade away for good.

“Do you still think about him?”

Murata knows instantly what he’s asking about. “If it weren’t for the paintings in the castle,” he replies simply, “I would have already forgotten his face.”

He decides not to add that ginger hair has replaced blond in the memories that haven’t yet faded completely away; Yozak already looks pleased enough with himself.

“Yeah?”

Shuichi looked warily at a nearby clump of bushes as he plucked at the manager’s shirt. “There’s some creepy guy hiding in there.”

“Another fan?” K had a gun loaded with rubber bullets cocked and ready before Shuichi could blink. “When will they learn?”

“Just don’t kill him, okay? We don’t need another Kansai incident.”

“Hey, what’d I tell you?” K winked, “What happens in Kansai, stays in Kansai. Besides,” he added as he slinked off towards the bush, “they won’t let me carry one of those anymore.”

As K got closer he could hear soft breathing coming from the shrubs, and patches of beige showed through the sparser bits of foliage. He had to give this one credit, though; if Shuichi hadn’t happened to glance over as they passed, he would’ve never noticed the guy. That was dedication. He lowered his gun and pushed back the branches, thinking that maybe he wouldn’t rough this one up too mu—

Oh, what the fuck. He was sleeping. In a shrub.

K sighed and tucked his gun back in the holster before kicking the boy, a green-haired brat even younger than Shu, gently on the shoulder. “Oi. Get up.”

“Mm?” The boy yawned and peered up at K, straightening his sunglasses and blinking rapidly. “You’re gonna blow my cover, mai brozaa. I must show Kazuki the way of the doujin so we can rule the world.”

“That’s very nice,” K said, placating, “but no one ever ruled the world from a bush, and your skulking is disturbing my charge. Please move along.”

“But-but-but-but!” the boy’s eyes went wide and he clung to K’s pant leg, “I must stay in hiding so that at the critical moment I can pop out and deliver words of wisdom that will guide Kazuki down the path towards his destiny!”

“And I can appreciate that.” K shook his leg in an attempt to dislodge the strange young man, but to no avail. “I myself have lain in hiding for days for reasons not unlike your own. However, not only has your cover been blown, but since you’ve carelessly fallen asleep, your target has probably already moved on.”

A look of horror crossed the young man’s face. “You’re right!” he cried as he leapt to his feet, “I can’t believe I could be so careless! This isn’t like me at all! Oh, I knew I shouldn’t have eaten that sketchy tofu…”

“Hey, it happens to the best of us,” K patted the boy on the back, “just be more careful next time.”

They exchanged a few more words and a few more reassuring back-pats before the boy ran off, presumably to meet up with this ‘Kazuki’ in another location. K waved goodbye and then strolled back to Shuichi. “Taken care of.”

“K,” the pop-rocker looked at him oddly, “Did you… fondle that guy’s ass? Or am I just seeing things?”

K smiled cryptically and put an arm around his charge. “Come on, we’ve got a taping to get to.”

“R-right…”

***

Taishi twisted around, trying to get a glimpse of his rear in the mirror. He could have sworn he saw…

There, in the middle of the right cheek. K, 555-1234. In mirror writing, no less.

“Oh, he has got to teach me how to do that.”

Sex doesn’t mean anything between you, never has, not even when Muraki had two good eyes and something resembling a human soul, back before he broke for good. It’s just a way to pass the time, make those insomniac nights go by a little less slowly. Muraki’s cold, pale hands are only eclipsed by the icy, indifferent look he gives you as you moan beneath him, louder than any of the whores you employ. There isn’t anything resembling love in the act, but that’s fine because Muraki’s love is a twisted parody of the emotion and you want nothing to do with it. You pity the poor soul Muraki’s set his eyes upon.

Keep telling yourself this, and maybe one time it’ll be true.

He’s gone almost as soon as he’s finished. Sometimes he’ll stay for awhile, tell you about what fucked-up scheme has brought him to Kyoto this time, say your name in that deep velvet voice, Oriya, so smooth you want to fuck him all over again. Not tonight, though. Tonight, he’s hunting Shinigami. Tonight he slips from your grasp before you can even get a grip.

If I died before you did… even if you didn’t mean it… would you shed at least one tear for me?

His voice comes back to you in the dark, more vulnerable than anyone alive to remember has ever heard it. It’s the only time those glassy eyes of his have ever looked truly human, the only instant that he’s ever really been yours. It’s the memory that keeps you calling him ‘friend’ even after he’s forgotten what the word means. It’s the reason you’re sobbing into the silken sleeve of your kimono.

He’s already been dead for so long.

Until the very moment the Deadly Viper Assassination Squad walked into the church, he’d almost forgotten he’d come there to kill her.

02: Waltz

Bea loved watching Bill kill a man; it was always such beautifully choreographed slaughter, like the whole world was watching his macabre dance.

03: Wishes

All she’d ever wanted was to continue on the way she was: to live for him, to kill for him, and to die for him in a blaze of blood and glory; pity how we never get what we wish for.

04: Wonder

She’d never given the Asian continent a second thought before she met Bill, but when he talked about impossibly sharp swords and men with the strength of monsters, it all seemed so fascinating.

05: Worry

When she didn’t come back from her mission on time, Bill didn’t sleep for four days.

06: Whimsy

Beatrix let her imagination run away with thoughts of Bill reading her baby bedtime stories while she gazed on lovingly from the doorway for a few moments before the blast of a shotgun reminded her why she couldn’t have it that way.

07: Waste/Wasteland

The bloody mess of mangled corpses in the lobby was nothing compared to the part of her soul where Bill used to be.

08: Whisky and Rum

Beatrix liked looking at the bottles that lined the bar at Bill’s place—he always bought expensive shit that was packaged to look like cheap shit, and it amused her.

09: War

This wasn’t war, it was slaughter, murder, bloody vengeance, the wrath of a woman scorned; this was a vendetta against all he stood for, and the atonement for all he’d taken in his ignorance.

10: Wedding

If you wanted the church and the dress and the papers and the baby and the used record store in El Paso I would have given them to you, Kiddo; I would have given you the world if you’d just asked me.

11: Birthday

B.B. didn’t understand why her mommy started crying so much when she asked if her daddy could come to her birthday party.

12: Blessing

Bea often wondered what might have happened if she hadn’t just accepted Bill’s blessings at face value, what might have happened if she had stood by the man she really wanted.

13: Bias

One of the Vipers had once asked him if it wasn’t bad business, screwing his subordinate, and Bill had responded calmly and rationally as to why it was no one’s fucking concern; Budd still had the scar.

14: Burning

He’d often seen her eyes on fire with merciless rage; it was just the first time he’d ever seen them look that way towards him.

15: Breathing

As he led the Deadly Vipers out of the church, he could have sworn he heard her—no, it must have been his imagination.

16: Breaking

Bill shattered a dozen shot glasses against the wall in a drunken rage the day he’d been shown that picture of her.

17: Belief

She had wanted so badly to believe he was sincere, that he’d be there sitting on the bride’s side and smiling and letting her know it was okay to do what she was doing; she should have known better.

18: Balloon

B.B. looked at her with big, sad eyes and asked if Daddy had stopped flapping like Emilio; Beatrix bought a bright red helium balloon to distract her.

19: Balcony

They were admiring the view of Mexican coastline afforded by Bill’s new villa when he told her in his gruff, cryptic way that it could be ‘theirs’, if she wanted.

20: Bane

Bill didn’t know why he kept going for the blondes; they always ended up being such a damn nuisance.

21: Quiet

In the silence after the gunshot her voice played itself on repeat in his head: “It’s your baby.”

22: Quirks

He took that stupid flute with him everywhere.

23: Question

There were so many things he needed to ask her, but in the end he couldn’t bear to inquire about the one thing he truly wanted to know: “Do you still love me?”

24: Quarrel

Bill had been reluctant to bring the Vipers into something that was really between him and Beatrix, but they had insisted: the Vipers wouldn’t let her get away with what she had done to him.

25: Quitting

Giving up killing had been the easy part; it was giving up Bill—shuddering inside every time Tommy touched her—that was hard.

26: Jump

She’d never actually had to jump a motorcycle onto a speeding train, but she would have if he’d asked her to.

27: Jester

His jokes were funny, in a sadistic asshole kind of way.

28: Jousting

It was a game that had been played with lances, swords, pistols, but this was probably the first time a couple of old-west-style assassins were planning to battle each other with katanas on a Mexican beach at dawn.

29: Jewel

A lot of people would’ve referred to the lanky blonde killer as a diamond in the rough; to Bill, she was a rattler in a rabbit den (she liked Bill’s euphemism better).

30: Just

Neither one of them could ever be satisfied with a bare minimum; they were all-or-nothing sort of people, and that’s probably why Bill couldn’t settle for Beatrix being anything but his.

31: Smirk

It was that damn cocky smile that drew him to her in the first place, and it was the innocent one that kept him coming back.

32: Sorrow

When she woke to find the child gone from her womb, Beatrix knew both true sorrow and rage in the same instant.

33: Stupidity

Maybe putting the love of his life in a coma in a fit of jealous rage wasn’t as good an idea as he once thought.

34: Serenade

Even the sweetest strains of love song couldn’t turn her on more than the screams of the men Bill killed for her.

35: Sarcasm

She was the only one who could get away with replying to him in such a sarcastic tone, and anyone else who called him “asshole” would’ve been shot in the teeth.

36: Sordid

Getting off on the wanton destruction of human life was as vile as a human being could get, and they wouldn’t have given up those post-slaughter fucks for anything.

37: Soliloquy

“Superman” this and “masochistic” that; God, she’d never noticed before how much he droned on.

38: Sojourn

She only half-expected El Paso to be anything more than temporary, a brief respite from the world where she craved the smell of blood, a vacation from the man she couldn’t let herself have any longer.

39: Share

She was so much like her father it made Bea break all over again.

40: Solitary

She said yes to Bobby so her daughter would have a daddy; Beatrix didn’t give a crap about being alone.

41: Nowhere

El Paso was as good as anywhere; everywhere was nowhere to her.

42: Neutral

Perhaps his lust for her clouded his impartiality, but Bill would still tell anyone who asked that Kiddo was the finest damn killer he’d ever had the pleasure of employing.

43: Nuance

After knowing him so long, Beatrix should’ve been able to hear the fine, cold edge in his voice that meant he was about to kill someone.

44: Near

It had been over four years since she’d been so close to him; close enough to smell dust and gunsmoke on his jacket, close enough to touch him, close enough to slit his throat.

45: Natural

Budd once made a crack about drapes and peroxide which resulted in a black eye from Bea; Bill just chuckled and assured him that wasn’t the case.

46: Horizon

She kept pushing that Oldsmobile towards the horizon, nothing but an address, a piece of Hanzo steel, and one last name on that list to keep her company.

47: Valiant

Beatrix called him fearless once, and Bill just smiled and told her she had more guts than he’d ever have.

48: Virtuous

They both killed a lot of people that didn’t warrant any killing on the path to revenge, but they didn’t much think about it; neither of them had ever exactly been morally upright.

49: Victory

She was crying when Bill took those five fatal steps, and he knew then that even if he’d lost her war, he’d won the only battle he ever really cared about.

50: Defeat

She had her daughter, she had her revenge, she had everything Bill had taken from her on that afternoon almost five years ago, so why was she in hysterics on the bathroom floor?

There hadn’t been any warning signs when the tall, hook-nosed man barged in from the world on the other side of the black door at some god-awful hour of the morning, or Calcifer wouldn’t have let him in.

Michael looked at the man, startled. “May I help you?” he asked, discreetly pushing the spell he’d been working on since the previous evening to the side of the bench.

“Howl,” the man replied with folded arms and disinterested eyes. “Get him.”

“The wizard Howl is—”

“I did not ask you to make excuses for him. Get him.”

Michael almost retorted with something very rude, but decided that if Howl had gotten some frightening man so riled up as to barge in without explanation, then he deserved to be woken up at some god-awful hour and forced to greet the world with less than perfect hair. The young apprentice ascended the rickety stairs with a casual “Wait here, then,” thrown to the stranger at the door.

“Howl.” Michael poked the sleeping wizard with a stick he’d found on the floor. “There’s someone here for you.”

“Then tell them I’m sleeping, Michael, what’s wrong with you?”

“I tried, but he wouldn’t let me get two words out.” This is of course a lie: Michael had in fact gotten four words out, but ‘two’ seemed to fit better and was close enough to the sentiment, at any rate. “It’s some pale, sort of greasy bloke with a hooked nose, do you know—”

Blur of blond hair and fine-boned limbs cramming themselves into a crushed velvet suit swept passed Michael with a high-pitched “Why didn’t you say so EARLIER?” Things began to fly across the room as Howl tore apart the contents of one of his many trunks. “My hair is a mess and he so hates to be kept waiting what shall I do this is a TRAGEDY!”

“You could wear a hat,” Michael suggested in an attempt to be helpful and getting a jar of pickles thrown at his head for his trouble. He might’ve asked what the jar of pickles had been doing in Howl’s room in the first place, but there were more important matters to attend to. “Howl, why does it—”

“Get down there and distract him!” Howl shrieked, “I have to cram two hours of prep time into under ten minutes and you are not helping!” He opened a jar of something colored a sort of green one can’t find in nature, and Michael decided that he’d rather be anywhere but near whatever Howl was doing right then, anyway.

The stranger was standing stiffly right where Michael had left him. “He’ll be down in a moment,” the boy called, settling himself at the workbench once more. “I’m supposed to be distracting you but I haven’t the faintest idea how to go about it, so I shall save us both the trouble.”

The man’s stance relaxed almost imperceptibly and he gave Michael a faintly surprised look. “That is without doubt the most intelligent remark I have ever heard from a resident of this floating deathtrap.”

Michael told him that was hardly saying anything, but thanks all the same.

“Sevvie!” Howl cried approximately ten minutes later as he leapt down the stairs, all perfumes and perfect hair as usual, “What brings you here? Have you finally decided to admit your love for me?”

“There is as much chance of that happening as of Longbottom successfully completing a Potions class without Granger whispering instructions in his ear,” ‘Sevvie’ replied in his usual dry tone. “Dumbledore has sent me to fetch you for the day.”

“Don’t I come every day to see you, anyway? And doesn’t he usually send that werewolf chap to get me?” Howl sidled up to the other wizard, pulling the man down by the collar to bring their faces together. “Admit it, Severus, you’re starting to like me!”

“I will admit it if it ever comes to pass.” Severus tugged his cloak out of Howl’s grasp. “We’re leaving now.”

“Michael, don’t give up on that spell!” Howl called as he followed his strange acquaintance out the door, “You’ve almost got it! I’ll be back… sometime, I suppose.”

After they left, Michael and Calcifer exchanged Looks.

“That was… interesting,” the fire demon finally said, breaking the stunned silence.

“S’funny,” Michael mused as he scratched his nose with the end of his quill, “I always thought he preferred the pretty sort.”

Izumo squints at Kotetsu’s face, shadowed by the sunlit window at his back. “What?”

“Ten years!”

“What about them?” It is far too early for this.

Kotetsu pokes the other man, half-playful, half-annoyed. “That’s how long we’ve known each other.”

“That so?” Izumo thinks for a moment. It’s midsummer. They were fourteen then. Has it been so long already?

Kotetsu sighs and collapses onto the sheets. “You forgot, right? You’re such an unromantic guy.”

“Find someone else if you want romance.”

“Don’t want someone else.” Kotetsu starts kissing him, light and playful. “Want you just how you are.”

“You mean naked?” Izumo makes a face as Kotetsu kisses him again. “What are you doing?”

“Kissing you.”

“Obviously.”

“One,” he continues, “for every year I’ve known you.”

Izumo’s begun to kiss back, because if Kotetsu’s going to do it anyway they might as well do it properly. “Is this a new tradition?” he teases, “Are you going to keep doing this when we’ve known each other for forty years and you’ll have to spend all day smooching me?”

“God willing.” He’s perfectly serious.

They definitely don’t stop at ten.

Kotetsu is already holding him when he wakes, stroking his hair and whispering the practiced litany born of countless nights just like this. “It’s all over, Izumo, that happened such a long time ago, I know it’s hard but everything’s okay now, no one’s dying, everyone’s fine…”

“He had your face.” Izumo clings to his best friend in the dark, hides from that blood-drenched world of his nightmares and sobs. “He had your face!”

Kotetsu could reassure him, but both know the scenario is an all-too-real possibility. He tightens the embrace and just rocks, as though Izumo is a child, until the other man’s sobs die down.

“You’re not going to get yourself killed, right?” He shouldn’t ask it, but he can’t help himself.

“I promise you that I’ll fight to my last breath to come back to you. You know that.”

Kotetsu kisses him, warm and reassuring, and Izumo dreams in Technicolor.

In the spirit of cooperation, the genin were split into groups of two, one from each team. Kotetsu and Izumo pulled the mid-sized straws, and so out of random chance was their relationship born. They were to be on rose detail.

There wasn’t much talking at first, despite Kotetsu’s normally chatty personality. In silence, the two would dig a hole, line it with bone meal and rose food, and Izumo would hold the thorny shrub in place while Kotetsu piled dirt around it. The work went quickly in this manner.

“Ouch.”

It was bound to happen. Izumo’s gloves didn’t cover his fingers, and so a thorn easily bit through the calloused skin of his thumb. Blood welled up, but it was nothing, especially to a ninja. He sucked it for a moment and looked again. It wasn’t serious, but it was deep. “Damn.”

Kotetsu stuck his shovel into the ground and held out his hand. “Let me see.”

“Why?” Izumo sucked at the wound again. “Medical nin wannabe?”

“Just give it here.”

There wasn’t really any reason not to. Kotetsu peered at Izumo’s thumb for a moment, then fished a roll of gauze from his pockets.

Izumo glanced at the roll and then to Kotetsu’s ‘unique’ facial accessories. “For decoration?”

“That too.” The other boy took out a packet of antiseptic wipes with an embarrassed grin. “Accident prone.”

Izumo would have been able to tell, anyway; Kotetsu’s deft fingers spoke of experience.

“Done.”

Izumo flexed; the bandage was snug, neatly tied, and shouldn’t interfere with his work. “Thanks.” He winced a little. “Still kinda hurts, though.”

A wicked grin spread over Kotetsu’s face. He grabbed Izumo’s hand and kissed the injured thumb. “Better?”

His first reaction probably should have been to punch the shorter boy in the teeth, but Izumo just gave him an odd look.

“So, you busy tomorrow?”

Work went much slower after that.

Kyle tried not to giggle, mostly because it would be a most girlish thing to do but also because Christophe would probably murder him. “Well, you’re not much paler than me, so I didn’t think…”

“Of course you didn’t think! You’re an idiot!”

“Hey! That was uncalled for!” The redhead made a face and flicked Christophe right on his raw, sunburned nose, grinning madly at the womanly yelp he let out in response. “You could’ve put on sunscreen like a sane person.”

“When, in the entire time I’ve known you,” Christophe deadpanned, “have I ever given you the impression that I was sane?” He sighed and collapsed onto the couch. “Damnit, Kyle, I look like a fucking lobster. Or your hair.”

“Quit bitching, you big baby, I said I was sorry.” Kyle flicked Christophe on the ear as he sat down, earning another yelp and accompanying glare. “I’ll never drag you off to the beach again.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“Fuck you, asshole.”

Christophe held out an arm. “Kiss it better.”

“Kiss what better?” Kyle batted the arm away. To his credit, Christophe didn’t squeal like a woman this time. “You don’t have an owie, you’re sunburned.”

“Exactly.” The Frenchman offered his arm again. “Kiss it all better.”

Kyle glanced at the vast expanse of reddened skin, doubtful. “All of it?”

“Yes.”

A sigh. “Anyone tell you you’re a big fat fucking pervert, Mole?”

“Only you, Broflovski,” Christophe leered, “only you.”

The redhead rolled his eyes as he started kissing and licking up Christophe’s arm. “Better stop your damn whining after this, s’all I got to say.”

“I said,” and with this Murata glanced about furtively to be sure that no one in the dank cave was listening in on their conversation, “that I’m the legendary Sage.”

“Which one? I mean, people here do magic and stuff; legends pop up all the time.”

Murata wondered what exactly he’d done in any of his previous lives to warrant relying on a man who so obviously enjoyed acting like an idiot. “I was loyal servant to the Original King—”

“Yeah, there were a lot of those, too.”

“Well, I was the one that was a legendary sage. Can you please stop acting like you haven’t got a clue what I’m talking about?”

“Fine, fine.” Yozak yawned and stretched his feet out in front of him. “You got me, I know exactly what you’re talking about.”

“Good, because we haven’t got a lot of time before—”

“Yep,” the redhead continued, pointedly ignoring Murata’s urgent tone, “I get it. You,” and with this he leaned forward until they were nose-to-nose, “want to have sex with me.”

Shocked at the abrupt turn the conversation had taken, Murata managed only to sputter out something along the lines of “Why you presumptuous, insolent little nympho…” before Yozak blazed on.

“Now, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” the older man said reassuringly, “You’re a young man and I’m rather attractive, and sometimes you get an urge that you just can’t ignore. Perfectly natural. Thing is, you don’t really need to make up such elaborate stories, you could just ask…”

“I’m not making up stories, and I’m certainly NOT trying to have sex with you!” Murata whispered angrily between clenched teeth. “I am the Sage reincarnated, and I need your help to—”

“But your hair’s blond,” Yozak interrupted.

“What does that have to do with anything?!”

“Reincarnated versions of famous historical figures of great power always have black hair,” Yozak replied matter-of-factly. “Gee, for a sage, you sure don’t know a whole lot.”

“It’s dyed.” Murata twisted around a bit and managed to take his ID card out of his pocket, an amazing feat considering how his hands were bound. “See? Black. Now will you listen to me?”

Yozak frowned at the photo. “So… you don’t want to have sex with me?”

“Will you quit asking that?!”

“It’s a simple question.” A grin. “And I didn’t hear a ‘no.’”

“I didn’t say yes, either!”

“But you didn’t say ‘no’, and that’s the important thing.”

Murata threw a rock at Yozak’s head, but missed.

He still didn’t say no.

“Fuck Vin, you are not.” Cid steps closer, rag out to wipe the blood off fine joints before it cakes and makes them useless. “You’re just a guy with some weird quirks, is all.”

Vincent’s laugh is hollow and bitter in his ears.

“You know,” and Cid maneuvers the gold-plated limb in front of Vincent’s face for emphasis, “Rumor has it that you were more of a monster before you got the claws.”

“At least I could control that evil.”

Cid tries to keep the faint chuckle out of his reply. “‘Course you could, Vincent.”

Nick nods, takes a drag as he appraises. “Always been my favorite type.”

“You know, I’ve noticed that Vash likes the dark ones.”

Nick nearly chokes on air. “What’s that supposed to mean?!”

“Nothing.” Something in the tilt of her smile tells him that there’s more going on upstairs than she lets on. “You won’t have to fight over girls.”

“Guess not.” Nick loses interest, lets his gaze drift towards the noisy table where Vash has just ordered another round.

Yeah, Nick likes the blondes.

“I’ve outsmarted you before,” Ban points out, “there’s no reason I couldn’t again.”

“You’ve outsmarted me as a deliveryman and as a psychopathic killer, but sexual predator? That, my friend, is an entirely different game.”

“Ginji,” Ban calls behind him, “who would seme who?”

“I don’t know,” Ginji peeks out from behind his comic book, “can’t you both just seme me and call it even?”

All agree that this is the best plan anyone has had all day.

Sekkal glances up from his marking and tries to cock an eyebrow at Mekkara, failing utterly. “I’ve been celibate for fifteen years,” he says dryly, “why would I change that now?”

“Well, because he’s hot.”

“Oh.” Sekkal thinks for a moment. “Then no, not yet,”

Rude fishes around in his pockets for the extra pair he always has stashed on him and holds them out. Reno puts them on and the world goes a shade darker. He has no trouble seeing, surprising considering the tint of the glass, how little one can see of his eyes.

“They look good on you.”

“Shit, man,” and Reno poses, sluts himself up a little, “everything looks good on me.”

Rude would pistol-whip that smirk right off his face if it weren’t so fucking true.

Murata turns to his left and makes a face at Conrad, who is watching them and grinning. “He’s like a little kid,” the Sage says with mock exasperation.

“It’s been awhile since he’s seen you,” Conrad’s reply is punctuated with a yawn, “he wasn’t around much when you were last here.”

Yozak responds in his sleep, throws an arm around Murata’s waist and draws the boy tight against him, possessive. Conrad just shakes his head and laughs softly, moving to fill the newly created gap between them. Yozak is not helping his case, he thinks. He spoons against Murata and drapes a long, lean arm across the both of them, greedy and needy and protective all at once.

When he is certain they are both asleep, Murata clings to them desperately while he cries and whispers “Don’t hate me, please don’t hate me” even though he knows it’s pointless.

He can’t pretend much longer. Shinou is waiting.

“Music,” Shinichirou muttered to himself, digging around his bedside table drawer for that mixed tape with all the swanky jazz songs and other audio conducive to a fantastic night in bed. Retrieving it from the mess of candybar wrappers and half-empty bottles of lube in varying scents, he jammed it into the tapedeck he’d painstakingly hauled in from the living room and pressed play. The sultry strains of a lone saxophone filled the room.

“Perfect,” Shinichirou pronounced. A frown. “Wait.” He adjusted the candles to throw shadows into the corner with the water stain. “Perfect,” he repeated.

Tonight, Minato Shinichirou was going to get laid.

You see, normally, Shinichirou would not have to go to such measures to take part in carnal pleasure with his partner of choice. However, Nanami was nearing the end of his schooling, and the subsequent workload coupled with the part-time job he worked every weekend to help with the bills, had left Shinichirou’s boyfriend tired, cranky, and generally not in the mood for lovemaking. Shinichirou was thus distressed on two fronts: one, Nanami was not happy, and two, Shinichirou wasn’t getting any. Neither of these contributed to the well being of their household, and so Shinichirou had decided to employ Romance, solution for any problem involving one’s Beloved. Remind Nanami that he’s wonderful and special and an all-around super person, Nanami feels better and more relaxed, Shinichirou gets laid. Problem solved.

“Really, Mr. Tanaka, I have to go back to my apartment, SHINICHIROU is waiting for me.”

Crap. New problem. Shinichirou rushed into the hallway. There was Tanaka, the muscular, 6’6″ giant of 9F, harassing his Nanami.

God, he hated tall people.

“Mr. Tanaka,” Shinichirou said, throwing his voice down a half octave to make himself sound authoritative, confident, and all sorts of other things that he really wasn’t but liked to pretend to be to make Nanami all swoony, “Nanami really should be getting back to the apartment; he has classes tomorrow morning.” He tried not to squee a little when Nanami latched onto his arm like he was some knight in shining whatever, it would’ve ruined the whole act.

Tanaka was obviously not pleased to have the shiny pretty boy taken away from him, but apparently didn’t feel like arguing with the tiny boyfriend tonight. “We’ll continue tomorrow then.”

Nanami made a non-committal noise in the back of his throat, strained smile remaining in place until Tanaka disappeared back into his own apartment, after which the frazzled nursing student buried his face in Shinichirou’s shoulder and sighed. “That guy scares me,” he mumbled.

Shinichirou tried once again not to let the squeal of excitement escape from the back of his mind. Right on. A frightened Nanami was a clingy Nanami, and a clingy Nanami was easy to prod into other activities, which was why Shinichirou wouldn’t let Nanami go to any horror movies with that rat bastard law student. Well, he was not in favor of Nanami going to ANY movies with that rat bastard law student. Alone together in a darkened theatre? Yeah. No.

“And what is up with the elevator?” Nanami went on, dragging his dazed boyfriend down the hall. “Now it smells like fish AND avocadoes. Nearly made me sick.”

Okay, so maybe he shouldn’t have bought that air freshener spray from the bargain bin at the local thrift store, but he was POOR, damnit. The rest of it was good, though. The flowers, the candles, the sex music, all good. He could afford to have one thing go wrong.

Nanami sniffed the air as Shinichirou fumbled for his keys before remembering duh, he hadn’t locked the door before he left because he was only going down the hall. “Do you smell something… burning?”

Shit. Shit shit shit. “Shit!”

“What?”

“Wait here a second.” No, Tanaka. Shit. He opened the door and bustled Nanami into the kitchen. “Wait here, for a second,” he amended, then rushed into the bedroom. Crap. Shit. Crapshit.

Shinichirou threw the door open and then thanked whatever gods listened to the prayers of horny teachers-in-training, because nothing was on fire. Then he realized that nothing was on fire because ALL of his candles had gone out, which wouldn’t have been a tragedy in and of itself, except that they were all out because his ceiling was leaking like a sonovabitch.

“Shit fuck son of a WHORE.”

“Shinichirou?”

Crap. Abort, abort! Nanami couldn’t know about his miserably failed attempt at a romantic surprise, otherwise he couldn’t re-attempt it later! Turn off the music! Wait, what happened to the music? Outlet shorted out. Crap crap stupid crappy apartment CRAP. One less thing to do but one more thing to try to get the stupid landlord to get the stupid super to fix, which would happen maybe by the time they both graduate. He picked up the flowers and debated over what to do with them.

“Leaking again, huh?” Shinichirou jumped at the sound of Nanami’s voice behind him. “We really need to make Mr. Kawashima get those pipes fixed. I’ll go get some bowls.” He turned to leave, but caught sight of the colorful bundle Shinichirou was holding. “Whatcha got there?”

Well, only one thing to do with them now.

“Here. Happy… Wednesday.”

Shinichirou expected one of those heart-stopping smiles, a sincere thank-you, and a cold shower. He was rather unprepared for awe, the breathless reply of “I love daffodils!” and an enthusiastic thank-you snog, because really, Nanami almost never did that, and he certainly wasn’t expecting to break the routine for daffodils bought on sale at the corner store. Not like he minded or anything. He wrapped an arm around that sexy little waist, god he loved the way Nanami felt all pressed up against him like this, brought the other hand up to play with his hair because he knew Nanami liked that.

“I was starting to think,” Nanami mumbled when they finally broke apart for a moment, “that you’d found someone else, or that you didn’t want me anymore.”

“What?!” Lost here.

Nanami looked at him as though it should be obvious. “Well, goodness, Shin, you’ve barely even looked at me the last two weeks. I come home tired and cranky and in evident need of comfort and all you do is say you left some soup on the stove for me and then go back to watching Neon Genesis Evangelion.”

Hey, it was a good show, and those were the coolest mechs he’d ever seen.

“I know you,” Nanami continued, “there’s no way you could hold out so long. I was sure you were going to leave me.”

“I barely could hold out! But you were busy and I didn’t want to disturb you so close to your exams, but then you just kept getting more miserable so I thought I’d be all romantic and stuff to make you feel special and pretty and all that.” Shinichirou gestured at the half-melted candles drowning on the dresser. “There was more stuff but it didn’t really work out.”

“I know.” Nanami stepped away and fished a crumpled note out of his pocket. “I found your list.”

“I wondered where that went.”

“Sorry the ceiling leaked and wrecked everything.”

“Yeah, well,” Shinichirou edged back towards his boyfriend, arm sneaking out to drape across what were unequivocally his favorite pair of shoulders, “do you feel special?”

“Mmhm.”

“And pretty.”

“Yeah.”

“And am I going to finally get some action?”

Nanami rolled his eyes, but he still leaned against Shinichirou and muttered “Yeah, I think so.”

Again, Shinichirou somehow managed to hold his squee of delight, but he couldn’t help the big, stupid grin that broke out as he replied, “Then it all worked out, didn’t it?”

They retired to the living room couch where they proceeded to make up for two weeks of miscommunication. Afterwards, Shinichirou forever made certain to molest his boyfriend several times a day to make sure he felt desired, and Nanami wondered if he shouldn’t have taught Shinichirou the concept of “moderation”. Oh well.

I’m not sure how I’ll get this to you. Maybe I’ll just have to give it to you the next time I see you. You’ll probably laugh at me for writing you a letter like a fucking girl, but maybe you won’t because you’re French and weird.

It’s been awhile since you left. It sucks not being able to talk to you, none of the guys want to discuss anything besides the girls’ soccer team and whether or not Halle Berry is going to do another movie where she wears a skimpy leather outfit. Well, they are only seventeen, and they know I get bored with it so they do try (Stan and Kenny, anyways) but I like being able to talk politics with someone who knows who the Minister of Defense is.

The cat’s been well, she’s been getting along quite well with Ike and mom’s even taken a liking to her, which is good because I think the stupid fucking thing clawed up the drapes behind the couch the other day. Well, maybe mom won’t find them for a while. The stupid furball misses you a lot. I miss you a lot.

I wish you were alive so I could

I wish I could have kissed you before you

I wish you were back.

LoveYour Friend,

Kyle

The scratching of the young man’s pen ceased as he looked up, confused. “The what, Tsunade-sama?”

“The paperwork you were supposed have filled out for me by this afternoon to make all the rank changes official,” the Hokage replied, leaning forward to bring her face level with her subordinate’s. “Where is it?”

Izumo’s eyes went wide and his knuckles turned white as he gripped his pen in fear. “I-I’m sorry, Hokage-sama!” he apologized, bewildered to learn he had made such a grave slip, “I don’t know how I could have forgotten something that—”

“Izumo!” A hurricane with wild hair and little regard for standard greetings blew into the room. “I talked to scheduling, and we can get that day off together after all!” Kotetsu pushed past the Hokage and pulled Izumo right out of his chair, kissing his friend in a way that surely violated several public indecency laws.

“Kotetsu!” Izumo sputtered as he somehow managed to separate their faces from one another, “I was talking with the Hoka—”

“I’ve got to go finish today’s work, but you think of something you want to do that day, okay?” Another kiss, apparently for the road, and Kotetsu was out the door, a casual “Good afternoon, Hokage-sama” tossed over his shoulder as he left.

Tsunade smiled. “Ah. I see what happened.” She shook her head. “Just make sure you get them finished before you leave today.”

The chuunin gazed somewhere in Tsunade’s general direction and replied dreamily, “Finish what again?”

Somehow, Michael knew that he would eventually meet his end at the hands of a Japanese street gang. Perhaps this was knowledge that came with living alone in the streets of Tokyo. Still, he’d thought that if he was to be raped and murdered in the alley behind the Suzuki Sushi Bar, the gang leader should at least have the consideration to be attractive. Apparently, the gods figured that doing the exact opposite would be rather entertaining.

“You’ve been hanging around here a lot, gaijin.” The ringleader, one Suzuki Takashi (incidentally, eldest son of the man who ran the sushi bar that Michael was about to die behind), leaned forward. Greasy strands of hair dyed a most unnatural hue of red fell out of the ridiculous pompadour that had gone out of style when cell phones were still the size of bricks. Takashi’s face twisted into a grisly facsimile of a grin, showing crooked yellow teeth. At least, Michael thought to himself, they draw attention away from the pockmarks. Christ, what a stereotypical Yakuza wannabe.

The smog was thick in the air that night. There were no stars. Michael missed stars.

“I don’t know, boss.” A generic backup thug, wide of chest and thin of brain, glanced around. “Maybe we should leave him alone. If those guys hear about this one, too—”

“They won’t give a fuck.” Closer, Michael could smell ginger and salmon on his breath now. “No one will give a fuck about what I do to you, will they, pretty little gaijin?” Takashi reached out and ran a finger down Michael’s jaw. Self-preservation kicked in, blue eyes darted everywhere. Thugs all around him, cold brick at his back, nowhere to go.

“I’d give a fuck.” He sounded bold and clever. He looked terrified. How could old man Suzuki have such a kid? He’d miss the free sushi. He’d never gotten to learn Korean.

It took a spray of blood across his face before Michael realized that his captor was being beaten with a baseball bat. The ring of toughs had dissolved, now frightened youths pressed against the unforgiving walls of the alleyway, eyes glued in the same direction. How many minutes had passed while Michael contemplated his then-to-be-imminent death? Takashi clutched his face as he lay curled on the ground, sobbing at the feet of his attacker.

Michael stood still, blinking, sure that he’d missed quite something important.

“I’m sorry, Kiyoshi-sama, I’m so sorry, please forgive—”

“Who gave you permission to use my given name, Suzuki?” The bat came down again and Michael winced when he heard the sickening crunch of ribs breaking. Takashi howled in pain.

“Tenshi-sama, please forgive me!” Takashi struggled to his knees. “I didn’t think you’d mind! It was only the area around the store, I thought—”

A foot came down, pushing Takashi back to the ground and grinding into the already broken ribs. Michael clapped his hands over his ears to block out the screams.

“Didn’t think I’d mind?” Another twist of the heel. “Didn’t think I’d mind you starting up your own gang in my territory? Didn’t think I’d mind you wilfully raping and killing people under my protection? Who the fuck do you think I am?”

Michael could smell blood and urine.

“Please, Tenshi-sama, I didn’t know the were under your—”

“Everyone in the district is under my protection. Even you, until about three fucking weeks ago.”

“Oh god, please, not the sword, I’ve learned my lesson!”

“Hey, boss,” one of the men piped up, edging closer to the figure holding the sword, “he’s a rapist, remember?”

“You’re absolutely right.” The katakana wandered southwards. Takashi whimpered.

“Looks like he wet himself, boss.”

“So it seems. Get up,” to Takashi, “I don’t want to look at your pathetic face anymore.”

Takashi shook as he rose slowly to his feet, hand gingerly grasping his beaten side. “Yes, Tenshi-sama.”

“You’re no gang leader.”

“No, Tenshi-sama.”

“Don’t try to be one, then.”

“I won’t, Tenshi-sama.”

The bat appeared out of nowhere again. This time one of the ribs punctured a lung. Takashi wheezed and staggered into one of his former gang members, but he smiled. “Thank you for your mercy, Tenshi-sama.”

It was over. Takashi was leaving. Michael was alive. Confused as hell, yes, but alive and staring into the kneecaps of his saviour. Funny, he didn’t remember sitting down, but that would explain why he’d had such a good view of Takashi’s violent beating. The knees bent and the face came into view. Dark eyes, dark hair cut short and in a hopeless mess, bone structure that hinted at some Caucasian ancestry in a nearby branch of the family tree. He had a labret and two piercing in the cartilage of his left ear. Michael had always liked labrets.

“Are you okay?”

Several responses sprang to mind, none of which seemed appropriate to say to the man who just saved your life by beating someone senseless with a Louisville Slugger. “You sound surprisingly pleasant when you’re not kicking the crap out of someone,” was what ended up slipping out, which just goes to show how utterly inept Michael’s sense of judgement was at that point. It was probably a good thing, then, that the gang at large and the man kneeling in front of him in particular found the statement rather funny.

“He got you pegged, boss,” chuckled the youth who had spoke up earlier. Michael would later learn his name to be Katsuro, but at that point he was just ‘the-one-who-keeps-talking’.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” the man said, pointedly ignoring the-one-who-keeps-talking, “a few start-up gangs have sprung up in this area and we haven’t had time to root them all out yet.” He took in the long brown hair, the big eyes, the slender and frail-looking body. “You’re practically screaming ‘rape me and leave my body for carrion’, wandering around here at this time of night.”

“Where do you propose I go, then? The alley behind Yamada’s Grocery? Is that safer?” Okay, perhaps that was a little snarky, but Michael was getting very irritated and cranky at this point in the evening. He gestured mockingly towards the large backpack beside him. “There aren’t many places that’ll let you stay for free around here.”

The-one-who-keeps-talking (oh, for goodness sake, Katsuro) leaned down for a closer look. “You’re awfully pretty for a homeless kid, aren’t you?”

“Kid?! I must be at least as old as you are!”

“Now, now,” the ringleader sat back on his haunches, making soothing gestures, “he’s right. You must not have been out here very long, right?”

“Seven months,” Michael shot back, raising his chin. He’d done pretty well for himself in that time, damnit, and he didn’t need this random street gang to belittle him.

Kyoshi (That’s right, Michael remembered, he did have a name, didn’t he?) smiled, obviously placating. “Right, right, my mistake then.”

“Damn right, your mistake.” Either Michael didn’t care that he was being placated, or he didn’t notice. He wasn’t even sure which one it was at that point. “So, thanks for the help and all, but I’ve got things to do, trash bins to rummage through, boxes to sleep in, that sort of thing.”

“Don’t most boxes get recycled or incinerated?”

Michael rolled his eyes. “It’s a figure of speech, the-one-who-keeps-talking. Obviously I find something in the non-burnable trash to sleep in.”

“Katsuro.”

“Huh?”

“My name.”

“What about it?”

“It’s Katsuro.”

“You say that like I care.”

Kiyoshi held out his arm just in time to clothesline Katsuro as he lunged forward. “Cool it, he’s had a rough half hour or so.”

“Damn right I have.” He realized he was saying ‘damn right’ a lot, but it just sounded so cool in Japanese. “Every sense I have has been brutally violated tonight. Especially my eyes. Did you whack that guy with a fucking ugly stick before you found the bat?”

“No, but maybe I knocked a few of those crooked-ass teeth of his out, huh?” Kiyoshi was really smiling now. “Could be an improvement.”

Michael snorted. “You couldn’t have possibly made him look any worse.”

“Boss?”

“Right.” Kiyoshi stood up. “Someone take his bag.”

Michael made a noise of pure and utter confusion (it sounded something like ‘Buh?’, but more pathetic) as the completely random token black gang member materialized beside him and grabbed the battered backpack that held Michael’s entire travelling world. The man’s name was Kenji, his father was an African-American businessman who left Japan soon after knocking up Kenji’s mother, and he liked three cheese pizza. However, this has nothing to do with anything, and since he dies of a brain aneurism nine months after this particular incident we shall try not to get too attached to him. Back to Michael.

“What are you doing?! Is your gang doing so badly that you need to steal from the homeless?” The angry young foreigner tugged at his backpack, not really trying to get it away as Kenji scared the crap out of him. “Who do you think you are, asshole?”

“I think,” Kiyoshi replied, almost haughty, “that I’m the guy who’s going to give you a place to stay tonight.”

Michael paused. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” Michael shuffled his feet, “alright then.”

And that is how Michael Stokes, destitute gaijin on the streets of Tokyo, met Tenshi Kiyoshi, leader of the Street Phantoms and youngest son of the notorious Tenshi clan, most ruthless of the yakuza families.

Had any of the Street Phantoms possessed any knowledge of high fashion, one might have wondered why a down-and-out was wearing Gucci shoes.

“We’ve been busy the last couple months,” Kiyoshi explained afterwards. “Usually we would have put an end to this kind of shit before it even got started.”

Michael rummaged around in his backpack for a toothbrush, which he would explain to anyone who asked was an absolute necessity no matter how poor you were. “And just what were you doing that was so much more important than protecting your turf from assholes like Takashi, hm?”

“Running narcotics for the yakuza.”

“Oh. Well. Alright then.” Deja vu. Michael withdrew his toothbrush with an internal gloat of triumph.

Kiyoshi attempted to raise an eyebrow, but he’d never quite gotten the hang of it and ended up raising both anyways. “What the hell is that?”

“Toothbrush, last time I checked.”

“I thought you were homeless.”

“No reason to have rotten teeth.” Michael looked around the apartment, of which he’d only seen the living room and entranceway thus far. “Mind if I use your bathroom?”

“Go ahead. You could probably use a bath.”

“You say that like I don’t sneak into public bath houses on a regular basis, but thanks.”

“Second door on the right. Where are you from?”

Michael raised an eyebrow (successfully, due to years of practice in front of his bedroom mirror). “That was random.”

“I like to know the nationalities of people who use my bathroom.”

“What about names?”

“Oh.” Kiyoshi rested his chin in his hand a la ‘the Thinker’. “I guess I never did get that, did I?”

Michael shook his head. “Michael,” he said, “an American. You might have heard of us. We like to blow shit up.”

“Oh, that America.”

Our #1 protagonist was starting to get uncomfortable. Friendly banter? Flirting? He never could tell in this country. “I’m going now,” he said, a little loudly and for no particular reason as he was already halfway to the bathroom. Kiyoshi shrugged and picked up a book that had been lying on the table, Hellsing by Kohta Hirano, which is actually less of a book and more of a comic but a good read nonetheless.

Michael decided to stop thinking about sexy vampires and just have a fucking bath already.

The bathroom, like the rest of the apartment, was spacious, functional, beautiful, and completely devoid of personality. Apparently being the leader of an infamous street gang left Tenshi Kiyoshi-san little time for gathering useless knickknacks and collecting cute aquatic bathroom accessories. “What a waste,” Michael muttered aloud, not too worried about anyone thinking he was crazy for talking to himself as there was no one to hear him speak, tree in the forest and all that, “a froggie soap dispenser would really pull the room together.” It wouldn’t really, but one can never have too many froggie soap dispensers and duckie-print towels at that age. The bathroom looked like it belonged to a successful salaryman in his late thirties instead of a gangster who hadn’t even hit twenty-five yet. Surely that said something about this strange man’s character; Michael just didn’t know what, exactly.

“Maybe I could scrape some money together and get him some bathroom accessories to thank him,” Michael mused, far too tired to keep up with his subconscious’ running commentary and so choosing to ignore it completely, “it should only be a few bucks. Oh! I think there were some Hello Kitty ones on sale this week, I wonder if he likes Hello Kitty?” Soap dispensers would be good, soap dispensers would be much better than the other option, because the alternative would really defeat most of the purpose of being rescued from Takashi’s perverted clutches. Pity he didn’t have any money.

“Well,” Michael sat in the heated bath with a splash, “shit.” Then, “Mmmmm, warm.”

***

Kiyoshi stared.

“Er.”

“Well?”

“Do you need… something? Clothes, maybe?”

Had Michael not already known better, he would have thought the charismatic gang boss was hiding a blush behind that comic book. The American strode forward, confident, and straddled Kiyoshi’s hips. “Let’s get this over with.” His towel was falling off, not that it had left much to the imagination anyways. “You want me to ‘thank’ you, right? That’s why you brought me here.”

Kiyoshi looked adorably baffled and Michael gleefully thought If I had to fuck a guy tonight, at least this is probably the best of my options.

Our second protagonist, apparently, was not thinking along the same lines. He pushed Michael off, who let out an indignant squawk as he toppled off the couch. He looked up to see Kiyoshi standing over him, looking insulted.

“I brought you here because it was due to my neglect of the area that you were and still are in danger on the streets,” Tokyo’s youngest Angel said coldly, showing shades of the man who Michael had almost forgotten beat a man bloody without remorse. “I had no intention of forcing you to sleep with me.”

“Well, what was I supposed to think?” Michael became defensive in his fear, “Not many people will randomly take in a stranger for the night without expecting some favour in return! I’ve got no money, no connections, no possessions besides some toiletries, a pair of reading glasses, and a couple of books. What else was I going to repay you with, my sparkling personality?”

“I didn’t want any payment,” Kiyoshi shot back, “I just didn’t want you dead! A thank you would have been more than enough!”

“Well then, thank you!”

“You’re welcome!”

“Goodnight!”

“Put some clothes on!”

“I will!”

“Good!”

Kiyoshi slammed the door to his room and Michael collapsed onto the couch with a huff, and thought simultaneously That didn’t go at all how I planned.

***

A quick survey of the apartment the next morning (including a peek into the master bedroom, which was as aesthetically pleasing and mind-numbingly adult as everything else) told Michael that his very temporary roommate had gone out. He briefly wondered if he shouldn’t shoulder his bag and get the hell out of there before Kiyoshi got back, but the note he found taped to his forehead (Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be back this evening and if you’re not there I’ll fucking kill you before your stupidity has a chance to) ruled out that idea. He opted instead for a shower, as he rather liked the brand of shampoo Kiyoshi stocked his bathroom with and God knows when he’d have the chance to use it again after this.

I wonder if I could wash my clothes, he mused, it’s fucking pointless to keep showering when they stink anyways.

A note taped to the bathroom mirror informed him that there were clothes for him beside the sink, which he could plainly see but thanks anyways, Mr. Note, for pointing out the obvious. Michael inspected the outfit thoroughly after his shower, deemed it coordinated enough to wear and promptly changed. The pants fit perfectly but the shirt was a little snug; a strip of skin showed at his waist and the muscles in his chest stretched the anarchy symbol slightly out of shape. He wondered where the clothing had come from, as Kiyoshi was both taller and slightly broader than him.

“Weird.”

Someone knocked.

Michael made it all the way to the entranceway before skidding to a halt. What was he doing? This wasn’t his place! But what if it was important gang stuff, or Kiyoshi bleeding to death in the hallway after a violent rumble a la The Outsiders, arguably the best book anyone was ever forced to read in school? Maybe he should just look out the peephole to be safe.

“What is with this guy and the notes?! Freak.” Michael peeked out and then opened the door. “Ah, the-one-who-keeps-talking.”

“Katsuro, Katsuro, how many times will I have to tell you?!”

“I know your name.” Michael leaned on the doorframe. “He said you have some papers?”

The thug ran his fingers through bleached blonde hair. “Can I come in?”

“He didn’t say anything about you coming in, just give me the papers.”

“What if I don’t trust you with them?”

Michael snorted. “What am I going to do, eat them? I may be homeless, but I’m not that hungry.”

Katsuro shook his head and pushed past the gaijin, heading for a room that Michael’s earlier search of the (gigantic) apartment had revealed to be an office of some sort, consisting of a desk, a computer, and several boxes in varying states of disarray. Katsuro dumped his sheaf of papers on the desk and then knelt by a box, the one made of a most attractive shade of chartreuse cardboard, and began rummaging around the bottom.

Michael stepped around to the other side of the box and leaned down. “What in the world are you doing looking for? The note didn’t say anything about you taking something.”

“I’m not,” Katsuro grumbled, irritated by both the chatty American and the apparently Houdini-like object he was searching for, “I just need to put a few things in—ah!” he grinned and held up a battered notebook, muttering the infamous Final Fantasy victory music under his breath, “the accounting book!”

“Accounting?”

“Of course accounting,” Katsuro replied brusquely, clearing a spot on the desk and fishing the office chair from under a stack of manila folders, “do you think we’d spend all our time ganging it up without any profit involved?”

“…ganging it up?”

“It’s gang lingo. For ganging.”

“Okay.” Michael peeked at the book. “What the crap is this?”

“Accounting.”

“It’s numbers scrawled arbitrarily across the page! You don’t even label half of them!” Michael seized the little red notebook and flipped through the pages. “How in the hell does a business, even this crude, managed to function with paperwork like this? What’s the point?”

“We add up the black numbers and subtract the red numbers,” Katsuro said defensively, “and that’s how much profit we make. What else do we need to know?”

“Accounting is not meant to tell you how much money you have at the end of the day, a bank statement could do that. Accounting tells you how much you’re spending on what, and where you could shift expenditures in order to increase your net profit.” Michael delivered a light cuff to Katsuro’s head, apparently forgetting that he was chiding a man who could kill him ten times before he hit the ground. “Everyone knows that.”

You can hear the scrape of a shovel in the distance as one lone man clears his driveway, an odd time to do it but maybe he works the nightshift, maybe he’s a night owl, maybe he’s drunk as a skunk and couldn’t care less what time it is. You listen to the rhythm of plastic dragging against the cold asphalt for a time, watching the scene in your mind, watching the snow fall in an arc to the side of the drive. You almost don’t hear the taxi glide to a stop behind you, but the solitary crunch of footsteps break the near silence for good.

“I’m here to kill you,” she says.

“I know,” you reply, not looking back, looking off into the fog ahead of you instead. You used to tell her it was the clouds saying hello, a long time ago, when she was still small and trusting, when she loved you.

The click of the hammer is deafening in the silence. You have a knife at your hip, you always have a knife but it’s going to be worthless if she’s decided to play this way. You sigh. She could have at least killed you the way you taught her. The way you trained her.

“I’m sorry I murdered your momma, Susie.” You’ve always been sorry, but sometimes sorry just doesn’t cut it and sorry can never take it back.

She is silent, she is steady, she is strong, but you know she’s crying when she says “I know.”

The whole neighborhood heard that shot. Susie, baby, you’ve just caused yourself a whole lot of unnecessary trouble. Knife is quiet. Should’ve been quiet, Susie. Would’ve let you win, baby.

She doesn’t stay to watch you die, stands there just long enough to watch you bleed bright red clichés all over the snow. No goodbyes, just the silence, the sweet snowy silence only marred by your heavy breathing and all too soon even that won’t break the stillness of the night. You should’ve looked back. You should’ve looked at your daughter one last time before it all fades to black.

“Captain, aren’t you hot?” Yozak leans on his sword, panting and soaked with sweat. His shirt lies in the dust at his feet, discarded a half hour ago.

Conrad wipes a dirty shirtsleeve across his forehead. “You should keep your shirt on during practice, Yozak,” he says, rolling his shoulders, “it’ll keep you from bruising.”

“That only matters,” Yozak answers cheekily, “if you hit me.”

“Is that a challenge?”

Yozak lifts his weapon and adopts a defensive stance. “If you’d like it to be, Captain. Loser pays for a round tonight?”

“If the loser can move.” Conrad peels off his shirt and shifts into an attack, muscles taut as he reaches for a hole in Yozak’s defense.

Wolfram shifts uncomfortably in his chair and turns away from the window. He can see everything that goes on in the courtyard below.

***

“I’m not wearing it.”

Cheri pouts. “Conrad, make him listen to me.”

“Why can’t I get married in my formal uniform?”

“To marry a king?!”

“Now mother,” Conrad pats Cheri’s shoulder reassuringly, “I must admit, the cut is not quite… well… the color brings out his eyes,” he finishes lamely.

“Would you mind it so much if the sleeves weren’t poofy, darling?”

Wolfram makes a reply, tries to avoid looking at his brother in such a mortifying situation.

“The color really does suit him though, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, mother. I’m sure he’ll look lovely at the wedding.”

Conrad notices later that Wolfram takes to wearing more green.

***

“Your brother?”

He doesn’t know when he started feeling like this. It seems to him like a gradual thing, a secret shame that crept up on him until the very sight of his brother made him sick with desire and disgust. He shouldn’t think such things of his own siblings.

He hides his face. “Tell me how to make it stop. I want it to stop.”

He takes out his self-hatred on the object of his sick lust. He is acutely aware of the effects of his actions; he hopes that it will be enough to push Conrad so far away as to be irretrievable. Why, why does he take such abuse and come back for more? Go away, Weller, leave me alone, don’t make me think about you, don’t tempt me. I can’t live with myself.

“No one can make it stop.”

His brother used to hold him when he was young, when the shadows of a half-remembered nightmare would cling to him in the dark. He would stumble blindly through the hallway until he found Conrad’s room, would whimper at the doorway until his brother drew back the tattered quilt, a silent invitation. Conrad would stroke his hair and say soothing nonsense until they both fell asleep.

He hates, hates, HATES that the memory arouses him.

***

He doesn’t know how he ended up in Conrad’s room and he doesn’t care because Conrad has pushed him onto the bed. He undresses him slowly, agonizingly slow, inhumanly slow, staring at him with lidded eyes but not touching, never touching. Wolfram shivers under that gaze, euphoric, ecstatic that he makes his brother lust like this.

Conrad finally has his fill of staring. He moves, and it’s gentle and demanding and those arms feel so safe and loving, like they did when he was young.

“Wolfram.”

He strangles a cry as he wakes from his dream and comes all over the sheets.

***

There isn’t even a window to let in the moonlight, so Conrad doesn’t know how he can see the slender silhouette at his bedside. Maybe he doesn’t really see it at all; maybe he just feels.

Conrad gropes for a hand, pulls the figure closer, giving silent assent. A lean body straddles his waist, fingertips at his chest, his face, everywhere and anywhere, confirming his existence.

He knows the feeling of this body against his, knows the silken hair his fingers tangle in as he steals rough kisses, knows the voice that gasps nonsense and broken syllables in his ear. What he doesn’t know is why, and he doesn’t ask.

“From behind.” The whisper is harsh and rough, meant to be barely recognizable.

“Why?”

“I don’t want you to look at me.”

“I can’t—”

“I don’t want you to look at me.”

***

They try not to stare at each other, but it’s hard, because they’re always together, because Yuuri is back again and neither will leave him. So they mill about awkwardly, speak as though they’re strangers, which is par for the course because they never act like brothers anyways. But everything’s different now, they’re powerfully aware of their relationship, of the blood they share, because they’ve committed a social taboo for the past seven nights in a row.

“Wolfram?”

“What do you want, Weller?”

I want to hold you, I want to kiss you, I want to fuck you right here where we can’t hide from what we’re doing. I want to see you and I want you to see me.

“His Majesty is occupied in his study and will be taking dinner there.”

“Thank you.”

They catch each other’s eyes as he softly closes the door.

***

Conrad lights the lamp as soon as his brother walks in the room.

Wolfram starts, backs against the closed door, stares. “Conrad.” The tone is bewildered, accusing, frightened.

Conrad rises from the bed, walks towards his brother and presses him into the solid oak of the door. “I want to watch you.”

“I don’t want you to see me.”

“Is it really so wrong?”

“You’re my brother.” His resolve is breaking with every kiss.

“Let me see your face when I make love to you.” Fingers trace the curve of Wolfram’s spine. “Brother.”

He shivers and nods because it’s what he really wants, wants it more than anything else.

Conrad’s expression is the same one he sees in his dreams every night, and when he looks at him like that, holds him like that, fucks him like that, Wolfram can imagine for a few moments that maybe it isn’t so wrong.

***

“This is the last time.”

“No.”

“You’re going to marry my king tomorrow.”

“No.”

“I can’t keep seeing you.”

The kisses are desperate and pleading, almost too sloppy to count. Their lips and their tongues slide against each other, trying to feel every sensation at once, trying to memorize by touch. They are insatiable tonight as they try to leave their marks on each other. Conrad hopes that even when Wolfram is in Yuuri’s bed, his mind will still be here.

“No.”

***

The scratching of pen on parchment ceases as Yuuri pauses mid-sentence to glance up briefly. “Oh, good,” he says, smiling as he dips the quill into the waiting inkwell, “for a minute there I thought you were actually going to make me go through with it.”

***

“You didn’t—”

“I couldn’t.”

“I’m glad.”

“I feel sick.”

“Let me take it away.”

“You’re the reason—”

“I know.” Arms wrap around him, pull him onto the bed, stroke his back and his hair like he is a child again. “I know.”

***

“Weller!” He works his arms between them and tries to push away, using the stone column he’s pressed against for leverage. “Anyone could see us!”

Conrad grasps his hands and pins them above his head. “You looked beautiful out there,” he finds the fluttery pulse below his jaw with his lips, smiles against the heartbeat, “brother.”

“I’ll only indulge you this once,” it’s wrong, it’s so wrong and he can’t bring himself to care anymore, because the sensation he feels when their bodies are pressed together like this is too good to miss, “brother.”

Yuuri draws the curtain and smiles. He can see everything that goes on in the courtyard below.

“Why would I?”

The young doctor rises from the table and kisses the top of Vash’s head. “Sorry, I’ll try not to be too long.” He has his cellphone out before he even leaves the hall, waving to his… well, whatever Vash is to him, as he exits.

Kolya whistles low and nudges the blond with his elbow. “You did pretty well for yourself, Vaschel. He looks like he’s fantastic in bed.”

“As though I would be with anyone who wasn’t. Speaking of which, that counsellor you were fucking still looks pretty good, considering he must be near fifty by now.” He points to the man in question, looking much as he had ten years earlier save the grey in his hair. “Bet you’d still take a piece of that, hm?”

“Vash!” Nikolai exclaims, mock-scanalized as he clamps his hands over Nadya’s ears, “Not in front of my wife!”

Dimitri scoffs and leans against Leonardo, already a little drunk. “The hell does it matter? She already knows what a queer you were.”

“Yes, but I like to save the stories of my sexcapades for when we’re getting a little bored and need to spi–”

“I need a drink.” Vash shoves away from the table before Kolya can elaborate on the kinks of his heterosexual marriage and heads for the bar at the other end of the room. So much has changed in the last ten years. So much is the same. He’s not sure how he feels about it.

“Vodka and cranberry juice?” He nods. He’s been to the bar several times already this evening, the bartender recognizes him now. It pleases Vash to know that people, even if they’re bartenders, pay attention to what he looks like. He’s always been something of a narcissist.

It’s an open bar so he doesn’t need to pay when he recieves his drink, which almost makes up for how outrageous tuition for the stupid school had been. Almost. He turns to head back to the table and nearly collides with the person standing behind him, thankfully sloshing only a little of the drink over the side of the glass. He regains his balance and looks at the man, not sure if he was intending to apologize or berate. He does neither.

“What the fuck are YOU doing here?”

Mits casts his gaze away and scratches the back of his head, a gesture Vash is all-too-familiar with. “I live near here, and I was friends with a lot of people in this grade, so I–”

“It was a rhetorical question.” Vash pushes past, disbelieving, why, WHY him of all people, why did he have to be here, why did he have to look the same as he did eleven years ago, why did he still smile like that?

Mits grabs a wrist as Vash passes, pulls him closer, close enough for Vash to know that there is no alcohol on his breath. “We should talk.”

Vash sips his drink, still in his free hand, like nothing was happpening. “You’ve had ten years to talk to me. I’m not that hard to find.”

“Would you have come back to me?”

“Obviously.”

“But, but,” Mits grips his wrist tighter, pulls him closer, Vash is getting dizzy, “you were going out with someone, and you looked so happy! I thought you–”

“I waited for you.” Vash can smell cheap cologne and cheaper soap. “I kept looking for you, the day I graduated, but you never came, and I cried myself to sleep. I told Brad that I was going to leave him if you came back. You didn’t and I left him anyways.” He’s drunk, he’s lonely, he’s in love all over again, but he sets down the vodka and pushes Mits away because he still has his pride, damnit, and he’s not going to give that away with his still-beating heart.

Mits kisses him. It feels exactly the way he remembers.

“Sorry I was so long, there were some complications… well, I’m sure you don’t care.”

“We’re leaving.” Vash raises his head from the table, props himself up on his elbows as he looks at Nick. “Your wife doesn’t expect you home for a week, right? Take me somewhere exotic, you’re rich.”

He still has his pride, damnit.

He was sitting on his bed, looking through them, when Vash came back from band practice, bass slung almost carelessly across his back. The blond didn’t say anything, just placed his instrument in the stand beside the closet and took a seat on his own bed, leaning back into the pillows as he opened a book on music theory.

“Why?”

Vash didn’t bother to look at his roommate. “Because if I see him when we graduate, that will be better than any picture. And if I don’t,” his hands shook slightly, but his voice was steady, nonchalant, “I want to forget I ever knew him.”

He doesn’ throw them away. Mitsukai smiles out from the back of his sock drawer, just in case.

A pebble bounces on the wall beside his window, and another, and another. He rushes over, his hands brace against the sill as he leans out. There he is, the boy from the festival, who held him up on the road two days ago and kissed him before making off with a cart and three weeks’ allowance.

Yosai holds out his hand. “Well?”

He doesn’t hesitate, he just jumps out the window and runs. Their fingers twine together.

“I’m coming, Anya!” a man calls from somewhere inside, but the reply is almost drowned out by three pairs of feet scrambling down a flight of stairs. Two girls and a young man join their sister at the door, eager to see the vistors.

The boy is the eldest, barely thirteen, the only male child in the household until three days ago. He steps forward to give a brief hug to each man standing at the door, the adolescent in him wanting to get the niceties over with, the child simply wanting to greet them first. “Hello, Uncle Dimitri, Unlce Leo.”

Dimitri rubs the boy’s head affectionately. They look nearly identical, aside from the hazel eyes the child has inheritted from a grandmother. “Good to see you again, Ivan. Looks like you finally got your wish for a little brother, hm?”

“Two, but they came too late to do me any good. I’ll be out of the house by the time they start kindergarten.”

“At least your sisters will have someone to protect them when you’re gone.” Leo steps forward and lifts all three girls off the ground in a giggling bunch. “And you’ll have some boys to tease, right?”

“Yes, Uncle!”

“Katya, Lana, Anya! Are you pestering your uncles already? No wonder they never come to see us!” The mother, Nadya, appears. She is as commanding as ever, not even looking strained from giving birth a mere 72 hours before. “Don’t stand around on the porch freezing yourselves, come in! I don’t know what’s keeping Kolya. NIKOLAI!” she ushers them into the livingroom and Dimitri jumps a little as she belts out her husband’s name, “YOUR BROTHER IS HERE!”

“I know, I know, we’re coming!” There is some shuffling and then a man pokes his head out into the doorframe, looking into the livingroom with a grin like his daughter’s. His eyes light up when he sees his twin and he bounds in, in his late thirties and still as energetic as he was when he was a teen. The youngest girl, Selena, totters in after him, a sleepy, three-year-old angel.

Greetings are exchanged. The brothers haven’t seen each other in several months; Dimitri winters in Italy, so that Leonardo can be close to his family for half of the year. Their sister, Dominika, lives in the States, and they see her even less. Everyone is looking forward to her arrival tomorrow.

“You didn’t stop by mother and father’s first?”

“I thought they might be over here, so we didn’t bother.”

Kolya’s eyes glimmer with wicked delight. “Are you ever gonna get it later.”

“Where are the twins?”

“Sleeping, upstairs.” Nikolai lifts his youngest daughter off his lap and deposits her in Nadya’s arms. “Do you want to see them?”

Dimitri looks to Leo, who has the three remaining girls crowded on and around him while Ivan shows off an essay he wrote for his social studies class on the Communist Manifesto, a paper many highschool students would have trouble writing. “My teacher thinks I should skip another grade,” he says proudly, “but Papa doesn’t want the age gap between me and my peers to get too large. Plus, I can’t do math any better than the rest of my classmates, just things like this.” Leonardo listens carefully to everything, pausing only to wave Dimitri on. He’ll see the boys later, he says, the brothers should have some alone time now, and Nadya agrees.

The twins walk up to the nursery. Only recently abandoned by Selena, it has been in use for the last thirteen years straight by Nikolai’s many children. “You’re going to keep the Petrovka line going for generations with this brood of yours,” his siblings often joked, “takes the pressure off us.”

They enter the room in silence.

“They look like us.”

“You expected anything else from Petrovka twins but good looks?” Nikolai leans down and brushes the dark, soft hair away from their faces. He points to the one on the left. “He came into the world looking so put upon. Gave the doctor a glare, I swear to you, it was the funniest thing I ever saw. He is the most indignant baby in the world.”

“Dimitri?”

A grin. “How did you guess?”

Dimitri softly strokes his nephew’s cheek. “Hello, Dima. I’m your namesake. I only live here half the time, so I hope it won’t be too confusing for you. Kolya’s got it easier, only the adults call your father anything other than ‘daddy’.” He looks at the other child, sprawled out the same way Nikolai sleeps even in his infancy. “They really are just like us.”

“Here’s hoping they end up as happy.”

“Here’s hoping they don’t deal with nearly as much sexual confusion.”

“That’ll be easy, I’ll just keep Dima away from those naughty Italian boys.”

“Oh, shut up. What about Nikki?”

“Kolya.”

“You’ll have to keep him away from all the Russian girls, how are you going to do that?”

“Not all of them. Just pretty ones with green eyes named Nadya. There can’t be too many of those.”

“That’s true. Your wife’s pretty hot.”

They scuffle, and the twins wake up, Kolya with a wail and Dimitri laughs because Nikolai was right, Dima does glare.

Nadya yells at her husband while Leo chuckles in the background.

“Your Highness?”

Murata raised his head a few inches off the dusty desktop, squinting to make sense of the figure in the doorway without the aid of his glasses. “Are you here on business, Yozak, or are you just standing on formalities to be obstinate?”

“Business,” was Yozak’s clipped reply, “with Conrad and His Majesty. Which begs the question: what are you doing in Yuuri’s study?”

The sage nodded, not quite able to pull off the look of cunning and wisdom he was famous for with his eyes so hopelessly out of focus. “And a very good question it is. Straight to the point. Commendable.” He grinned. “Pity I can’t tell you the answer, though. I must say, it’s a good one. You’d find it most interesting, I’m sure.”

“With all due respect, Your Highness, I have work to do.”

Murata groped amongst the piles of paperwork for his missing specs. “Well, by all means—ah, here they are—by all means, don’t let me stop you.” He slid on the glasses and blinked as the room came in to focus and goodness, when had Yozak moved over to the desk? “If there’s anything I could do to help besides breaking a sworn oath of secrecy, please let me know.”

A sigh. “You could only help if you were Conrad in disguise, Your Highness.” He looked at the notoriously cunning young man suspiciously. “You’re not, are you?”

“Maybe.”

“What kind of an answer is that?”

Murata leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand, completely in control as usual and enjoying it. “The kind Conrad would give to piss you off?”

“Captain’s not usually that sadistic unless I’ve done something wrong, which I’m pretty sure I haven’t.” Yozak leaned down, bringing them eye-to-eye as he continued his careful study. “I could always fall back on the old standard, just to be sure.”

Black brows furrowed slightly. “And what would that be?” he asked, and then Yozak’s face came in closer and he would have let out a most undignified squawk except it was hard to make that kind of noise with someone else’s tongue in your mouth and oh my god when had Yozak learned to do that?

Murata’s face was bright red and he was breathing a little shakily by the time Yozak broke away. The redhead straightened up and nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Definitely not Conrad, I wouldn’t be standing now if you were. Guess I’ll have to check the baseball diamond, that’s where they usually hide out.” He was already moving out of the room, but when he reached the door he turned back and grinned. “You’re a pretty good kisser, Murata. We’ll have to do that again sometime.” Then with a wink and a wave, he was gone.

It was a few minutes before the shock wore off and Murata started moving again. With a look of grim determination on his face, he found a blank piece of paper among the sea of half-done forms and laws-to-be, dipped a quill into the nearly empty inkwell at his elbow, and scratched out a note addressed to the barracks.

Conrad,

Okay, perhaps it didn’t really start out innocently at all, but it sounds so much more romantic that way.

    He’s distracting you.He’s not distracting me from anything.

    You’re not supposed to fall in love.Abandoning me here for eons wasn’t part of the deal, either.

    I’m always right here.Intangible.

    Not inaudible.Your sparkling wit isn’t enough for me anymore.

    It always was before.I loved you before.

    You still love me.I wonder.

    I don’t.You’re mad because he’s nothing like you.

    Why would I care?I could’ve had someone like you.

    You couldn’t get him.I didn’t try.

    Try now.I don’t want him.

    When did it start?The moment you left me alone.

    He’ll leave you alone, too.Because you make me stay.

    You’ll only get a lifetime.That’s more than I ever got from you.

    I had duties.I know.

    You don’t care.No.

    I’m going to do everything to keep you apart.I’ll still love him.

For the love of Shinou, pay attention, Hans! Put that thing away, I will not tolerate you listening to music while I’m teaching. Honestly, children these days—fine, young people these days have no appreciation for what the previous generation has done for them. The battles we’ve fought, the things we’ve sacrificed! If it weren’t for our Maou, you wouldn’t be flirting with Gratia while my back was turned, or playing baseball after class with Fritz and Rupert. You’d be in hiding, trying to keep half of your identity a secret for fear of your life. It wasn’t so long ago when humans and Mazoku lived in separate worlds, each refusing to have anything to do with the other. Those few who broke the rule were punished for it. The offspring of a Mazoku and a human were without birthright, wanted by none, and even a halfling in the royal family did little to alter those attitudes. In some places the parents of such children were killed, or imprisoned and forced to do hard labour.

Things started to change when Yuuri arrived. Raised as a human child in the other world, our customs and prejudices were alien to him, and his first instinct was to break them all. He stripped away the societal taboos we’d buried ourselves in and let our minds breathe in clear air again. He showed us how to love, how to accept people for who they were and not what they were. Once a little girl tried to kill him and he adopted her before the week was out. Countless lives were saved by his mercy and compassion, a hundred potential wars averted.

Yuuri tried to change things through peace, but when you re-arrange the social hierarchy, violence can never be completely avoided. There were skirmishes in several territories that snowballed into larger conflicts, killing and injuring more than their fair share of humans and Mazoku alike. There were crushing losses among the nobility as well, and I know because I comforted some of them when they cried.

The previous Maou had three children and only one is still alive, the youngest, still Yuuri’s fiancé after all these years, holding on to something he knows he’ll never get and he didn’t really want in the first place. Scandalous, isn’t it? King Yuuri never got over the death of the middle child, Conrad, whom he loved more than he realized until it was too late. The eldest brother was my best friend, and I watched him die in the arms of the Sage.

Is that exciting enough for all of you? Tragic enough? Interesting enough to be worthy of your precious attention spans?

You can see dragons in the skies again because of Yuuri. Humans and Mazoku can walk in the sunlight together because of Yuuri. You can all sleep at night because of Yuuri, because of your King, and I don’t think it’s too much to ask for you to devote one hour out of your day to learning about why his portrait is hanging in this classroom, why you bow your heads in respect to him and why you owe him your allegiance and your very life.

Now, please open your textbooks to page two hundred and thirty-four.

    I guess we’ll be working together from now on.

How dare he?

    It’s kind of embarrassing, but I’ve always really looked up to you.He doesn’t even remember who he’s pretending to be.

    You’re not as intimidating as you think you are, you know.He walks like you and he talks like you, but all the little things are off.

    I met her in Sector Six last week.Hair. Eyes. Lips.

    I told you I admired you, didn’t I?And that makes it worse.

    It can be our little secret.Because I remember all the things I can’t have.

    Sephiroth…And I hate him for it.

    I think one of my men is from there.I want to ruin this life he’s constructed out of yours.

    Why?I’m tired of seeing you when I look at him.

    I trusted you!Hating me.

    I loved you.Zack.

The road stretches out lazily before them into the distance. Konoha is still days away, but at least they have finally crossed their country’s border and into relative safety. Izumo frets at the thought of the paperwork waiting on their desks for them, knowing from experience that Tsunade wouldn’t touch the forms and files of her own volition. Kotetsu shrugs and thinks instead of a comfortable bed and Izumo’s cooking, still delicious in the field but even better in their tiny kitchen, at the secondhand table wedged beside the stove.

They stop to rest when they reach the top of the hill, exhausted. Izumo leans against a tree and remarks on the view, the sweep of field and forest almost dreamlike in the summer haze. “You can see the same kind of thing near the village, I suppose, but you never really notice when you’re there.”

He’s not surprised when Kotetsu leans in to kiss him, but he enjoys it nonetheless, loves the casual way they can show affection here in the middle of nowhere.

Suddenly, neither of them is in a hurry to get back.

Christophe glanced up from the paper. “Even if I win the county bake-off with grand-mère’s apple pie recipe?”

Kyle scowled and snatched the newspaper from his boyfriend. “Don’t be cute with me, asshole, you took on another job! God damnit, Christophe, you promised me you’d go legit! You’re working for the CI-fucking-A, they’ll kill you if they find out!” He threw the paper back onto the table, this time with the headline ‘Mole in the Pentagon’ clearly visible on the front page.

Christophe waved away the offending article. “You can’t prove that was me.”

“They’re leaking secrets to the French, who the hell else would it be?!”

“Well, I was quite flattered when they asked me, apparently I’m something of a folk hero back home…” the Mole twiddled his thumbs.

“Great, I’m dating an international susperstar in the world of espionage. A soon to be dead one, but hey, you win some, you lose some…”

“Now now, you’re upset.” The Frenchman beckoned the redhead towards him. “Come to Christophe, cher, I will make it all better…”

“You are NOT getting any right now!” Kyle threw up his hands. “I give up! I should’ve listened to mom and married a nice Jewish girl, she wouldn’t give me all this trouble!”

“Yes,” Kyle gasped when Christophe’s lips brushed against his ear as he whispered sultrily, “but would a nice Jewish girl do this?” He then proceeded to prove to Kyle that there was a reason they called it a ‘french’ kiss.

“You suck.”

“If you’d like, darling.”

“I’m definitely NOT forgiving you next time.”

“You two are my best friends,” Yuuri replied matter-of-factly, “so of course I’d like you to get along with each other better. What better way for two young men to bond than through camping?”

Murata tried not to show how amused he was as he asked “Have you been getting advice from your mother again, Shibuya?”

The boy king coughed and plowed on. “All the arrangements have already been made, so you can leave as soon as your personal things are packed.” He smiled. “You need a vacation anyways, Conrad, I bet its been ages since you slept in the woods just for the sake of sleeping in the woods.”

Murata almost laughed out loud at the strained smile on Conrad’s face as the soldier replied. “Yes, your majesty, its been awhile.”

“How many times do I have to—”

“Yes, Yuuri,” the older man wearily corrected himself, “It’s been awhile.”

Murata covered up his giggle with a violent coughing fit.

After Yuuri bustled the unlikely pair out of his study with promises of a week of fun-filled communing with nature, Wolfram glanced over from his cushy reading chair with a rare grin on his face. “Yozak’s going to kill you when he finds out.”

“Yeah, well,” Yuuri laughed nervously, “It’s his own fault for not making a move, isn’t it? I waited long enough for him to make up his mind.”

***

Conrad didn’t mind spending his nights in the woods when it had a purpose—travel, reconnaissance, laying low after letting Yozak talk him into doing something incredibly stupid—but sleeping in the dirt for the sake of sleeping in the dirt was an absolutely pointless exercise.

Murata, not exactly fond of camping even when it was for a reason, was inclined to agree with Conrad’s assessment. There was absolutely nothing to do except toss a baseball back and forth while they talked about whatever random things came to mind: which, it soon dawned on them, was exactly what Yuuri had intended.

“Wolfram must’ve helped him,” Murata decided. “He’s a great Maou, but not all that cunning.”

Conrad threw the ball in a long, graceful arc that landed squarely in Murata’s outstretched glove. “You could be arrested for treason in another country if you said that about the king, you know.”

“Then it’s a good thing we’re not in another country.” Ken’s toss went wildly off-course and Conrad nearly fell over trying to catch it. He winced. “Sorry. Anyways, even if we were that totalitarian, I’m the Great Sage so I think I’d be pretty safe.”

Conrad froze.

Uncomfortable silences tend to trail along after the reestablishment of social boundaries, and this was no exception. Murata felt like repeatedly hitting his head against a tree for bringing up the vast gap between their ranks in society, especially when they’d begun getting along so well. When Conrad stowed away his glove and the ball, the young sage felt sick to his stomach.

Conrad knelt by the remains of their cooking fire and prodded it back to life, then looked in his companion’s direction. “Could you pass me the fish, Ken? I should start dinner.”

Murata looked nervously at Conrad and the older man smiled, and Murata smiled back as he went to fetch the fish.

***

Neither of them was entirely sure how it happened.

Oh, why it happened was easy enough to figure out. After five days in the woods it was inevitable that boredom would rear its ugly head. Cooking, fishing, and discussing how Yuuri was adorably ridiculous could only entertain one for so long. Having run out of options, it wasn’t really all that surprising that two healthy, attractive young men would choose to take the enjoyment of each other’s company to new levels.

However, that still doesn’t quite explain how they’d gone from cooking breakfast to engaging in a hearty game of tonsil hockey, though both swore it made perfect sense at the time.

It was, Murata reflected afterwards, not the best sex of his many lives, but that was due less to Conrad’s technique (which was impeccable) and more to the numerous twigs, rocks, and pinecones jutting painfully into his back at the most inopportune moments. Still, it was the resolution to several lifetimes of sexual frustration and—he gave Conrad’s unclad form a once-over as the man looked almost sleepily around for his clothing—he definitely couldn’t complain.

If Conrad was having second thoughts about fucking the second-highest ranking Mazoku in the country, his goofy smile hid it admirably.

***

Yuuri watched the pair trot into the courtyard from his fourth floor window, and even from that high up he could see Murata’s blush as Conrad helped him down from his horse. Ah, the wonders of youth and love and springtime, etcetera, as his mother would say.

“Yozak’s going to murder you.” Wolfram sounded far too gleeful at the prospect of his fiancé’s imminent and most violent death.

The young king just smiled. “At least they’re both happy now, that’s the important thing.”

The Shinigami shifts against his bonds, enchanted wires dripping with blood where they dig into his wrists, his arms, his ankles. “They weren’t blood soaked.” It’s useless to struggle, he’s tried and succeeded only in making Muraki want to hurt him more. “You barely bled at all.”

“Forgive me my poetic exaggerations, but we can’t all posses flesh as magnificent as yours.” Ice cold fingertips ghost along his naked body. “I can make you bleed like a dying man and your skin just knits and begs me for more, to make you scream until my marks stop fading.” The knife flashes downward and the mad doctor nicks a shoulder, a demonstration.

Tsuzuki doesn’t even flinch anymore.

“How did it feel when you thought me dead?” He lifts a rose from the nightstand, running it through the drying red rivulets crisscrossing Tsuzuki’s chest. He always knew these roses would look beautiful with the Shinigami’s exposed skin, even more beautiful dripping in his blood. “Were you relieved to see me gone? Or,” his lips curve into a mocking smile, “did you feel abandoned? In your eyes, was my loss any different than the loss of Tatsumi, Watari, even little Asuka who you knew so briefly?”

Tsuzuki tenses; the doctor knows which nerves will still give him a reaction. “How do you know about them?”

“You told me, Tsuzuki, don’t you remember?” Predator leans closer to his prey, enjoying this psychological torment as much as he relishes the physical. “In this room, while I tore your flesh to ribbons and watched you stain these clean white sheets with your blood, while I violated the most intimate areas of you body in ways that made you want to vomit, you screamed out their names and begged them to save you, to come back for you.” He is breathing words into Tsuzuki’s ear now, lips brushing against the delicate skin with every other syllable. “It sounds as though you’ve grown attached to my pretty little puppet. I think he’s fond of you as well, but of course, my playthings always did have excellent taste. I wonder,” and now he draws back, because he wants to see the look in those wild eyes when he says this, “why hasn’t he come looking for you yet?”

Violet eyes darken with anger as the Shinigami immediately places blame on his captor, for there can be no other explanation. “You did something to him, you hurt him, you son of—”

“No, Tsuzuki, I haven’t done a thing.” There’s a hint of glee in the doctor’s voice, he doesn’t even have to lie to break Tsuzuki, they’ve made it all too easy for him. “They can search for you to their hearts’ content. And yet, they haven’t found you.” The mocking grin deepens, it’s too perfect, the expression on Tsuzuki’s face, absolutely fucking delicious. “Not trying very hard, are they?”

“Shut up.” Ineloquent, that is so very like him. Eyes flash, Muraki has hit too close to the mark and he knows it, it’s his specialty.

“How much does it hurt, knowing they don’t care about you like you care about them?” The knife is out again, scraping just hard enough to make the Shinigami bleed, accenting Muraki’s words. “When darling little Hisoka was the one at my mercy you jumped to save him, I was counting on it, and yet he can seem to return the fa—”

“Shut up, Muraki!”

The smile drops from Muraki’s face and the knife plunges into Tsuzuki’s flesh. He cries out because it hurts, it’s deep, deep enough to kill if he were still alive to die. The doctor twists and Tsuzuki screams, it hurts oh god it hurts so much make it stop…

Muraki unsheathes the knife from his flesh and samples the blood that drips off the edge, cold smile resurrected by the Shinigami’s screams. “I though I’d taught you not to interrupt me while I’m talking. But if you want to make some noise,” the knife descends again and it doesn’t really matter what Tsuzuki says now because Muraki has that look in his eyes, “I can give you something to scream about.”

And for the next small eternity Tsuzuki’s world is pain and cold hands running all over his body and the scent of roses as red as his blood.

“You don’t have to take the job, Kudo.” Kakei absentmindedly stroked Saiga’s hair, having long grown used to the larger man falling asleep in his lap. “Just go back to work if you find the terms unacceptable, I’m sure I can—”

Kazahaya cut him off in the usual way. “I need the money.” The edges of Kakei’s lips turned up and the boy shuddered. He hated that grin, it was the harbinger of ultimate evil. “I just don’t see,” he barreled on, determined not to the The Grin faze him, “why we have to do it together.” He made a face at Rikuo, who was lounging beside him like nothing was out of the ordinary. “Can’t we just take separate baths?”

“That would defeat the whole purpose, Kudo.” Kakei pushed Saiga’s head out of the way and drew a small bottle from the pocket of his lab coat, placing it on the table beside his chicken salad sandwich. “Our client is developing a very special kind of bubble bath, and you two to have test it. We’ll only be able to see the full effects if the two of you bathe together.” A hard gleam came to the older man’s eyes. “This is non-negotiable. Take the job or don’t. It pays very well.”

Kazahaya didn’t answer, but scooped the bottle from the table and stalked upstairs. Rikuo followed, wordlessly.

***

“You first.”

“What difference does it make?”

“None.” Kazahaya inched away from the tub. “You first.”

Rikuo smirked. “Afraid I’ll show you up?”

“Shut up and get in the bath!” Kazahaya cursed Rikuo’s natural ability to make him blush like a schoolgirl and clutched his towel more tightly around his waist. “I want to get this over with!”

The taller boy chuckled a little (mockingly, if you asked Kazahaya) and dropped his towel, slipping into the steaming water in one fluid motion that seemed almost unnatural for a man of his size. Kazahaya scowled. “Has to be mister high and mighty even when he’s getting into a bathtub,” he mumbled to himself, dropping his own towel and plunking himself into the water in a much less graceful manner.

They waited a few moments, neither entirely sure what they were supposed to be doing. Kazahaya was uncomfortably aware that the bathtub was simply not built to accommodate two people and shifted accordingly, a futile attempt to make sure that no part of his body was touching Rikuo because this was already weird enough.

“Quit splashing,” Rikuo growled, flicking some of the scented suds in Kazahaya’s direction.

“I’ll splash if I want to!” Kazahaya flicked some bubbles back.

“It was my bathroom first, and I say no splashing.” The taller boy smirked.

Kazahaya collapsed backwards, sending a wave of strawberry-scented bathwater over the sides. “Well, what am I supposed to do? I don’t even know what we’re waiting for!”

“I know as much as you do.” Rikuo grabbed a towel from the rack and wiped the wet tiles, glaring at his roommate all the while. “I’m sure we’ll figure it out soon enough, we always do.”

“What I can’t figure out is why we both have to be in here. What could two guys do in a bathtub together?”

Rikuo didn’t say anything, he just smirked.

“No!” Kazahaya nearly leapt out of the tub because that smirk always meant Very Bad Things, slightly perverted things, things which made him very uncomfortable by being less unpleasant than they should be. “It’s not that! It’s definitely not that!”

“What else could it be?” Rikuo leaned back, endlessly amused by Kazahaya’s reaction. “There’s probably an aphrodisiac in the bubbles. Only a matter of time, really.”

“You’re lying!”

“I’m only theorizing. But really, what else cold it be?”

“You don’t have to say it so calmly! We might… we might…”

“Fuck?” Wow, he could barely believe he actually said that. Rikuo leaned forward. He didn’t think he was right about the bubbles, but the warm bath and the fruity scent of the water and Kazahaya’s foot brushing against his leg made him feel a little bold, a little reckless. “Would it really be all that bad?”

“Yes.” Maybe. No, probably not, when he thought about it, but thinking about it was something that Kazahaya was trying very, very hard not to do. “We’re men. It’s disgusting.”

“Is it?” Rikuo leaned closer. They were practically breathing each other’s breaths now.

Kazahaya looked at Rikuo.

Rikuo looked at Kazahaya.

A brief moment of silence followed, and then all of a sudden noses were bumping and teeth were clacking and tongues were exploring delightful new places.

Not surprisingly, it was Kazahaya who pushed away first. “What are you doing?!

“The same thing you were doing.” Damn, he’d really hoped that he was about to end months of unresolved sexual tension there.

“Don’t compare me with you!” And then they were doing it again and Rikuo would’ve choked in surprise if it hadn’t meant stopping and oh god the little twerp was so much better at this than he’d imagined.

Kazahaya pulled away and actually smacked him, like some woman out of a bad romance novel. “Stop that!”

“You started it that time!”

“I did not! When I start something like that, you’ll know it!” And he did, and Rikuo knew it, and he liked it very much.

“It’s just the bubbles,” Kazahaya said the next time, “I still hate you and your tough guy attitude.”

“Right, right,” Rikuo agreed, “the bubbles.” And this time he started it, and Kazahaya knew, and Rikuo imagined he liked it.

***

Kazahaya visibly twitched. “Could you repeat that, Kakei?”

“I said, ‘it was just ordinary bubblebath.’”

“The strawberry kind,” Saiga added. “It’s on sale this week.”

“But you said—”

“The client was doing a psychological study.” Kakei finished stacking a fistful of bills into two piles. “Here’s part in cash, the rest will be added to you paycheck.”

Kazahaya was in such a state of shock that he didn’t even grab his hard-earned money. “So you mean I,” at this point he made some unintelligible motions with his hands, “with him, for no reason?”

“Thanks,” Rikuo muttered dryly.

“I suppose you did, Kudo. Oh,” Kakei checked his watch, “closing time. You two do lockup, Saiga and I have business elsewhere this evening. Come on, Saiga.”

The tall, dark man grinned at the boys and waved. The phrases “You pervert!” and “You weren’t complaining!” followed them out the door.

“Psychological study?”

“I’d have liked to hear you come up with something better.”

“Aw.” A kiss. “You’re deliciously evil, you know that?”

Hinata had nightmares for a long time afterwards, seeing his death over and over again in her sleep despite not bearing witness to its actual occurrence. She would walk the three blocks to Naruto’s small apartment and let herself in with the key he’d given her after the sixth time she’d woken him up at four in the morning. Tea things were always set out neatly on the counter for her, the couch draped with a blanket and a book lying on the kitchen table.

Eventually, Hinata just stopped going home in the morning. Naruto didn’t seem to mind.

They all expect so much of me, they all want something that I don’t think I can give because for all the Mako running through me I am still just one man. A hero, a savior, a protector, a little boy that none of us are sure I ever was; I can’t be all these things at once or, I suspect, at all. And that’s one of the reasons I can’t love her, because she wants something I can’t be, just like Aeris did.

But not you, Yuffie. You don’t expect anything special, you don’t want anything special. You want someone to hold you like this and kiss you like this and want you just like this. You just want someone to love you, and that I can do.

You said it with a smile, but your eyes told a different story. I didn’t need empathy to see your heart break. A blind man could have seen those tears hiding behind sliver-rimmed glasses.

You did everything in your power to make him hate you. You thought it would be best, that it would be easier to leave him if he didn’t love you anymore. You didn’t want to make him cry, so you thought you’d make him seethe instead.

Do you even see the way he looks at you?

He doesn’t hate you. Not even a little.

I don’t need my empathy. These are things I know, and things Watari knows, things the whole department knows.

I don’t need to look into anyone’s soul to know who he’d rather have by his side.

Shinichiro looks away. “What makes you think I was planning something?”

“Because,” Nanami dangles the handcuffs in front of the math teacher, “you’re always planning something. That’s what you do.”

“As though you haven’t had your share of schemes.” Shinichiro moves closer.

“None with handcuffs.” Nanami pretends that feeling Shinichiro’s breath on his neck doesn’t affect him. “Unless you count that one time.”

“You know I do.” And then Shinichiro is touching and kissing in all the right places, and Nanami is thankful that he waited until they got home to ask.

A sweat-covered forearm creeps across a heaving, naked chest to shakily hoist its owner’s lithe body above one it has gotten to know quite intimately over the past half hour. A smile tugs at his mouth as he leans in, sultry and slow. Their lips brush together. He speaks.

“It’s still going to be twenty bucks for the pizza, you know.”

Shigure peers at his companion over the tops of his glasses. “Why on earth would you want to do that?”

Miroku casually flips through one of the many half-finished manuscripts littering the room. “Monks get all the action in your stories,” he drawls, glancing at the author from the corner of his eye to watch his reaction. “You make it seem like such an ideal profession.”

“Monks don’t get to eat gummi worms, you know.”

“Liar!”

“Why would I lie about that?” Shigure holds up one of the forbidden candies, a red and yellow one. “If you’re my sexy assistant, however…”

“You know what?” Miroku rises from his spot on the couch and saunters towards his employer, smirking, “I think you’ve just convinced me.”

“I thought as much.” Shigure smiles and dangles the treat temptingly. “Want one?”

“You know I do.” Miroku kneels in front of Shigure and slides his hands up yukata-clad thighs as he takes the gummi worm in his teeth. Shigure breathes in deeply as the younger man twirls the candy around his tongue, ending with a teasing lick to the author’s fingertips.

Shigure looks at Miroku, eyes gone cloudy with lust. “Are you feeling up to helping me with some research?” he asks huskily.

“If ‘research’ means ‘hot wild sex’, and ‘helping’ means ‘actively participating in’.”

“Does it ever mean anything else?”

Back in Black sends his regards. He wishes you luck, and asks you to hurry home. I concur wholeheartedly. Please be careful.

-Ragin’ Sagin’

*

Ragin’ Sagin’,

Tell Back in Black that I appreciate his concern. I will finish with my duties ASAP, and I should be back in a month so long as Rookie of the Year doesn’t want me to pick anything else up while I’m here.

I miss you.

-Pretty Woman

*

Pretty Woman,

You missed the most interesting argument today. Back in Black, Bouncing Blonde Sr. and Bouncing Blonde Jr. were standing in the middle of the courtyard and screeching about dresses. Back in Black thinks Bouncing Blonde Jr. should wear the dress because of his notable love of nightgowns, Bouncing Blonde Jr. thinks Back in Black should wear it because Back in Black is a wuss, and Bouncing Blonde Sr. thinks they should BOTH wear dresses because it would be cuter that way.

I’m not sure what will be more entertaining, the actual wedding or this delightful planning stage.

I miss you, too.

-Ragin’ Sagin’

*

Ragin’ Sagin’,

If they both wore dresses, wouldn’t that defeat the whole purpose of dressing one up as the wrong gender? They might as well both dress as men. Though, I suppose trying to point out logic to her in that type of situation is pointless…

I’ve just received a letter from Edison-ette. If you get this in time, tell Cuddly Sourpuss to lock himself in the study for a week or so and not let anyone in. Trust me.

-Pretty Woman

*

Pretty Woman,

Unfortunately, your warning came a few days too late. Cuddly Sourpuss is off in his private rooms, nursing what’s left of his eyebrows with Uber Fanboy. Edison-ette and the Three Musketeers have been gently encouraged to take a long vacation in the country while Cuddly Sourpuss recuperates and takes out his rage through knitting. Expect a barrage of badly crafted stuffed animals when you return.

-Ragin’ Sagin’

*

Ragin’ Sagin’,

If Cuddly Sourpuss still breathes, then things did not turn out as badly as I feared.

Has Back in Black sorted out that dress difficulty yet?

Two more weeks. I’ll see you soon.

-Pretty Woman

*

Pretty Woman,

They have agreed that neither of them need dress as a woman, and Bouncing Blonde Jr. has graciously agreed to the feminine role during the ceremony. Whether he shall keep to that behind closed doors is a question I both love to speculate on and shudder to think about.

Bouncing Blonde Sr. is still pouting. She really did want to see her son in a dress.

-Ragin’ Sagin’

*

Ragin’ Sagin’,

That’s too bad, I found an outfit that would have looked simply divine on Bouncing Blonde Jr. Oh well.

I should be on my way home by the time you get this.

-Pretty Woman

*

Pretty Woman,

Why aren’t you here yet?

-Ragin’ Sagin’

*

Ken,

I’m back. I’ve missed you. I love you.

Did I mention I love you, and I’ve missed you?

Hurry up with your damn meeting. I’ll be waiting in our room for you.

-Yozak

*

Yozak,

I think Gwendal’s debate on Anissina’s permanent exile can wait.

I’m so glad you’re home.

-Ken

*

Feverent kisses in the open doorway. Hands run over faces, down necks and shoulders and ticklish sides. They don’t care who walks by.

“I see you got my note.”

A little fun, that was all Michael Lee had in mind when he’d hacked into that temptingly forbidden database. He’d done it a thousand times before, on hundreds of different top-secret websites. It was like a game, and he’d never been beaten. He thought he was invincible.

It stopped being a game when he’d was abducted from his room several nights later. Michael had gone to bed near dawn, as usual, and when he awoke he was in a strange room, alone. His imprisonment had begun.

It was the same, day after day. Wake up, hack, eat, sleep, repeat. It was a familiar pattern, one he’d followed for years before he’d been caught, but it wasn’t as enjoyable when he was being forced into it. The other workers came and went as they pleased, barely giving a second thought when they passed through the portal to the outdoors. That was a luxury Michael did not think he’d ever know again.

It was different before. Sure, he had spent most of his life indoors, but that had been by choice. The grass outside his basement window didn’t mock him. Underlying his self-imposed captivity had been the comforting echo of freedom. If he wanted to walk in the sunshine, he could. If he wanted to lie beneath a tree and watch the clouds drift by between the leaves, he could.

He didn’t have those options anymore.

Sometimes, on those days when the oppression became too much, Michael would cry.

“Michael?”

But not today.

Haruto smiled at the hacker, a ray of sunshine in the dank darkness of Michael’s prison. “There was a sweet old lady selling these down the block,” he explained as he set a small vase beside Michael’s keyboard. “I thought they’d brighten up your desk! You don’t have enough stuff on your desk. It’s the first day of summer, you know. Wipe that gloomy look off your face!”

They were daisies. A simple flower, they had grown wild in the weed-ridden garden at his old home. They were plain, but tough, and determined above all to be happy. Michael had loved them. He missed them in this concrete compound.

Michael looked at Haruto and smiled, albeit weakly, and a spark of life returned to his weary eyes. “Thank you, Sakaki.”

The hunter smiled at the hacker. “You’re welcome,” he replied, dazzling grin lingering for a moment before he glided away to give a leftover daisy to the nearly late Robin.

Yes, there were some days when Michael would have chosen death over his continued captivity. And yet, more often than not he thanked his lucky stars for his clumsy teenage stupidity. Without it, he would have never met the one person to make him see the humanity inside of himself, the one who made him want that blue sky and green grass and those daisies waving in the wind.

Don’t give me that look, why would I make that up? It’s true, I swear it. I don’t make a habit of convincing people that I’m insane.

Maybe I should start at the beginning.

It began with this dream that I’ve been having, without fail, every night since I was sixteen. I’m with this other guy in a field and we’re sitting together, talking. We’re a little close for my comfort, and things get kind of weird for me, but I don’t want to say anything because he’s easily twice my size. After a couple of minutes we’re interrupted, which I would be eternally grateful for if it weren’t for the fact that the guy who shows up is like the essence of pure terror. He’s a demon if ever I saw one: glowing orange eyes, curled horns coming out of the forehead, claws and teeth sharp enough to score diamond and, to top it all off, a pair of wings unfolded like a grotesque, portable backdrop.

Even in my state of complete and utter fear, I can’t help but idly notice that he’s the exact green of a 7up bottle.

The first guy in my dream, my companion if you will, pushes me out of the way. I think he yells for me to get down, but I can’t hear anything, it’s like I’ve gone deaf. I notice my companion has wings like the stranger, and so do I, though that doesn’t seem important at the time.

I crouch behind a rock and watch the two duke it out. For a while it looks as though my defender will win, but the fight turns and all at once the attacker has left my man beaten and bloody on the ground. I feel those deadly claws kneading my throat an instant before I wake up.

Perhaps I should have gotten some sort of counseling for this odd, reoccurring nightmare, but I was a stubborn teenage boy who didn’t want to admit let alone talk about the fact that he woke up choking on screams every night at four in the morning. Instead, I made myself feel less strange by gathering together the weirdest kids I could find in my high school and forming a close-knit social group of psychos. And so Apollo’s Acolytes was born.

Apollo’s Acolytes was our garage band, although due to space restrictions we actually played in my basement. When asked to specify our genre, we called ourselves gothic indie punk rock, if only to get a few laughs. Our front man was a Goth freshman who insisted on being called Robin even though his real name was Christen; the drummer never wore a shirt if he could help it, and the bassist’s hair was so shaggy we debated whether or not he really had eyes. We were a ridiculous combination, but we worked.

We didn’t get our first real ‘gig’ until we’d been playing for nearly a year. We were doing a few covers and several of our own songs at a local bar, opening for a bigger-name band. It was tough sneaking Robin in since he was still sixteen, but fake IDs are easy enough to come by and no one felt like questioning the weird kid in the trench coat.

The first time on a real stage is always exhilarating. Robin rolled his hips enough to give Elvis a run for his money, and Alex was so into his drumming I don’t think Armageddon could have stopped him. Only Kyle, who had played with another band before and was used to the stage, was sane enough to notice when I stopped singing backup. He was the only one who saw me desperately trying to keep playing as I stared out at the audience.

I recovered, though not without some difficulty. Between songs Kyle discreetly asked if! was okay. I smiled. “Just nerves,” I told him, “I’ll be fine.”

It wasn’t nerves. It was him, the man from my dream, the one I saw dying on the ground every night as he tried to save my life. He was, of course, sans wings, but identical in all other ways. Broad shouldered, short black hair just bordering on shaggy, and those dark eyes that I’d seen looking blankly at me too many times. I was in absolute shock. How could he be real? Why had I dreamt of this man I had never met for three years? And, more importantly, why was he staring at me like that?

Maybe I’m just paranoid, but I swear my mysterious stranger smirked at the look of confusion on my face.

He’d found his way backstage by the time we finished our set. Whether or not he was waiting for me I’ll never know, since I strode up to him before he even had a chance to move.

“Who are you?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Don’t be cute with me.” I took a step forward, tried to appear intimidating despite having to look up at him. “Why do I dream about you?”

I have to admit, he did a pretty good job of pretending to think I was a nut job.

“I’ve never seen you before in my life, kid. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“If you don’t know who I am, why are you back here? Why were you staring at me on stage, hm?”

He was startled. I suppose he’d thought I missed his apparent fascination with me.

He looked as though he would reply, but a second later he was already half way to the door.

“Hey!” Yes, eloquent reaction, I know. I chased after him, certain that he knew more than he’d let on. Could he tell me where my strange nightmare originated from, or did he have the same dream every night? Maybe he’d stared at me because he felt the same jolt of recognition I did; after all, I’d done my share of gawking as well. I’d have to ask, when and if I caught him.

I darted down the alley outside the club, but a flutter of his full-length coat around the corner was the last glimpse I caught of him. He moved faster than anyone I’d ever seen, faster than anyone could possibly move.

Perhaps he did know more of that dream than I did.

I didn’t bother telling my friends where I had gone, and they were comfortable enough with insanity not to ask.

I didn’t see him at our next gig, or the one after that, but after a few months he began to show himself at our concerts again. I didn’t approach him afterwards, worried that he would run off for longer this time. It would be smarter to wait, I decided, until he became confident enough to hold a conversation with me. He knew something, and I had to know it too, matter what the cost. That was the goal that fueled me through those frustrating months, as the dreams grew more real, as my breath became harder to catch, as the ghost of deadly claws at my throat harder to shake off.

His stares unnerved me. No one else stared at me during those concerts. Robin got most of the attention, and what little was left was drawn to Alex and his shirtless antics. I was the obscure guitarist and I liked it that way. I didn’t like to feel his eyes on me as I hid in the darkened back half of the stage.

“Is Essence of Terror about that dream you have?”

I started. It had been six months since I’d spoken to him. “Yes,” I replied immediately, hoping I didn’t seem too anxious for what information he might have. Essence of Terror was a song I’d written after the nightmare one night when I couldn’t go back to sleep. It suited Robin’s style perfectly, and was one of our best hits among goth and punk alike. “I wrote it about the demon.”

“Am I the ‘savior struck down’?”

“Maybe.” A pause. “I thought you didn’t know about the dream.”