"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?"