Raven, Abducted

Warnings: mentions of past abuse including mild sexual abuse, some OOC, AU, mature content, tons of angst and fluff

A/N: Thanks for actually sticking around this long pfffff. NSFW content in this chapter.

Chapter XXXI

"Oh, and what is it that happened between you two?~"

Oz's spoon fell against the side of his teacup with a soft clink, and he glanced up just as Gilbert did.

"Now, Break, that is hardly something appropriate to discuss now at mealtime, is it not?" Sharon spoke, clearly and calmly, but it held an underlying threat that was not lost on the silver-haired male. He was perched on the armrest of his chair, stretched out in a thick whirl of late morning sunlight. Judging by his demeanor, he seemed particularly daring this morning.

"I apologize, milady, I only thought to voice the question on all of our minds," he said, then addressed the two in question, "One of you looks like a lovesick puppy, and the other looks like someone stepped on his poor puppy. Not to mention you both look simply atrocious. Well, more so than usual, that is."

"Break," Sharon's fingers curled around the sleeve at his elbow before he could swing his legs beneath him to stand, and the simple delicate gesture had him seating himself properly. "More tea for me, please, if you will."

"Yes, of course, milady," he said tightly, complying; she allowed him to fill her cup, and brought it to her lips.

Her eyes settled on Oz expectantly, and he met her gaze before quickly averting his. He gripped the handle of his teacup a little tighter and offered a smile. "Ah, it's nothing. Couldn't sleep is all."

Settling his chin on his palm, Oz didn't miss the way Break and Sharon glanced at Gilbert, who was decidedly no help at all; face hidden behind a gloved hand, he was utterly oblivious to everything aside from his mug of coffee, black and clouded with a layer of steam. He didn't even have a breakfast plate, Oz noticed off-handedly.

There was no way Oz was going to answer to those two alone!

Vaguely annoyed now, he averted his eyes to the window at his other side, and kicked his foot out beneath the table as inconspicuously as possible. It connected soundly with Gil's ankle, and he immediately straightened in his seat, bewildered; he turned to look at Oz who stared back expectantly, with an innocence that made Gil question whether he'd even kicked him at all. But the slight sting lingered, dulled by the leather of his boots. Greeted with three expectant stares, he swallowed, at a loss, "Um…"

But before he could stammer out a sufficient explanation for his sleeplessness, Alice's voice stopped him still. "Gilbert," she said, from Sharon's other side. It was a rarity that she'd use Gil's name at all, so she quickly stole the attention of the four of them.

Gil brushed a few stray curls from his eyes, lowering his hand slowly. He looked just as surprised as Oz felt when he met her gaze, curious. "Y-yes, Alice?"

"What's your family name?" she asked, her voice bland; her arms folded over her chest as she leaned back in her seat. Her eyes scoured over him as if he were on display. The question had Oz's back straightening, the bluntness of it tearing across the table like paper. He sought out Gil's reaction, expecting shame or hurt, but was pleasantly surprised to see, instead, curiosity.

"I…don't have one," he answered as tactfully as possible.

She narrowed her eyes, perplexed. "That's impossible," she grumbled, "Everyone has parents."

If Gil's hands weren't bound to his mug like a lifeline, Oz might have reached between them to take one. Instead, he watched as the edges of his mouth picked up, nonplussed, and Gil went on patiently, "I suppose I did, once. But I don't remember them, they died before…well, before I was hired by the Nightrays."

Alice's expression was one of wonderment now, and her teeth found the inside of her lip. "You don't remember them? At all? I remember my father, and he died when I was young."

Suddenly the atmosphere had turned rather heavy for a simple question over brunch.

"Alice…" Oz said, but before he could interject, Sharon's graceful voice weaved between the two, "Alice, why don't you and Gilbert save this discussion for another time…?"

"It's not as if I mind," Gil responded, sending Sharon a grateful nod. "It really makes no difference to me, not anymore."

"As you wish," she said, genuinely curious now.

This time, he stared into the depths of his coffee, swirling the edges of his mug so the light foam atop it was sent spiraling inward. "I don't remember much at all before that. Sometimes I do, sometimes it…-" he stopped then, a bit sheepishly, and Oz's brow furrowed when he started his sentence anew. "There are a few things I can recall from that day, none of them…well, pleasant." His voice wavered a bit on the word 'pleasant' and he paused, seemingly more uneasy about their reactions than his own feelings on the matter.

"What day was that?" Alice piped up.

Gil looked up at her, staring half a second too long as if it were the last question he expected. "Bernard Nightray, my old master, he was policing a case and happened to take me in. I never knew the details."

Oz spared a glance at Break curiously, finding his expression solemn if not knowing, and it made him uncomfortable to think that perhaps Break knew more about Gil's past than he did.

Alice frowned, "But wouldn't he know who your parents were?"

Gil looked aside, shifting in his seat; his first sign of discomfort since the discussion began. He must've come to the same conclusion at some point. "Yes, I suppose…"

"You didn't ask?!" Her fingers gripped the edge of the table.

"Alice…" Oz muttered in some shock at her lack of tact. "Gil, there's no need to go on…"

Gil seemed just as stunned, but he still sent Oz a reassuring, although a bit incredulous, smile, "Thank you, Oz, but it's alright…"

Energized again, he continued with thinly veiled irritation, but it was mild and forgiving the longer he spoke again, "Of course I've…thought about it. He wouldn't tell me. Eventually I stopped asking. I don't really mind, though," he said, and Alice bared her teeth as if ready to strike. He ignored her, glancing aside blankly. "I mean, I don't really remember them anyway, so…"

Oz could tell that something in Gil's words didn't hold entirely true, but why he wasn't quite sure; Gil seemed well enough to believe them as he spoke them, but it was as if he'd convinced himself time and time again that he didn't mind.

"Gilbert," Break said, and Gil's thoughtful expression soured a little as he forced his attention to the man. They still weren't on good terms. "Do you know the date of when he picked you up?"

Gil studied him for a moment before his gaze dropped, instead, to the spread of empty plates before them. "Yes…" he said cautiously. When met with expectant stares - except Oz, who watched him curiously - his lips pursed a bit, "I'm not planning on looking into it or anything."

Alice huffed, "What if you have other family?"

Gil looked down into his mug as he mulled over the question, beginning to look a bit uneasy at the possibility presented to him. But the question was a legitimate one, and Oz couldn't help but wonder: why would he promise his life as a servant when there was a possibility of reuniting with family…?

"Even if I did," he said slowly, "they weren't looking for me… and besides, I'm sure the Nightrays wouldn't have taken me in if I did, it wasn't like…I was hidden away or anything…" Dismissively, he took another sip from the mug. Break was still studying him, even after Alice and Sharon broke into their own discussion. It seemed there was much to that day that even Break had yet to uncover…

Gil seemed to feel that eye on him, and he sent him a flat glare, effectively nipping those nosy thoughts in the bud; Break only smirked and raised a pastry to his mouth. Oz couldn't hold his curiosity any longer, and sighed lowly, his brow twitching with irritation, "Break, what exactly did you do to Gil…?"

Break hummed, smug as he dropped four sugar cubes into his tea, one after the other. His silver spoon circled the porcelain with a confident slowness. "You mean your devoted little servant hasn't told you…?" Oz was not deterred at all; in fact, his eyes glinted with challenge as Gil cleared his throat anxiously beside him. Glancing between them, he whispered an urgent "Oz…" and reached for his arm, but Oz folded his arms across his chest and kept his gaze leveled on Break. Gil reluctantly shrunk back into his seat when Oz side-eyed him, obviously displeased.

Amusement was evident on Break's face, and Gil's eyes widened before he stammered out a warning "B-Break…"

Break ignored him, his gaze meeting Oz's squarely. He cooed, "I'm hurt, Gilbert~," he said, flicking his eye to Gil, who blinked at him in disbelief, "Was my kiss really so disappointing…?" he asked, his eyes lidded and disinterested, as if he were discussing the morning paper.

Oz and Sharon both stiffened, the conversation formerly abuzz between the girls abruptly coming to an end as the words traveled their way along the length of the table. And Gil, he was deemed speechless; he sent Oz a worried look, but found his attention still on Break. Before he could respond, however, Sharon's palms flattened over the front of her dress and she stood, "Well," she said with an almost imperceptible tremble in her voice, "please, if you'll excuse me, I am quite finished…" and managed to get to the door with her usual grace before she lost her composure, and the others respectfully averted their eyes when her palm came up to hold in the inevitable tears as she made her way into the hallway.

All except Alice, that was; her foot planted itself on the table at Break's side, the cutlery trembling with the force of it. "What the heck was that about, huh? I don't know about this kissing business, but if it makes Sharon cry, then you really are brainless, you stupid clown."

She left in a huff, and Oz inwardly winced when the door once again shut behind her, this time with much more force.

Gil, now positively aggravated, stood too, feeling somehow responsible. "What the hell is it you're trying to do, Break? After what we discussed. It makes no difference at all to you, does it?" he asked, his hands clenching into fists at his sides, but he couldn't just stand there, not as enraged as he was. "Enough with this..." He left in a flurry, leaving Break and Oz alone in a room that was now stiflingly tense.

Oz finally deflated, sighing, somewhere between anger and misplaced nerves. "What were you thinking?"

"Oh, dear," Break said, his face resting against his palm. His finger tapped against his jawline.

"You really are a selfish one, huh," he said, but he supposed the man was wallowing in enough guilt as it was, so he refrained from saying more. Break grunted in response, using his fingernail to shove his plate of pastries to the center of the table.

"But it's not as if you don't care," Oz wondered aloud, "Why aren't you going after her…?"

"She won't want to see me," he said evenly, "It's best to let Gilbert or Alice take care of it."

"That's not how it works, Break," he said, narrowing his eyes in confusion. It wasn't like Break to sulk like this, nor was he anything but clever even at the worst of times. But Break didn't respond, he only continued to stare blankly into the leftover blackened tea leaves at the bottom of his mug. "Although… has there been something else that's troubling her…? I mean, you two have been a bit… " Oz trailed off, referring to Break's more frequent outings as of late.

Break's eye was positively carmine, "What are you implying, master Oz…?"

Oz blinked, setting down the cup perched halfway to his mouth. Interest piqued, he could even overlook Break's blatant sarcasm, having used his title. "Certainly not what you think I'm implying. Unless, of course, that is the case…"

Break ignored him. "And what about you, hm? How does it feel that I put my lips on your servant? Or should I say…pray tell, what is the male equivalent of a mistress?"

The insipidus tone of disapproval was unmistakable, and Oz bristled; his eyes caught on Break like sharp seaglass. But while anger had his teeth grinding, it was short-lived when he looked Break over. What he saw was a bitter, misguided man, one who'd revealed more about himself in the last few minutes than Oz had managed to discover over the course of their friendship leading up until now. "You…you are impossible, you know? It wouldn't hurt for you to let someone care about you. What hurts is this," he said, gesturing to the abandoned seats of the table. "Really, she cares, we all do. We don't get to pick and choose based on what we think we deserve…and the same goes for her too. This is strange, even for you, Break."

"That is rich," Break said dryly, "Coming from you. How noble. You must know there are things more deadly than a lack of friendship."

Oz paused for a moment, faltering, realizing all at once what Break meant, "That's it, huh? You don't want us to," he said, with a hint of revelation. "Break, there's something…" he trailed off, knowing he was right, but not what about. Something devastatingly heavier than a friendship at stake.

Break didn't respond, only set a turbulent eye on him, juxtaposed by the mirthless smile gracing his lips. "I wouldn't venture further, if I were you," he said, no denial in sight.

"Does Gil know?" he asked, quiet.

"Why don't you ask him?" Break replied, bitter and biting.

Oz pushed himself to standing, swallowing down his concern. His palms hesitated on the edge of the table, pressing wrinkles into the lacy frills of the tablecloth. "When you're ready, then."

Oz caught himself, looking down, "Those things…they aren't exclusive one way or the other…We can care, and know, and help if you'd let us," he said. The next words came in a sharp whisper: "She'd hurt either way, you know."

Setting lofty eyes on the man across from him, he ventured, "I am glad though…" Smiling faintly, almost pitifully, his fingers tightened against the palm of his hand, "It really does seem that you care for Gil, and for that, I'm grateful. You do have a...unique way of showing it."

His voice lost its bite when Break didn't respond, swallowing down something else entirely, "Unless it's something he wants, Break, don't touch him again."

Gilbert lead himself unhurriedly through the hallway toward the kitchen, having had no luck finding Sharon after the incident earlier. After checking the usual spots - the parlor, the library, the study - he was left to assume she had retired to her bedroom, and thought it best to leave her be. In fact, no one was to be found but a few maids he had passed on his trek through the mansion; he hadn't seen Oz, Alice, or Break at all since this morning. It wasn't until he'd made his way into the kitchen and secured the strings of his apron that he found one of them; Oz was stretched out on the grass outside the window in the courtyard, presumably napping. Gil smiled fondly, pleased that he'd at least shaded his pale face with an open-faced book. He only hoped the ink wouldn't stain.

Oz had been spending more time out there as of late, as the temperatures rose in greeting of mid-summer. Neither of them had ventured outside the Rainsworth walls since they had arrived, and it made him feel increasingly guilty. As grateful as he was for the protection, and despite he himself being used to such simplicity, he was sure Oz was getting rather restless. Leaving the mansion wasn't worth it if Oz were spotted; Oz who was supposedly out of the country until further notice. The same Oz who was easily recognizable with his striking green eyes and light-colored hair. They both knew it, and rarely spoke of it, although an apology was always suspended on the tip of Gilbert's tongue just in case. And if one did manage to spill out, Oz would grin and remind him there was no courtyard like this at the Vessalius mansion, and as long as Gil kept supplying him with pastries and good books he was perfectly well-tended to.

These days it felt like time had hit a standstill; all of them suspended in this dream-like progression, comfortable in their adopted daily routines. There was still the underlying suspense, but dimmed, as muted as the quiet of an afternoon like today. It was strange, really, how easily he fell into the lifestyle here, on the surface doing much of the servant work he used to - more out of habit than anything - but to relax, to feel content felt like giving up, like telling Oz he could never see his home again… And he wondered, was Oz homesick?

He imagined the mansion, overgrown with ivy, the servants tending to it once a week while the master was away, the scent of oak and earth of the Vessalius home. The curtains gracing the windows in the mornings were rich fabrics, not lace, and there was a distinct sense of distance between his bedroom and Oz's…

The thought had him feeling guilty all over again; Oz would be home and any thought further was an unnecessary one.

As for Alice, she didn't seem to mind. She split her time between Sharon and Oz, and Sharon was quick to take her under her wing. Break would come and go, unpredictable and private, although perplexing were the foreign candies that spilled out of his pockets after late nights out. Gil spent most days indoors, busying his hands until one of the others sat him down for a meal or a game of cards, or he simply basked in Oz's conversation, filling in with anecdotes of his own where they seemed to fit. He purposefully avoided the newspaper in the mornings, but he heard the crackle of it as Oz poured through it each day. Occurrences outside were irrelevant or unheard of, but there was an underlying gloom as they all but waited for what might happen next. Even this, as satisfying as it was, wasn't quite normalcy - just a routine to get by, and no one was sure of where they might go from here.

What would it take for these days to come to a halt…?

One day, perhaps, they…Together, as master and servant, it felt…like an impossibility…but Gil would do anything for Oz to be able to walk his own city streets again without worry.

He would…someday, be a proper servant to Oz.

With a practiced hand, he sliced the meat for dinner thinly in the fading light of the afternoon. Strangely, he felt at ease today, although the heaviness of his eyelids told a different story; regardless, it was as if a great weight had been lifted from him. And, in a sense, one had. Now Oz knew and…"it wasn't your fault," he'd said, those words hanging themselves on every thought he'd had since then. He'd really…laid himself bare last night, he thought, his cheeks darkening at the memory of his last words spoken. But he had…really meant them...

Chopped onions fell into the saucepan with a satisfying hiss, and he took a moment to tie his hair back with a ribbon before stirring and letting them brown.

He heard a muted bark of laughter from outside the window, and looked up. Alice must have woken Oz, and now had his book in her hand, opened to one illustration in particular too small to see from his location. He watched a moment while Oz seemed to explain the scene to her animatedly, a small smile finding its way to Gilbert's lips despite the flare of jealousy. And with it, that shred of self-loathing. He found he couldn't stay cross with Break for long, not when the two of them weren't all that different.

He thought back to Break's taunt and how Oz scarcely re acted, and how regardless Gil couldn't shake the feeling that he'd done something wrong. And it was silly, because it was Break, and he hadn't really done anything at all. Besides, Oz probably didn't kiss only him…

No, no, that's not the same and you know it!

He blinked down into the pan, and upon noticing the onions beginning to stick to the edges he quickly transferred it to another burner, the pan rattling before coming to a rest in his sudden panicked maneuver. Sighing, he ran the back of his hand over his brow and glanced outside one more time; the courtyard was now empty and the sky a darkened shade of blue, and he desperately clung to the mellowness of earlier, now seemingly just out of reach.

"Gil," Oz muttered, all but folding himself against the edge of the dresser as Gil, in turn, neatly folded his freshly laundered shirts, "I'm bored."

Gil let out a sigh, his lip quirking at the corner; Oz had been on his tail all morning, and now that dinnertime was swiftly approaching, he had quite a vast list of chores that were steadily accumulating. And while he, without fail, always appreciated his company, Oz was knowingly being increasingly distracting. "Are you?" The jibe came a bit sharper than he'd intended, but his tone was less than. And - of course - Oz only seemed more encouraged by the utterance.

Oz's lips pressed out prettily, a pout, his eyes trailing over Gil's face and catching someplace on his neck that Gil couldn't see. He folded his arms over his chest as he watched Gil's hands sort through the hangers at the top of the dresser. "Isn't there anything you'd like to do?" Gil only sent him a glance before smoothing out the next shirt - thoughtful, but still unconvinced.

Oz's toes tapped on the hardwood, watching as Gil went through the motions on the next one. His forehead rolled over the exterior of the bureau. "I can help you do the laundry, if that's what you're worried about," he said, just as stubborn.

Gil sent him an assessing look, almost wary, inadvertently angling himself between the bundle of clothes and Oz as if he might think to snatch one from his hands. "I'm not… worried…" he said. "Just busy." His fingers hesitated after settling the topmost button of a shirt in place. Oz glanced between it and Gil pointedly, one eyebrow lifting in question. Gil frowned and pressed his lips together as if Oz were offering something more scandalous than folding laundry. "N-no! I can do it myself!...Weren't you spending the afternoon with Alice?"

"Would you rather I spend time with Alice?" Oz asked, his tone conversational and wondering.

"No," Gil said, quietly, surprised by his own honesty.

Oz let out another long breath, settling his temple against the smooth surface. Gil steadfastly ignored the urge to seek out his expression, which only made him more and more aware of the sudden quiet. They'd cracked open a window to air out the room, and the scent of leaves, made lush by summer leeched through the crack with each distant rustle of shrubbery. His movements grew tense as he waited, and when the silence was broken he would scarcely have heard it if he weren't already listening for it: "No, but really, you don't have to do all this for me."

Oz cracked his eyes open to find Gil watching him, doe-eyed. His knuckles whitened around the knot of a stray bowtie. Oz bit the inside of his lip, averting his eyes as he continued blandly. "I have folded my own laundry, you know."

Gil glanced down at the tie in his hand, slipping the fabric through his fingers momentarily as if he'd forgotten how it had gotten there. But no longer lost, not like how Oz felt at seeing his expression, but at a standstill where his lip quivered just so before they pulled confidently at the edges. "I want to," he urged, and Oz recognized the sincerity in his tone - misplaced, but still present.

They both fell silent, neither feeling the need to remedy it, and after a moment the sound of hangers clinking against each other continued. Oz wanted to fill it, but there existed a strange, ill-met distance between them, although it seemed he was the only one that could feel it. Gil seemed content, pliant even, and Oz was lost; the sentiment from the other night pressed coolly around him, both weightless and somehow stifling. And it was silly, Oz knew it was silly, but the notion hadn't quite settled yet, and it nipped its way in and he found he almost wanted it to. He watched absentmindedly as a bundle of clouds nestled themselves atop the trees just outside the grounds, their branches bending and swaying like appendages in greeting of an impending storm. His eyes ultimately slid back to Gil, surprised to find his eyes on him. Gil, in turn, hastily picked up the next article of clothing, reddening at having been caught, and Oz clung to it only to find his stomach aflutter with something foreign but not unpleasant.

Never unpleasant. Not with Gil.

It was Gil who spoke next, "What did you have in mind…?"

Oz's response was automatic, and strangely hoarse, "What?"

Gil seemed unwilling to look at him, and sent him a sparing glance, "For something to do… is there something you have in mind?" he clarified.

Oz studied his profile, thoughtful, grateful for the distraction; he hadn't noticed the seconds dragging on until Gil again glanced at him, expectant.

"Spar," Oz interrupted, his demeanor smoothing to something warm and challenging.

Gil just about fell apart at the seams, "What?" came the blunt, candid response. Oz swallowed back a bark of laughter, instead staring at him through lidded eyes.

"You heard, Gil," he said, now excited at the prospect, "We could spar. It's not that outrageous, is it?"

Gil's nose wrinkled at the bridge, faltering, "Why with me…?"

Oz shut his eyes, numbing amusement now pouring off him in waves, "Why not you, Gil?"

"It's exactly because I'm me that we shouldn't-!"

"You've been training for months, haven't you? Besides, I might be a little rusty, but I have had fencing lessons."

"Oz…" Gil said, reluctant.

Oz kept his eyes shut when he said, "I would be really disappointed if Gil didn't want to-"

"I didn't say I wouldn't!" Gil huffed, shrinking further into dubiety, his fingers curling into his palms at his sides. "But this isn't really a good idea…"

"I think it is." Oz must've taken a step forward when his attention was elsewhere, because when he spoke his voice was much, much closer, and Gil's feet were clambering clumsily backward only for him to be pressed up against the opposite ajar dresser door.

"H-Hey!" he said, not appreciating the sudden cornering. Then, wryly: "We aren't starting now, are we?"

Oz's hands sought out his hips, the pads of his thumbs finding the seams of his shirt. But his touch was timid, off-kilter somehow, not anything as sure as his lilted grin. "Is that a yes, then?"

Gil stared, re-acclimating himself to the rush that Oz's touch brought. But he'd missed it, wondering when Oz might breach the distance again. He found sudden interest in the shadows between floorboards, reluctant. "Not quite," he said, letting every ounce of his disapproval leak in.

With his back held straight by the wood behind him, they were almost the same height, but Gil kept his chin ducked, determined not to meet Oz's eyes lest he give in. Which was a tactic Oz knew, one easily plucked from his seemingly endless arsenal, but he didn't force it, not yet, enjoying their playful banter in the meantime.

Gil's eyes fell on the short stretch of Oz's inner wrist, watching his pulse prod at the pale skin there. He longed to trace it with his fingertips, not seek to mar it, never mar it, and training was a messy business if the countless bruises and scrapes of his own skin were of proof at all. "It's…it's different when it's you," he said.

"Is it? Gil, you're being a bit…silly, aren't you? It's not really any different than it is with Break or anyone else," he said, his fingers faltering inexplicably where they rested at his sides, and Gil wanted to hold them there, always. "Besides," he said, his thumb beginning to press mindless circles against his hipbone. Gil focused to keep his breaths high in his chest so as not to disturb it. "I'm not made of glass, you know. And, you're assuming I won't win."

Gil was about to open his mouth to counter that no, he didn't think Oz was glass at all, but it was the thought of one winning - a notion that hadn't even occurred to him, as tightly wound as he was at the mere possibility of hurting Oz - that had his breath leaving his chest in a long loose huff of laughter. The slightly awkward, unfamiliar taste of it had it ending on a leading note. Oz could be so...

Oz's thumb stopped, and Gil lifted his chin to find him staring, fascinated but carefully held; like he were seeing an eclipse for the first time but unsure what to make of it. Suddenly self conscious, Gil shifted against the door, "What…?"

Oz blinked after a moment that was much, much too long for Gil's comfort. "You don't do that often."

Gil furrowed a brow, "Do what…?"

Oz exhaled, his eyes averting to someplace over his shoulder before they found his again. "Laugh, Gil."

Gil didn't know what to say other than, "Oh," he paused, unsure.

"It's good."

"Is it?"

Oz carved a whisper of a touch in an arc from navel to waist, and Gil couldn't help but wonder what that might feel like on his bare skin.

"I don't think you're made of glass either, Gil," Oz said suddenly, almost as if he were whispering to himself, although his touch told a different story.

The words sunk like ballast in the damp confines of his chest, and he breathed in. "Okay," he said, because it felt right, and he thought of nothing at all when his mouth tipped up to meet his.

Gil tasted sunlight, if only for the split moment that their lips brushed.

It was Oz who trembled, he swore, the vibration of it causing a shiver to overtake his own frame. Gil's eyes snapped open and he stuttered out an apology, his head conquering the millimeter of distance to knock against the wood surface behind him. Stunned, the resulting 'ow' didn't even make it to his throat.

A muscle in Oz's jaw clenched and he blinked one too many times for Gil's liking, and Gil knew he'd ventured too far, but Oz still said, "I told you it was okay, didn't I?"

Oz's mouth hovered, level with his, and the lighting - it had to be the lighting - made his eyes shine a bit damply. But the slow progression of amusement finding its way to his lips had him forgetting it as quickly as it appeared, with how rapidly Oz's earlier words came to mind: "I'll just have to change your mind."

Fractals of warmth found the pit of his belly, and he was sure then if Oz were to only ask he was already caught. But to want, to take, was to fog that sunlight, ensnare him in something impure and dimming. Not to mention temporary. But despite that his body warmed in places it really, really shouldn't, and he felt panic welling up like the rushing heat in his ears-

Oz kissed him then, short and chaste, and his laughter bubbled out as if Gil weren't in the midst of an internal crisis. Gil's head hit the wood again, and this time he did utter a small "ow" before he could even process it.

Oz only watched him, smile in place, until Gil looked up, his face entirely readable and baffled now that it had lost its storm.

"Look," Oz said. His attention now was on the window, and Gil followed the soft edges of his profile with a blank sort of interest. Belatedly, he turned his head too. The branches just outside the window scraped against the brick siding in tune with the harsh tugs of wind. "It's getting dark."

It was; Gil couldn't honestly tell the time, whether it was early or late afternoon. He missed Oz's touch as soon as he ripped himself away, to kick his feet up against the wall and find a seat on the windowsill. Gil's hand inexplicably lifted to reach for him, meaning to twist into the fabric between his shoulders and press himself to the nape of his neck. His mouth twitched, frowning, his other hand wrapping itself around his arm at the wrist to bring it back to the side.

He was always left reaching for Oz, wasn't he?

"I guess we can't spar, huh?" Oz said, bringing one knee up to his chest. He didn't seem at all amiss; if anything, gratified.

Almost desperately, Gil suddenly wanted it. "The ballroom," he said, the words coming out in a jumble.

Oz blinked at him.

"We could still… if you'd like." Finding his voice, he crossed the threshold to the window. He reached out to straighten Oz's ribbon at his throat, a meaningless gesture if he were only going to remove it soon enough. The inescapable dewy scent of rain made the air suddenly heavy, and a few drops followed the cracks between windowpanes. Oz wrapped Gil's fingers around his before they could slip away.

"Okay," he said, pleased, his eyes lidded.

"We should shut that," Gil said, partly to distract himself from the way the graying dullness of the incoming storm still managed to illuminate Oz's features; his only blemishes were the light, barely-there purple rings under his eyes.

Oz avoided his eye, nodding. His fingers were ice cold around Gil's warm ones. Gil had to hold his breath when those fingers tightened around his and pressed his knuckles into his cheek, with almost child-like affection.

"In a minute."

The tapping of Oz's toes on the marble flooring was loud enough that not even the downpour from the faucet could drown it out. Gil turned the tap off with some finality, every plate from their dinner now in its respective place. "You didn't even need to do that" Oz would say any other night, and it was true; many of the Rainsworth maids seemed a bit offput when he insisted, if only to keep his hands busy and, well, to apologize for their extended kindness. His duties often ranged outside the scope of a typical valet, but this is how he preferred it. Oz learned that quickly.

Gil didn't even need to cook while they were here, but having come to learn Oz's preferences - and if only to keep him from pushing aside his vegetables, often cooked too soggily, or worse, tastelessly by another's hand - he fell into the role without question. Besides, cooking was something he enjoyed. It was the one thing he could truly do well for his master. And Oz liked to watch.

But tonight, Oz was too distracted for any of his usual protests. After dragging in a stool and setting himself a ways down the counter from Gil, his nose was once again buried in the leatherbound copy of the latest Holy Knight. Gil watched him; his elbows were propped against the granite edge of the countertop, his teeth worrying the inside of his lip while he read with surprising speed. He had gotten his hands on the newest installment only this morning, having guilted Break into picking one up during his errands in town. Honestly, Gil was a bit curious how Oz had managed it, but felt it best not to ask. Oz was all too persuasive when he needed to be.

Oz sighed, his first real utterance since he had laid his hands on the front cover this morning. Gil looked him over, drying his hands on a dish towel. "Did you…" he said, brow furrowing - the book was shut, "...finish it already?"

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Oz said, smoothing his fingers over the golden grooves along the spine. He was positively radiating, "It was amazing. Not that they're ever not."

"I'm only surprised. Don't you have to wait for the next one now…?"

Oz grinned; his eyes were a bit glassy, strained or still rooted in the ending, or both. Gil felt some of the same zeal leak into him, marveling now at how invested Oz was in the series. "I do, but I can always read it again," he said, almost as if he didn't hear him. "That ending, Gil! I want to tell you about my favorite character, but I don't want to spoil it- I wonder who you'd like more, Edwin or Edgar." He smiled, studying Gil's bemused face as if it would hold the answer, "Gil, have you seriously never read even one of them?"

"No, not…yet…"

The next thing Gil knew was he was being ushered to the library, any protests dying in his throat as he heard Oz gush over the series. It made him think of Elliot, and he smiled. "You'll need to let me know when you get to that part. You'll know which one I mean when you get there, it's really- actually, I won't tell you- okay, wait here and I'll grab volume one!"

Oz was lost to the stacks, then, which left Gil on the deep red carpet before the fireplace. Settling, he pulled his knees to his chest and watched the flames lick toward the ascending bricks of the chimney. The logs were half ash by this point, and held a smoldered warmth that told him it'd been set sometime before dinner. The Rainsworth manor was awash with reds and pinks, the library being no exception, and the floral walls soaked up the light in an inviting glow. It clashed with the blue-white of the curtains opposite the fireplace, partially open to leak in a touch of the outdoors. He could hear Oz muttering, probably disoriented in a new library, and smiled, pressing his cheek into his knee.

He thought of their training session, the two of them having trained for the better part of the afternoon the night before. It turned out Oz's technique was more refined than his, the result of many years of royal training. A fact that seemed to spur him on. But Gil's stamina was a never-ending well of endurance, and Oz ultimately couldn't keep up with his speed. It was a wonder how Gil could manage to point a rapier at Oz, with those impish eyes staring back at him, delighted. Break eventually showed some interest, offering a turn against Oz, and the man had shown enough decency that Gil relented in favor of watching.

"Oy," Oz said, smacking the back of his head lightly with the hardcover of the book, "What are you smiling about?"

Taking the book offered over his shoulder, he said reflexively, "I'm not smiling." But he was, he realized, belatedly.

"You were," he said, and Gil could hear the curiosity in his tone. He bowed his head a little, and Oz sat behind him; Gil could feel the weight of his spine against his back. Black curls mingled with cowlicks of blond. Oz was always close, always touching, which was a novelty for Gil, who preferred his space; Oz was an exception, it seemed. It made his breath catch, every time.

"I was just...thinking," he said, his hunched shoulders easing as they adjusted to Oz's weight. His fingers gently pried the aged cover from the first page, static sticking the pages together like glue. The title stared back at him in refined even strokes of black ink.

Oz scooted closer, if that were possible, although it certainly always seemed possible - it forced his back to straighten with their shoulders aligned. He turned to look back, confused as he was forced to re-orient himself, but Oz's forehead was suddenly at his cheek, his neck draped upside-down over Gil's shoulder in a lazy curve. "Does this bother you?" he asked.

Gil could only manage one glance in his direction. "No, of course not," he said quietly, sitting very still like Oz might drift and leave him entirely.

"Thinking about what?" Oz asked after a brief smile, and shifted, making himself comfortable. It took Gil a moment to remember what he could possibly ever think about other than Oz's nose gracing the soft spot beneath his ear.

"Yesterday. Training." Dismissive, he thumbed through the dedication page and settled on the first page of text, but he only took the words in objectively, not yet reading; it gave him a place to fix his attention. Oz fell quiet, considering it.

"It was fun then." Gil felt Oz's head roll toward him, and he glanced down to meet his eyes quickly before looking away. The smugness was palpable, even without a glimpse of the curve of his lifted brow.

Gil's eyes narrowed, but he steadily kept them pinned to the book. He raked them over the first sentence, a pointed deposition. "No," he said, anticipating Oz's next statement, "That was the only time-"

Oz laughed, his head turned toward the ceiling. His hand ventured backward to steady himself, a bit disappointed to meet only the soft fibers of the carpet; Gil's hands were occupied with the edges of the book. His teeth nipped at a spot already worried sore on his inner lip.

"But I was better than you thought, huh?"

"I never thought you wouldn't be good, Oz! It was never that." The words were thrown so carelessly, true and without question, because of course he'd be good, and Gil would never doubt it, even for a moment. "You were," he said again, this time a bit more thoughtful, impressed.

"Break was pretty wiped out at the end of it."

Gil laughed, a barely-there sound in the back of his throat, "Yes, he was."

"You were good too, Gil. You don't look it, but you really are strong. And quick, jeez." He about muttered the last bit ruefully, sore over the fact.

"Am I?" Gil asked, his fingertip catching on the corner of a page, the sound sharp in the otherwise quiet room. "I suppose I never really noticed, only trying with Break who's…well…"

"Good," Oz offered, definitely sore about that one. "Too good. How do you manage it?"

"I don't think about it," Gil said, not offering his agreement, both knowing it to be true. "I figure I'll get there, too."

Oz fell quiet, admiration suddenly stilling his tongue. Gil let him re-orient himself again, his legs folded close to the front of him, his cheek pressed against Gil's neck at his hairline. The curls there were getting long, limned ebony by the firelight. Oz swallowed thickly, ignoring how his lips barely skimmed over his neck from this angle; he felt like anything more would shatter the illusion, whatever illusion they'd been damned to as of late. Oz shut his eyes. Gil's finger caught on another page, muffled under the intermittent crackles of the fireplace, but it paused.

"Oz?" he said, hushed, as if he didn't want to disturb whatever reverie he'd fallen into.

"Hm?"

Gil's tongue hesitated on the edges of his teeth, bracing itself. Neither had yet breached the topic, but Gil could feel Oz's disapproval from the morning before like a brand. "I should've told you," he managed. Oz felt the muscles under his cheek pull taut, tensed.

"Yeah," Oz said. His teeth ground together, his eyes hot. "I wish you had," he said mildly, and something unraveled he hadn't even known was there to unravel.

"I'm sorry," he whispered out tightly.

Oz looped his arm around his knees, his palm pressing hard against his forehead. "You didn't do anything, Gil. I'm not mad, it was never that."

"You do, you seem mad," Gil said, his voice wavering, his tone curious, confused, and ashamed all at once. Oz felt the shift in his shoulder as he traced patterns on the page before him. "It bothers you."

Oz didn't respond for a long time. He was mad, in the jarring way his skin warmed, and his fingers tightened in the hair at his forehead. But not at Gil, not even at Break, and it was obvious, so obvious the source, it made him ill and want to laugh, all at once. He was jealous, but not mad. Never at Gil.

Yet for all the courage he had, he couldn't quite oust that illusion, his pulse ramming hard like a staccato under the skin of his wrist. "Of course it bothers me," he said instead, "He did something you didn't want, right?"

Gil tried to twist around then, and when their eyes met, Oz's were carefully blank, kind. "Why would I- I didn't want that at all! He was just trying to rile me up. It really, wasn't anything at all, it was more when he did it that made me so angry. I had just told him that we were friends and he..."

Oz pressed his forehead to Gil's shoulder again, mostly so he wouldn't have to look at him. "He does that," he said. "Has been doing that."

Oz smiled, not entirely in good humor, "Yesterday was probably the closest thing to an apology I've seen from him. He does care about you, you know."

"Not like that," Gil said.

"I told him not to do it again."

Gil slowly turned his attention forward again, now that he couldn't see Oz's expression. But Oz wished he could see his. Gil didn't respond for a long time, and Oz assumed he'd fallen victim to the book, but quietly he said, "Thank you," in a way that suggested he might've said something else in the right setting. Oz didn't ask.

Relishing in the almost stifling comfort Gil's back offered, Oz heavily leaned against him on his right side; their bodies fit together easily. Even the sharp angles of Gil's shoulderblade fit the notch above Oz's collarbone, an almost desirable, if mild, discomfort. Gil did begin reading again, evident in the occasional turn of a page. Another. And another. They were starting to blur, and Oz felt himself meld more intimately against him, his eyes struggling under the weight of his own eyelids. "Do you mind if I rest for a bit, Gil?" he asked, suddenly unavoidably tired. What time was it…?

He paused. "Would you like to retire for the night?"

"No," Oz said, nuzzling into Gil's collar, "Keep reading."

Gil swallowed. "Okay. Let me know when though, and I'll stop."

Oz was physically incapable of responding, slipping low and deep, lulled by the steady rise and fall of Gil's chest.

Gil didn't imagine that resting meant here on the floor, Oz's entire weight leaned up against his back, until Oz's forehead slipped an inch with the turning of a page, the rest of his limbs going slack, then tense, as he avoided slipping off entirely. Smiling wryly, his face ruddy, Gil brought his hand up to settle at Oz's temple, holding him in place. But the weight of it wasn't enough, and after another half a page, Oz grumbled, struggling to find a comfortable position. The next time he slipped under, Gil was forced around to grab him at the shoulders, easing him up against his chest in an awkward embrace that threatened to stain his cheeks scarlet. He settled the book upside down on the carpet to keep his place, keeping still as much as he could. Maneuvering them both, he turned, Oz's side now settled against his front. Gil suddenly had no idea what to do with any one of his four limbs.

Gil couldn't imagine someone falling asleep so quickly.

Truly, this wasn't any different than how the two of them had ended up after a particularly sound night, limbs and bodies thrown together haphazardly as if they'd gravitated there of their own free will.

Here though, he could coax Oz awake, insist they retire, let Oz fall asleep in the comfort of his own bed, where it was somehow different, expected, less embarrassing-

But he didn't. And he wouldn't.

Oh lord it was embarrassing, but shamefully pleasant all the same. And it wasn't like he'd done anything wrong, Oz had honestly asked to rest, and neither knew that he would - quite literally - fall into this position.

Oz's forehead rested at the crook of his neck, and his back was curved at a rather awkward angle; once Gil had settled them into a position akin to something comfortable, Oz's eyes struggled open - once, twice, Gil felt his eyelashes brush the thin fabric of his shirt. He braced himself, petrified, but Oz only adjusted himself, moving his trapped arm out from under his body. Gil almost yelped at the way he now half embraced him, his side pressed up against every inch of Gil's body, Gil's legs carefully placed at either side of Oz so as not to disturb him. He had to remind himself that Oz wasn't doing this on purpose, so he really, really needed to calm down.

His chin tipped downward, his fingers gently replacing the flyaway strands from Oz's temple, and gently, very gently, skimmed over the skin there, engulfed in the feel and scent of him.

That was all he was allowed!

His fingers redirected themselves, hastily, busying themselves instead with the book he'd left sprawled on the floor.

He held it out, almost comical in the careful positioning of his arms, and continued reading, steadfastly ignoring his pulse ringing in his ears.

It took several minutes before he could relax, stealing glances down at Oz's sleeping form as if he couldn't quite believe it to be there. It attested to his willpower that he managed to finish a full chapter, now beginning on the second.

Unfortunately for the two of them, his newfound positioning was directly in view of the door, so when it opened inward he only had a moment to hope it was Break - for once - before Sharon, silhouetted by the firelight against the backdrop of an otherwise dark hallway, stepped in. Her carefully manicured fingers kept her dress from falling victim to the door, which she shut quietly, her eye on Gil and his predicament. Gil panicked, somewhere between shaking Oz awake, and stumbling over the thought that Oz was tired and he'd asked, so he honestly...wasn't doing anything wrong…

Although, in full view of Sharon, it certainly felt so.

All explanations sputtered and died in his throat before they could make it out of his mouth, which opened then shut.

Until her eyes traveled over Oz's form, curled up against Gil's front carelessly, by all means asleep and deaf to her entrance and Gil's thundering heart, and her laughter rang true against the dome of her palm. "It's okay," she said. "It's only me. Alice went to sleep...And clearly, Oz did too."

Gil, red, pressed his lips together tightly, looking aside. She kept her voice down, and he unconsciously followed suit. "Yes...but I was only...reading, so it's not anything it may look like-"

"Really, Gilbert, I don't mind."

And she didn't, it was clear in her sure amused, almost smug expression, that she had stumbled onto something interesting, and there was nothing of the expected disgust, or shock.

No shock at all, rather. That was enough to warrant some confusion, enough to ebb away at the initial panic.

The book lay forgotten on the floor by his side, and, suddenly unsure of what to do with his hands, his fingers dug into his thighs.

"Do you mind?" she asked, nodding to the couch beside them.

"No. Please," he said, still quiet, bowing his chin, only for it to bump the crown of Oz's head. He sat up a bit straighter. "Did you want to speak with Oz?"

She sat perched on the edge of the cushion, the lavish fabrics of her dress tumbling atop it, her style of dress always elaborate even on insignificant, uneventful days such as this one. Folding her hands in her lap, she smiled.

"No, actually," she said, and when his brow furrowed, "It was you who I came to see."

Gil blinked, "I apologize, I only assumed…-"

"There's no need to be so formal, Gilbert. Not when I've heard you, quite candidly, speak with the others."

"Ah," he said, grimacing, and her smile was so contagious he felt his own form to match hers. "Right."

It occurred to him then that he'd never actually spoken with Sharon, not in such an intimate setting; in fact, they'd never been alone that he could remember. There always existed a sense of guilt, of etiquette, of Gil knowing she'd taken to him, but never knowing why. But he liked Sharon, truly, inexplicably desiring to return her kindness in any way he knew how. Perhaps, he thought, this is how one might care for their sister.

Interrupted in his thoughts by her quiet laughter once more, he glanced up, unsure, and she held a fan of lace and woven ribbons to her mouth. "I'm sorry, only I've…never seen Oz like this before."

Gil swallowed, his eyes sweeping over the dizzying curve of him at the reminder, "Like what?"

An endless armory of words at her disposal, and she finally settles on, "...Comfortable."

Gil looked at her.

"Content, then," she offered instead, waiting for something akin to recognition, but ended up smiling patiently when none came.

Gil, charming in his confusion and in turn, his polite struggle to hide it, looked almost wary.

"He's been happy," she said, confirming it for the both of them.

Gil's pulse picked up a beat, and he smiled, his fingers flexed where they rested. "Yes, he's been...he likes it here," he said.

"Likes it here with you, Gilbert." The words were said as if on the downswing of a sigh, and Gil listened with rapt attention. "It's not quite the same."

The words collided like fog against a window; a sojourn of thick, gray billows of smoke that left fine streaks of mottled colors where the condensation ran clear. Gil wanted to run his fingers across them, connect the lines, leave them unmistakably transparent.

"I'm sorry, I don't quite-"

Sharon's expression was soft as she took in his shaky one, and Gil inexplicably found himself at the brink of tears. "You will. He'll show you. He needs time, that one," she mused.

Gil still eyed her with muted wariness, still caught on the lack of shock, the sheer acceptance she granted them.

"I bet you're wondering why I'm here," she said, and Gil almost reeled from the sudden topic change, but it was appreciated all the same. "Alice told me you ran out after me yesterday and I wanted to thank you…"

Gil's eyes slid away from hers, "But I didn't find you."

"Yes," she relented, biting her lip, "But it's still nice to know I wouldn't have been alone had I made myself easier to find."

"I see," he said, wishing he had more words to give, "Were you then…? Found, I mean."

She nodded. "Alice was there."

Gil smiled, a quick twitch of his lips, unsure, "How are you feeling then…?"

"I don't know," she said honestly. Her eyes rested unseeingly on Oz for a moment, then the carpeting at his feet. "Better. Or I will be."

Loose and rattled as he was, he waited for her smile to fade before all but blurting out, "I'm sorry. If there's something, anything I could do, then…"

"No," she said kindly, a broken smile clinging to her lips when she ducked her head, "I think...it's enough to hear that. Thank you, Gilbert."

He caught her eye and averted his, shame dissipating into shyness. "Yes," he said. "I mean, of course, you're welcome."

She hummed, ominous and silken. "The incident is behind me anyway, as are...my feelings, I suppose. But I think I'll let Break stew for a few days longer before I tell him so."

Oz's weight was all the more prevalent then, and he grimaced; it was no wonder why he and Sharon got along so well. He shifted, a minute flex of his fingers and toes in turn, his limbs threatening to fall numb.

Sharon caught it, a subtle change in her expression signaling the conversation coming to an end. "Break does care for you, Gilbert. He doesn't allow himself to get close to many people, but he's become quite attached to you."

It was impossible to smother the sour undertones when he voiced, "He hasn't exactly...attached himself to me. He...puts up with me, I'm only a convenience-"

"You put up with him too," she said, airy laughter on her tongue before she added, "He lets you in. You are more than a simple convenience. You interest him. He has never taken on an apprentice before, I'm sure you can tell he would quite rather keep to himself."

Her eyes skimmed over Oz's profile, his cheek pressed just under Gil's collarbone, nose grazing the collar of his shirt. "Not unlike Oz," she said. "I have never seen his smile so genuine. Even Alice, he has always kept her at arm's length."

Dread drained the heat from his limbs, "What...does that mean?" he asked, his voice struggling through his throat like he hadn't spoken in weeks.

His inquiry was interrupted by a sigh that sent trails of red to even the tips of his ears, and despite the heat, he froze. Oz's palm flattened where it rested on his shoulder. Sharon's eyes averted themselves politely, but Gil could see the edges of her smile through the lacy print of her fan.

"Gil?" Oz asked, his limbs steadily regaining life. Gil had half a mind to wonder if he'd really slept through it all, if he'd somehow kept his breathing slow and even, if only to listen in on their conversation. But the sleepy slur to his voice abated that doubt. And if he'd thought he'd done something wrong earlier, it was nothing compared to now; light-headed and torn, he braced himself for further embarrassment, shame, hostility at having been caught-

Oz's fingers were still setting imprints in his shirt when he asked, with a hint of shyness but no ire in sight, "Uh...Gil?"

Reddening, his eyes glittered over Oz's. "What-! Oz!" he sputtered, "Y-you were falling and- you were definitely awake at one point!"

Greeted with only a wide, vacant stare, Gil had the utmost desire for the plush carpet beneath him to swallow him whole before recognition could set in.

Sharon's mirth made itself known in a delicate flurry of laughter that had Oz sobering, sitting up on his own, but making no immediate move to leave the enclosure of Gil's legs. "Jeez, how long have I been out?" Gil winced, stretching his numb legs and arms. "Obviously quite a while…"

Sharon bit her lip, offering slyly, "At least half an hour."

Oz glanced at Gilbert in question, who was suddenly incapable of meeting his gaze. "Almost an hour," he said, still a captive of the floor.

He looked back to Sharon wonderingly, still surprised by her presence.

"I came to speak to Gilbert is all. I wouldn't have put it past you to be listening in, Oz," she said, "I'm honestly surprised you weren't. I'll leave our topic of conversation to your imagination."

"Right," he said, meeting her halfway with words unspoken. He relented under her scrutiny, a lump like stone lodged in his throat, guilt prevalent in the way he knew she knew; he hadn't yet told Gil. He hadn't yet told Alice.

He could lose them both. Would lose them both, and the weight of it was enough to send his heart reeling.

But he bit it back, instead taking on an impish tone, "I'll just have to coax it out of him then."

Gil's hands braced themselves on the carpet on either side of him; he looked about ready to back away from them both if need be.

"Yes, of course," said Sharon, finding her feet. "I will leave you to it then. Goodnight, you two."

Oz bid her a goodnight before stretching the long curve of his back. Gil had just enough time to bid her a goodnight as well before Oz pounced.

"What-!"

Warm palms settled on his shoulders, pressing firmly and sending him sprawling backward on the floor, cushioned only by the carpeting. Atop him, around him, was Oz: his knees pressed up between his legs, his hands entrapping him on either side of his neck, and his eyes, playful, peering into his own.

Gil's left hand had inadvertently twisted in an attempt to catch himself, and he pulled it straight from under his elbow, wincing at the sharp pain the movement caused.

"Gil?"

He hissed, testing it, his fingers curling inward on a fist, the pain already receding as quickly as it came. He was about to dismiss it when Oz's hand cradled his wrist, inspecting it. "Did I hurt you?" he asked.

"No! No," he said hastily. "It just...gets sore, sometimes."

Oz sat back on his heels, freeing his other hand; his thumbs pressed circles against Gil's palm, gently coaxing it loose, the muscles twitching and relaxing under his touch. Gil stayed as he was, black curls fanned about him and blending into the deep red beneath him. His other arm fell limp and far to the side. His eyes caught on the plastered patterns of the ceiling, laid bare and victim to Oz's touch.

"This is the hand that…you broke, that day." Oz whispered.

Gil's eyes flickered to him, then back. "Yes. It doesn't hurt, usually. Not often."

"But it still does," he said. "Who dressed it?"

"A maid. She used to be a nurse," he added.

Oz's fingers spread out until his right palm lay flush against Gil's left, their fingers aligned; the touch was so tender it almost felt like air. He leaned forward until he resumed his earlier positioning, now with Gil's hand trapped under his; a gentle pressure, as if afraid it might shatter.

"Does your head ever hurt?" he asked.

Gil's pulse tripped over itself and all but stopped.

"No."

Oz leaned in close, close enough to kiss him, and Gil's legs were forced to spread more to accommodate him. His expression was inscrutable, his lips quirked in a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

None of this felt wrong, at all.

And it should, as Oz's servant, to want, to take, the greed of it all.

To wish for it at all was-

"Why...do you always look at me like that?"

"I'm sorry," Gil said, reflexively, barely above a whisper.

Because everything they were doing felt quiet, and muffled.

Oz's eyes were wide as they raked over his face. Tipping his chin down a fraction, the fringe of his hair kept them carefully hidden, and it was unnerving, and Gil was utterly trapped.

Oz bit down on the inside of his lip so hard he was sure he'd draw blood if it were any deeper.

"...Oz?"

Silence overtook them for a breadth too long.

Oz's forehead came to rest just under the corner of his mouth. "I don't know...what you want, Gil. If you enjoy this, or if I should stop…Gil...you look like...I'm hurting you or..."

Oz slid down farther, his ear resting at the level of his heart. His hands followed to the curve of Gil's waist, slipping down under him to hug him around the middle.

Gil's breath caught in his teeth, his eyes growing hot.

"Nobody's ever...said what you did to me, before," came a low mumble from his chest.

Gil smiled, his lips quivering; perhaps telling him was the right decision after all. His pulse quickened, rapid against his ribs, and felt more than saw Oz's responding smile.

After what felt like ages, until Oz had all but melted against him, Oz lifted himself, and Gil arched upward to let his arms free.

Oz hovered over him again, his expression carefully blank, and mindfully fabricated. Gil watched him as he watched, wondering what he was searching for, and whether he'd find it.

Oz's thumb pressed lightly on the skin beneath his lip and he allowed the seam of his mouth to fall open.

And it wasn't like Oz: too fragile, too questioning. It was and it wasn't, all at once.

Oz deserved more than Gil in his entirety could ever give.

"Would you kiss me if I ordered you to?" Oz asked, whispered in a stream over Gil's mouth.

Gil reddened; he had to stifle the part of him that wanted the order, as shameful as that was.

"Yes."

Oz smiled on a sigh, his fingertips lingering at the edge of his mouth, "I wouldn't do that."

He pressed the pad of his thumb against Gil's bottom lip, testing the sensitive skin there. He almost hesitated. "Do you want me to kiss you?"

Yes.

The rise and fall of Gil's chest stopped, and he blinked, panicked. "I…"

"Gil, you're trembling," Oz said, his thumb stilling.

No.

His throat ached all of a sudden, his tongue pressed like sandpaper to the roof of his mouth to keep the words in, wanting and hurting at the weight of it-

"I-I'm sorry," he managed instead. His cheek now facing Oz, Oz's touch drifted. Gil could see the moment his eyes went blank, his jaw working over the rejection that happened quicker than Gil could even have processed-

"Oz! Oz, wait-"

Gil's hand grasped at the material of Oz's shirt as he slowly retreated, pressing up into his neck. "Please don't...please don't go. It's…-"

Oz's hand landed over his, releasing it as he sat back on his heels. "Gil…I'm not going anywhere. There's no reason for you to worry, okay?"

"Oz-"

The arid quality to Oz's tone, the careful vacancy in the way he regarded him, had any explanation stilling in Gil's throat; words that sputtered to the surface dissipated one by one, even as Oz paused, giving him a chance to reverse this, he could even lean in and tell him without words but it seemed like an impossibility, and instead he could only let the floor swallow him up as Oz stood, his fingers finding Gil's hair to comb through it. "I'll be turning in," he said. "Don't worry, Gil. I'm fine, just a bit...tired. Thanks for letting me rest, earlier. Your shoulder's more comfortable than it looks."

His fingers set his curls back in place, and Gil could only stare unseeingly at his feet; Oz was hauntingly quiet, even as the soles of his shoes crossed the wooden floor of the corridor.

None of this was...as he'd meant it...

Gil heard more than saw him leave, his chin only lifting when the light from the dimly lit hallway fell in a long path to his knee. Oz left the door open a crack, and Gil was left only to stare at the trail left behind.

It was many minutes later that he processed the steady stream of tears warming tracks down his cheeks, and his palms pressed hard against his eyes to keep them in. But the acknowledgment wracked sobs through his frame that left him in silent screams filling the walls of the soundless room. They seemed to gush out in waves, stealing his breath and leaving him in throws of ache that left his cheeks hot, and his limbs shaking.

It was a while before he could make it to standing, long after the mansion had fallen victim to the evening hours, long after Oz would've made it to sleep, and Gil wondered if he should even venture in at all.

Still a bit unsteady on his feet, he hesitated at the doorway, guilt having him taking a step toward the adjoining room, but he stopped; instead, he eased the door to their room open, if only to ascertain Oz was here and he was, at the least, okay.

He hadn't expected the lamp by the bed to be lit, for Oz to still be fully clothed and sitting at the edge of the mattress, only his vest and and tie strewn over the linens at his side. His shoes were even still on, legs hanging limply toward the floorboards.

Gil looked him over warily, his hands still on the knob behind him. He leaned back against it until the door clicked in place, before slumping against it. Oz looked up, and their eyes met.

"You were crying," Oz said flatly.

Gil grit his teeth together, looking aside; his hair, growing long, obscured his expression from view. His heart was ramming hard in his chest when he glanced back, Oz's name slipping out a bit harsher than he'd meant it, "Oz!"

Oz only watched him, listening; no sign of surprise at the sudden outburst, and it sent Gil reeling into words that didn't quite come cohesively.

"I do," he said, his teeth chattering together, "I really...really shouldn't, but I...I enjoy it. I shouldn't, I'm so s-sorry- as your servant, it's wrong, and I- really—I should've put a stop to it, and I didn't, when you clearly—you deserve—more than someone like me could- and-"

Alice.

Gil pressed his palm into his forehead to keep the tears from spilling over once more, wincing within a well of self-loathing, but he still sobbed, breathing in harshly before holding it, horrified at the entire matter, his words, how Oz was still looking rather than telling him to go-

He wanted it, he did, but to allow himself to dampen Oz, dim and mar him, to dirty him like he'd been doing, could only do…

Oz looked aside, finally, still eerily betraying no emotion past the slight flex of his fingers against the sheets. He leaned toward the nightstand, steadying himself before sending them both into darkness with a quick puff of air over the lamp.

Gil stood, stunned, not accustomed to the sudden pitch black of the room, only having a moment to wonder if Oz had simply given up and decided to lay himself to sleep-

He yelped when his hand was suddenly yanked forward, throwing him off balance. He caught himself, stumbling a bit on the way forward, his hand brushing somewhere on Oz's front, before their feet came to an abrupt stop, and Oz pulled hard, sending them both tumbling, Gil clamboring up over Oz on the bedspread. He felt his knee press somewhere on Oz's inner thigh and promptly moved it, only for Oz to hook his ankle around Gil's leg, holding it in place, their hips and chests intimately aligned.

Before Gil could stammer out a question, Oz's lips were on his and Gil ceased thinking entirely. He shuddered, gasping against him, and felt more than heard Oz's shaky inhale. Oz's hands pressed between his shoulderblades, and Gil levered himself forward, dragging himself along Oz to better align their mouths, breaking the kiss for only a moment-

Oz's fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging, and Gil groaned, suddenly overheated and dizzy, and his fingers and lips wanted to be everywhere all at once; it was almost too much. His chest burned, his hands trembled when they found Oz's waist, his fingertips revealing that Oz's shirt had been pulled loose and dragged upward, like his own. He opened his mouth when prompted, feeling Oz's tremble when their tongues met, his fingers almost painful where they kept him in place, gliding into his mouth and testing the sensitive skin of his lips. Gil went by instinct and sucked, light, nervousness taking root for the first time then, overtaking his initial shock. Oz moaned pointedly, grinning against his mouth, and Gil had to break the kiss to breathe, bumping their foreheads together. It was a blessing the room was still so dark it was black; blushed such a furious shade of red, he wasn't sure he'd have the nerve to stay atop Oz if it weren't.

But he hadn't really a choice, Oz's hands were busying themselves at the edges of his shirt, spreading over the bare skin of his lower back, and Gil felt Oz arch as he grazed his lips over Gil's neck-

Gil whimpered, then swore, and Oz laughed, but Gil's lower body reacted accordingly and he shivered, he had no way to hide it pressed up against Oz's thigh. He pressed his forehead against Oz's neck, the rush of blood to his face rendering him suddenly immobile.

Oz paused, his lips still pressed to Gil's neck.

"Do you want to stop?" he asked.

Gil only buried himself further into Oz's neck, not entirely sure what would even come next.

Oz had likely...done this before, he didn't want to disappoint-

But Oz made the choice for him, one finger tipping Gil's chin up so he could press their mouths together again, this time a bit less heated, more searching than anything else. His other hand abandoned Gil's lower body, and they both took their time, shivering when Oz coaxed Gil's tongue into his mouth; Oz shifted slightly for a better angle, and Gil's breath hitched at how hard he was against Gil's thigh. Gil's whole body went still.

Oz sighed, a bit breathless, and he muttered, "Ignore it," before pressing chaste kisses around the perimeter of his mouth.

"...Oz, sh-should I-" Gil managed out, his voice several octaves higher than it should be.

"No. Shut up, Gil," Oz said, forcing Gil's bottom lip out from between his teeth. Gil squeaked when Oz's fingernails pressed sharp half-moons into his neck, keeping him in line.

It was a long time before they parted, their kisses lazy, too emotionally and physically drained to continue. Gil caught his breath, then sunk against Oz, his hands against his waist. His forehead trailed down past his collar until he could press his ear at the level of his heart, in mirror of earlier.

Oz let him situate himself, a bit dazed, before he sent a tentative hand down to rake through the curls at his temple.

"Don't fall asleep down there," he mumbled.

Gil laughed, a quick sound in the back of his throat, and it sounded so much like a sob that Oz paused, but he heard nothing else from Gil at all, and his fingers slowly continued.

Gil kept listening, even after Oz's ministrations long stopped, his heart slowing along with the rise and fall of his chest. He looked up, finally, the places where they still touched were impossibly warm, but also a reminder that Oz hadn't even removed his shoes let alone his belt and shoe-covers.

"Oz," he whispered, but got nothing in return.

Gil pressed his nose against Oz's chest to hide his smile, although there was no one around to see it.

Gil somehow managed to disconnect them and his feet steadily made contact with the floor, without disturbing Oz. Without the light, he struggled. It was almost unnaturally dark, with only a hint of light from a candle in the hallway. Oz had likely pulled shut the heavy curtains.

He fumbled a bit, but found Oz's buckled shoes, slipping the clasp loose on one then the other. It was when he slipped the second shoe off that Oz reacted.

"Trying to undress me when I'm most vulnerable, Gil?"

"What?! How long have you been awake!"

Oz only snorted, then rolled over; his belt clattered to the floor a moment later, and Gil slipped out of his own boots. He heard the bedcovers rustle as Oz nestled himself in them, and Gil hesitated; it was too dark to try to maneuver himself around to his side.

"Gil. Come here."

"Right," he said, fingers trailing along the bedside to find the edge of the blanket. What he found was Oz's hand, which immediately tightened, pulling him off balance and halfway onto him, the other half sprawled over pillows.

"You-! You need to stop doing that!"

Oz's forehead pressed into his chest, a stream of sleep-tinged laughter sending shockwaves through Gil, who reluctantly found himself relaxing.

"Is it really a problem?" Oz asked, quietly, growing limp and pliant.

The answering no went unspoken, but was prevalent all the same.

"You're impossible," Gil whispered, the words dripping with adoration.

Oz swallowed down something hot and frightening, hoping his fingers wouldn't tremble as he laced them loosely between Gil's.

He settled on humming, eyes bright and unseeing in the darkness. "Goodnight. Gilbert."